#it also becomes common knowledge that if you ask her for help w something and she says no...

[shalpilot]

she has a friend nowwww

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Mira do you have any tips for making friends in college 🥹🥹 I get so scared when talking to people and when I do my mind goes blank I have nothing to say 😢

hi anon omg i am honored you are coming to me 🥹🫶🏻 i am indeed quite the social butterfly…just today some random npc asked one of my friends if they knew me while she was walking on my huge state school campus so i def have the credentials to back up my advice 💪🏻 but that said this is just what worked for me it ofc may not resonate w you and that’s okay!! this is all from the perspective of a cishet girl so i’m aware it’s not the same for everyone but these are my two cents ^^ (adding a cut because no surprise i started chatting a bit too much)

so that said!! the biggest thing for me is remembering that a) everyone wants more friends as much as you do and b) people like people who make them feel good about themselves. point a is doubly true in your freshman year of college but honestly it never STOPS being valid!! no one would ever say no to having another genuine friend i promise 💖 re: the second point…genuinely the way i met almost all of my current close friends is going up to a girl in my class after the lecture ended and complimenting her 😭 one of my absolute best friends i just went up to her and was like “sorry if this is weird but i think you’re so pretty and want to be friends with you” LMAOO it was very awkward in hindsight but she actually commuted from home at that point so she was so happy that someone came up to her and now she’s like. my best friend 😪 BUT obviously it can be really intimidating to be that forward!! i would recommending having like three “default compliments” in the back of your mind — it can be as simple as “i like your [insert article of clothing” or “your hair is really cool” just something that you can always have on hand to whip out no matter the situation!! whether that’s how you approach someone (my typical strategy) or if you just have them as something to say when you don’t have any idea of what else to come up with it’s good because it makes the person be more open to you (since you complimented them) and it presents avenues for asking questions!! they might tell you where they got their clothes from or how they did their hair that day and that helps you learn more about them (maybe they thrift for example!!) which helps in making the conversation feel more natural!! when i was rushing sororities (this is basically “getting to know people” on steroids) this was my strategy and i had fairly good luck with it!! i only ever had like a couple awkward conversations with it HAHA

but like with regards to that the thing is that 95% of the people you meet are just going to be npcs in your life and that’s okay!! you might approach ten people and only become close with one or two of them…but doesn’t ten best friends sound exhausting anyways !! the secret is it’s all well and fine to have many acquaintances and casual friends but you only need a couple you are genuinely Close with imo. you shouldn’t place any expectations on every single interaction you have — maybe all that comes of a conversation is 2 slightly awkward minutes that you gracefully excuse yourself from as soon as you can and the knowledge that yeah i Don’t fw this person actually 😭

in terms of where to meet people…most of my best friends i have met just via like mutual classes so it was really all happenstance!! i also am close to girls in my sorority but to be honest i already knew girls in it before i joined so it was very easy for me to fit in!! idk how it is for someone joining completely new to the system and also like it’s not even for everyone (sometimes i hate it myself tbh) + you might not even be in america so i’m not going to be all basic and say you should do that if you have no interest or ability to otherwise!! but generally any extracurriculars are definitely a good place to meet people especially because you’re guaranteed to have at least one common interest 💖

my last bit of advice is just don’t take things too seriously and just be silly!! people who are fun and relaxed to be around will always be loved and i think the fact that you care so much that you’re even asking for advice means you are such a genuine and empathetic person who wants to connect with others 🫶🏻 and there are always people out there who would love to have a friend like that!! please don’t get caught up in horrible relationships because you think they are your only chance at friendship — not true, there will always be someone else (believe me i knew some absolute villains back when i was in high school and ykw they all have found friends in college so i know you can do it too!!) who will treat you the way you deserve 🙂‍↕️ and if your first few attempts don’t work out don’t stress because it’s always going to be the last person you try speaking to that ends up as your best friend. and never feel ashamed to reach out first!! be the one to make plans even if you are scared or think they will say no…just asking someone to have coffee with you someday can be the difference between a dead end and someone you talk to every day

I HOPE THIS WAS HELPFUL I WISH YOU LUCK IN YOUR ENDEAVORS!! college is stressful enough as is so i am wishing you luck both socially and academically 🤗 you’ve got this and if you ever need anything else i am here to help 🫡 AS LONG AS M1CKEYB3RRY DOT COM EXISTS YOU WILL ALWAYS HAVE A FRIEND I SWEAR!!

[fizzyfizu]

Accursed in the Lake’s Depths

THE ARCHIVES ₊˚.༄

(MASTERLIST)

Prolouge:

      It is common knowledge that at the start of every term in Hogwarts, a short speech is held by the headmaster to welcome back students.  But one thing that the students have noticed is that ever since Armando Dippet was headmaster—it is always mentioned that if you're looking for a place to study or hang out, the Black Lake is a great place to do such things; since then the Black Lake has become even more littered with students.  But the sudden mention of the lake caused the rise of rumours related to it on why the sudden interest, courtesy of bored students.  One of the most popular rumours involves a girl who disappeared from Hogwarts grounds in her 4th year decades ago.  The tale goes that the girl has been bound to the bottom of the lake as punishment for something she had done, what she did is still speculated though, and that Dippet encourages students to congregate around the Black Lake to further punish her—as if to show her what she is missing out on if only she didn't do what she had done.

Chapter 1.1 - A Late Start

Summary: - After being woken up by Dobby 10 minutes before the start of the 2nd task, Harry finds himself rushing to get to the venue. The venue being the Black Lake, otherwise known as the Great Lake. Once again thanks to Dobby, Harry is now in the possession of more than enough gillyweed to last him the full 1 hour limit.

Chapter 1.2 - A Cold Reception, Literally

Summary: - Professor Moody approaches Harry to ask for an update on his game plan, and much to his pleasure, Harry has one. After Bagman's count, Harry enters the cold, freezing waters. For a moment he panics, but after a few moments he finds himself mentally thanking Dobby profusely.

Chapter 1.3 - An Odd Discovery

Summary: - Harry finds himself in a thick grove of seaweed and murky waters. Yet, even with low vision, he saw glimpses of multiple merpeople who were clearly guarding something. Wrongly assuming the merpeople to be guarding the task, he ventures deeper, eventually finding himself in a clearing. What he found made him question the clue given to him, but he pushed those thoughts aside and went to retrieve his discovery anyways.

Chapter 2.1 - The Taste of Freedom

Summary: - You have finally been freed from your temporary prison. While being carried by Harry (who thinks you are still unconscious), you decide that you cant wait to feel what it feels like to move again anymore and stop the act. The two of you exchange incredibly awkward greetings for the first time.

Chapter 2.2 - Thanks & Introductions

Summary: - After Harry helps you to your feet once more, you find it within yourself to be the icebreaker between you two as the situation gets increasingly awkward. After exchanging names, you offer your thanks, during all this you notice the student-packed stands in the near distance. Harry is immediately surrounded by his friends and Dumbledore requests that you make a visit to his office soon.

Chapter 3 - Fawley? F-A-W-L-E-Y

Summary: - After being dismissed, you finally get to buddying up with Harry's friends. After a short introduction from Ron, Hermione bombards you with questions, some being concerningly..close. She decides to wrap up her ramble after Ron's interruption, and it's decided that the four of them will make their way to the great hall for lunch. Guess you'll have to postpone the meeting with Dumbledore..

Chapter 4.1 - Navigate Through Hogwarts

Summary: - You excuse yourself from the group as the four of you near the great hall, you start to navigate yourself through Hogwarts, during the process you run into Peeves (and get drenched). You also run into the Fat Friar, who helps lead you to Dumbledore's office.

Chapter 4.2 - Discussions with Dumbledore

Summary: - You are finally going to smoothen things out with Dumbledore. After admiring his office for a few moments, you start discussing future plans now that you are no longer restrained in the Black Lake.

Chapter 5 - Trouble with the Caretaker

Summary: - After taking your time to freshen up in your new dorm room, you decide to roam around the school to refresh your memory. You end up getting caught by Hogwarts' caretaker.

[nutteu]

The Sun (It’s Just a Cloud Away)

-

[AO3]

“Sometimes, you two are just so sickeningly sweet that I wanted to puke,” Midnight said after the nth time witnessing the effortless flutter of Executor and Flamebringer around each other. “You should get married or something.”

“Or something,” Flamebringer deadpanned, but he didn’t seem to hate the idea. “Oi, dumbass. This other dumbass said we should take the vows.”

“Alright.” Executor—as whipped, as flat-faced as he usually was—then reached into the pocket of his working jacket, and casually put a velvety ring box on top of the cafeteria table, saying “Will you marry me, Enkaku?” as the whole room erupted into chaos.

Aka the fic where Executor and Flamebringer got married, Midnight and Lappland tries to send him into an early grave, W tries to become a priest, and there may or may not be an exchange of vows in the battlefields. [exeflame; wedding fic; published 2020-07-16; word count: 32,054]

-

If someone actually asked when they started dating, Flamebringer would honestly say, “Fuck, I don’t even remember.”

But he could tell you how, which actually didn’t really make much sense. He could confirm that neither Executor nor he was interested romantically with each other at that time. It was perhaps just a fancy of their appearances; with the help of a few glasses of wine, and Lappland’s well-placed words of betting. Bet you can’t crack that android nutjob over there, she had whispered, pouring wine into his empty glass as Flamebringer was distracted by Executor’s high cheekbones. In the light of the bar, the man looked ethereal, especially through the filter of Flamebringer’s inebriated eyes.

“Bet your next salary I can fuck him tonight,” he slurred out. Maybe he was losing it, but fuck, he was dying, not blind. He knew a piece of gems in the midst of Rhodes’ tiny ass bar, alright.

Lappland had laughed then, already halfway into her own bottle and didn’t even show the slightest bit of signs that she was drunk. This motherfucker was a beast, Flamebringer thought. She said, “Oh, bet the twice of your salary that he can fuck the Oripathy out of you. If you can get him to bed, that is.”

This was utterly stupid, what was left of his rational thought said. He ignored it with the power of a stupidity-powered brain cells. “Even better,” he said, and downed the rest of his wine, before sauntering over to where the Sankta was sitting ram-rod straight on the sofa with his friends—were they even friends? He looked like he was dragged here without his consent. Which, actually made more sense. He didn’t look like a bar-boy, more like a church-boy or something. He would be a tough nut to crack, indeed.

There were four people in the table: that Kjerag smiley boy, the blue questionable Sankta, that apple pie girl, and Executor—the white haired-dude #1. Also known as the guy who Flamebringer had decided on a whim that yes, he was the one, the absolute number one in this moving city of whom he would seduce the fuck out of. This is stupid, he thought one last time, right before he swung his long leg over Executor’s side and settled comfortably in his lap.

He could feel rather than hear when the rest of the table, the bar, fell into silence at his sudden action. The conversations just suddenly dropped into an awkward silence, to the point that he could hear the excitement and impatience in Lappland’s gleeful, toothy grin. He looked into Executor’s face, which was still set into a careful line of blankness. He didn’t even react when Flamebringer just suddenly decided that Executor’s lap was a free real estate of sort. Although, he did give him a miniscule nod to acknowledge his presence.

Oh? He thought with a mind drowning in wines and Lappland’s taunting words, the church boy wasn’t freaked out? Either he was too polite, or he simply didn’t mind. Maybe he thought this was something that people just do. This guy, after all, was proven to lack a certain degree of common sense and knowledge of the more sensitive sense of social etiquette. But anyway, he didn’t react negatively and hadn’t pushed Flamebringer out of his lap yet, so. He was succeeding so far.

He turned to the rest of the table, and gave them a condescending smile. “Whatchu lookin’ at? Stop gaping like a goldfish, it’s unattractive on you,” he said, and had to refrain from laughing when Smiley Boy and Apple Pie promptly shut their mouths with embarrassed face. The Questionable Blue, however, just lifted her glass and gave him a toast before resuming her previously cut-off conversation with an elegance of a swan. He liked that girl already. She seemed to possess more sanity than Lappland, which was tremendously great in his mind. Anyone who had more than two brain cells and an ounce of sanity was already better than Lappland because she had none.

He turned his attention back to Executor, who was still holding on to his drink. He looked stupid like that, he probably didn’t drink anyway. So he took the glass from the man’s gloved hand, and finished it in less than ten seconds. He reached back to put the empty glass on the table, and focused on the pale blue eyes that were now trained on his flushed face. He gingerly put each of his hands on the man’s wide shoulders, squeezing a bit to feel the sturdy muscles and bones beneath his palms. Biting the corner of his lip, he tightened his hold just the barest bit harder and let his lip go when Executor’s eyes followed the movement.

So. He wasn’t entirely unaffected, huh? This might be fun, he thought, a loopy smile on his lips as leaned down to whisper, “Do I look pretty, Mr. Sankta?”

Executor heaved a soft puff of breath, and nodded just the slightest, hidden from view by Flamebringer’s back. He grinned; who would’ve thought that the ever so proper-and-prime Sankta engineer could also put his interest in people? A sexual interest, nonetheless.

“Good,” he nodded, approving Executor’s reply. “I’m drunk,” he said, and caught the look on Executor’s face that most probably said obviously which he expressed with a lift of his eyebrow. “But you’re the prettiest looking bastard in this bar, so I’m going to kiss you, alright? Just punch me if you don’t like it.”

As he leaned down even further, he heard Apple Pie’s sharp intake of breath and the start of Lappland’s cackle. Executor didn’t say anything, but then, he put his hands on Flamebringer’s hips and experimentally tightened his grip on his slender waist. Flamebringer sighed as he felt the thick, gloved fingers were rubbing circles on his clothed skin. When he was close enough to feel the warmth of the man’s breath, he looked down into his eyes, and mouthed softly on the corner of his lips. “Touch my skin,” he whispered against his lips.

When Executor—miraculously—complied, and slipped his fingers into Flamebringer’s sleeveless shirt to put his hands on his bare hips, he gasped softly and finally, finally kissed him.

Executor was warm underneath him, his lips slightly chapped, but it just made his head spun harder as he licked across his dry lips and delved into the kiss. It was quite a pleasant surprise to know that Executor wasn’t completely blind about things like this. He reciprocated as soon as Flamebringer’s lips started moving against his own; slowly, almost like they were testing the water. Waiting in circles, trying to see which one of them would show their fangs first. They exchanged a few soft kisses, before Flamebringer pulled back and looked into his eyes again, and smirked.

This time, when he leaned down to kiss him again, Executor knew what he should expect. Flamebringer kissed him properly, rougher than before, deeper than just the doorstep of his teeth. His hand moved to cup Executor’s face and the back of his neck, as Executor’s hand tightened further and hauled him closer. It knocked the breath out of him, how the man could manhandle Flamebringer so easily like that. Fuck, imagine how easy it was for him to manhandle Flamebringer on the bed despite being the smaller between the two.

Behind him, on the bar stool, Lappland was positively cackling. He didn’t pay attention to that, though. Hard to divide his focus when Executor kissed him back with insistent, firm touches that skirted the edge of roughness. He welcomed the warm tongue that slipped past his lips; moaning low in his throat when one of the man’s hands slipped out of his shirt, and gripped the underside of his thigh to pull him closer still. Fuck, Flamebringer was a strong warrior, alright, but to feel someone else—someone so incredibly stoic and impeccable like Executor—showing their blatant strength in moving him around like a ragdoll, wasn’t something that fell short on blowing his desires through the roof.

He could feel the front of his pants tenting, his desires catching up to him as he felt his flushed skin burned even hotter. His own fingers creeped up from the back of Executor’s neck to grab a handful of his white hair, letting his mouth be ravished when Executor growled low and kissed him harder than before. With the way his mouth was in constant assault, the hands on his hip and thigh burning heat like  a brand into his skin, his head becoming more and more clouded by the second, it was small wonder that he didn’t realize when the three others in the table had been shocked into uncomfortable silence and awkwardness. All except the Questionable Blue, who calmly ushered the two others out of the seat, and called out, “Executor,” with a nod as she guided them to another table.

Flamebringer saw with half-lidded eyes as Executor’s gaze moved to the retreating backs of his colleagues. His bit his lips as a warning; when he touched someone, he liked the attention—the full attention. That was probably why he only ever slept with people who could understand his tendencies, and could stand with him toe to toe when it came to the matter of carnal desires. He let out a surprised gasp when Executor bit his lips back, with much more force than he did, breaking the skin and spreading the taste of blood across his tongue.

He couldn’t help the moan that slipped past his tongue at that. Who would have thought that Executor, the human equivalent of a refrigerator, the perfect example of a poised, stoic Sankta, was someone who was most possibly kinky enough to share a kiss that tasted of blood and hazy desires? He sucked on Executor’s tongue, feeling the rough surface of it entangled with his own. Faintly, he realized that he was grinding down on the Sankta, and forcefully broke the kiss with a gasp when he felt the answering erection in Executor’s pants meeting his own.

He looked down, and had to bite his lips at how prominent the outline of his hardened bulge was. “Fuck,” he cursed, voice rough with desires. “Want to put my mouth on you,” he whispered with urgency, biting his lower lip hard and felt the wound that Executor had bitten bleed against the newer assault.

He slowly rolled his hips forward, closing his eyes and baring his neck when he felt the delicious pain-pleasure of the friction. He felt the hand on his thigh went back to his hips, and looked down to see Executor’s jaw hardening as he tried to retain his self-control. Why would he do that? Flamebringer especially went out of his way on his drunken ass to seduce the fuck out of his polite motherfucker; it wouldn’t do if he could still control himself, showing only the barest of reactions compared to Flamebringer’s shameless, blatant show of desires.

So he furrowed his eyebrows, looking up from beneath his lashes. “Want your mouth on my skin. Every. Inch. Of it,” he said, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust of his hips.

Executor closed his eyes at his wanton, whispered moans as he dropped his head on Executor’s shoulder, letting out pleasured sighs on his ears. Good, Flamebringer though as he saw how hard the man was clenching his jaw, the veins in his neck popping out from his effort and—yeah, he couldn’t lie. It was kinda hot seeing Executor like that. Why hadn’t he gotten drunk earlier so he could see this side of the infamous Machine of Rhodes Island?

But then, Executor was gripping his hips tight, stopping his movement as easily as he tore the aorta out of a beast with his bare hands—or at least, that was the rumors Flamebringer heard. Just imagining what those hands could do to him was enough to send an electric shiver down his spine. He tugged at Executor’s hair, “Why are we stopping? We haven’t even started yet.”

The shorter man took a moment to heave a few deep breaths, the clench of his jaw slowly loosening even if the grip on Flamebringer’s hips was still tight enough to bruise. His erection hadn’t flagged down at all, still tenting quite obviously against Flamebringer’s thigh. When he looked at him, he suppressed the shiver that broke out all over his body at how sharp and smoldering his stare was. He unconsciously licked his lips and Executor’s finger bit into his skin at that, earning him a low groan that Flamebringer tried to silence by biting his lips hard. So he liked a little bit pain with his pleasure, sue him.

“I would not bed you,” he said clearly.

Flamebringer’s face fell, his hard-on quickly softening at the rejection. He wasn’t interested in fucking someone who wasn’t willing or interested, even if he could try to change their mind. But he had tried, and if the other party still said no, then it was not his place to force himself onto them. Even drunk out of his ass and could barely think properly, it was still ingrained into his mind.

“Oh,” he said softly, lips forming around the word. Well—neither Lappland nor him was getting any money out of each other, he guessed. Since it looked like he wasn’t going to get dicked tonight.

He made to move from Executor’s lap, but was prevented from doing so by the hands still grasping his waist. He paused—didn’t this motherfucker reject him just now? Then what the fuck was he doing?

With a very calm demeanor, Executor put him back properly to his lap, and looked into eyes as he said with deep, measured voice, “I would not bed you tonight, as you are clearly drunk. But I would like for us to continue this endeavor by tomorrow, if you still desire to do so by the morning.”

Flamebringer’s inebriated mind paused for a second, pulling together whatever left of his brain cells to process the complicated sentences. It took him a while, while Executor patiently waited for him, before his eyes widened in understanding, his mouth a small ‘o’ before he chuckled.

“Fuck, you can’t talk like that when I can’t even tell up from down,” he complained. “My brain hurts just from hearing your speech pattern alone.”

“You’re doing a good job in understanding my intentions,” Executor reassured him, which was something hella weird to reassure. He told him so, and the engineer didn’t even blink. This motherfucker was completely unfazed, it was amazing to think that he was sporting an erection and kissing him like a starved man just a moment ago.

“Alright,” he tilted his head. “Now what? You gonna leave me here?”

“If that is what you want, then I will transfer your care to Operator Lappland. She appears to be sober enough to deposit you to your quarter safely.”

Flamebringer rolled his eyes, slapping the side of Executor’s arm, maybe a lot harder than he intended. Meh, let it be. He deserved it anyway. “I’m not a thing, you shitty fuck,” he said, hitting the man one more time for good measure. “Use better words—normal words.”

“I apologized,” Executor nodded at him. “I did not intend to offend you by that.”

Flamebringer sighed, now he lost the mood completely. Seriously, what the fuck was up with this man anyway? As far as he remembered, Rhodes Island housed numerous people from Laterano, and they had an array of Sanktas at disposal. None of them talked like this; like someone just inserted the language codes into Executor’s brain and forgot to tell him that he was going to talk to fellow person instead of machine.

“Never mind,” he said with a flat tone. He tried to get out of his hold, and this time Executor let him do so. He was still very much drunk, however, as he stumbled over his own feet when he stood up and ended up stumbling into Executor’s hard chest. Ooh, his drunken mind said, nice one. Flamebringer probably would have hit himself if he was the least bit sober.

A drunken Flamebringer could only mean either one of the two: very depressed, or very horny. Because despite drinking regularly, he didn’t make it into a habit to get drunk. Unless Lappland was present in the vicinity, then it would be guaranteed that he was going to get wasted whether he wanted it or not. Right now, despite declaring that he already lost interest, his sad excuse of a brain was noticing every which way that Executor could turn him on. What the fuck was so special from a hard chest anyway? There were plenty of muscular operators in this nomadic city, fuck he probably owned much more muscle mass than Executor. Why the fuck would his brain focus on that particular trait?

But it did, and he did, and suddenly, he just wanted to put his hands on every inch of Executor’s skin. He put both of his arms around the shorter man’s neck, and leaned close to his face. “Why don’t you sleep with me tonight? So tomorrow morning you can make good of your promise, hm? Come on, angel boy, you know you want to put your hands on me.”

Executor stared at him for a moment; at his lips, the jut of his collarbones, prominent even through the clothes. He looked at something behind Flamebringer, and seemed to be communicating with someone. He turned, only to see Lappland giving Executor two thumbs up along with an obnoxious grin on her face. “Go for it,” her lips said, “fuck him good for me.”

He really needed to find new people to hang out with. Both Midnight and she were insufferable, and W would only be present when he was suffering. He was surrounded by idiots—sadistic idiots who enjoyed his misery.

“Very well,” Executor said a heartbeat later. He heaved Flamebringer’s weight onto him, and put an arm around him to secure his position. “Please walk carefully.”

Lappland waved at him excitedly, her bottles swinging around from one hand as she gave him the unholiest grin of them all. He flipped her off, and had a second to look at Executor’s friends, who had moved to the other end of the bar. Both Apple Pie and Smiley Boy were looking embarrassed and flushed, Questionable Blue gave him a single wink, and smoothly redirected the conversation to something about logistics route around Kazimier. He chuckled at that before Executor pulled him along to get out of the bar.

“Are we going to your room?” he asked as they walked. Now that he wasn’t thinking with his dick as much, he was starting to feel sleepy.

“No,” Executor answered. “It would be better to sleep in your quarter. If you changed your mind in the morning, you do not have to go through the hassles of walking back to your room. It would be likely that you are going to experience severe hangover from your alcohol intake tonight, after all.”

He halted in his step, forcing Executor to also stop in the middle of the hallway with him. He looked at the man liked he was seeing a new species for the first time. And it wasn’t too much of an exaggeration either. “You’re so considerate,” he said in awe. “Fuck, why are you so considerate?” His voice was rising in disbelief and faint hysteria.

Executor patiently pulled him along to continue their trip to Flamebringer’s room. For a moment, he wondered whether Executor had stalked him before, because he seemed to know the direction of his quarter even without his input. But then again, he remembered. Yeah, the man probably read the operator’s manual and room designation, and remembered them all. Aside from his freakish, robotic nature, he was also one of the engineers. It was only normal that he’d know the blueprints of this giant ship.

“Operator Flamebringer,” he called when they arrived in front of his door. “The codes, if you would please.”

“Stop calling me operator if you’re gonna put your dick in my ass by tomorrow,” he sighed, inputting his codes. Or tried to, at least. His mind was more or less still muddled; he always got the number wrong even if he remembered them. “Fuck this,” he growled impatiently, tempted to punch the shit out of the code panel. “You do it. It’s 981246.”

When the door was finally opened, and Executor gently laid him down on the bed, he sighed in relief. Sleep rushed in to him, causing his whole body to become lethargic with fatigue that he only felt now. He vaguely felt Executor moved him around; pulling off his jacket, his boots and socks, struggled a little bit with his belt before pulling that off too, and the ID choker around his neck. He sighed again when he felt he could breathe a little bit easier, and nuzzled into his pillow, already halfway into dreamless sleep.

When the bed dipped next to him a few moments later, he reached his hand out blindly and felt Executor’s fingers encircled his wrist. He brought Flamebringer’s hand back and put it around his neck, putting his own hand on Flamebringer’s waist. He inched closer to what he assumed as Executor’s chest, and briefly smirked as he remembered how taken he was to the man’s chest. It was as firm as he thought, hard muscles pressing against his cheeks as he laid his head there.

He didn’t really remember what happened afterwards, but when he woke up, he was alone.

His head was ringing, headache hanging heavily on the base of his neck. He groaned when he felt his temples pulsed with the force of the hangover. He would kill Lappland, he absolutely would. That jerk might have been fine with that much alcohol, but Flamebringer knew as much that he could never drink the woman under the table. He sat up with difficulty, feeling his stomach lurched uncomfortably at the movement. Why in the world would he let Lappland had that much lenience again, he didn’t know. He sighed; fuck his head hurt.

“You should drink some aspirin.”

Flamebringer would never admit it until the day Oripathy finally sucked the life out of him, but he might or might not have let out a surprised squeak when the voice seemingly had appeared out of nowhere. His heart raced inside his ribcage, eyes wild as he focused on… Executor. What.

“What,” he said, not fully comprehending the situation at hand. Why would the man stand there, inside his room, holding a glass of water and two tablets of what might be aspirin? Was he lost or some—oh. He remembered, no without a colossal amount of embarrassment and fury of a thousand suns at Lappland, about last night. “I plastered myself shamelessly all over you, didn’t I.”

Executor nodded at his quasi-statement. He offered the glass and tablets again, until Flamebringer sighed and finally took them, mumbling his thanks as he swallowed the aspirin. His jacket was folded neatly on the bedside table; his boots deposited at the foot of the bed, next to what he assumed as Executor’s own shoes. The man’s jacket was also folded on top of Flamebringer’s, leaving the man in his undershirt that did awful job on hiding the curve of his muscles underneath. He was once again reminded about the barrage of dirty thoughts he had about the man last night, and had to admit that sober or not, it was quite hard to not think dirty about Executor if he actually paid attention to the man’s appearance.

He wasn’t even close to average looking. Fair skin, pale eyes, white hair, halo on top of his head, his wings fluttering lightly on his back; it was almost an unfair comparison that his body wasn’t as angelic as the rest of him. That body, and the sizeable erection that Flamebringer knew he packed down there, were the works of the devil. He looked fucking sinful, alright? It was only sheer mortification about his behavior last night, and the fact that he smelt like alcohol and cigarette that prevented him from jumping the man.

And he would be right in doing so, because Executor did promise to fuck him in the morning, didn’t he?

He put the empty glass on the nightstand, and stood up shakily, waving away Executor who tried to help him. “I need to shower,” he said. “You can—do whatever you want.”

He didn’t wait for the man’s reply before scurrying away to the bathroom. There was another toothbrush next to his. Executor probably opened a new package from the stash inside his cabinet. His towel was also a little bit damp. He tried not to think too much about Executor showering in the same place where he currently stood, naked and wet. He let out a breath roughly, just what the fuck was he thinking? He wasn’t a bumbling, virgin teenager for fuck’s sake. What was he getting so worked up for?

Still, as he stood under the shower head, trying to clear his head away with cold shower, his mind traitorously conjured the image of Executor’s naked body. His hard muscles, his chest, his shoulders; coupled with his the memories from last night, Flamebringer was ashamed that he was getting hard in record time even under the onslaught of cold water on his body. What the fuck, indeed.

He resigned himself to the fact that his morning wood was going to be spent on the fantasy of Executor’s body—which was fucked up in more ways than one, but, as he looked down on his raging hard-on, he didn’t think he had much choice. He just wanted to get the images of Executor out of his head as soon as possible.

He turned the shower into a lukewarm setting, and touched his cock with heavy feelings. It wasn’t like the man was unattractive. He was—which was also part of the problems. Flamebringer bit his lips as his fingers came into contact with the sensitive skin around the head of his cock. The rivulets of water pouring down on his body sled down in warm embrace, imitating the heat of someone enveloping his body.

He had slept with numerous people in his life. Some of them were okay, some of them were fantastic. He never bothered with arrangements that might not suite his needs. He didn’t really mind about his partner, as long as they were interesting enough to keep him engaged. Men, women, either, neither; fucking or being fucked, he didn’t mind. It was sex; there was no need to complicate it. He did complicate it with W once upon a time, but even then they had separated on their own paths and were currently in sort of weird friendship that consisted of him acknowledging her presence and the fact that they were together back then. She liked to tease him still, and either scoffed or mocked him, but she respected his choices and beliefs.

Still, the closest he had ever felt this bothered was when he found out that Lappland could fuck him well into the morning. That had been mind-blowing—enough that it kept him coming back for more on the rare occasions they had leisure time to fuck for hours. But what Lappland had used on him, was still vastly different than the real thing.

Which Executor possessed in abundance, if his memory served him right.

Now that he started imagining the way Executor would touch him, he couldn’t stop. He put a hand on the wall to lean his weight onto, as his other hand caressed his skin. From the back of his ear, down to grope and squeeze his pecs, pinching his nipples until they were red and hardened. He tried to keep his voice low as he teased his nipples, fondling the nub around the tip of his fingers, biting his lip as he pinched them harder and harder still. His cock was still untouched, painfully erect against his stomach. He heaved a pant as he looked down, eyes hazy from lust and the water wetting his lashes. His groped his nipples harshly one more time, before sliding his fingers down and finally, finally touched himself.

He remembered grinding against Executor last night in his lap. It looked, and felt, big. But then again, he only saw the outline of it. But it had felt so hot against his own erection last night, even through their respective pants. He started pumping his cock lazily, a light twist of his wrist as he remembered how it felt to be manhandled so easily by Executor’s strong arms. Flamebringer, even since he fucked Midnight that one time, had realized that he had the hots for being manhandled in bed. Rough and careless, as if he—all his towering height and considerable weight of muscle mass—was something so light that it required no thought to move him around to fit his partner’s bidding.

Of course, he liked it also when he had a complete control. But there was just an allure in fighting even in bed, grappling for some semblance of dominance despite knowing that he would be taken anyway. It was rare to find someone who could fulfill the satisfaction of the struggle in pushing and pulling at each other. Midnight was probably the closest to understanding this particular side of him. But then again, most of the times he would look at Midnight’s face and then there would be this unexplainable urge to bash that man’s head on the nearest solid surface. He didn’t even know why, he just felt like he had to.

His breath came in pants as his fingers started to quicken their pace, gripping just a little bit too tight to give him an edge. He twisted his wrist in the way that he liked, unable to stifle the small gasp that had left his lips when it sent an electric jolt through his spine. Kissing Executor was something he had remembered in details. His chapped lips, his sensuous tongue intertwining with his own, and the way he just took as he delved deeper into the kiss. He was almost breathless from a few kisses simply because Executor had been so assured, so confident in himself that he felt like a dependable current that Flamebringer could lose himself into.

He stepped closer to the wall, leaning his forehead against the cold tile as he moved his other hand to the back. He went past the swell of his ass, and slipped his long finger between the cheeks. He didn’t have any lube or ointment on him, but the leftover suds on his body should be more than enough. He wasn’t planning on fingering himself, it would take too long. And if Executor turned out to be still waiting instead going back to his own quarter, then it would be even more awkward than before. He flushed as he wondered just how long had he been in the bathroom; did Executor notice? Did he know that Flamebringer was shamelessly touching himself in the shower stall, thinking about his kisses and the memories of them grinding against each other on the bar?

His breath hitched as his arousal burned in the pit of his stomach.  He tightened the hold on his cock, moving his hand faster as the other hand worked on his backside. He brushed over his hole with a finger, just brushing back and forth, and pressing gently against the puckered skin. How would it feel to have Executor’s fingers on him instead? Wrapped around his sensitive cock, pressing his fingers into his hole and let Flamebringer feel the burn of it, knowing that he was masochistic enough to enjoy the slight pain.

“Ngh,” he breathed out, stuttering in his pace at the thought of being touched by Executor. He didn’t really understand what the big deal about that guy was, either. But if he had to guess, it was probably the way he handled Flamebringer with assured confidence and practiced touches. The way he kissed him without hesitation, biting back when Flamebringer did and wasn’t afraid to show that he wasn’t as angelic as he looked. It was the way he had arranged Flamebringer on his lap, however he liked, as close as he wanted. But most of all, it was the way he just rolled with the punches—accepting Flamebringer’s abrupt seduction, taking what had been offered on his own pace, and was appreciative enough of him to still comply with Flamebringer’s wishes. The combination of those elements was enough to make his head dizzy with sheer want.

He was unashamed when he let out Executor’s name as he finally relented to desire and slipped a finger inside. The slight burn was enough to have him skirting over the edge, but not enough to make him come. His hand was moving fast and steady on his cock, tightening around the flesh with punishing grip. But still it wasn’t enough. He needed—he needed something more.

In the midst of a mind clouded by lust, he hadn’t realized that he didn’t lock his door, wasn’t aware when someone had slipped inside and saw him succumbing to lust. He let out a surprised gasp when a naked chest was pressed against his back, a large palm covering his hand on his cock, fingers caressing the skin around his tail. He unintentionally moaned out loud when he realized what was happening.

Executor wasn’t fazed by him stuttering to a halt at his presence. He hooked his chin over Flamebringer’s bent form, and resumed pumping his dick with a tight grip. Flamebringer’s body jolted as it recognized other people’s touch on his skin. His cock was pulsing painfully, making him keened as he frantically searched for the right kind of touch to bring him over the edge of pleasure. The finger he had inside was moving faster now, disregarding the discomfort of not having enough lube to slick the way.

He had given up on touching his cock, choosing to lean his palm against the wall once again. Because his head was already spinning enough as it was, he couldn’t think coherently with lust and sensitivity washing over his body. But it wasn’t enough—he had to—to—

But then, Executor was moving his finger out from his hole with gentle hand, kissed the back of his neck to calm him down as he whined low from his throat. As soon as his finger was removed, Flamebringer had to brace both of his hands against the wall because Executor was slipping his rock hard, huge erection between his cheeks, rubbing and grinding against his softened hole.

He choked on his saliva when he felt how hot, how heavy it was. Executor’s hand was calloused around the edges, and it gave him a certain kind of friction that made goosebumps broke out on his skin. He moved his hand faster when Flamebringer pushed back against his erection, trying to relieve the itch inside of him that he couldn’t quite scratch.

He felt Executor’s breath sweeping against his shoulder in heavy pants. He ground into Flamebringer, pushing his cock as close as possible without actually getting inside. The slide of him between his asscheeks was maddening enough that Flamebringer had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from moaning out Executor’s name again. Did he hear, when he said his name out loud just moments ago? The thought sent another wave of arousal, of being found out, of what Executor would think about it. Evidently, he’d take it in stride and wouldn’t be surprised. He might even like it, because he had seen Flamebringer so desperate and wanton in the bathroom stall, and had come here himself to alleviate the frustration.

He pushed back against Executor with renewed vigor, moving his hips in tandem with Executor’s hand on his cock. It was when he finally moaned out his name, that Executor snapped. He let go of Flamebringer’s cock and gripped both sides of his narrow hips with his wide palms. His thumbs were digging into his hipbones, and he unabashedly let out small gasps from the sensation of being held tight like this again.

Then, Executor started to move. He pushed himself forward, plastering himself on his back, making Flamebringer let out a small whimper when he felt his tail was pressed between their bodies. He peppered kisses alongside his shoulder blades and spine as he ground hard into Flamebringer’s ass. The wet, hot slide of his length was wonderful and cruel at the same time. It felt so good, to have something to grind against, something so blunt and big, but it wasn’t inside of him and Flamebringer let out a plethora of curses when a particular hard thrust unbalanced him. He ended up half bent, holding onto the slippery walls and Executor’s arm.

“Exe—ah, ah, fuck—Executor,” he gasped out. Trying to get away and getting closer at the same time. This was enough to make him dizzy with want, but they were in Flamebringer’s quarter, just a few steps away from his bed and lube inside his nightstand. “Executor!” he called louder when the man didn’t slow down.

He wrenched himself away from his strong grip—oh fuck, he thought, impossibly aroused, oh fucking-fuckity-fuck—and had to lean back on the tiled wall when he saw how blown out Executor’s eyes were. The pale blue was now only a ring around the dilated irises, blatantly showing how aroused the man was. Of course, the obvious indication was the very same erection that Flamebringer had been rubbing against a moment ago. He let out a helpless moan when he looked down, and saw the cock between Executor’s legs. It didn’t even stand out like his, simply because it was too heavy.

“Fuck,” he said, for the hundredth time that day, and dropped down to his knees. He vaguely heard Executor saying something, but he was already holding his cock—as hot, as heavy as it looked in his hand—and leaned forward to envelop it in his mouth.

For the first time since he entered the bathroom, Executor let out a sound. The groan that had been ripped out of his throat made Flamebringer’s cock spurted out a trickle of pre-cum just from hearing it. He sound gutted, and he was barely halfway from swallowing Executor’s cock whole. He didn’t wait to get used to the size, opening his lips wider and loosening his jaw as it filled his mouth more than anyone had ever been. He almost choked when the blunt head pushed past the muscles of his throat, pushing deeper still as he was slowly feeling lightheaded from the sheer girth of Executor’s cock cutting air supply from his neck.

He inhaled deep through his nose when he finally reached the base, pressing his nose against the pale curls of his pubes. Above him, Executor groaned and clenched his hand on the wall, one hand hovering just a wisp away from Flamebringer’s hair like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He swallowed a few times around the cock inside his mouth, and started moving. He pulled up slowly, suckling on the head and tasting the bitter pre-cum on his tongue, before gradually moving along the shaft again. Over and over again, sucking him in slow, torturous motion—until he heard Executor growled this time, and finally put his hand on Flamebringer’s head, gripping his strands so harsh that he felt the stinging pain on his scalp. He moaned around his cock, sending vibrations up to his nerve and making the grip on his hair tighter still.

He reached for the hand on his hair, spreading his palm around it, and looked up to stare into Executor’s eyes with a wicked look. He lowered his lids, and slowly pushed Executor’s hand down, moving his head along with the movement. All the time, he still kept their eye contact so the Sankta would know. Use me, he signed with his eyes, smirking inside as Executor’s breath hitched when he understood what Flamebringer wanted. He heard him say something—Lateranian, but wasn’t the ones people usually used nowadays. It was probably the old language, and he couldn’t believe that he said this, but it sounded so hot coming out of Executor’s mouth right when he tugged at Flamebringer’s hair and kept him in place as he moved his hips in a harsh pace.

At this point, Flamebringer could do nothing but take it. His jaw was hurting from the size, and it felt too big to use his tongue properly. He couldn’t anyway, what with how hard Executor was driving his hips into Flamebringer’s pliant mouth. Reaching down, he tugged at his neglected erection, that hadn’t flagged down up until now. It felt nice, and was making him lightheaded. The girth that was sliding in and out of his throat, the lukewarm droplets of water above their heads, the strong grip that pulled deliciously on his scalp; it was the push that he needed. Just a little bit more.

He raised his hand again, pushing further on Executor’s hand, and finally touched himself when Executor let go of all pretenses as he went harder on Flamebringer. He let his mouth be used, head moving like a ragdoll as Executor thrust his hips at the same time he pushed his head down on his cock. He was moving too fast, the rough slide of his cock inside the wet heat of his throat burned, but Flamebringer welcomed the pain and discomfort with a sigh of pleasure.

It didn’t take long before he was coming, spurting cum on the bathroom floor and watched with half-lidded eyes as the liquids were swept away by water. He reached for Executor’s toned thigh, and buried his nose back to his pubes, before pulling back just slightly around the base. The hand around his hair hurt so much, but it was the kind of hurt that he could enjoy. It made him excited, and focused. It made him let go with abandon, and made him competitive too. It was a wonderful thing to know that someone like Executor, who had taken care of him so gently, last night, had the capacity to do this—face-fucking him so rough it made him cum.

When his pace stuttered, and Executor’s breath was so loud it echoed in the bathroom, Flamebringer kept his mouth on the root and braced for the bitterness of cum. When it did come, he gripped the meat of Executor’s thigh and sunk his nails in. He came a lot, flooding his already occupied mouth with bitter, musky hot liquid. He choked when he couldn’t swallow, finally letting his mouth be filled with cum without being able to do anything.

He coughed, the sound rough in his ears as Executor final pulled out from his mouth. The cum that had been trapped in his mouth flowed out from the sides of his lips. He swallowed what had been left inside, and let the rest drip down from his chin. He looked good like this, after all. He knew, Midnight had said so in several different occasions. Fucked out with red lips and cum dripping from his lips; eyes still not quite focused, voice rugged from the rough ministration. If he played his card right, Executor might be persuaded into staying a bit longer, and then they could finally do the deed; doing the vertical tango, fucking like stupid, hormonal teenagers until they were both spent.

Executor was still panting harshly, but when he looked down, he closed his eyes and had to reorganize his breath. Flamebringer smirked at his reaction, knowing how well this particular look worked nice and effective on people like Executor. The hand on his hair was no longer in a punishing grip; it just lay there to ground the both of them.

“I apologized,” Executor said a moment later, helping Flamebringer up to his feet. His legs were still a little bit unsteady from how long he was straining on them. “I got carried away and forgot to relieve you as well.”

“No problems, dude,” he replied, and winced at how rough his voice sounded. Gods, he sounded like every bit of his situation just now: completely fucked-out. “I already came, when I sucked you off.”

Executor paused, hands stilling on Flamebringer’s arms. But then, he was saying something in the same old language. This time, it sounded like a curse.

“Are you even aware how hard it is for people to keep their hands off of you if you were to say things like those?” the man asked then, pulling them both under the shower for a few seconds to rinse out their sweats and cum that was still left somewhere the water couldn’t reach.

“Yes, I am,” he answered when they went out of the stalls, and Executor patted him all over with his damp towel. “Good to know it works just fine on you.”

He didn’t get any more replies, but Executor did usher him out of the bathroom to change into fresh clothes. They had been standing under the shower for too long. The tips of their fingers were both pruned from the over-exposure to water. He changed into a comfortable shirt and a pair of shorts; he was planning to stay inside his room since he was free of schedule today. He watched as Executor changed into the clothes he wore last night, and whistled appreciatively at the back view.

“I’m sleepy now,” he announced, laying back on his bed and made himself comfortable before turning to Executor, who was standing a few feet away and was watching him with intent eyes. “What are you waiting for? Come here, dead fish.”

But Executor was already shaking his head. He stepped closer to put on his jacket and boots. “I have to miss out on the offer this time,” he told Flamebringer. “I am scheduled to travel to Siesta today.”

Flamebringer shrugged. Yeah, well, he couldn’t exactly persuade him out of missions. He would punch anyone who would interfere with his missions, so he didn’t try to make Executor extend his stay if he had good reasons. “Alright,” he nodded at the man. “Thanks for today—and last night.”

Unexpectedly, he was served to a soft smile that seemed to glow in the morning light. “It was my pleasure as well,” Executor replied.

“Wanna fool around again sometimes?” he asked, shameless. It wasn’t his fault that Executor just clicked right with him when it came to sexual compatibility. The man ticked so much of his kink boxes that it was a wonder how they didn’t get on earlier.

Executor straightened up from tying his boots, and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Flamebringer’s leisure form. He bent forward, and kissed him the same way he kissed last night: firm, assured. Flamebringer sighed into his mouth, enjoying the slide of their lips and the sting when Executor bit at the same place he had broken skin beforehand.

“I would be very much obliged,” Executor said after he pulled back. “I will see you after I am finished with my mission, if you are available.”

He waved the man away with a lopsided smile. “Don’t die before you get your dick in me.”

-

When he met with Lappland in the evening at the dining hall, the girl was sporting a huge bruise on her jugular. “Training,” she answered with a grin.

He shrugged, and turned to take his food tray to an empty table with Lappland following behind him. As soon as they sat down, she leaned forward with a grin. “So, how’s the nutjob?”

His answering smirk was wide and entirely not PG. “It is a nut job,” he said, sharing a look with the Lupo in front of him, who started to cackle madly. “But you’re not getting any money from me.”

“What—why?” pouted Lappland.

“We only had sex in the morning, and he didn’t fuck me either. He’s going away on missions.”

“Shame,” she shook her head, biting into her apple. “He looks like he’s your type.”

He didn’t deny that. Executor was his type in appearance and kinks; not so much with his demeanor. He was still put off by the way he talked, and acted in general when they weren’t sucking faces. It didn’t matter anyway—his real life personality didn’t really matter as long as he could satisfy him in bed. Midnight was a prime example of that, being a crack head that Flamebringer had wanted to pulverize in daily basis just because his face was so—so annoying. And they had sex regularly, before Flamebringer started sleeping with Lappland, too.

“I’m going to dump both Midnight and you,” he said between the bites.

Lappland put a hand over her heart in a dramatic gesture. “He’s that good?”

“Don’t know yet, but I’m ready to risk it all for his huge cock,” he replied easily.

She laughed, throwing her head back and clutching her stomach. It wasn’t even that funny, but Lappland comprehended words and their meanings differently from normal people. He was used to this, and she was used to his antics as well. This was what he meant when he said he only slept with people who understood his tendencies. This compatibility that transcended even into real life was something akin to camaraderie. Except for Executor, who could make his knees turned into jellies just from a simple shower sex, and still be someone that Flamebringer didn’t want to interact with in daily basis.

“You’re such a thirsty bitch, Enkaku,” she said with a certain kind of softness in her eyes.

“Takes one to know one,” he quipped.

She shrugged at that, making a face that he could read as eh it’s not wrong, and continued eating her dinner. He dug in, too, and pretended not to hear when Midnight called out to them. Outside of the bed, they were sort of—friends. He didn’t really understand how it could come to be, and why he had allowed it to happen, but it was too late to do anything about it now. Midnight was too much of a disgustingly annoying leech that refused to come off his skin no matter how hard he tugged. Of course, the man had expressed his dejection at his opinion, with great dramatic effects. He didn’t know why people like Midnight and Lappland flocked to him, even W—who was fully aware of his irk on dramatics—used that move on him too, sometimes, when she was particularly bored and wanted to get the rise out of him.

“I’ve called you, like, ten times,” Midnight complained as he sat close to him.

“He got a new boy toy,” Lappland said. “He’s dumping you.”

The man’s eyes widened. “So the rumors are true!”

Flamebringer turned to him with a flat face. “What rumors.”

“You should really stop that habit of making your questions into statements.” Midnight put down his tray and patted his cheek gently.

He slapped the wandering hand away. “I’m not asking. I’m demanding answers.”

“Exactly,” the man nodded to himself, unperturbed by Flamebringer’s reaction to him in general. “You shouldn’t just go around demanding everyone to answer for you. Be more polite! Like Executor, for example.”

Ah, so it was about that. He scoffed, and ignored Midnight again as he chewed on his chicken. Midnight squawked in indignation at being ignored. He let out a long-suffering sigh, and glanced at him briefly. “I got a new boy toy, I’m dumping you,” he repeated what Lappland had said, “now get the fuck out of my hair.”

“How callous, Enkaku!” Midnight wailed, hanging onto his shoulders as Flamebringer’s hand insistently pushed him away. “Not even a goodbye sex! I’m hurt!”

Lappland leered at them, and Flamebringer could sense an incoming headache when she opened her damned mouth. “I agree. We all should just have a threesome for the last time before Enkaku got carried away by his angel boy. I guess we could call it… a farewell fuck.”

Flamebringer rolled his eyes heavenwards so hard it actually hurt as Midnight and Lappland both immediately started to cackle. Loudly. He pretended that he didn’t feel the stares of the operators around them, wishing to all gods that he didn’t believe in that the ground would swallow him whole. These two lunatics were truly the bane of his existence, aside from W’s uncanny habit of ruffling his feathers and Executor’s perfect impersonation of a dead fish in social circumstances. It was almost funny how the four of them had slept with Flamebringer one way or another. Maybe it wasn’t them; maybe it was him and his unconscious desire to be around people who could make his blood vessels explode—both in sex and real life.

“Oh?” a female voice suddenly joined in the fray. “You didn’t invite me to your farewell party? Shame, we could have had an orgy to welcome the new addition of the lunatics in your arsenal.”

He looked up and gave W a deadpan expression. Great. Now she was here too. He regretted so bad ever taking on Lappland’s stupid bet. Not the fucking with Executor part—that had been mind-blowing for such a short period of contact. But knowing that Lappland had been the one to suggest it, of course she wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it to Midnight and W.

“Oh, just fuck me,” he whispered despairingly in a low growl.

W tittered next to Lappland. “Oh, we could, darling boy. But I guess you prefer Executor doing that to you instead, now. Never pegged you to be the type to bone a dead fish.”

It was a testament to how much she knew him, and how alike the both of them were in some ways, that she could use the same expression of describing Executor. He gave them all a scathing look, and resolutely ate his dinner while the three of them speculated rather shamelessly about Executor’s repertoire in bed.

“Ah,” W sighed a few moments later. “I can’t believe I’m seeing the day where I have to give you away to such a proper man.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he groaned. “I only fucked with the guy once; I’m not gonna marry him just because he has a nice cock.”

“Oh, darling, we fucked you beforehand. We knew what you like, what tick you off,” W gave him a suggestive look, small smile playing on her lips. “And this guy? He completely blew you away overnight.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “And that equals to me wanting to marry him?”

W considered that for a moment, nodding as he chewed slowly on her dinner. “You’re right,” she said, and he rolled his eyes. Of course he was right. But then, she grinned, slow and mischievous at him, twirling her spaghetti with a finesse of a serial killer waiting to stab his eyes with her fork. “Maybe he needs to fuck you a few times more before you’re convinced. You’re not that cheap, after all. Even if I’m sure he gave you the dowries in abundance.”

“Fuck you,” he spat out, and took the chicken from her tray.

She wrinkled her nose at that, calmly reaching over to Midnight’s tray and took whatever she wanted from there. “You’re so petty, Enkaku. It’s not pretty.”

“Pretty enough for Executor,” Midnight quipped, and squawked for the second time when Flamebringer reached over to actually bash his head on the table this time. “Hey! Save the violence for S/M play only!”

His fingers were trembling from sheer annoyance and unbidden urge to beat them all to death. He really needed to have new friends. This was the utmost urgent matter. That Questionable Blue Sankta seemed nice and sane, compared to these three lunatics. He wanted to discard them as soon as possible.

“Fuck you all,” he said viciously, pointing sharply at the three idiots’ faces. “Especially you, and you, and you in particular. Fuck you all so hard to Kazdel and back.”

He glared at them with all his might, flipping both of his middle fingers and the left the table with his tray and decided to sit with the Penguin Logistic bunch, who all looked surprised—and a little bit mystified at the dark look on his face. Apple Pie girl still looked awkward and embarrassed, but Questionable Blue just beckoned him over to sit next to her.

“That’s some lively, rowdy bunch you got there,” she said, glancing at the three lunatics whose laughter could be heard even from here.

“They’re not gonna live any longer once I’m finished,” he growled, shoveling W’s stolen chicken into his mouth.

The girl, whose name still eluded him, nodded and took a sip out of her coffee. She was done with dinner, faster than the rest of the table. “Please dispose the body properly; we don’t want to scare the new recruits with the corpses.”

Oh he liked this girl. “There won’t be any corpses,” he said with a grin, and grinned wider when that singing girl from the group squeaked at his words. She was only a little girl; it was understandable that she wouldn’t be as unaffected as Questionable Blue.

“Ooh, clean work. I like that.” she replied easily. “Want to have some drink with me someday this week?”

He grinned at her. “Sure,” he said. “I need a break from those three fuckface anyway.”

(He went to the bar with Questionable Blue on the weekend, and found out that her name was Mostima. She brazenly admitted that she was a fallen angel, and talked to him about the cities beyond the horizon. He told her about his plants, and they agreed to hang out again sometimes.)

(The three fuckface actually fucked him into oblivion in a messy foursome; each of them taking turn fucking him into the mattress, whispering dirty words about how pretty he looked—laid bare and open for them. How absolutely gorgeous he was when they fucked into him, how Executor was going to see the same thing when he finally had Flamebringer under him, wanton and moaning for more. When they were done with him, he was boneless and breathless from hours upon hours of being fucked. Sore, and satisfied as they caressed him gently to sleep.)

(He pulverized them all in training for the next few weeks.)

-

Executor came back a little after two weeks since his departure. There was an ambush on his way back, and he had to detour since the backup could not reach him in time. When Flamebringer went to see him in his room, he looked a little rugged and tired. He was only wearing a pair of sweatpants, shirtless and still a little bit damp from shower. He did give him a small smile when he saw Flamebringer outside of his door. “Operator Flamebringer,” he nodded at him.

He rolled his eyes, pushing past the man to get inside. “I’m not gonna let you anywhere near my ass if you keep insisting on calling me that.”

He did understand that it was a strange concept to Executor, being close and familiar to other people to the point of shedding formalities. But then again, he’d had his cock inside Flamebringer’s mouth two weeks ago; he didn’t think formalities would mean shit between the two of them. He said so to the man as he carelessly took off his boots and dropped down to Executor’s bed face first.

Their room wasn’t that different; no decorations, no small mementos, just the standard furnitures that Rhodes Island had given in the first place. The bed was a little bit different, though. It smelt like Executor—the sort of musk that he could smell in nearly all of males that he had encountered. But Executor’s was a little bit tapered, a little bit muted. He smelt clean, like a freshly washed clothes from the laundry, with the ever present musk. It wasn’t a bad smell at all, although it didn’t stand out. It reflected the man’s demeanor, he thought. Oh, he stood out, alright. With that face on his body, he would stand out no matter where he went. But he was mostly quiet around people, choosing to work around machines instead. If it weren’t for his striking look, and his honest-to-god blunt and overly formal speech pattern, he might as well be an involuntary wallflower.

He felt Executor’s warm hand slipping inside his shirt to rub his back in a slow, circular motion. He moaned softly into the pillow; Executor must have been tired, and yet here he was. Hogging his bed and having his back rubbed as he tempted to just fall asleep right then and there.

“Are you this gentle to everyone you fuck?” he asked after a few more minutes of enjoying the simple touch. He tilted his head to look at Executor, who was currently checking on his phone for something.

The man then put his phone away after confirming something, and turned his attention back to Flamebringer. “It is only right to treat people with courtesy, especially if we have favors to ask from them.”

He smiled; of course he would be polite as fuck to his hook-ups. “And what favor do you have to ask from me?”

Executor didn’t answer immediately, but his fingers slowly lifted Flamebringer’s shirt up. His hand roamed more freely after Flamebringer took it off completely, pressing on the divot of his scapula, spreading his palm over the curve of his spine. It was soft and sensual, but not enough to spark a fire of arousal. It was enjoyable nonetheless.

“I’m going to fall asleep if you keep doing that,” he said to him, with a small amount of threat. Because he would. He didn’t know what was it with Executor’s hand that seemed to be able to make him feel a certain kind of things. From burning arousal, to comfortable warmth. He should just keep this man for his hand instead of his cock. Although, that one would be nice too.

The hand moved to his shoulder then, pushing him a little bit to the side as Executor scooted closer on the bed. “I would like you to lie on your back, if you would please.”

He groaned a little bit, stretching his comfortable muscles, and did as he was asked. He was in a lethargic mood, but seeing the bare view of Executor’s upper body was enough to keep his mind alert. He got a nicely sculpted body, shaped from years of training and fighting. The muscles on his arms and shoulders were especially exquisite, what with him being a sniper that had to carry heavy guns everywhere. For someone who was shorter, and smaller, than Flamebringer, Executor possessed a certain kind of aura that made him look sturdy, dependable. Like his wide shoulders were enough to carry the burden of the world.

Tonight, though, they just had to carry the weight of Flamebringer’s demands and desires.

His pants were taken off, along with his briefs, leaving him bare and open. Naked from head to toe. Executor looked at him intently with those pale blue eyes, taking in the sight of Flamebringer—pliant and naked on his bed. He raked his eyes slowly over his disheveled hair, his half-lidded eyes, the slightly-parted lips, his prominent collarbones. He reached out to touch his neck, rubbing the warm skin there, and started to press ever so slightly.

Flamebringer’s eyes slipped close at the pressure of that big palm over his neck, mouth falling open as the pressure started to add up. Choking was more of W’s thing, but he was open to the experience as well. He felt the fingers squeezed lightly, before coming back to the faint pressure, and squeezing again every few seconds.

He rubbed his thighs together, starting to feel his skin flushing from the heat creeping sluggishly all over his body. His hand came up to hold onto Executor’s hand when the grasp he had tightened harder than the previous light squeeze. He threw his head back, baring his neck to the man, and couldn’t help the small gasps carried away from his throat as Executor’s fingers tightened; harder, and harder still.

But then, the pressure slowly eased up, before leaving his throat completely. He opened his eyes, and was treated to a serene smile on Executor’s calm face. He gave a coy smile back. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Very much so,” answered the man, before moving up the bed. “Spread your legs.”

Apparently, Executor’s idea of foreplay was to finger him for hours on end, until he was a sobbing mess on the sheets. It had started tame enough, with Executor kissing his neck and collarbones with lips that sucked and bit softly on the surface. A little sting, not enough to leave a mark. Down to his chest, fondling the firm muscles and licking around his areola, teething around the nub until Flamebringer grasped his shoulder in a harsh grip. He was sensitive there, and Executor seemed to be enjoying the fact that such a simple touch could reduce him into a trembling, moaning mess.

“Have you ever considered having a nipple piercing?” Executor suddenly asked between licks and bites on Flamebringer’s sore nipples.

He heaved a breath through his nose, trying to regain some semblance of coherency that he knew was never there in the first place. “N—no,” he gasped out, back arching of the bed when Executor pinched a nipple a tad too hard. “Too sensitive.”

The Sankta pulled back to look at him when he said, “Shall we try nipple clamps next time?”

Flamebringer laughed so suddenly that he was surprised by himself. Executor had said it so seriously, but the timing was a little too strange that he couldn’t help but be startled into a series of chuckles laced with disbelief. “We haven’t even fucked properly yet and you’re already whipping out the clamps? Truly the pinnacle of gentlemen,” he sneered with eyes full of mirth.

To his surprise, again, the corners of Executor’s eyes crinkled a little bit in humor. The man wasn’t as conservative as he seemed, and he might or might not be harboring the same type of humor that Flamebringer possessed. He leaned down then, kissing his lips softly before asking, “Should I fuck you today, then?”

It was sort of a novelty to hear such crude words coming out of Executor’s mouth, and Flamebringer was living for it. He grabbed one of the man’s hands, and guided it down to his cock, already hard and leaking from the constant stimulation on his nipples. “Yes,” he said.

Executor’s hand immediately went to work on his cock, enveloping the heated flesh with his palm and pumped it with firm movements of his wrist. “How good is your endurance?”

He furrowed his eyebrows at the odd question, but felt a jolt inside his belly at the peeking hunger in Executor’s eyes despite his passive face. His other hand went back to his nipples, and Flamebringer was forced into answering the question when a little tweak on his nub brought a zing of pleasure along his spine. “Good enough to last a few rounds,” he answered, talking from experience.

It was a very wrong thing to say, because the next thing he knew, he was cursing and clawing at Executor’s arms. His mouth was parted as he sighed out moans that seemed to be brought from the depth of his lungs, his skin flushed, his eyes closed in frustration as he felt Executor’s fingers twisted mercilessly on his prostate. He opened his eyes to glare weakly at the man, too aroused and too wrung out to muster anything stronger.

Executor had been fingering him for more than an hour now; alternating between slow, measured thrust of his fingers, to a quick pace that had left Flamebringer moaning and aching from the feeling of being played with by his hand. His face was calm, aside from the perspiration on his temples. His other hand moving up and down on Flamebringer’s cock. He groaned from the oversensitivity; he had come approximately two times now, from Executor’s fingers alone. He didn’t know what kind of steely self-control that the man possessed, but he was starting to be desperate and aching.

“Exe—Executor,” he stuttered out, pulling at his arm in vain as the man just kept on thrusting his fingers inside, spreading them to stretch him well and nice. But he had been stretched enough to accommodate his cock, no matter how thick it was. Those fingers were amazing inside of him, but he wanted something more. He needed something more. He gritted his teeth when a particularly well-aimed thrust sent him to the edge, spurting hot semen all over Executor’s hand.

While he lay there, panting and trying to regain his senses, Executor’s fingers had started to move again. He keened, pulling at his shoulder to kiss him messy and sloppy. “Fuck me already,” he growled into his mouth, licking into the corners and pushing Executor’s tongue into his own mouth when he tried to invade Flamebringer’s. “Just fuck me already, bastard.”

But Executor’s face was still as calm as ever, hands still on their steady pace to bring Flamebringer onto the edge of sanity from too many sensations on his body. “I am,” he said, “fucking you.”

Flamebringer’s mouth opened up in a sudden gasp when Executor’s finger quickened their pace, making the knot inside his stomach tightened because no matter how long he had been fingered, how many times he came, Executor was simply too good at this that he couldn’t help but feel the rise of pleasure all over his heated skin. It just felt too good, too much, too little. He glared at the man, nails sinking deep into his skin that he knew he broke some skin. “If you don’t get your stupid cock inside me right this second, I swear to god I’ll walk out of the door and fuck Midnight instead.”

Pale blue eyes narrowed slightly at his words, but his body betrayed nothing; still so steady, still so controlled. It frustrated him because he could see Executor’s erection through his sweatpants and it hurt him to know that it was within his reach, but unable to feel it on his skin. However, a few thrusts later, Executor straightened up and said, “Very well. How would you like to be taken?”

He let out a rush of air, fin-fucking-nally. “However you like, just—just fuck me already, damn you—ah—“

Executor shushed him with a soft kiss, pulling out his finger from Flamebringer’s hole and reached over to the nightstand for condoms. Flamebringer felt like he could cry from relief when Executor rolled the condom on his thick, heavy cock and slathered more lube on it even if Flamebringer was completely soaked already. So loose and ready to be fucked open.

When the blunt head pressed against his hole, Flamebringer brought up his hand to bit at the back of his palm, trying in futile to stifle the wanton gasp. His hand was removed a second later, however. Executor’s eyes bored into his as he pushed inside, both of his hands locking Flamebringer’s down to the sheets as he was unable to keep the loud, pathetically needy whimper that came unbidden from his throat after being teased for so long.

Despite already being fingered so well, so loose and soft inside, he still felt the stretch from Executor’s large girth inside of him. He threw his head back, unable to cope with the sensation of being filled by something so thick, so hot inside, pushing further than his finger could reach—than anyone had ever reached. By how far he was stretched, Executor didn’t even need to search for his soft spot, his heavy cock was already pressing hard on it just by being inside of Flamebringer. He had never thought that it was possible, before this.

When Executor bottomed out, it felt like the energy had been drained clean from his body, leaving his body shaking and pliant on the bed. His hair was plastered all over his forehead from how much he was sweating, his throat felt dry and sore already from moaning, and they hadn’t even started yet. He was almost afraid of what would be left of him after Executor was thoroughly done with his ministrations.

“Move,” he breathed out after being silent for a few moments, adjusting to Executor’s size. “You can move now.”

Executor nodded, and surged up to kiss him, pressing even further inside and drawing out groans from Flamebringer’s throat. He started slow; just short thrusts that made him clenched the sheets between his fingers from the sheer pressure of him inside. But it didn’t take long until Executor started to quicken the thrust of his hips, pulling out halfway before slamming inside with more force than before. His hand held onto the back of Flamebringer’s thighs as leverage, gradually picking up the pace until he was fucking into him with abandon.

Flamebringer looked at him with a smirk, he was flushed and sweating and he knew just how wrecked he looked. But he did get what he wanted, and he wasn’t about to be ashamed that he enjoyed it. He enjoyed this a lot; the pleasure that had bordered on too-much, the softness of Executor’s touch that juxtaposed with how rough he was fucking into him once he got the hang of the pace, the absolute weight of him inside, the way his eyes burned into him. They were probably the only indication of how much Executor just wished to let go of his control, because his face was betraying nothing at all.

He looked focused, concentrating on the movements of his hips, of his unforgiving tight grip on his firm thighs. But his eyes—they looked so wild, so hungry. He looked like he wanted to devour Flamebringer whole and crush his carcasses beneath his claws. He was very much on-board with that idea, so he started pushing back against Executor’s thrust and threw him a wink when his pace stuttered from the sudden heat, before resuming the hard pace he had set before.

“Do you like it?” he asked with breathless voice. Reaching forward to hold onto Executor’s shoulder, groping and fondling his chest with the other hand. When he pinched his nipple, as hard as he had played with Flamebringer at the start, he thrust inside so hard that Flamebringer’s mouth parted in a loud, long scream.

With a low groan, he pulled the man down so he could feel the full weight of Executor on top of him. The weight knocked the breath out of him. Not because he couldn’t handle it—he was strong enough to lift Executor, he thought—but it was just the feeling of being pressed down, of bare skin touching against skin, of how warm and harsh and calm and intense Executor was when it came to pleasures.

“Harder,” he demanded, lifting his legs and hooking them on Executor’s back, pressing against the divot of his spine as if to press him closer still inside. “Fuck me harder,” he repeated, clearer than before; amber eyes lit in carnal desires as he mouthed along the length of Executor’s neck.

He heard the old language uttered from Executor’s mouth like a litany of curses, of praises and prayers. He couldn’t tell, but it made his cock jump on his stomach nonetheless. He put his hands on the sides of Flamebringer’s head and gave him what he wanted, biting his neck hard when Flamebringer was moaning shamelessly, deep voice going higher and higher the harder Executor fucked into him.

Executor’s body wasn’t safe from his wandering hands and lips; nail marks that drew blood on his back, the bruises that had started to purple on his neck and shoulders. Flamebringer kissed into him like he was a parched man in the middle of the dessert, and Executor was the only one who could save him. “Feel so good—ah—feel so good,” he stuttered as his body was moved from the thrusts. “Touch me,” he said when he felt the knot in his belly becoming tighter and tighter as his release was mounting. “Come on, touch me.”

It didn’t take long for him to come from Executor’s rough hand on his cock, spurts of semi-clear semen sticking to their skin. He had come four times today, and Executor looked like he wasn’t even close to finish. So Flamebringer took a deep breath, loosened his body, and hung on to the man’s shoulders. He grinned, wicked and still so cocky even after he was fucked boneless. Lappland was right; this man could fuck the Oripathy out of him. He chuckled against Executor’s lips, and whispered, “Fuck me good, Mr. Sankta.”

Executor took on to that challenge with sharp eyes and steady, ruthless rhythm. Flamebringer could only hang on for dear life as the man took what he needed from his body, marking him every which way he went and pushing into him so hard he saw stars behind his eyelids. He didn’t know if the walls of Rhodes’ nomadic city was soundproofed enough, but he couldn’t really stop the loud moans and groans from his lips, couldn’t stop to think that he shouldn’t be this shameless. Well—people probably would turn to be this shameless if they had Executor’s cock fucking the life out of them.

When Executor groaned low in his ears, face flushed and getting a little bit desperate, Flamebringer kissed him and tightened as much as he could. He came with Flamebringer’s tongue on his mouth, his hands pulled at the white strands so hard he was sure the man could feel the pain pulsing on his scalp. He clenched his teeth, hips unconsciously moving when he felt Executor’s cock pulsing inside as he came so much into the condom.

When he was done, he leaned his entire weight on Flamebringer—who chuckled at him when he snuffled close to his neck, still trembling from the aftermath of his orgasm. It was—weird. To see that Executor could be this soft and endearing after the whole show of dominance. He didn’t even mind when Executor unexpectedly bit hard on his shoulder, drawing a hoarse moan out of Flamebringer’s mouth when he didn’t relent and bit through the skin. He gasped, eyes shutting close as the pain on his shoulder bloomed like a tendril all over his veins.

He tugged harshly on Executor’s hair, wanting very much to slap the guileless expression on Executor’s face even as his blood still dripped from the corner of his mouth. “What the fuck is it with you and biting me bloody?” he complained, even if he did enjoy the intense pain, simply because it was within the sexual act. Besides, it thrilled him to know that Executor did have a biting kink, possibly blood play as well because this isn’t the first time he bit Flamebringer bloody.

“I like it,” he simply said, like he didn’t just leave a deep indent of his teeth all over Flamebringer’s body.

Flamebringer looked at him like he did two weeks ago, like Executor was a new species he had never seen before. He lifted his eyebrows, and stared some more. Executor, the android motherfucker, just stared back at him until he shrugged and said, “Well—it’s not like I don’t like it.”

“I know,” Executor said. “You seem to like it when I inflict pain upon you in sexual acts.”

He ignored the way Executor expressed his words, and chose to smile at the observation. “You catch on fast,” he said. “Good job. Now get your shitty dick out of my ass, I need to shower.”

The shorter man obliged, pulling out slowly and rubbing the skin of Flamebringer’s thigh when he hissed as he did so. Only now that they were done, that Flamebringer finally felt the fatigue catching up on him. His whole body hurt. He skin was still too sensitive, his hole clenched around nothing as the memory of Executor’s fingers moving inside played over and over again in his mind. That was probably the longest foreplay he had ever done, simply taking his fingers for almost two hours. He chuckled, staring into the ceiling of the room.

Who would’ve thought that Executor could push his buttons to this point, and still left him wanting more by the end of it?

Although he wasn’t planning on marrying Executor, or even be in close vicinity with him for reasons other than fucking, W was right about one thing: Executor had definitely, absolutely blown him away overnight.

He went to the bathroom and took a shower with legs that were still shaky. It was his turn to use Executor’s toothbrush and towel, and requesting/demanding to be lent soft shirt and pants because his skin was too sensitive for his skintight sleeveless shirt and leather pants.

Just like that night, Executor settled next to him and rubbed his back gently until he felt sleepy enough to let his guard down and said, “That was amazing. No one ever fucked me like you did.”

He felt the smile on his temple as Executor pressed a soft kiss there. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Did you?” he asked back.

“Yes.” Executor then patted his ass softly when Flamebringer hooked his leg over to rest on his hip. Yeah, he was the clingy sort after an intense sex. Most of his partners were surprised by that. Midnight was, before he rolled with the punches and doted on him. Lappland and W sort of expected that from him. It didn’t always happen, but when it did, they readily welcome him into their arms. Executor was another exception it seemed, as he just went with whatever Flamebringer threw at him, and gave back as much.

“Good,” he yawned. “Because I’d like to do it again with you. If you’re up for it.”

He didn’t expect a rejection, because he knew what kind of charm he had over people if he actually tried to charm their pants off of them. And he had seen how Executor treated him—which probably created such confusions on his previous bed partners because he was just so tender, caring to the point of too much for a title of “fuck-buddies”. But Flamebringer didn’t mind the attention, and the intense focus that Executor seemed to give to his partners. Even if they were there just for sex.

Still, it was nice to hear the man said, “I would like to as well, thank you.”

He smiled sleepily, patting Executor’s neck and closing his eyes. “Good, now let me sleep.”

The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Executor’s hand rubbing his back, his lips on his hair, the whispers of Executor’s old language in his ears, and the bone-deep sense of satisfaction that washed over him like a blanket.

-

They were swept in whirlwind of missions after that night. Executor had held him close in his sleep, and let Flamebringer kept his clothes when he got back to his room, holding the clothes that the man had meticulously folded in a bundle as he walked the most fantastic walk of shame, ever. He wasn’t surprised when he saw Lappland sleeping in his bed as he entered his quarter. The three fuckface—he had taken to call them that in his mind after the whole fiasco in the dining hall, and it had stuck on him ever since—knew his passcodes, as Executor did too, now. Sometimes they’d just sleep there, for reasons he never asked because some things were too private to share, even if he could guess why.

She sighed when he lay down next to her, snuggling close to his chest and looked up with her nose twitching. “You smell like him,” she said, but it wasn’t an accusation. It was just a simple fact.

“He fucked me for hours on end last night,” he stated the obvious. “And these are his clothes.”

She nodded, and closed her eyes again. “It’s weird,” she said into the silence of his room. “I’m so used to smelling only the three of us on you. Now another one is there.”

“Better get used to it,” he said, and sighed into her hair as she reached up to rub on the strands of his hair. He found out that she had a habit of doing that when she was distressed. He let her be.

“You’re really going to dump us, aren’t you?” she laughed. “You like him?”

He thought about it for a while. The chemistry between them when it came to sex was off the chart, but he only ever slept with the guy twice, and had never talked to him prior to that. It was still a wonder that Executor had been so open to his drunken advances on that night. But then again, after they slept together, he could gather that Executor was more open to experiences, and was more adventurous than he looked. It was just the way he held himself, with an air of coldness and aloofness that made people reluctant to get close, he realized.

Personally, he didn’t do well with people like Executor. He was far too stuffy and rigid to ever get into the circle that Flamebringer had chosen to be in. He didn’t like the way he spoke, and the way he handled things sometimes, but then again, the man was just brought up like that—the same way everyone had their own quirks that accumulated with time to make themselves them.

But, he was also far too gentle to his one-night stands and understanding as well as polite to a fault when he handled Flamebringer. Even if he could turn into an entirely different person while he fucked, he could see where the lines of Executor’s juxtaposing behavior merged and blurred together to make himself Executor. It wasn’t even that he was a different person, as much as it was only a part of him that people couldn’t see in certain lights.

“I like sleeping with him,” he allowed, because as much as he welcomed the brand new thrill of having Executor in his sex life, he didn’t know two shits about him. And so did Executor about Flamebringer. “I don’t know about the rest.”

She hummed, nodding lightly against his chest. “Fair enough.”

She didn’t say anything after that, and he was content to let her sleep. He had to go at twelve to the greenhouse. He promised Lena that he would help her with the new batch of aconites. Tomorrow, he was going to Ursus with the A6 Team for a retrieving mission. The situation in Ursus was still too dangerous, so they sent him along with two other medics.

For now, though, he could just close his eyes and catch a little bit more sleep; lying close to Lappland and the ever present scent of tragedy and longing that seemed to surround her all the time.

-

The next time Executor fucked him, it was the night before he had to go on a mission. He fucked him slow that night, avoiding over-taxing his body. Flamebringer had sucked him off twice in-between the hours of them tousling around the bed. This time, when they were done and Executor’s eyes were closing in sleep, Flamebringer took the time to look at each detail of his face, to file away for later.

His lashes were long, longer than Flamebringer’s. Almost as long as W’s, as they shadowed over his high cheekbones. In general, Executor was blessed with an attractive look, with an absolutely envy-inducing bone structure. His face was small, made delicate with his white strands of hair. But his jaw was firm and shaped almost too perfect to be real. He looked like every inch an angel he was, especially when he slept like this—calm and undisturbed, face serene and lack.

When he woke up, though, he looked intimidating. It was probably the way his cold, blue eyes just swept over everything with zero apathy in them. It might also be the way he kept himself so blank, and Flamebringer could understand that some people might be unsettled by the lack of social cues that Executor gave. He was a blank page that not everyone could read. Sure, he could read him in bed, but that was probably because they had respective preferences in sex that just happened to fit each other.

He wondered, if he gave this man a chance, could they actually form some kind of friendship, with the way they were so different from each other? He frankly couldn’t say for sure, and it was hard to simulate any scenario in his head. Simply because he had never seen Executor being friendly to people around him. He wasn’t hostile either, but he was just unfit to engage in most of social circumstances. His flat reactions and stiff words were enough to unnerve people.

People gave Flamebringer a wide berth because he was a Sarkaz, and one that was close to Doctor. He was an exotic attraction that everyone was too afraid to touch, but they liked looking at him. Just to see if they could figure him out just by staring. They were afraid, too. His reputation was known by people who had lived long enough to taste blood on their tongue every single day, but there were people who had seen him in battles, and didn’t like what they saw. The blood thirst, the complete disregard of his life and other people’s life, the complete apathy he had shown to things he wasn’t interested in.

They were perplexed, too, by how brazen and condescending he could be. Like they had suspected that he was a colossal jerk beforehand, but was still surprised when it turned out to be true. It was the plants, probably. They had seen him as something bad—some of them, at least—simply because he was Sarkaz, because he came from Kazdel. But they wanted to see something good in him when they found out how gentle he could be with his plants, and was once again confused when they couldn’t see any speck of kindness that they wanted to see.

He had none. He was a jerk, and he accepted that. He accepted the consequences of his behavior and reputation, and he didn’t exactly have the time to please all those people. He didn’t want to, ever.

But Executor, on the other hand, people gave him a wide berth because they were intrigued. He had heard the way female operators whispered in glee as they talked about “that handsome engineer”, and how they had given up on him when they realized that he didn’t even realize that they were flirting with him. They liked him because they liked the idea of him. An angel in white, with face that could have been sculpted by God himself, and the way that he had been associated with good even without him knowing about it.

He was an angel with a gun, just the way that Apple Pie girl was. That one Sankta kid with a crossbow, and even Mostima, even if she had fallen. They only called her fallen because they had equaled Sanktas with goodness, with inherent grace and kindness. And so far, their opinion was strengthened by the way Apple Pie and Crossbow Sankta had been so kind and cheerful to people around them. People were unsure about Mostima because she still held himself so well, kind and friendly—if a bit distant—even if she was a fallen angel. They wanted to see her as something tarnished, something bad and disgraceful. She was all of that and more, but she could also be as good as a Sankta still.

It was unfair, of course, the way people associate a person based on their stereotypes. But people like him, like Mostima, was so used to this treatment that he didn’t think twice about it anymore. There was also someone like Executor, who was both shunned and loved in equal measure because he was an enigma to people around him. The motherfucker was probably aware of it, but he didn’t seem to understand the gravity of sentiment that people felt. So he just ignored it, most probably. He could hear inside his head, Executor saying, “It is not crucial to the mission”.

He smiled sardonically at the sleeping Sankta. Yeah, they could relate on that one thing, at least. Maybe he could try, he thought. See if he could befriend this dead fish. Mostima would know a thing or two about him, and Flamebringer could probably lessen the degree of Executor’s machine-like behavior when he dealt with people.

So the next morning when they woke up, tangled in Executor’s bed, he asked, “Want to get breakfast with me?”

-

He started bringing Executor more often with him every time they slept together. Dinner, lunch or breakfast, or just hanging around the bar. He didn’t drink, granted, but it was still fun seeing him awkwardly holding the glass of liquor as Flamebringer tried to rope him into conversations. If he failed to do that, well, he could just distract Executor with his mouth. The guy seemed to like listening to him talk, probably because he didn’t have much thing to say, either.

The first time he had shown up at the dining hall with Executor in tow, sporting obvious bruises on their necks and arms, the three fuckface had looked absolutely gleeful. Like Christmas had come early, and they were enjoying the best present of them all. He had tried his best to sit on a separated table with Executor, but being the insufferable son of bitches that they were, had followed right to their table and asked Executor a thousand of embarrassing questions that he calmly answered as he ate his pancake.

“What do you think? He’s very pretty right?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Very good with his mouth, too.”

“He is.”

“You should try dressing him up in lingerie, he’d be absolutely stunning.”

“I will consider the suggestion for later use, thank you.”

And so on, with the ever increasing private questions, while they acted like he wasn’t in hearing range, plastered next to Executor, who was still patiently explaining the difference between executors on Notarial Hall with the normal operators from Laterano. He very much wanted to drag them all to the training room and break their bones, but Midnight’s foot brushed against his under the table, and stayed there as the man himself didn’t even looked fazed and continued with his rapid-fire questions about Executor’s previous sleeping partners. He sighed and cursed them inside his head, but refrained from stopping them from… whatever interrogation they were having with Executor.

They had varied from one person to another—his partners—Executor said. He didn’t disclose their identity, and Flamebringer was pretty sure the fuckface didn’t really care either. They just wanted to know how someone like Executor could be well-versed in sex to the point that Flamebringer was so taken to him. To his horror, he realized it was almost like they were questioning him to see whether he was “worth it” to be with Flamebringer or not. Which was frankly wrong and disturbing because Executor and he were just fuck-buddies.

He honestly didn’t know why they made such a fuss over this. It wasn’t like he liked the guy or something.

“I am just like other people,” Executor said. “I have the same urges and feelings. I think it is only a matter of upbringing and natural characteristics that differentiate us. People often mistaken Sanktas with angels, but we are not. We can bleed too, we can live and love, we can be bad and displeasing.”

Flamebringer put down his coffee to look at him as Executor carefully arranged his eating utensils on top of his plate, before pushing them aside. “I think,” he added a few moments later. “People forgot that, and Sanktas are too proud to admit that it is true. That we are not angels. We are simply a race with wings and halos, we are not untainted. We are not inherently holy.”

He… didn’t expect him to say that. He knew that by heart, he knew that every single person in this table knew what he was talking about. But to hear him talked about it so openly, with such calmness and serene face while he explained it, it had felt so different than how messy and full of accusations it had been inside Flamebringer’s head.

W was the first to break the silence. She nodded sharply at Executor, eyes no longer full of mirth. She looked calculating, but not condescending. She looked thoughtful. “Wonderfully worded,” she commented. “You’re not half bad.”

“Thank you,” Executor said, and Flamebringer watched as something unfurled between the two of them. Like they were engaging in a silent conversation on their own. W had that effect on people. Her presence could be very encompassing, domineering in her enigma. She made people feel like she was assessing them and that they had to abide by what she amount them to be. Executor didn’t seem to have difficulties holding himself against W’s intense gaze. He’d be fine, Flamebringer assured himself, not knowing why he was worried in the first place.

After that one encounter, they didn’t bombard him with numerous questions like the first day, but they did try to include him in conversations. Trying to make Executor participate in a back-and-forth banter was like pulling teeth. The most jarring thing about him was that he only spoke whenever he was addressed, and wouldn’t ask any question back to anyone. It was akin to talking to an answering wall. Flamebringer was right about one thing, at least. He was horrible in things like this. God was indeed fair, huh.

In a way, Mostima had said on their drinking session, Executor understood the social cues and people in general. He had feelings, just like the rest of them, and he wasn’t dumb. He was far from being dumb, even if they were talking about social interactions. But what he couldn’t comprehend was the way people attributed their sentiments to a certain behavior or cues. He just simply didn’t work on the same framework when it came to that. He worked in a more plausible, logical way—which wasn’t something that could be done when dealing with fickle feelings. They simply weren’t rational, as all feelings were.

Executor, in his framework, could perceive and understood people from observation, which was just part of being someone who partook in war. You were aware of people, what people thought, what they might hate and like about you. Even the slightest tilt of behavior could affect your well-being in a war. The more you learned about people, the more you knew how rotten they could be. But they could be better, too. And the gap of rationality between the two spectrums of a person’s intention and behavior was what executors were.

Executor could possibly be like that since he was born, and brought up in strict teachings of Sanktas. But the moment he pledged to be an executor, he took in the role of that rational gap in people’s spectrums. They worked under the law that disregarded even the oldest law of Sankta, it was only to be expected that they were wired differently than other people. To expect Executor to be like an average people was like hoping to tame Catastrophe. It was simply could not be done. But to expect that Executor was above everything else and be a complete merciless judge of God’s will all the time was also not a fair thing to do.

He pledged, and he had agreed to live his life as an executor, but it didn’t mean that he wasn’t allowed to have his own private life. Executor wasn’t a real angel, much less the angels from Old Testaments, with their absolute devotion and unblinking efficiency in carrying God’s judgment. He could bleed and die. “It wouldn’t hurt to try to treat him like you would treat everyone else in this ship,” Mostima said.

Everyone had a reason to be in Rhodes Island, with their own backgrounds, traumas and stories. Executor, too, had those. He had the right to be treated in the same manner, too.

“Hey,” he said one day, his head lying on Executor’s chest as the man played with his hair. After Lappland had made a comment about how soft his hair was after she bought him a conditioner, Executor had taken to play with it when they were just lying around like this after sex.

“Hmm?” Executor replied, not really looking at Flamebringer, who was looking at him from his chin. He was still unfairly good looking from that angle.

“You can try to reply to conversations without having to be asked, you know,” he said, reaching to trace his long finger on Executor’s perfectly sculpted jaw. “Just offer your opinion. It’s okay. It’s part of the give and take in interactions like that. You can ask, too.”

He heard the steady thrum of Executor’s heart in his ears; the vibration of his voice when Executor spoke again.

“I will try to apply it in practice,” he said, but promised nothing.

Flamebringer didn’t mind. He could always remind him, after all. “It’s okay to insult someone when it’s only in banters, too. You’ve seen us do that, it’s okay. If that’s not up to your alley, then teasing is fine. Show some humor, at least. People feel at ease when they could detect a certain cue of comedy. Of course, not all people share our kind of humor, but it is okay to show it, sometimes.”

Executor looked at him then. He didn’t know where those pale blue eyes landed on the vicinity of his squished face, but then he was cupping his face softly, and was kissing him like he wanted to say words Flamebringer didn’t understand right into his lungs. “I will try,” he said afterwards.

“And start using contractions in your sentences, too.”

“I will draw the line right there,” Executor then said with a flat face.

Flamebringer gaped, then laughed, hiding his face on Executor’s neck. “See? I knew we had the same type of humor. It’s just harder to unearth yours.”

When Executor’s lip quirk into something that might or might not be a smirk, Flamebringer thought back to that night when he decided to try to befriend him. He didn’t know, back then, whether it would work or not. Whether it would be worth it or not. But here, as he pushed up a little to kiss the underside of Executor’s jaw, he thought that W was right, once again.

He was not half bad.

-

Their progress was slow, but it wasn’t in vain. Executor still talked like a damn android with overly handsome face, but Flamebringer was too used about that part of him to complain about it anymore. Just over a year ago, he said to himself that he didn’t want to interact with the man in daily basis because he was a stuck-up motherfucker who was too stiff for his taste. But then, here he was, didn’t even blink at Executor’s overly formal speech of pattern, and was endeared instead when he started doing his dead fish impression.

“Do you like him now?” Lappland had asked, curled around his back and nosing the base of his hairline with a cold nose. Texas had been injured in a mission, he heard. And because she knew she wouldn’t be welcomed in the infirmary, she went back to his room to sleep there.

He held her hand on his waist, considering. “He’s not as bad as I thought,” he said instead.

“It’s okay,” she said, and it broke his heart a little to hear how soft her voice was when she said, “maybe we will have enough time to figure it out.”

He was reminded of the curse in his veins, in hers. They couldn’t run from it, not when God had abandoned them and condemned them in life and death. Both Lappland and he didn’t have anyone aside from W and Midnight. All four of them shared the same fate, after all. Everyone except for Midnight had refused treatment. The infection was spreading fast, and they had no interest in prolonging death when they knew that they had no hope. It was better to accept it head on like this.

He didn’t say anything when Lappland’s arms tightened around him, and grasped her fingers in his. He might not have enough time, by the rate of his infection. But he wasn’t afraid, he had nothing to lose. They cared for him, Midnight even more so with the way he had given himself entirely to all of them, but they understood. He didn’t fear death. But sometimes—when W took him out for a smoke, when Midnight held him in silence, when Lappland let her guard down and let him see her broken pieces—he felt his heart ache a little inside a rotten, broken body.

-

Sometimes, he slept at Executor’s quarter, for the sole purpose of sleeping. He had been given the entry code after they had fooled around for half a year. So sometimes, he would just walk past Executor’s quarter, and went inside to sleep because his quarter was too far away. He usually slept there too after he worked around the greenhouse, since it was closer. Executor didn’t say anything about that, and would just go about his business while Flamebringer slept on his bed. He would join him afterwards, smelling damp and clean, holding Flamebringer close in his sleep.

He liked oranges, Flamebringer found out. He couldn’t stand spicy foods, but he could handle hot food like a champ. Somehow, people believed that Executor was a vegan. He had laughed at that because one of Executor’s favored meal was meat. He guessed it was because of his face and behavior.

He had this little tick of rubbing his thumb on his forefinger when he was irked or annoyed. It was subtle, and almost always hidden from people’s eyes. But Flamebringer had spotted it pretty easily because he was usually with Executor whenever neither of them was on any mission. He still hung out with the people from the greenhouse whenever he had worked there, and went to the bar regularly with Mostima whenever they had free time and Mostima wasn’t away on the latter half of the world. And despite his earlier statement of dumping the fuckfaces, he found that he actually hung out around them even more than before.

He was sure that they were bad influences for Executor, but he took it in strides. Executor, too, had been with them long enough that he didn’t need to wait for Flamebringer to join them on the dining hall if he happened to be there. They didn’t express it to him, but Flamebringer could see that they were getting comfortable around the Sankta, as well. Lappland was the first to discover Executor’s unusual sense of humor, and had been milking it dry for all it was worth.

Executor knew how to make the coffee that Flamebringer liked, and didn’t say anything when he said he liked chocolate cakes but hated sweet things. He bought him chocolate cakes then, whenever they were docked on a city. He knew how Flamebringer liked his toasts, and that he liked to wear Executor’s clothes because they were soft on his skin and his own clothes because he knew he looked good in them.

He gave Flamebringer custom-made heels, once, and proceeded to fuck him after he pranced around in his room for Executor. He had to admit, his legs looked amazing in the tosca heels. Executor had liked it, too.

Sometimes, when he was listening to Flamebringer talked about his job in the greenhouse—which most of the time would be more interesting than the normal missions he was sent into—he would ask. What sort of flowers he liked, what plants he had grown, did he like trees, which plant he enjoyed growing the most—trivial things that mattered a lot to Flamebringer.

In turn, he offered a piece of information about himself. He liked books, reading and collecting them. Even if it was easier to read digitally, but there was just a certain sensation of owning, touching, and flipping the paper of the books by his own hands, that had attracted Executor. He liked non-fictions, history books to be exact. But he could appreciate all sorts of books.

“There are also books that are trash,” he had said, flushed and wanton.

Executor thought for a moment, before thrusting back inside, holding both of Flamebringer’s hands above his head. “True,” he said, and started working his hips.

It was just the little things that he noticed, that made him realized just how far both of them had progressed from mere one-night stands to a sort-of-friends. Executor knew how his body moved, in and out of bed, knew how to work around him and slotted perfectly next to him like a mismatched puzzle that somehow worked together just fine.

Executor brought him seeds whenever he was back from his missions. He would bring some when he had to go back to Laterano, too. And Flamebringer bought him books whenever he had time to go to the market after his missions. It was sort of nice, having something and someone to come back to after going away for so long. He never had to move from his seat when they were in dining halls because Executor would be ready with a tray full of food that he knew Flamebringer liked, and Flamebringer would peel his oranges for him just because he wanted to.

W had cooed at them, pretty face smug and insufferable as she said, “You two are so disgustingly oblivious. It’s adorable, really,” which didn’t really make sense to him whatsoever.

“What’s she saying?” he would ask Executor, because it seemed like W and Executor had this special way of communicating between them that he couldn’t quite comprehend.

Executor would let him took a slice of his meat from his tray and shrugged his shoulders. “I do not understand, either.”

“He really blew you away, huh,” W said, much later on, puffing out smoke from her lips as she leaned against the metal wall.

Flamebringer heaved the nicotine deep into his lungs, looking up at the blue sky as he exhaled, feeling the rumble of the moving city. After a long time contemplating, he finally settled with, “In more ways than one.”

She sat next to him then, caressing the side of his face gently and turning his face to look at her properly. “There are ways you haven’t realized, too,” she told him. “Not yet, at least.”

He leaned in to kiss her, because it felt right at that moment, and because W had always known him like an open book. She had this way of kissing that kind of drove him crazy each time. The smart flick of her tongue, the push and pull of her lips—going from gentle, light touches, to completely ravishing all at once, before settling back on the slow pace again. W handled sex and touches like she would handle her battles, brutal and efficient, and it had always left him breathless and aching.

But there were times like this, when she was witty instead of mocking; just a tad too rough in the way he liked; careful and considerate with her touches. She could be gentle, in her own ways. But it was so far in-between, because she liked being the dominant one in bed. That was why, when she had kissed him so gently like that, he pulled back to look at her red eyes, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, and turned back to her cigarette. “Nothing,” she said, “I’m just feeling wistful. And happy, for you. Sort of.”

He didn’t quite understand what she meant, but he let it go. W would tell him when she felt like he was being stupid for too long. So he just quipped with, “Only sort of?”

“Know your place, peasant,” she answered easily, and let the comfortable silence settle between them.

-

It was a long standing agreement that they didn’t talk about feelings, right at the time when they actually needed it. The four of them had gone through a lot in their lives. Even Midnight, who was known as someone who was flagrantly optimistic, had his fair share of bitters and pains. Being a host was not exactly a walk in the park. Flamebringer wouldn’t admit it even if the was threatened with torture, but Midnight had long since mastered how to walk the thin line between political and sincerity. He was unbelievably earnest, and yet understood the workings of people around him; how to appease them, how to appear non-threatening so people would lower their guard around him, but kept tab on everything so he could use it for his advantage in his job as a host.

W and him… they were probably the most constipated of them all. They all kept secret, they all kept their true feelings within an inch of their lives. But Midnight and Lappland had always been shameless in expressing who they were, what they were like. W and he were still something of an enigma to the rest of Rhodes Island, simply because they dispensed their feelings like a treasure—hard to acquire, and there was never a guarantee that it would be a good thing.

It took time to understand how they thought and acted, how they reacted; how they skittered around the edges of keeping the lid tight and showing just enough to know that there was an unspoken trust between the four of them. It took time to learn their stories and the way they were shaped from their experiences and traumas.

But ultimately, they didn’t talk about their feelings, even when it was the time they needed to.

Lappland never talked about how he now smelt like Executor all the time, and has taken to like the way Executor’s and Flamebringer’s scent fused together. She said, “You smell like you’re happy. Or not as bitchy about life, at least.”

He thought there must have been something that he missed, but didn’t think too much about it anymore.

When Midnight came to his room at two in the morning, and held him close without words, he allowed it. Lappland had come earlier, too. And now, he was sandwiched between the two; holding Lappland to his chest, and feeling Midnight’s heartbeat against his back. Lappland, at a certain point, could smell how people felt, because feelings were just secretion of biochemical. She knew the smell of restlessness and anxiety even before her brain caught up with it. Midnight was Flamebringer’s first longstanding fuck-buddy. He knew, more or less, about him. It was by that experience alone that he understood what the man was feeling.

They slept like that, piled on his bed. It was a tight fit, because it should have housed only one person, but they worked around it just fine. In the morning, Midnight kissed him awake, and left with a tired smile on his lips. Lappland stayed a bit longer, kissing his neck softly and Flamebringer was reminded that despite having bonds with all of them, there was just something between Lappland and he that fit together so well, unexpectedly.

“He’s good for you,” she said, and he knew which he she was talking about immediately.

“Because he’s not a bunch of pricks like you all,” he deflected.

She laughed, hoarse and truthful. “You’re more honest, and even if we’ve seen more than what other people have of you, you’re far more relaxed around him than what I’ve seen in years.”

It… pricked something inside of him. A certain dormant feeling that he didn’t want to examine too close, in fear of what the world might do if it caught the whiff it.

“I think he understands,” she said, after looking at the emotions hidden behind his eyes. “We’re bound to die anyway. In wars, there is no winner. We all lose something by the end of it.”

She kissed him, soft and so uncharacteristic of her. She usually kissed him fevered passion and sharp teeth. But she touched him tenderly that morning, like she was trying to hold his broken pieces in her bloody hands. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, and to Flamebringer, it sounded like she wanted to cry. “Don’t let things that you cherish slip between your fingers, just because you’re afraid. He understands; I think at this point, he already knew you as well as we do. So—“ she took a deep breath, and kissed him again. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t regret, Enkaku.”

He loved her, he thought. It didn’t matter what kind of affection that he felt, because at that moment, he loved her. She did, too. In her own ways, with the way she comprehended feelings. They were all a little too jaded, a little too broken to love properly. But they gave little trickles of it still, just enough to show that they kept a little piece of each other in their mind.

When she kissed him for the last time before she left, he could taste the tears. The regret of what had transpired between Texas and her, the long broken hope. He held her tight, and let her frail back retreated into the hallways.

-

He thought, it was almost like they were letting go. The talk between W and him; the honesty of Lappland’s words. It was novel, and though it was unusual, it wasn’t a bad thing. Midnight didn’t approach him until they were sent together on a mission. He offered Flamebringer a pack of cigarette as they waited for the transporter to arrive. They were in a jungle just on the outskirts of Victoria, resting after their mission.

Midnight didn’t smoke, he knew. But he kept cigarettes on his coat pocket just for Flamebringer. He paid attention to the smallest things, and kept it with him for a long, long time. He was meticulous for someone so carefree. Flamebringer took it with a nod, and lighted up the cigarettes, standing a bit far from the rest of the team. Midnight looked at the resting form of his team for a moment, before turning back to Flamebringer.

“I think W and Lappland have covered the base,” he said. “I don’t have many things left to say.”

Flamebringer looked at him, then. “Why are you all acting like you’re giving me away? You don’t really think that I’m gonna marry him, do you?”

Midnight grinned, so effortlessly charming that Flamebringer kind of wanted to punch his pretty face. “You could, though.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything. The base told them that a transporter would be arriving in approximately half an hour. That Popukar kid was sleeping soundly on the Blue Lady’s lap. He remembered her name simply because the kid was an absolute chaos. She’s earnest, and terrifying in battles. He understood why Kal’tsit would be upset that a kid should fight their battles, but they didn’t have much choice. That much of raw power would be a waste if it wasn’t put to a good use. She seemed to suffer a symptom of split-personality disorder, another effect of her Oripathy. It saved her the trauma of killing people on her young age, but it would catch up on her soon. He just hoped that whenever it was, both Kal’tsit and Doctor had prepared her well.

“I like you,” Midnight suddenly said, and Flamebringer’s cigarette almost fell from his lips.

While it wasn’t exactly a secret that they slept together—to the people who paid attention, at least—but they never talked about it so blatantly in the open like this. He didn’t mind, but it was just… new.

“My Oripathy is worse than yours,” he said, “why are you the one talking like you’re gonna die first?”

Midnight gave him a faux-pout and tsked incessantly, “You’re so callous! My delicate feelings were hurt terribly.”

“Die in a fire.”

The shorter man laughed, drawing the attention of the rest of the team. They were too far away for them to hear about they were talking about, fortunately. If they do, they probably would have said the same thing to Midnight.

“I’m serious, though,” he said. “I like you.”

His brows furrowed a little bit, but he decided to hear him out. “I know that.”

“I know, too,” he said then, softly. There was a smile on his lips, something private that almost made Flamebringer’s breath stutter. “I know that it’s probably hard for them to say this, because they don’t want to be too sentimental. But I think they’ve said the same thing, too, if worded a little bit differently.”

And just like that, Flamebringer knew. Because he could read it. In W’s confident words, in Lappland’s soft whispers. And now, forming in Midnight’s lips, he knew it too.

“I’m happy for you,” he said, and didn’t touch any inch of Flamebringer’s skin. But his eyes were enough to make him feel like he was being held in his arms.

He didn’t know what to reply to that kind of statement. It wasn’t just W and Lappland; it was hard for him, too. Because he wouldn’t know what to say, faced with such honesty and certainty that people like them rarely able to afford. He breathed out a sigh, and nodded, in hope that Midnight would understand what he was trying to convey. He would, Flamebringer knew.

There were no words to be exchanged after that. But when the transporter arrived, and the team sluggishly dragged their ass to the vehicle, Midnight placed a warm, firm hand on the side of his neck. Flamebringer quirked a smile at the man, and held the hand for a moment, before they followed suit into the transporter. Back to the base, where he could walk pass Executor’s room and slept on his bed until the man came back; lying next to him and holding him close like he wanted to keep Flamebringer there forever.

-

Kal’tsit gave him a calculating look when he came into the infirmary. He awkwardly waved at her and scurried away to Executor’s bed. She was a fearsome woman, and Flamebringer had known how formidable she could be. He wasn’t afraid to admit that he was afraid of her, and the way she stabbed the needles like she wanted to personally kill him with each injection. Not to mention all those rumors about her… spine.

He didn’t fear death, but that woman… she scared him.

She didn’t say anything, though. Just lifted a thin eyebrow, and pulled the curtains around Executor’s bed to give them a semblance of privacy. He was thankful for that, although he didn’t understand her motives either. It didn’t matter, now. Not when Executor was looking at him, still so calm and unperturbed even with bandages around his head and torso. He was injured badly from his last mission; this was his fifth day in the infirmary, and Flamebringer only came now because he was away to Kazdel with W and Lappland for a special ops.

“You look like shit,” he commented, and smirked when he saw the growing stubbles on Executor’s jaw. Sometimes he did forget that the man had the same biological anatomy in general with the rest of them mortal beings. He just—in certain lights he looked so unreal that it was sometimes still so surprising seeing him with a shadow of beard and mustache.

“It is nice to see you, too,” Executor replied. He was getting better with the whole “back-and-forth banter”. Sometimes Flamebringer even heard him uttering sarcasm—those were the most exciting moments in his day.

Executor scooted away a little when Flamebringer sat on the edge of the bed, close to his injured torso. His long fingers carefully ghosted over the bandages, and ended up on the Sankta’s hand. He held it in his, callouses and warmth of his palm seeped into Flamebringer’s skin. He was alive, at least. But it had been so, so easy to kill someone. A trained Sankta or not.

He brushed away the hair on Executor’s bandaged forehead, and kissed him in slow, gentle slide of his lips, mindful of how tired and hurt his body must be. The stubble scraped on his skin, and he snickered a little into the kiss. It felt funny—had always felt funny anytime they kissed with Executor’s stubble rubbing on his face. He usually came out with a stubble burn after the kiss on those times. He shaved, regularly, but the growth of his facial hair was slower than Executor’s.

“Was it that bad?” he asked.

“Only on my torso,” Executor answered.” The wound on my head is mostly superficial, although it bleeds a lot, naturally, because of the location.”

He nodded, unconsciously letting out a relieved sigh. Executor scooted further away, and signaled for him to lie down. “The bed is too small,” he laughed. “And Kal’tsit will kill me if she sees that I’m harassing her patients.”

“You’re not a bother,” Executor replied easily. “Come.”

So he did, trying not to press to hard against the injured regions. He let Executor rested his head on his shoulder, hand coming up to play with Flamebringer’s hair. “Your hair is quite coarse today.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” he mocked, but still allowed the fingers to run between his strands. “I just came back a few hours ago. I haven’t had the time to shower yet.”

“You should rest first before coming here.”

“I slept all the way from Kazdel to Rhodes, I rested enough.”

“Very well,” Executor said, and let Flamebringer’s steady breath lulled them into a comfortable silence.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but when he felt his eyes were becoming too heavy, his mouth spoke without a thought. “You could have died.”

Executor tensed imperceptibly next to him, but relaxed a second later. “But I didn’t.”

He nodded, kissing the top of the Sankta’s head. He still smelt of blood and sweat, but Flamebringer found that he didn’t mind it terribly. He was sure that he smelt the same, after all. With a hint of gunpowder from being so close with W for a long period of time in the battlefield.

“It’s so easy,” he continued, “to die. You can die as easily as I can, even with this curse.”

Executor lifted his head from his shoulder, and Flamebringer helped him sat up so he could lean against the headboard. He looked at Flamebringer, eyes intense and unblinking. “You have refused treatments to Oripathy, Enkaku. That, coupled with the battlefields and everything that is going on in this world, has amounted to a higher risk of death on your end.”

“People will die,” he said. “Regardless whether it’s Oripathy or being killed by a stray bullet in a fight. If you can bleed, then you can die. I have chosen this path since a long time ago, and I have no interest in giving myself false hopes. There is no cure, Samuel. Even if there will be, there is no guarantee that it will be available before I died. It’s not the matter of being stubborn, or too proud; this is just a choice and personal view of life and death.”

Executor took that in, silent for a few moments. He nodded then, and didn��t look away from Flamebringer’s amber eyes. “I understand, and I, too, have accepted the workings of this world. But it doesn’t mean that I won’t be saddened, if you were to die. When I was hurt in the battlefield, and the transporter hadn’t arrived in time, I thought that if I were to die there, I would surely miss being alive next to you.”

“Oh,” Flamebringer breathed out, surprised by the confession. But, he thought, it was… pleasant, kind of. To know that someone would think about him like that. “That’s—yeah. I think I would miss a world with you in it, too.”

Executor gave him a small, sincere smile and Flamebringer thought that maybe W was right all along, since the very first time.

He grinned at the man, and whispered against his lips, their hot breaths intermingled with each other. “This isn’t a good life. But it’s not half bad with you in it, I guess.”

When Executor leaned into his mouth, kissing him with a burst of feelings that he didn’t say, Flamebringer thought that maybe he understood, too. What he felt, what they have between the two of them. It wasn’t… something as intense as he thought. It was something light and easy; a place where he could breathe and sleep, and Executor would be there to hold him—lying close on his bed, stealing a moment of peace in the midst of this chaotic world. It wasn’t half bad, really.

-

He had to admit, it went completely over his head, despite everything.

Mostima was actually the first person to blatantly say it to his face. They were hanging out at the bar, this time along with Lappland and Exusiai—that Apple Pie girl whose name Flamebringer finally remembered after almost a year being reminded by Mostima. They were sitting around the table near the bar counter. Lappland was already chugging the bottle down, while Exusiai—very much drunk and losing nearly all her inhibitions—cheered on her. Mostima drank with a more sedate pace next to him.

“It is somehow still a wonder to me,” she said, looking at Exusiai with a look that made Flamebringer feel like he was intruding on something private.

“What is,” he asked, the habit of making his questions into statement came out despite Midnight’s incessant complains about it.

She smiled then, poised and calm, as she turned to him. "That nearly three years ago, I was sitting in the very same place as I am right now, witnessing you drunkenly wheedling your way into Executor’s pants.”

He choked on his drink, coughing harshly as he set down the glass and glared at Mostima’s smirking face. Gods, years after knowing her, he had found out along the way that she was just as insane as the fuckfaces. She just had more grace in her bones. “Fuck you.”

“The sentiment would be better suited for Executor, would it not?” she replied as easily, sipping on her drink as she watched Lappland downed the rest of the bottle. “Impressive,” she murmured into her drink.

“She’s a fucking beast,” he said.

Mostima nodded. “I agree.”

She looked like she wanted to stop Exusiai, when Lappland had cajoled her into ordering more drinks. The girl had always been royal and impulsive when it came to managing money. She could see Exusiai crying about her wallet tomorrow morning in the dining hall. But she let it be, turning to him instead.

“Took you a long time to date him, though,” she said, and Flamebringer thought that surprises could never stop falling from her lips.

He looked at her, face blank as he slowly comprehended her words. Finally, he just said, “What.”

This time, it was Mostima’s turn to look surprised. She didn’t really have the right to do so when she was the one spewing this kind of shits on his face, he thought. She only looked confused for a moment. There was a sort of apprehension that seemed to dawn on her. He could not relate at all.

“Oh,” she said, and then smiled, drinking the rest of the liquor in her glass. “You didn’t know.”

“Exactly,” he threw his hands up in exasperation. “What?”

She shook her head, the smile still staying on the corner of her lips. “Nothing.”

“We’re not dating,” he said, because they actually didn’t. And now he was wondering as well, why didn’t they?

“Doesn’t look like that to me.” Mostima calmly accepted the drink that Exusiai had handed to her, laughing merrily next to Lappland who was steadily drinking herself into an early grave. “Thank you, Exia. As I was saying, the whole Rhodes just thinks that you two are dating.”

They were close, yes. It was more than just one-night stands, and definitely more than close friends. The way Executor touched was a tad too intimate for them to settle down on the normal bracket of friendship. They never really stopped and thought about the nature of their relationship, however. It just simply escaped their observation, and it was most probably because they were the ones doing it. There were certain things that you couldn’t see about yourself, no matter how hard you look.

“Is that why the girls in the engineering keep giving me the stink eyes? Because they thought I’m dating their crush?” Now that he thought about it, there were unexplainable instances that he just waved away because it was just too weird. Like how people would automatically assume he was looking for Executor, or that people would alert Executor whenever Flamebringer was in the vicinity; or that no one rarely blinked their eyes anymore when they caught Flamebringer holding Executor’s hand on top of the dining table, or the way Executor would reach out randomly to him just to touch.

“Yes, and more,” answered Mostima. “To me, it’s just the way you look at each other. I guess you’re too used to him to notice, but he looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s willing to understand in this world.”

And he probably did, knowing what a constipated motherfucker Executor was. But Mostima wasn’t done yet, he felt himself holding a breath as she tilted her head, and looked at him like she was amazed, envious, resigned.

“You look at him like you’re falling in love.”

Oh.

She smiled at him, and let him stew in his thought as she finally took the drinks from Exusiai and Lappland, patiently ushering them both out of the bar with sheer strength of someone who was used to disciplining a rowdy bunch. She glanced at him for the last time before exiting the bar, and smiled to herself when she saw how shocked and lost in thought the man was.

-

The thought had stayed with him throughout the month. Executor was back to Laterano for more than three months, and Flamebringer had five consecutive special ops in a row. It was a wonder how he had survived through them, with a distracted mind like that. But then again, he was a trained warrior with sharp instincts and considerable prowess in the battlefield—disgustingly lovey-dovey thoughts notwithstanding. It was hard—he had to admit—with the memory of Mostima’s words constantly replaying inside his head.

“Is there something wrong?” the Doctor had asked one time, in the rare occasion that he went on special ops.

“Ah,” he said, startled out of his thought. “Nothing. Just… mundane things.”

“Executor has arrived on the base two weeks ago, if that’s what you’re thinking of,” the man suddenly said.

“What? Wait—no, that wasn’t what I was thinking of—“ he said, eyes wide. “But, yeah. Thanks for telling me.”

Doctor shrugged, handing him the comm. and started walking towards the door of the transporter. “Try not to die before you meet him, then.”

So, even the Doctor knew? He felt like, considering they were the subject of the rumors, they were the last to actually found out about it. He spent the rest of the mission, and the trip back to the base, with such restlessness that he felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin. This was freaking him out; he had never felt this way ever since he killed someone for the first time, and even then the acceptance had been swift in the face of a brewing war.

His skin was itchy with the need to touch, to shake Executor until his bones rattled, about all these things. The most the man would do was probably listening to him with a passive face, but it was better than nothing, he supposed. Maybe it was also the nearly six month’s separation. They never contacted each other while Executor was away, since he was in a Laterano’s official business while he was there, and it was near impossible to steal time to contact anyone else that wasn’t the base control room in special ops, if at all.

And yet, when Flamebringer saw Executor’s face for the first time in months, fresh out of the bathroom with a towel on his hips, all those words died a horrible death on his lips. He had wanted to see him, he realized, more than he thought

“I am glad you are here, now,” Executor said in-between the harsh kisses they shared. “I have missed you a lot, Enkaku.”

“Kiss first, talk later,” he said, and went down to suck Executor’s cock.

He guessed the restlessness had manifested into the way his touches felt urgent and impatient, like he couldn’t wait any longer to have Executor’s fingers on his skin. The Sankta had obliged to his unspoken demands, and had made a quick work to prepare Flamebringer. He was tighter than the last time they fucked, seeing as he hadn’t even touched himself because of the barrage of missions he had to undergo.

“Touch me,” he groaned out, pulling at Executor’s hand. “Samuel, touch me.”

“You are needier than usual today,” he had commented, but did as he was asked nonetheless. He thrust his fingers inside a few moments longer, and seemed to be enjoying the little gasps and hitches in Flamebringer’s breath.

Executor looked as impeccable as ever, even with a sizeable erection lying heavy between his legs. Flamebringer reached with his toes to touch it, and grinned when Executor’s fingers stuttered on their pace inside of him. “And you,” he said, pressing harder with the heel of his foot, “should shut the fuck up and fuck me already.”

He had forgotten the sensation of being stretched out by the girth, to accommodate the heavy cock inside of him, to feel the pulse of his arousal as he gripped the sheets tight between his fingers. They only exchanged a look once, before Executor started moving. It didn’t take him long to get used to it again, enjoying the push and slide of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside.

Just like before, Executor fucked him with such intensity and undivided attention that Flamebringer felt the knot of arousal in his stomach tightened up. He looked good like that; so focused in his lust, looking at him like he wanted to devour him whole, moving like he wanted to break Flamebringer and put together the pieces into something new, something more beautiful.

“Come on, pretty boy,” he moaned out, a playful smirk on his lips as he tightened around Executor. “Fuck me properly.

He was flipped on his stomach then, Executor driving deep inside as he started fucking into him with abandon. Flamebringer was shameless in his desires; moans after moans, the loud, drawn out scream of Executor’s name on his tongue. Executor had come first, spilling inside the condom as he gripped Flamebringer’s hips so tight he was sure it would be bruised by the end of the night. He came a moment later, teased mercilessly within an inch of his life under Executor’s clever fingers.

As he came down from the high, breathing hard against the skin of Executor’s shoulder, he said, “Apparently, we’re dating now.”

Executor looked down at him, and reached over to wipe the sweat on his face. He swept the blood on Flamebringer’s bitten lips, and absentmindedly answered as his thumb was sucked into the warm mouth. “Are we.”

It was so akin to the way Flamebringer worded his questions that he had to let go of Executor’s finger, and laughed. “Yeah. The whole city knew, except for us.”

Executor settled next to him, looking into his eyes as he brushed his sweaty bangs away from his face. “It’s not an unpleasant thought,” he said, honest and earnest.

Flamebringer bit his lips to keep the smile from splitting his face “Yeah? Careful though, I might think you like me enough to spoil me rotten.”

Executor tucked himself under Flamebringer’s chin, and kissed the jut of his collarbones and it felt like a promise. “Mm, I think I will,” he said. “You should be cherished by the people who love you.”

It felt like a confession, worded into something that Executor understood. Into something that wasn’t a lie, or half-hearted empty words. Flamebringer kissed the top of his head and chuckled. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

And just like that, everything fell into places in the way Flamebringer’s life had never been able to.

-

Something changed between them. After the night that they had talked about their relationship months ago—the easy fall of Executor’s love on his lips, the honesty of his feelings in the fingers that traipsed up on Flamebringer’s body—they fell into a semblance of dynamics of being two people who were in an exclusive relationship. It was easier than he thought, and not as stifling. It was probably because they both understood each other too well, to the point that it required no thought for him to know what Executor had wanted, and vice versa.

It was just in the way they moved, following an invisible dancing pattern around each other. The steps felt light, the dip felt breathtaking. Realizing that he had fallen in love was a four years journey, but once he did, falling in love with someone who adored him as much as Executor was easy, so easy.

More than how Executor knew when to touch lightly, when to hold on; the unspoken trust of being there when Flamebringer fell, the certainty that he would be accepted. They gave and took; they danced, and twirled and pulled at each other all night long in the floor dance of their shared fate. And with the way Executor had put an unblinking faith in him, Flamebringer felt like he could dance all night long, as long as forever allowed him.

He was sitting on the usual table on the dining hall, still sleepy and fatigued because he only came back from mission at four in the morning. He didn’t have serious wounds, but there were bruises on his arms that were still tender to the touch. Executor had taken to dress him in soft clothes because he recalled how Flamebringer said that he liked the way the fabric felt against his skin. So here he was, wearing another one of Executor’s newly bought sweater, wearing his pants, with his jacket draped over his shoulder.

He looked every bit a like a besotted lover, and he lived for it.

W was already there, playing with the straw of her milk. She looked worse for the wear, mainly because she took most of the damage from last night’s mission. There weren’t any lasting injuries, thankfully, but she had to hold off a dozen of enemies at once, and then more because the rest of the team was a little bit too far to aid her in time. She looked at his face and sneered.

“This is so terribly domestic,” she said, and gestured to his entirety, as well as Executor when he sat down with two trays. “It disgusts me.”

He gave her a stink eye, and proceeded to peel Executor’s orange for him, further proving her point. Midnight arrived a moment later, looking bright and sprightly in the early morning. Now that disgusted Flamebringer, because despite his name, Midnight was an ultimately morning person. “Good morning,” he greeted, then looked at Flamebringer’s attire and nodded to himself. “Still so disgustingly domestic, I see.”

W cackled from her seat, and scooted over so Midnight could sit next to her. Flamebringer flipped him a middle finger, and shrugged off Executor’s jacket since he didn’t want it to get dirty as he ate. He gave the peeled orange to Executor; the man turned out to have a special soft spot for sour things. “I—“ he started, but the Sankta cut him off, already standing up.

“Coffee?” he asked, just to confirm.

Flamebringer closed his mouth, smiling at the man as he nodded. “Yeah.”

“I will be back soon,” Executor said, and pushed his tray on Flamebringer’s direction a little bit when he reached over to take a piece of melon.

As Executor’s back retreated, Midnight sighed, extravagantly loud so Flamebringer would pay attention to him. He leveled him with a flat look instead.

“Sometimes, you two are just so sickeningly sweet that I wanted to puke,” Midnight said after the nth time witnessing the effortless flutter of Executor and Flamebringer around each other. “You should get married or something.”

“Or something,” Flamebringer deadpanned, but he didn’t seem to hate the idea. “Oi, dumbass. This other dumbass said we should take the vows.”

Executor, who had just come back with a steaming hot coffee for the Sarkaz, just calmly placed the cup of coffee first. “Do you actually want to marry me, or do you just want to make Operator Midnight suffer?”

He grinned at the man; he knew him so well. “Depends,” he pretended to think as he sipped on his coffee. It was good as always, although he didn’t know who make it. Executor sucked at cooking department. “You gonna teach me your Old Language if we’re married?”

The Sankta didn’t even waste a breath before nodding, said, “Of course.”

“Sweet,” he smiled. “Go on, propose to me.”

“Alright.” Executor—as whipped, as flat-faced as he usually was—then reached into the pocket of his working jacket, and casually put a velvety ring box on top of the cafeteria table, saying “Will you marry me, Enkaku?” as the whole room erupted into chaos.

Midnight shouted in disbelief, wailing in fake despair as he dramatically slammed his head on the table; W straightened up immediately from her slump, her eyes were filled with a sort of unholy glee that made the red irises glowed. The nearest operators from their table had also joined in the fray. He vaguely heard someone saying, “Oh my God! He’s proposing!” as the dining hall suddenly turned into a flurry of noise and movements.

Suddenly, Mostima was there, next to him, looking alternatively awed and wanting to laugh herself sick. He could relate, because, what the fuck. He chuckled in disbelief, wondering when Executor had the time to actually buy the rings. But then again, he wasn’t joking when he told him to propose. This was, after all, the man he had spent the last four years with.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he scathingly said, confusing several spectators. “Do it again, properly this time.”

Executor was unfazed as he carefully knelt in front of Flamebringer, and opened the velvet box to reveal a pair of oxidized-gold rings. It wasn’t fancy, and it certainly didn’t look like a wedding ring, but fuck if it wasn’t the prettiest thing he’d seen these days. Only because it was his wedding ring—he was biased, sue him.

“Enkaku,” Executor said, and there was something different in his voice, something that even other people could hear clearly. The gentleness, the absolute devotion; this man was absolutely whipped and Flamebringer had never felt more powerful in his life than this moment. “Will you marry me?”

He almost laughed, almost. Because the whole room probably already knew his answer anyway, why were they watching in the first place? But it didn’t matter, because Executor looked so soft and a little bit messy from sleep, clad in his shirt and sweatpants, and looking at Flamebringer like he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. He could return the sentiment, tenfold.

He gave the man a grin, and reached down to spread his finger in front of Executor. “You fucking bet I will, Dumbfuck.”

The cheer was almost deafening in his ears. He didn’t know what they were so happy about and how his marriage proposal would concern them, but he was enjoying the euphoria of the moment. As Executor fumbled with the box a little bit, he helped him by holding the box while he slipped the ring on Flamebringer ring finger. He took the second ring, and put it on Executor’s ring finger as well. It was… not unlike walking on clouds, a fantasy that he knew would be short-lived, but he indulged in it nonetheless.

“Congratulation,” Mostima said. “You are now Officially Whipped.”

Executor put the box back into his jacket, and sat back down again as the people around them congratulated both of them. He didn’t even know half of these people, he thought. He smirked at Mostima, and flipped her off, too. She smirked back, and stood up to disperse the people because she knew that Flamebringer would snap soon if they didn’t scram.

“You owe me a lot of drinks,” she said then, and waved at them as she went back to her table. He thought back to the night Mostima had dropped the bomb months ago, and thought that yeah, he owed her all the drinks in the world.

“What was it again?” W leered at him. He was, for the lack of words, afraid of her at that moment. Because she looked like someone had given her absolute power to the universe, and she was going to do horrible things with it. “”I’m not gonna marry him just because he has a nice cock” isn’t that right, Enkaku?”

See? He knew it.

“Please just shut the fuck up,” he begged, lowly. Because he knew W wouldn’t stop once she started.

“I’m gonna say it,” she said, without mercy. He sighed. “I told you so,” she said, and looking so incredibly pleased by that; like a smug, oversized cat.

 Midnight still looked shocked next to her. He knew that the both of them were basically married the moment Flamebringer started bringing Executor with him to their table, but he would have never guessed that he was going to be the catalyst to the actual proposal.

“I can’t believe I have unknowingly volunteered myself to be subjected to your disgusting domestic life,” he croaked out at last, then chuckled to himself, as if he still couldn’t believe what had transpired just now. “I’m gonna cry obnoxiously on your wedding.”

“Sucks to be you,” Flamebringer shrugged, and gave Executor the rest of his salad. “Stop talking about wedding, there might not be one. We’re in the middle of the war.”

“Why not?” W said, disposing her empty milk box to the side, and was chewing on her bacon. “We could have a small wedding here. I’m sure Doctor would approve, he already knew about you two, after all.”

They could, of course. But—he turned to Executor first, who had finished his salad, and was piling their empty trays together. “Hey, wanna get married with an actual wedding party with me?”

W and Midnight immediately imitated retching sounds, as Executor blinked and nodded. “I do.”

He grinned at him. “Nice. We can get married just in pajamas, don’t worry.”

“What?” W interrupted. “Why the fuck would you settle with that? I did not endure you two flirted your ass off in front of me just to see a wedding party in pajamas. Go wear a pretty dress for me, you stupid bitch.”

He had never considered it before, wearing a wedding dress. To be fair, the thought of marriage had never crossed his mind, before Executor and his stupidly good impersonation of a dead fish. The dead fish who was now watching him with calm, collected bearings as if he hadn’t just turned their world upside down. He didn’t mind terribly, though.

Sure, he looked good in tight dresses and heels and lingerie, but a wedding dress was novel. Not to mention that the whole idea of white, pristine dress suit Executor more than it did on him. As if sensing his thought, Executor said, “I can wear the dress instead, if you want.”

And wasn’t that a thought. He would look so unbelievably ethereal in a flowing white dress. But then, W was brandishing her fork like a weapon, on Executor’s face.

“You shut the fuck up,” she said, sounding impatient. “This is for me, not for either of you sickening lovebirds. Come on, pretty boy, entertain me for the last time before you elope into the sunset with this dead fish. I can recommend some good tailors, you’d look good with a jumpsuit wedding dress I think. Easier access to fuck and fight.”

“He would look good in a tight bodice-type, too, wouldn’t you think?” Midnight replied, like this was something normal, discussing about Flamebringer’s wedding dress. It was bizarre.

“Do you even own a suit,” he said to Executor, who nodded at him. Of course the church-boy would own a suit. Probably a white one at that.

“No,” W said again. “I’m choosing his suit, too.”

He looked at her, incredulous. “Why the fuck are you so obsessed with this?”

She smiled then, softer, smaller. Something that he should have witnessed in the low light of the dusk, instead of under the bright light of the dining hall, and for a second he remembered that he had loved this person, too. “Because I enjoy victories. And this just erects my monumental victory over your stupid ass. Can’t believe you were so deep in denial, and yet here you are, making heart eyes at him.”

In the end, he gave up and let her had her ways.

A month later, she took both Executor and him to a place in Victoria, and had blatantly asked Executor for his credit card. He gave it to her without much word. He was filthy rich, Flamebringer knew this. But it was at that moment, as the tailor measured him within an inch of his life, that he actually saw how much he was willing to pay for things Flamebringer wanted. The wedding dress and suit were disgustingly expensive, but Executor didn’t even bat an eyelash when W gave him the credit card back.

When he came to talk to the Doctor about it, he just congratulated him and said, “Please don’t destroy the hall too much, I’m poor enough as it is. Feeding hundreds of operators do that to your wallet.”

There were other people involved in the wedding, too. The people who agreed to cook for the meals, to arrange the general hall for the wedding, Smiley Boy even personally took the responsibility of designing the invitation card and spreading it all over the ship. Flamebringer didn’t even know how but he got the Penguin Logistic girls as his bridesmaid. It was probably Mostima’s doing—Texas was less than happy about it, but she had caved under the peer pressure of her team. Lappland would probably have a major stroke when she saw Texas in a bridesmaid dress.

In-between the wedding preparations, they still went on missions, and unabashedly flirted in the comm. until the other operators were groaning and tell them to shut the fuck up. They were also understandably shocked when they heard Executor actually flirted back. It was fun to watch, at least.

When the dress had arrived, he thought, he was grateful that W had been so adamant on arranging the wedding, because the dress was beautiful. It was simple, and sharp; something that he could wear in a wedding, and in battles. Although, frankly, he didn’t know why he would wear that to battles.

W looked like she had difficulty to speak when he tried putting on the dress. She swallowed, and twirled him around slowly to see the entirety of the dress and the train. “I have the veil with me,” she said. “You would look devastating with it. I think I can fight both Lappland and Midnight for the honor of walking you down the aisle.”

Midnight had showed up with a pair of silver pumps with him, the heel decorated by ornamentals. He had bought him heels before, so it wasn’t a surprise that he would know Flamebringer’s shoe size. They fit perfectly on his feet, and he marveled for a moment at how glamorously simple the heels were. Lappland had given him a leather choker with a diamond on it. It was partly a gift from the Doctor also, as the replacement for his ID choker. Heh, and he said that he got no money left. That lying piece of shit.

“I got money,” she said, because she, too, was filthy rich with all the inheritance of her family. “It’s probably the first time I ever enjoyed it. But it’s your wedding, so I bought you these.”

It was a sleek pocket knife, with carvings on the handle and part of the knife itself. It was clear that the knife was crafted more for the aesthetic purpose, and it was pretty. But he noticed also the sharp blade, and believed that Lappland had given thought into practicality as well.

“You like it?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can stab all of you with this when you’re being insufferable.”

She had laughed then, and had commented about how he was practically flaunting his chest with the upper part of the dress. “I don’t hate it, though. Your man-boobs are absolutely glorious.”

He swung the knife at her, and she dodged as easily as breathing. Laughing as she went to hide behind Midnight’s tall form. He didn’t have time to brutally murder her with his wedding gift, however, because Executor stepped into the room, then.

He was pretty sure that his jaw was on the floor. He drunk in the sight of his soon-to-be life partner, feeling his heart beat loudly inside his chest, and only felt a little bit guilty for wanting to taint their wedding dress and suits just to have Executor fucking him in that suit. He had thought that white would fit so well with Executor because of his general angelic aesthetic, but fuck—

“Careful,” W said next to him, gently pushing his jaw so he could close his mouth. “Your thirst is showing, baby boy.”

“Well,” he swallowed, hard. “You can’t blame me.”

She looked over at Executor, and nodded appreciatively. “Fair enough.”

The suit wasn’t grandeur; it followed the same theme of his wedding dress: simplicity. Something that they could move around in, just like what W had said: easy access to fuck and fight. He supposed, she was right in saying that. Because despite all their planning, there was no guarantee that nothing would happen in the wedding day. They were staying alert, even now.

The material of the suit was sleek, but the black suit had fit on so well to Executor’s fit form. It accentuated his wide shoulders and lean waist; the shape of his long, strong legs. Of course, standing next to Flamebringer, anyone would think that he was shorter and smaller. But clad in something that had been tailored so specifically to follow the line of his body, he almost forgot just how tall the man actually was. It punched through him then, that this was his lover, wearing a suit, and he was wearing a wedding dress, and they were getting married in less than a week and—

“Hey,” he said when Executor was close enough. “I know that this is stupid, but… will you marry me, Samuel? Say yes.”

Next to him, W gagged so hard and rolled her eyes. He ignored her in favor of looking at the soft smile playing on the corner of Executor’s lips as he nodded slowly.

“You look stunning,” he said, lifting the train of Flamebringer’s wedding dress and feeling the silky material between his fingers. “You’re beautiful, Enkaku.”

“Damn, boy,” he hooted, suddenly feeling hot and flushed all of the sudden. “You’re such a smooth motherfucker.”

“Only for you,” Executor agreed, and carefully put his hands on Flamebringer’s hips to bring him closer.

“Oh my God!” Midnight exclaimed from the corner of the room where Lappland had looked like she was so ready to throw up her breakfast and lunch. “Can you two stop flirting for like, two seconds? Why did I even agree to this anyway?”

“I’m starting to regret it, too,” W replied, and then turned back to them. “It fits quite well, as I thought. The train is detachable. So you can just throw it off if needed. Although make sure you keep it, it costs a lot. Oh, well, it’s not my money anyway. You,” he turned to Executor, stabbing a slender finger on his chest, “are going to be with me before the wedding. You look good enough to eat, but that floppy skater-boy hair needed to get out before I shaved your head completely.”

They ran over the schedule one more time, and went to check on the general hall to see the preparations after getting out of their respective wedding clothes. Flamebringer was brazen when W looked down and found out that he achingly hard inside hi briefs. She just rolled her eyes, muttering teenagers under her breath. What could he say? Executor looked fucking fantastic in black. He couldn’t wait until this was over and he could ride that man for hours.

Executor returned the sentiment, it seemed. Because he couldn’t stop telling Flamebringer how beautiful, how stunning he looked, how much Executor just wanted to ruin him in his pretty wedding dress. He fucked him with vigor that night, and honestly, Flamebringer couldn’t even complain when he was too busy being fucked within an inch of his life. But oh what a wonderful life that had been.

Apparently, Lappland had won the fight for the honor of walking him down the aisle. She had bought a suit and had promptly screamed at him when she found out that Texas was going to be the bridesmaid—as he had predicted beforehand.

“She’s crazy,” W panted at the training room. He had to agree, Lappland had been absolutely brutal when she had been goaded into a competitive mode. She trounced both W and Midnight as easily as hot knife slicing through butter. “Whatever,” she rolled her eyes. “I’m going to be the priest.”

“You’re not even legally cut out to be a priest,” Midnight quipped. “Let alone logically.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she slapped his arm, and declared that she would be the one to witness their vows. “I arranged the marriage, so what I say, goes.”

“I feel like this isn’t even my wedding in the first place,” he commented dryly. “This is more of you playing house with us as the real-life dolls.”

She smiled and patted his cheek with sweaty hands. “It’s good that you finally realized that.”

Midnight had claimed his place as the “entertainer” in the wedding. “I can sing, and I was a host. I’m the perfect one-man entertainer that you need in your wedding,” he said with a reassuring tone, which wasn’t reassuring at all.

The preparation was hectic for such a small wedding, and Flamebringer had never, not even once, thought that he would be here to witness people fussing left and right over his wedding. He looked at Executor across the room, doing his own training with the other snipers. W should be there as well, but she was currently too busy asking for a rematch with Lappland—who had just emerged from the door after buying drinks.

He thought, this was needlessly messy and stressing, and it wasn’t going to be a proper and conventional wedding anyway. But, looking at Executor’s sturdy back as he shot target after target, and feeling his heart flipped when the Sankta suddenly turned over and smiled at him, it was more than enough.

-

On the morning of their wedding, Executor woke him up abruptly. He was startled when he felt that his body was shaken rather urgently, thinking to himself that it wasn’t even six in the morning according to his body clock. He rubbed at his eyes, and finally followed Executor’s insistent hand.

“What—“ a yawn cut him off, and he sniffed a little bit more before he realized how rigid and distressed Executor was. The remaining sleepiness immediately left him. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Samuel, come on, talk to me.”

Executor didn’t immediately answer, trying to calm down with each exhale and inhale. When he looked into Flamebringer’s eyes, he was shocked to see fear in those pale blue irises. His heart went to his throat; his anxiety suddenly went through the roof because what exactly had made Executor afraid?

“Samuel,” he called again, softer this time, grasping the man’s fingers in his and kissing the back of his hand. “It’s going to be okay. Whatever you’re worried about, I’ll be here. It’s okay.”

It took a long time to coax Executor. When he finally spoke, Flamebringer was torn between punching his defined jaw and kissing him senseless.

“I had been worrying about the possibilities of me being unable to proceed with the wedding in orderly fashion,” he said. Flamebringer had noticed this since a long time ago, but the more nervous or pressured Executor was, the more it manifested into his formal speech pattern. “I might make terrible mistakes, both in general practicalities and the vows, as well. There might be something unpleasant that comes suddenly in the middle of our wedding. These thoughts kept me awake for a good few hours, so much so that I am unable to cope with it. I apologize that I have disturbed your resting time.”

He chuckled in disbelief. He couldn’t—god, this man was terrible for his heart. He kissed him, hard. Trying to convey his feelings and how much he loved him. Executor was still so rigid, before he gradually loosened and returned the kiss with the same fervor; almost like he was afraid that the moment they stopped kissing, Flamebringer would tell him that he wasn’t going to take the vows.

“You’re not good for my heart,” he told him. “You’re okay. You’re more than okay for me. You’re everything I have ever wanted these last few years, alright? The wedding is just some grand party that W wanted to have because she’s a little bitch that way. But I don’t need a wedding, or even a marriage, to want you to be by my side however long we can. Alright?”

Executor exhaled against his lips, closing his eyes and holding on tight to Flamebringer. It made his heart ache, that he was trusted enough to see this moment of weakness. For him, his head reminded. He was worried because he was afraid he wouldn’t be a good groom for him. An Executor who knew what he was doing, and was confident and calm was fucking sexy—but this? This honest, so very humane Executor was even more lethal. He couldn’t even think straight with all the affection he had felt in his chest.

“You’re such a dumbass, Samuel,” he said, so very softly that he was almost embarrassed by how indulgent he sounded.

“Takes one to know one,” Executor replied, and kissed him again.

He went to Mostima to get his hair styled, while Executor had obediently followed W to wherever they were going. He didn’t know, he was too busy being cooed at by Croissant and Sora, as Mostima very carefully coifed his hair into a softer hairstyle than his usual rugged appearance.

“Your hair is rather wavy,” she said, putting a few strands on the front while keeping the rest of them neatly behind his ear. It was similar to his usual style just more… appropriate for a wedding. “You look pretty with the dress, by the way.”

Exusiai was busy coaxing Texas into her dress, with numerous promises of snacks and food that he would buy for her. Anything, as long as she got in the damned dress. She didn’t curse, of course, typical of Sanktas. But he was pretty sure she was close to that because Texas had been stubborn since she found out that Lappland was going to walk him down the aisle. The bridesmaid and she would be next to each other, as the result. He grinned, letting the two other girls prattled about his dress and shoes. Let them be, he thought, it was fun seeing other people suffered for once.

When she was done, Mostima had run off for a few minutes before coming back with W in tow. She had worn a back-less black dress that matched her eyes so well. He lifted an eyebrow at her. “You want to be my priest in that?”

“I’m unconventional,” she waved away his comment, and opened the box she was holding,pulling out a long veil with flowers embroidery on it. She gave it to Mostima, who proceeded to secure it to his hair with a few help from a few clear-colored bobby pins. W had looked at him with serene face, eyes soft and sad at the same time.

She touched the side of his face, caressing his jaw with long, manicured fingers. “What a pretty groom,” she whispered. There was something else in her eyes, and he thought he understood. He looked at her, twirling slowly so she could see him in the entirety of the wedding dress and veil. She gave him a satisfied nod afterwards; face hardening into its usual confidence state after the fragile moment between them was broken.

“Good,” she said. “He’s already in the wedding venue. He looks green, that’s fucking unattractive if you ask me. You sure you still want to marry this bumbling idiot?”

“Sadly, yeah,” he said with a grin.

“Whipped-ass motherfuckers,” she cursed under her breath.

Texas visibly tensed when Lappland entered the room, and deadass gaped at Texas for a good minute, before remembering where she was and what she was supposed to do. Texas was ignoring her studiously.

“Ah,” she said when she saw Flamebringer, a faux pout on her lips. “You sure you wanna marry him? You’re too pretty for him, Enkaku.”

He rolled his eyes at the same question. “Shut the fuck up. You’re just as bad as this fuckface right here.”

Both of the fuckface looked at each other then, and laughed quietly. Mostima took over, and handed him a bouquet of beautifully arranged velvet roses in navy color. They were simple and elegant, contrasting starkly on his all-white attire. He heaved a deep breath, and exhaled it. He was a little bit nervous, but he also wanted to see Executor so bad.

“Alright,” he said, and took Lappland’s offered arm in his. “Let’s get this shit done.”

The heels Midnight had given him clacked against the metal floor of Rhodes Island. They were comfortable on his feet, and he knew that they looked pretty on him. He was beautiful, assured, and looked ready to terrorize a wedding into submission, and he knew it. They walked in confident strides, with Lappland next to him and W on the other side. All the Logistic Penguins followed behind in a line of two.

When they neared the vicinity of the venue, W had walked on the front to take her supposed place on the altar as the priest. He still couldn’t believe the audacity of that motherfucker.

“Ready?” he heard Lappland whispered, her fingers squeezing over his for a moment.

He nodded imperceptibly. “More than anything.”

And yet, when they entered through the opened door, his breath was knocked roughly out of his lungs. He gripped Lappland’s arm tighter in his because—because. Fuck.

Seeing Executor in the black suit for the first time was already enough to fuck him over twice and more. But seeing him there, standing next to the Doctor in his damned black suit, with his hair trimmed and slicked back neatly, a fucking cross earring—he wanted to kiss and murder W at the same time—was a whole different thing entirely.

He gritted his teeth, and walked with his head poised high, his back straight as he smirked at Executor from under his veil. It was empowering, to see the little ticks on Executor’s face when he saw him in his wedding dress. The way he swallowed around nothing, the grit of his jaw, the slight tensing of his shoulders. It was nice to know that he wasn’t the only affected by this. But it was just the way that Executor was standing there, and he walking there as well, to exchange their vows that for a moment Flamebringer was sure that this was his mere imagination, and that he would wake up alone in his bed.

But when Lappland and he stopped at the stair to the altar, and Executor offered his hand to his; as he looked back at Lappland, who smiled softly and brushed her fingers on the diamond in the middle of his choker, that she had given, mouthing “Go,” to him; when he grasped the warm hand in his and took the final step to the altar; standing in front of Executor as two grooms who were about to be married at last—it was real, everything was real, and Flamebringer was breathless from the reality of this moment.

He looked around, and found that most of the operators he knew were there. Not all of them, as several operators were in missions, or were in holidays, or were manning the ship because Rhodes couldn’t take care of herself just because there was a wedding today. They looked as apprehensive as him, as nervous and excited.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey,” Executor smiled at him, soft and small.

“Ladies and gentlemen, and every crevice in-between,” W started, and Flamebringer fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Today, we are here to witness the unity of these two stupid motherfuckers who danced around each other for far too long. I think it’s about time we take a break from their disgusting pining and wed them properly.”

 Midnight had loudly sobbed into his handkerchief at the front row. Kal’tsit, who sat next to him, looked so disgusted that he pitied what she might do to Midnight later. But when the man lifted his eyes, they were red around the rim, Flamebringer quirked a helpless smile when the man gave him a watery smile and thumbs-up. The audience were laughing at W’s words, and he suspected that it was a sentiment that was shared beyond their table—the exasperation about their pining.

“For nearly five years now, we had witnessed the story of these two individuals. Today, we have arrived at the biggest chapter of their life yet. We are here to give them blessings and wishes, as well as hopes, for them.”

She offered her hand then, which both Executor and he took. They held each other’s hand as W laid a silk tie between them. The hall was quiet then, and Flamebringer could hear Lappland’s heartbeat next to him, Doctor’s bated breath next to Executor.

“Samuel and Enkaku,” W started in solemn, serene voice. “I bid you to look into each other’s eyes.”

He looked up, and even behind the soft curtain of the veil, he could see the happiness radiating from Executor’s eyes. He smiled; he wanted to hold him close, wanted to kiss him and tell him that he looked like an idiot, but he was his endearing idiot nonetheless. The corner of Executor’s lips quirked up as if he could read Flamebringer’s mind.

“Will you honor and respect one another, and seek to never break that honor?”

“We will,” they answered in unison, voice harmonized, entwined with each other. W took the ends of the tie, and draped it over their hands once more.

“Will you share each other’s pain and seek to ease it?”

“We will.” The tie was draped for the third time to signify the binding that had been made.

“Will you share the burdens of each so that your spirits may grow in this unison?”

“We will.” The tie draped over their hands for the fourth time, binding them tighter still. It was a testament to their self-control that they had sounded so steady and calm, while the raging desire in each other’s eyes were all they could see.

“Will you share each other’s laughter, and find the brightness of life in each other’s heart, despite the dark and dreary world?”

The room waited with bated breath at the last of W’s vows, and Flamebringer gave Executor a grin before they both said, “We will.”

W draped the tie for the last time, and tied each of the ends together. “And so the binding is made.”

He heard several soft gasps around the room and grasped Executor’s hand tight in his.

“You may exchange your own vows, now,” W said, and stepped back as Flamebringer and Executor walked closer to each other.

Which was also the moment when the floor suddenly wobbled.

Executor caught him when he slipped as the ship rocked harshly, and abruptly stopped in its track. Above them, the announcement from the intercom blared loud and clear. “To all citizens of Rhodes Island, be ready at your respective battle stations. Multiple threats had been detected, requesting immediate deployment.”

Flamebringer leaned back against Executor’s chest and groaned, loudly. “Motherfucker,” he cursed out, and everyone seemed to share the same sentiment.

They only had a few seconds of reprieve, though. For someone to actually approached the moving city itself was alarming, to know that there were several groups that had tried to threw them off track was even more dangerous. They all moved under Doctor’s direct orders, going to their respective battle stations.

He untied the silk tie from their hands, and tied it to Executor’s arm instead. “I’m going to get bloody down there, you keep it, alright?”

“Enkaku,” W growled behind him. “Don’t you fucking dare getting blood on that dress.”

He threw her a wide grin as he reached for both of his swords. Midnight had come with his sword belt, and put it over his wedding dress. Lappland’s pocket knife was strapped to his back pocket, hidden from view. Doctor had looked at him with a resigned face when he saw that he was getting ready in his wedding dress and heels.

“What?” he said. “You want me to get down there naked?”

“Never mind,” the Doctor had sighed. “Don’t die alright? This is your wedding day, after all. You can’t let me pay so much for the catering only to disappear even before we cut the cake.”

He laughed, and patted his cheeks before following the other guards onto the frontline. He looked back one last time to see Executor hauling his guns and fuck him, he looked absolutely stunning in his black suit and guns. Flamebringer might be developing a kink right now. The man then turned, and mouthed, “Be safe,” to him. He saluted at his husband and went down.

He was giddy. They hadn’t exchanged their complete vows, hadn’t even kissed to seal the deal, but he was already his husband. And I am his husband, he realized with a laugh. Midnight had looked at him like he was losing his mind. Which, he might be. He couldn’t believe they actually got attacked on his wedding day. For the nth time, W was right. This dress was easy access indeed: to fuck and fight.

The battlefield was messy. Operators fighting on the ground and staying alert on the ships as the enemies tried to get past them into the nomadic city. Doctor was barking out orders at them through the comm., and Flamebringer ripped off his veil to tie it around the hilt of his sword. It looked good there, white and beautiful against the sharp metal. He would get it bloody in no time, just like his dress.

For someone who had never fought in dress and heels, he fought rather admirably, he thought. Granted, the dress was a jumpsuit to begin with, but he still got the train on and only remembered to pull it off as he beheaded an enemy in front of him. Someone pulled the train before he could detach it, and a bullet went past him to lodge in the skull of the enemy. W’s voice crackled through the comm.

“Listen,” she growled. “I don’t give a fuck if this is a general channel. Reroute the channel if you want, Doctor, but my boy toys haven’t finished their vows, and I wanted them to do it now.”

He swung his sword and drove the other into someone’s eyes, laughing like he hadn’t been in a while; wild, unrestrained, skirting the edge of insanity. “You’re batshit crazy,” he told her through the comm. “You’re gonna get us all killed, fuckface.”

“Exactly,” she said, and she sounded so terrible that Flamebringer wanted to kiss her. He loved Executor, but there was just a brand of insanity that W possessed that he had admired up until this day. “Before either one of you get killed, fucking finish the vow.”

Doctor sighed into the comm, and said, “Reroute to channel seven if you don’t want to hear them continuing their wedding, right in the middle of a battle—I swear to god—“

He was cut off by a voice that sounded so much like Kal’tsit. “Just get on with it.”

She had sounded so calm, and threatening that no one dared to complain. Midnight shouted at him, and he swiveled to the left before punching a solar plexus, and sliced through soft flesh with his swords. He focused his eyes on the battlefield as he said, “You cannot command me, for I am a free person. But I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hands.”

Flamebringer rolled over from a chainsaw, and thrust his sword to someone’s jugular, spraying blood all over his neck. His dress was more or less ruined now, but he felt exhilarated and invincible when Executor’s voice crackled through the comm line.

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself. But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give.”

The battle raged around them, shouts and exclaims were heard as pained grunts and moans joined in the harmony. In the middle of the chaos, he smiled serenely and crushed someone’s future with the unforgiving bend of his blade.

“I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night.”

He heard someone’s choked voice over the comm., and grinned against the back of a dead man. He threw the dead weight off, and ran to the other end where the enemies had swarmed.

“And the eyes into which I smile in the morning,” Executor’s answering pledge travelled through his ears; he sounded like he was moving around. He was probably scouring the vantage position.

“I pledge to you the first bite from my meat.”

“And the first drink from the cup.”

He groaned when an arrow nicked his arm, rolling to avoid more arrows coming to their area. From afar, he had seen that the enemies’ horde had been thinning on their front. He didn’t know about the other area. He exhaled, and hid behind a defender to regroup his thoughts. He sighed into his comm., and realized that the cuffs of his pants were completely red. He chuckled at that. And moved along with the defender when she signaled him to the enemy on the left.

“I pledge to you my living and dying,” he said, and thrust his katana right into the heart of the woman in front of him. “Equally in your care.”

“And tell no strangers our grievances,” Executor said, and fired a shot. There were screams in the background, ones that Flamebringer could hear it himself even without the comm.

He heaved a pant, and growled as he held his sword on the enemy’s attack. “This is my wedding vow to you,” he almost screamed it out loud as he strained with the effort to overthrow the hulking enemy. Midnight came to his rescue a moment later, raining arts attack on the enemy surrounding them.

As he heard Executor’s breath, he smiled and hacked the head off the enemy’s shoulder, and confidently turned to where he knew Executor must have been. He had deducted his position from the echo of the gunshot and screams he had heard earlier.

He exhaled a bloody breath, and said in the same heartbeat as Executor’s, “This is a marriage of equals.”

He didn’t even turn when a bullet went past him, and killed the enemy behind him with terrifying precision. He smiled, and knew that Executor had seen him, because he could saw the figure in black suit standing on a platform of the ship. He was a sniper who worked better in close range, he knew that. Knew that he was also absolutely brutal in battles to make up for the disadvantage in range.

There were a few cheers heard in the comm., and then W’s voice came through—tired and content. “Through light and darkness, through deaths and afterlives, I now unite you under the vows of the damned, as lovers in life and demise. Now fucking kiss.”

He laughed, and he heard Executor’s scoff too, he thought. But he couldn’t be sure. The Doctor’s voice came in then. “Amen,” he said. “Now that you’re husband and husband, can we get back on track?”

The battle lasted for another two hours after that, with the majority of it actually cleaning the stray enemies. Bayonetting, so to speak. Their numbers had been many, but they were rather uncoordinated and had attacked sloppily. It was just a matter of endurance, before they weeded out every last one of them. Midnight slumped next to him on the ground after they were done. He was hurt minimally, but he got scratches all over him and his bloody wedding dress.

“W will kill you,” Midnight said when he saw the veil on Flamebringer’s sword.

“She hijacked the comm. and delayed Doctor’s orders just so I can exchange vows,” he reminded the man. “She doesn’t get to say shits about what I did in battles.”

The man shrugged. “Well, no one objected because the instructions were clear since the start anyway. They weren’t expert assassins. I think W wouldn’t ask for such things if we were in imminent danger.”

He was right, of course. The battle had lasted for about four hours, and even if he was tired by the end of it, it was because the sheer number of the enemies, not because they were incredibly skilled that he couldn’t handle them. He killed more than two dozen alone, and it said something about the enemy’s commander who had sent their troops without certainty of victory.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when he heard Executor’s voice in his comm. “Enkaku,” he had called, and his eyes automatically swept the battlefield for the sign of the groom. He found him striding to his direction, looking for all of him a murderous angel with his black suit and guns. Flamebringer might or might not have been getting hard inside his wedding dress. The adrenaline, complete with how fucking ravishing Executor had looked—it really was a small wonder.

He got up on trembling legs; maybe fighting with heels was a bad decision, after all. But his boots were all the way in his room, and it really was a testament to Midnight’s taste that he was actually trembling more from exertion rather than the pain from the heels. They had felt soft and unrestricting on his feet, and he was used to moving in such tall pumps.

He gave his husband a lopsided grin, and sighed into his embrace when Executor’s strong arms enveloped him. He mourned the pristine suit as it was stained with blood from Executor’s skin and dress now. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Executor had pulled back and held him close by the hips, cupping his face as he talked in steady, deep voice around an old language that Flamebringer had been learning these past few months.

“Complete your vow,” he said, and Flamebringer wanted to kiss him so bad that he vibrated with the sheer desire of it.

His eyes were alight, painting his face in an unholy glow as he stood there in his bloody dress, his swords by his side as his hands reached out to rest on Executor’s jaw. His hair was a mess, there were specks of blood on the side of his face and neck, and he had never seen Executor looked that in love with him. Not like this; not with the way he looked so intensely into Flamebringer’s eyes with pale blue eyes that had looked so cold, and burned ichor on his skin. Not with the way he held Flamebringer like he was ready to kneel in front of him, and betray the whole universe if Flamebringer ever wished him to do so.

His voice was a low whisper, secretive, sacrilegious. “And when the time comes, you’ll take me to the death’s altar and throw the reaper my remains. You’ll give him my soul, and promised yourself next, so you can save my rotten heart for yourself.” He smiled when Executor tightened his hold on his hips, fingers clenching against the side of his face.

And when he completed the vow, saying in solemn voice his devotion and crushing pledge, Flamebringer had vowed along with him his whole life, his death and reborn; his sins and confessions.

“And when my time comes, I will give your heart and mine to God’s cold mercy. So I can take your hand, and be with you in the void of afterlife,” Executor had said, and smiled at him so sincerely that Flamebringer’s heart started hurting.

He gripped the binding silk tie on Executor’s arm, and pulled him in to kiss him; hard, dirty. The smell of blood was still in his nose, the operators around them had watched the old language poured from their lips, and the day was starting to end from the line of the horizon.

Flamebringer sighed into Executor’s mouth, and laughed when he felt the man’s smile against his lips.

“Hey,” he said, opening his eyes to look at the man he had loved so dear and whole. “Husband.”

And when Executor had swept away the hair from his face, rubbing the speck of blood on his cheek with eyes so tender, saying, “Hello, husband,” Flamebringer could do nothing but fell deeper.

-

So, if someone actually asked when they started dating, Flamebringer would honestly say, “Fuck, I don’t even remember.”

But if someone asked him how it ended, he would grin and looked at the ring on his finger, and said, “Pretty damn good, actually.”

-

[arc-misadventures]

As they would say out there, victory is for those who persevere.

therefore here I come to see if I manage not to water it again.

so where jeanne is a female knight from the time of the beginning of the great war, when the semblance of one of jeanne's comrades-in-arms goes out of control being surrounded by grimm and jeanne ends up in the future, she meets phyrros 2nd year beacon student.

I hope this inspires you for something funny or melancholy.

Inspiracion de una novela: My Wife is From a Thousand Years Ago.

Novel Summary

“I want to go home.”

“You may not be able to go back.”

“why?”

“Because it is far from your home.”

“how far?”

“It’s more than one thousand two hundred years away.”

Xu Qing looked at the girl from the Tang Dynasty with a hint of sympathy on her face: “Everything you are familiar with has become history.”

Relatives, friends, enemies, all fell silent 1,200 years ago.

I hope it catches your attention, the novel is good to relax and pass the time when you don't want to think about something complicated haha at least that's what I think... by the way it also has manhua I think it is.

I’m going to tweak this ever so slightly…

That Was Then, This Is Now…

Jeanne: I really appreciate your assistance, Pyrros. I was utterly lost.

Pyrros: I-It’s my pleasure Mrs. Arc. Anything I can do to help.

Jeanne: Miss Arc, I have not been granted the grace of holy matrimony.

Pyrros: R-Really?! A beautiful woman such as yourself isn’t married?! How is that even possible?

Jeanne: Oh~? Are you asking, or proposing something to me~?

Pyrros: Ah?! I-I-I W-Wasn’t insinuating anything! I-I just didn’t think someone as beautiful, and as amazing as you, would be single. W-What fool would let a girl like you get away…

Jeanne: A fool… A damn fool that’s who…

Pyrros: Pardon?

Jeanne: Nothing… just a thought from long, long… Mrg?! Ohh… This… bullhead is making me queazy… How long until we can depart from it?

Pyrros: Not long, we’re nearly there, look you can see it.

Jeanne: My… Tis indeed a marvellous sight to behold…

Pyrros: That’s… That’s an odd way of saying it, but it is a lovely sight indeed…

Jeanne: Apologies, my speech may seem… outdated to you, but it was entirely common back from where I was from.

Pyrros: Really, where was that?

Jeanne: Oh… A place long since lost to time.

Pyrros: Oh, I’m sorry if I brought back any bad memories.

Jeanne: Oh, think nothing of it… It has been an age since then… and, life has long since moved on since then… It doesn’t matter anymore…

Pyrros: I see… Oh, we’re here. Let’s get going then.

Jeanne: Finally! Free of this Oum forsaken, flying boat!

Pyrros: Was that… cursing…?

Jeanne: Never seen a lady curse before little boy?

Pyrros: N-No, I’ve heard girls curse before! Just not like that.

Jeanne: Ah-haa… Older tongue, older curses.

Pyrros: I see… Never heard that before is all.

Jeanne: I see… Well, you said you would show me to… W-What is that…?

Pyrros: Hmm…? Oh, that! That’s the statue of the Valiant Knight!

Jeanne: The what?

Pyrros: You don’t know…? I thought everyone knew… Anyway, she considered the primordial Hunter! The very first Huntress ever seen! Her sacrifice led to the creation of the Hunter Academy as we unite together to fight against the Grimm! She’s a hero for everyone, human, and faunas the world over. I’m surprised you don’t know of her, everyone knows about her…

Jeanne: As I mentioned earlier; my knowledge on current events is somewhat outdated… Extremely so, so it seems… Pray tell, do you know what her name is, or was…?

Pyrros: No one knows, its been over three hundred years since she was alive. People have long since forgotten her name.

Jeanne: ‘Forgotten…?’ Is that so…

Pyrros: A-Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?

Jeanne: No… No, I am fine… Shall we continue onward then?

Pyrros: Yeah, sure… The tower is this way.

Jeanne: Thank you.

Pyrros: Are you sure you’re alright, you look like you saw a ghost?

Jeanne: I suppose you could say that… It doesn’t matter… Not anymore at least…

Pyrros: O-Okay… Here we are; Beacon Tower! Ozpin’s office is at the top of the tower. Just enter the elevator, and it’ll take you to the top.

Jeanne: The what…?

Pyrros: The… The elevator…? Do you know what a elevator is?

Jeanne: No.

Pyrros: Oh… Okay then… Just press the top button, and it will take you to the top.

Jeanne: It will…? Its just a small room…? How would this take me to the top?

Pyrros: Hit, the button with the highest number, and it will go up.

Jeanne: Up?

Pyrros: Just hit the button…

Jeanne: Very well… Oh, thank you for all the help you have given me, Pyrros Nikos.

Pyrros: I-It was my pleasure, Ms. Arc… W-Will I see you again…?

Jeanne: Perhaps… It will all depend on happens next now…

~~~

Ozpin: Hmm…? I wasn’t expecting any…?! Jeanne?!

Jeanne: Hello, Ozikk…

Ozpin: W-What are you doing here, you should be…?!

Jeanne: Dead? I thought I was dead too… After you tried to murder me! In more ways then one it appears…

Ozpin: Listen I can explain…

Jeanne: Explain…? Explain, what?! How after all the time we spent together, the foes we face, the battles we’ve won, the friends we lost! On the day of our victory, the end of the Colour Wars, you stabbed me in the back?!

Ozpin: It was a necessary, I had no choice.

Jeanne: Necessary?! You obliterated me with magic! Not a trace was left over! Sent me three-hundred years into the future! To find out, you’ve killed me, not once, but twice! Twice!

Ozpin: I did not…?!

Jeanne: You erased me from history! Replaced my legacy as some sort of puppet for you to use as you see fit! The ‘Valiant Knight?!’ What kind of fucking joke is that! I am the, The Golden Flame! The Purging Inferno of Minstraliss! I am, Empress Jeanne Arcadia, rightful ruler of Valicia! You took everything that I, and my family sacrificed to achieve, and perverted it for your own gain!

Ozpin: Your legacy is dead! There are no more royalties left in the world! And, there is no Valicia anymore! There is only, Vale! Your world is long since dead, and there is nothing you can do to being it back!

Jeanne: It’s been over three hundred years, Ozikk, seems like you have forgotten what kind of woman I am…

Ozpin: T-The Sword of Destruction?! H-How did you get that?! Wait, you’re eyes…?! You’re the Summer Maiden?!

Jeanne: Very good, Ozikk. You’re only slightly less dummer than you actually are…

Ozpin: I-It’s still a wasted effort, Jeanne! Unless you know how to use it, its just your average everyday sword!

Jeanne: Really, Ozikk? You think I don’t know how to use a sword, and that I wouldn’t learn how to use this one. And, learn about, her name…?

Ozpin: What…? How?!

Jeanne: You let me ask her a question, only one question, but that was enough. All I needed to do was ask the right question… Ozma…

Ozpin: No… No no no…! Do you have any idea what will happen if you do?! All my work! You’ll undo everything I’ve fought to save! You can’t do this! You can’t…

Jeanne: You’ve had a millennia to save the world, and all you’ve ever done is save yourself. It’s long past due that someone else saves the world, only this time, to save it from you…

Ozpin: You won’t be capable of saving the world! Only I can do it! You’re not strong enough, Jeanne!

Jeanne: Strength? What do you know about strength? I killed my own father to save my people, and my kingdom. So, I’ll have to do it all over again. Bid deal, it sounds fun… Goodbye, Ozikk… I shall succeed where you will only fail. Now then; shall we get to it my dear~?

: Yes! Lets!

Ozpin: No! Nooooo!!!!!

///

Hehehe!

The original idea sounded like allot of fun!

But, doing it like this! This, this going to make things interesting~!

Enjoy.

[wondernimbus]

a ghost story — cedric diggory

pairing: cedric diggory x female!reader

prompt: the thing with love is that it doesn't matter who it’s between; even if it's between someone who’s alive and someone who isn’t.

t/w: mentions of death

a/n: ahhh probably not gonna be able to post as much as i used to anymore bc i’ve been spending too much time on tumblr & social media DDD: anyways yay cedric 

If you wander the halls of the Hogwarts castle, it's likely you'll come across a translucent figure or two, some eager to talk to you and others who won't even bat an eye.

Ghosts. Some have been around for decades, others for entire centuries, but many have aimlessly roamed the grounds for so long no one really knows—or cares—where or when or how they died. There are those that are bitter and hold incessant grudges; they wander through walls, angrily uttering empty threats under their breaths that they have long since lost the ability to truly carry out. They are ghosts after all; mere imprints of the departed soul, according to the usual textbook, and there are a variety of things that they can no longer do that they once were able to when they were alive.

Take the young Hufflepuff ghost, for example, who died at the young age of seventeen, long before she could truly live her life beyond the school walls. Before she could graduate or find love or do whatever was on her agenda.

That in itself is a tragedy. But if you happen to come across her in the castle—because Merlin knows she is always, always wandering, never in one place at one time—you will see that the last thing she seeks is vengeance.

Quite the opposite, actually.

—

There were times when [Y/N] regretted choosing to stay.

Times when she drifted through the corridors of Hogwarts and found herself wishing she’d left all of it behind and moved on to the afterlife—no matter how uncertain the idea of it seemed—instead of having to live every single day watching students go about talking and laughing and living the life she never got to live.

It could have been torture; watching them grow from timid, wide-eyed children oblivious to the workings of the world, to reckless teenagers who took every moment they had for granted, to slightly more mature versions of themselves, ready to venture out into the world beyond them and go down whichever path they wanted to. Become an Auror, maybe. Or a Healer. Start a family, grow a business, explore the world.

It could have been torture.

But that was only depending on which way she looked at it. She could have looked at those very same students and seen a life she never got to experience. But she could have also looked at each of them and seen a life she could experience over and over with each new batch of innocent first-years—and yes, it wasn't her life to live, per se, but wasn't that the magic of it all? To watch from the sidelines and witness them grow and blossom and do as much as they could with the life they'd been given?

So yes—there were times she regretted choosing to stay—but there were also times she was grateful she did.

It was the little things like whenever she spotted a lost first-year and helped him find his way. Or when she roamed the corridors and earned waves from friendly students. Or when she told them stories like the one about the Bloody Baron and Peeves fighting and the other ghosts having to break them up. (It was a story that she told quite often, but one they—especially the children—never got tired of.)

And in exchange, they told her stories. Who was dating who. Who broke up with who. Who might be breaking up with who. She'd become a friend to many students; a listening ear, albeit a translucent one.

But the catch was obvious: those students had to leave eventually, and [Y/N] had to stay.

It was sad, at first, having to bid farewell to her friends when they graduated. But it had been a hundred years and [Y/N] had grown used to it. The knowledge of forever being stuck at seventeen while they got to age and marry and do as much as they wanted to with the rest of the time they have.. well, it didn't quite hurt as much anymore.

It shouldn’t hurt when she had to say goodbye. At least not anymore, when she'd been doing it over and over for the last century.

So it shouldn’t have hurt—the idea of losing him. He was just one of the thousands of students she'd met, after all. Just one more person she had to let go of.

It really shouldn’t have hurt.

But it did. And [Y/N] may have been a ghost, but she wasn't dumb, so it didn't take her long to figure out that it hurt because she'd fallen in love. It was a very stupid move on her part, given that she was a bloody ghost and he was very much alive and human, but. Well. Love was love—no matter who it was between.

—

[Y/N] remembers Cedric when he was just eleven years old, young and energetic and a little naïve.

He was one of the nicer ones, if not the nicest. (Because of course there were those that weren’t as open to the idea of befriending a lonely Hufflepuff ghost; why bother talking to someone dead?)

Cedric had strayed away from his group of first-years to approach her by the staircases. She’d been hovering above the banister, watching them fondly—a little longingly—until he came up to her, beamed with a blinding sort of brightness, stuck his hand out, and then said, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you!”

[Y/N] had stared at him, slightly surprised. Usually it was the first-years that took a little longer to befriend, given that most of them had grown up believing ghosts were to be feared, but every few years or so there’d be someone like the little eleven-year-old boy in front of her whose name she did not yet know, eager to make friends—even with a ghost.

”Hi there,” she’d said, own lips quirking up into a small grin as she stared down at him. “Are you sure you want me shaking your hand? It’s going to be a little cold.”

”That’s perfectly fine!” His eyes were bright; extraordinarily so. They gleamed with so much childlike innocence that [Y/N] found herself thinking back to vague bits of her youth that she didn’t know she remembered. “You looked lonely, so.”

She’d laughed. “Well, if you say so.” And when she reached out and shook the little boy’s hand—or, well, tried to—her own slipped right through his solid one.

He’d flinched and pulled his hand back. “That was really cold!”

Another laugh. “See, I told you.”

”Well, it was nice meeting you, anyway. I’m Cedric, and—“

”Cedric!” a Hufflepuff prefect was calling to him. “Come on, now, we’ve got to get to the common room!”

Cedric had pouted. “Well, I’ll see you around.. um..“

”[Y/N],” she’d told him, smiling softly, glad to make a new friend. “My name was [Y/N].”

—

She saw much of Cedric over the years, given that he was in Hufflepuff and thus often roamed the same corridors she haunted. But she had a feeling that even if he weren’t, he was still the type of person to go out of his way to search the vast grounds of the Hogwarts castle to look for her, because to Cedric, she was just as much of a friend as any of his other human ones.

She watched him grow with the passing of time, along with the other students, although part of her had grown especially fond of him. Cedric, whose talent for storytelling rivaled her own—whose kindness and compassionate heart rivaled just about anyone else’s—was not just another fleeting moment in her countless years at hogwarts. [Y/N] knew she would remember him when he left. She just didn’t know how hard it would be when he did.

—

When Cedric reached sixteen, it was only then that he changed in [Y/N]’s eyes; he’d gone from a little eleven-year-old with round, pink cheeks to something akin to a man, athletic and intelligent and exceptionally handsome.

When Cedric reached sixteen, [Y/N] was still seventeen. The same age she’d been for a long, long time.

[Y/N] was a ghost, and she had no real purpose anymore. Cedric was alive, and he had classes to go to. Other friends to talk to who had living, beating hearts and something in life to actually look forward to. Friends who he would still talk to long after he graduated. Friends who wouldn’t be bound to the castle until the end of time (if there was an end).

And yet Cedric spoke to her as though she was anything but a ghost.

He didn't just briefly wave to her whenever he saw her in the hallways, no; he would ask her how her day went, as if it actually mattered. He confirmed her previous suspicious; he didn't just count on their opportune meetings. He looked for her. His friends would find it strange, but he'd detach himself from them in favor of roaming the corridors, searching for a ghost, eager to tell her about his latest adventures.

Cedric made her feel like she was human. Made her feel like she was alive.

Whenever she spoke to him, it was as though her heart started to beat again for the first time in a hundred years. She wondered if he felt the same way, even if the notion of it was ridiculous. The idea of a ghost catching feelings for a human was a bizarre idea in and of itself, but of a human reciprocating those feelings? For someone who technically didn't even exist?

It was unheard of.

It was unheard of, but it wasn't impossible.

—

[Y/N] spent many nights in the Astronomy tower.

She couldn't remember much of her life. The memories faded away from her with each passing day, becoming blurry at the edges, like the longer time stretched on the farther away they went. They were still there, but she only vaguely recalled workings of the world, emptied of specifics, faces, names back from when she was alive. Like shelves labeled for memories, except they were empty.

She couldn't remember how she died, either, or why she chose to stay. It was odd. As far as she knew, the other ghosts knew fully well how they came to perish. But she wondered if maybe it was better that way; maybe she forgot for a reason.

But the Astronomy tower felt oddly familiar. There was something about it that drew her in. She knew it was relevant to her, in some way, even though she wasn't entirely sure how.

So she would stay there at sundown, looking out over the edge of the railing waiting for a blanket of stars to appear in the sky. Waiting for memories to come back to her, even though part of her knew that they weren't likely to.

The first time Cedric ever found her there, in his sixth year, he'd exclaimed, "There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you", and—oh.

For a ghost, [Y/N] always seemed to be exceptionally happy. Her eyes were always impossibly bright for a dead soul. But now she looked the saddest Cedric had ever seen her, like she was thinking back on all those hundred years she spent with the students and yet at the same time so very alone.

The sun had already set, the last bit of daylight filtering into the tower from the open sides. Cedric had walked forward and silently joined [Y/N] at the edge, sitting down on the floor next to her and staring out at the horizon.

He didn't say anything. He knew this wasn't about him; [Y/N] had to be the one to speak first.

Cedric didn't count the seconds as they passed, just stared out at the fading light as he waited. And waited. And he knew he would wait as long as it took.

And then, finally—"I wish I remembered how I died," she said quietly, her eyes glued to the scenery before her, and if she were alive there would have been tears inside them. Instead there was only a painful sort of wistfulness. "Or why I chose not to move on. I wish I knew, just so I’d feel justified in staying. But I don't. So now I don't know why I’m still here instead of—" she paused, frowning. "Well, I don't know what's beyond here, really. What real death is like. But it can't be too bad, can it?"

Another brief pause.

“I get brief flashes of my life sometimes," she murmured. "Nothing too big. Nothing enlightening. Nothing that really answers my questions. But I get most of them when I’m right here, in this tower."

For the first time since he sat next to her, [Y/N] turned her head just a fraction of an inch to look at him, eyes meeting his. "And when I’m with you," she said, voice soft. "When I’m with you, Cedric, I remember what it felt like to be—" a sharp exhale, as though it was exhilarating to say it out loud, "alive."

Cedric held her gaze for a few seconds. Maybe more. And then, quietly, as though he was letting her in on a secret (and in a way, he was): "If I told you I loved you, what would you say?"

There. It was a revelation, if anything, both to himself and to her. All the confirmation both of them needed that humans could love whoever they wanted to, even ghosts like her. Cedric had done it, hadn’t he?

He’d known her for seven years, and slowly, gradually, he’d fallen for her. No matter the fact that they were from two drastically different worlds. That was enough proof.

She was unresponsive for a while. And then she laughed. A sad sound. She turned back to the horizon, such little light left to seep through her translucent skin. "I’d say you were daft, falling in love with a ghost."

"If I asked you to wait for me," he reached out towards her hand, which was set on the floor. This time Cedric didn’t wince, even though it felt like he’d plunged his arm in icy water. "What would you do?"

She frowned down at their hands. It took her a long, long time, but when she spoke again, Cedric knew she meant it.

"I’d wait," she told him. Her smile was sad. "I’d wait for you, Ced. And I can only hope that you'll remember me, when the time comes.”

—

[Y/N] had been ready.

She’d prepared herself for the idea of waiting for a long time. A few more decades at most.

Cedric was going to leave, and she was going to stay. He would graduate and she would stay. He’d find a job, live the rest of his life to the best of his abilities, get married, start a family. Cedric would die, someday, and [Y/N] would stay at Hogwarts, forever seventeen, counting on the almost-promise he’d made back at the Astronomy tower.

A few decades more and she wouldn’t be so lonely anymore. A few decades more and maybe she’d start feeling a little like herself again.

But the idea of Cedric staying for her when he does die years and years and years from then—of asking him not to move forward into the afterlife and stay bound to the castle forever, just so she’d have someone to be with..

It was selfish.

But Cedric told her that it was his choice. When the time came, he said, he would choose to stay with her.

It almost made Cedric cry, thinking about it—about her just being here, staying just like this, for years more, and him growing older and older, growing apart. In the grand scheme of things, seven years spent learning to love a ghost shouldn’t have meant much, especially for her, who would have centuries more time to exist. But sitting here, with her cold hand almost in his, Cedric decided that the seven years he'd spent with her were the happiest moments of his life.

It could be sad. He could think of those times and see seven years of being so close to the girl he loved and yet at the same time so terribly far; unable to hold her the way he really wanted to. But he could also see the seven happiest years of his life; a time filled with love and adventure.  A time that defined him, molded him into everything he was today.

So no, Cedric wasn't sad. He was the happiest he'd ever been and would ever be in his entire life.

—

”Aren’t you scared?”

”Of what?”

”Of dying.”

Cedric kept his eyes on the stars, gaze wistful as though he was thinking of a life that he had yet to experience. "I don’t think so. Not if I think of what's waiting for me beyond it."

"Decades from now."

He turned to look at [Y/N], then down at where their hands were just inches apart, one solid and the other translucent. One dark in the night, one glowing silver. “Decades.”

A lot could happen in several decades. Cedric could change his mind. Several decades from now, he could look back on the young ghost from the Hogwarts castle and decide that maybe she wasn't worth staying for. Or he could just forget, and never once look back over his shoulder.

But [Y/N] trusted him, and she was ready to wait.

She’d wait for as long as it took him.

—

The day came far earlier than she'd been expecting.

When news broke that one of the Triwizard Champions had been murdered, [Y/N] had felt fear, for the first time in a very long time.

And when the hushed whispers of horror turned into murmurs of Cedric’s name, mourning him, crying for him, [Y/N] had felt anguish so terrible it was as though she was dying all over again.

Cedric wasn’t supposed to die. Not this early.

—

The next time she saw Cedric, for the first time in seven years her hands didn’t go through his anymore.

—

Cedric never regretted it, choosing to stay.

Admittedly, when Death came knocking and asked him the question he thought he'd have to answer far, far into the future, there was a split-second of hesitance.

Just a tiny moment of doubt. Just one. Moving forward into the afterlife, letting Death take him once and for all, leaving this world to set forth into whatever lay beyond it; it was the idea of that that made him hesitate.

But then he thought of [Y/N]—of the idea of being able to hold her the way he could never have done in life, and to be able to do that as much as he wanted to in death. Of being able to finally be with her. Of having her after being so terribly close to it for so long.

He thought of her, and he knew what he wanted.

—

For centuries, there have been two young ghosts who roam the corridors of the Hogwarts castle hand-in-hand, eager to offer a helping hand to anyone who might need it, never running out of tales of love and magic and laughter to tell the students, who, in turn, go to them bearing stories of their own.

They died too young, the pair of them. But the youthful gleam in their eyes never died out, and neither did the love they held for each other—the love that was there long before the other died. The love that will stay until the end of time (if there is an end).

Often you can find them roaming the Hufflepuff corridors. Some say they see the two ghosts in the Astronomy tower, mostly during sundown, sitting on the edge by the railings as the last traces of daylight trickle in through the open windows.

But they are always there, if you look hard enough. Always eager to offer a helping hand. Never apart. Never one without the other.

They call them Cedric and [Y/N]—the ghosts who died too early, and yet were lucky enough to find love. One in life and the other in death.

Call it magic. Call it a miracle. Call it nothing at all; but somehow, two people who were perhaps never meant to find love in each other, got what they wanted, in the end.

And Death knows all they ever wanted was each other.

[disengaged]

hello! i'm here from elliott's post about film class, you replied to her and i found out that you have a double major of film studies and psych. anyway, i scrolled through your blog and i think you are quite passionate and really knowledgeable about your major, and i'm not lmao (i'm a multimedia arts student, but i want to be like a film director someday). hence, i'm here to get inspiration and advices from. i actually already saved the books you recommended though!

i'm going to take a film language class this coming sem, and i feel anxious about it (+ the fact that i'm a beginner in every medium of art/media makes me feel out of place and undeserving of being in this major lol). i started advanced studying with Crash Course's free film history course, but i just feel lost, i don't know what to do. i feel like i should be studying 60mph because i can't keep up with anyone.

my school does not really do examinations right after every semester, even quizzes are non-existent. i don't have a classmate or friend that i can ask these questions because they have other interests that do not interest me. that's why i find it hard to understand anything. i'm currently at the burnt-out stage so perhaps the reason why i am so naive. but any advice will really help. thank you :((

DUUUUDE omg .... okay first things first, take a deep breath, it's gonna be okay

i really respect your dedication/the fact that you're trying to study before the class even starts, but like . if it's an intro-level course, you're gonna be ok !! TONS of people take FS courses as optional arts credits/"for interest", it's typically expected that you're not going to know everything. as long as you have the right prerequisites for the course, you should be doing ok! if it turns out your prof sucks (like elliott's) you can brush up on the rest as you go ♥️ :-0

like ...... if you're already dealing with burnout, studying super hard ahead of time is gonna make you feel even worse. & yknow ....... if it's really bad in the first week, just drop out tbh 🤷 some courses ain't worth it

in terms of exams: i'd say about half of my film studies classes have been essay-based rather than quiz/midterm/final exam-based, idk how your school works though

as for feeling 'undeserving' of your major ...... i can't really help you there, but you should know that imposter syndrome is super common in every single discipline and at any college/uni, especially in the fine arts side of things — but you're ok !! like !!! if you were a pro at everything already, school would suck ass. i hope u can get over this fear and better enjoy learning new things, cuz that's really what postsecondary is all about ♥️ it's ok to be naive, especially in subjects the average person knows jack shit about.

the path to becoming a director is ....arduous.... and typically requires training within the industry and/or a degree specifically in film production (which is different than the 'scholarly' branch of film studies) but if it's what you really want, go for it. put your heart into it, yknow, do whatever it is that makes you feel like you're doing something important. YOLO

it can be tough when your friends don't Get your interests, i'm here to chat anytime if you like tho !! film studies is basically my favourite thing on earth :'-)

also i saw u asked elliott abt notetaking ...... i use OneNote & i love it, it's great cause it puts your notes in The Cloud and you can access them from any device. super user-friendly and has drawing, highlighting, font changing functions, you can insert PDFs as printouts ....... i hate carrying my 5lb laptop to campus (and it doesn't fit on the little desk trays in my lecture halls anyways. fml) so i just have an iPad loaded up w OneNote and i'm set :-) i take some of my notes by hand but only for English/Writing/CMPUT classes lol, my FS and Psych classes go way too fast to keep up

[nerdygaymormon]

Mtg w/Stake YW President

I’ve been asked to meet with the stake young women presidency where I live to talk about how to make church a better experience for LGBTQ+ youth, and share some things they ought to know to help them better understand. 

These are my notes for the meeting. 

Given our time limits, I had to be selective. I tried to think of what is some basic knowledge they should know, what is some practical advice they can implement, and then I wanted them to start thinking through scenarios. 

————————————————————

We should talk about language.

Don't say "suffers from," "struggles with," or anything that suggests this is an addiction or sickness. Don’t ask, “are you sure?” Just because being straight & cisgender is most common doesn't make everything else "unnormal" or "unnatural". Don’t say we’ll be “fixed” in the resurrection because that implies we’re “broken.”

If someone comes out to you, they made themselves very vulnerable, they need love, validation and hope. Not talk about repentance or a reminder of the Church's anti-gay positions. There's a good chance they know the Church's teachings better than you do.

Let’s practice, what are some ways to respond if someone comes out to you?

—————————

How can we make things better, especially since we don't have power to change some of the problematic teachings or policies?

 Every LGBT teen needs trusted adults in their lives who loves, supports and sustains them, no matter which path they choose.

It's hard for queer teens to see a path inside the church when taught all sources of joy & happiness are forbidden from them, and even basic questions about their place & purpose in The Plan seem unanswerable.

Queer youth look around church and don’t see themselves in the lessons (except possibly as the bad guys), they don’t see queer adults in their wards. They are not shown a future in church. Our stake is unusual in that I’m open that I’m gay and I’ve been in stake leadership almost 9 years, much of that time participating in youth conferences, stake youth activities, and even DJ of the dances. 

—————————

If I had a chance to speak with an LGBTQ teen, I'd want them to know their Heavenly Parents love them very much. I'd encourage them to go home and pray, asking if their Heavenly Parents love them and hope they receive a strong answer. I'd also say that we don't know what the future holds, but they get to work out their future in collaboration with God.

They have a lot of hard questions and decisions to make, they don’t need to know the all the answers right now. Future decisions can wait for the future.

I'd remind them of the Spirit. When they pray about a choice, do they feel peace, content, settled, warm, calm, and things becoming clear in your mind? Or do they feel muddled, unsettled or unsure, or having trouble remaining focused on the idea? Those are ways the Spirit confirms or doesn’t confirm our choices. This will be useful for them as they work out their future.

Even if they decide they need a break, they can return with no judgement and come sit with us, we love them.

—————————

Stats are that probably 10%~15% of our youth are queer. If we have 200 active youth in our stake, that would be 20~30 of them are queer. Plus many more who have queer family or friends.

If you're planning an activity or lesson about dating or celestial marriage, at a minimum make sure it's known that's what the lesson or activity is about so that those who want to skip it can do so. Not all will have the choice to skip, so also put time into how you address any topic about queer people because you’re likely speaking to them face-to-face. Before and/or having the activity or lesson, say something like "I know there are people who won't get married, perhaps because they're gay or for other reasons. This is okay. I love you and the Lord has a plan for you."

—————————

In my opinion, the #1 job for an ally is to speak up if you hear something questionable or bigoted being said. You never know if there's someone in the room is queer and closeted, or who has friends/relatives who are queer. Speaking up lets them know you're a safe person. 

If something homophobic or transphobic is said and no one speaks up to oppose it, that silence is seen as agreement. Sometimes as a gay member, I just don't have the energy to yet again stand alone against these types of statements and it is a relief for me to know someone else is willing to do some of the work, and if I choose to speak, I know I'm not alone.

—————————

We encourage all youth to follow the Law of Chastity, which considering none of them are married, you'd think would be the same for all of them. But is it?

If 2 boys are slow dancing together at the stake youth dance, are they going to be split up and told we don't encourage or allow that here? 

There’s a lesbian teen signed up for girls camp. Do you let her sleep & room in the same cabin as other young women?

If you learn that some gay girls from the different wards have started taking each other out to eat and then to the park or to see a movie or other things that sound like a date, do you bring it to their bishop's attention? 

If you are having a stake activity and it involves dating or marriage, and a youth tells you they’re uncomfortable or they don’t want to participate, what do you do?

—————————

I'm president of the Florida chapter of Affirmation. My VP is in Orlando is also certified to teach QPR, which is training on how to respond to someone who is suicidal. If there's interest, she is willing to teach people in our stake. I checked with her, the cost is $3 per person for training materials, and the classes shouldn't be more than 20 people in size. If you and possibly other ward or stake youth leaders would like to complete the QPR training, I can get this arranged. 

—————————

I’ve known a number gay youth from our stake, and many more from across the country and world They are incredible. They have some amazing gifts. Even if they wind up taking a path out of the church, you can still love them and be a mentor to them. You can listen to their goals and dreams and help them see how to achieve those, encourage them in good aspirations. They should know someone at church loves and values them.

[longitudinalwaveme]

Arkham Files: Dr. Alchemy/Dr. Albert Desmond/Mr. Element

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Dr. Albert Desmond, also known as Dr. Alchemy and Mr. Element. Patient suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder. Session One. So, Dr. Desmond, how are you feeling? 

Dr. Alchemy: Go away. I’m reading. 

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, I promise that you will be able to return to your books as soon as this session is over. But for right now, I need you to talk to me. 

Dr. Alchemy: I am not interested in conversation. Leave me alone. 

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid I cannot do that, Dr. Desmond. As your psychologist, I have a responsibility to maintain your well-being. 

Dr. Alchemy: I have read countless books on the subject of psychology, Dr. Strange. There is nothing you can teach me that I do not already know. 

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, this is not about knowledge. It is about helping you to live a more productive life. 

Dr. Alchemy: Dr. Desmond would likely appreciate the sentiment, but he isn’t here right now. So please, leave me to my studies. I have important work to do, and no time for idle chatter. 

Hugo Strange: I take it I am speaking to one of Dr. Desmond’s alters, then? 

Dr. Alchemy: Yes. I am Doctor Alchemy. Now kindly go away and leave me alone. 

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid that I cannot do that, Dr. Alchemy. As your psychologist, it would be irresponsible of me not to hold these therapy sessions with you. 

Dr. Alchemy: You are not my psychologist; you are Dr. Desmond’s psychologist. Dr. Desmond is not here right now, so you have no responsibilities in this room. Go away. 

Hugo Strange: Dr. Alchemy, you and Dr. Desmond share the same body, and are fragmented parts of the same basic personality. Medically and legally, both of you are my patients...as are any other alters that may exist. 

Dr. Alchemy: Be that as it may, I have nothing to say to you. Go away.

Hugo Strange: (Sighs) If I arrange to have some more rare books delivered to your room, will you agree to participate in the session, Dr. Alchemy? 

Dr. Alchemy: (Pleased) Yes. Thank you, Dr. Strange. (Pause) What do you want to know? 

Hugo Strange: According to your files, you are a very educated man. You have PhDs in chemistry, biochemistry, and molecular biology. You could easily earn money legitimately...and, in fact, Dr. Desmond does just that in his career at S.T.A.R. Labs. Why, then, did you choose to become a costumed criminal? 

Dr. Alchemy: Research is expensive, Dr. Strange. How else was I to fund my experiments? 

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond usually asks for grant money. 

Dr. Alchemy: Only because he wastes our talents on safe, predictable work. I, on the other hand, push the boundaries of established science. That frightens the complacent and the simple-minded, and as such, they dismiss my work as lunacy and refuse to help me in my endeavors to expand humanity’s understanding of the cosmos. 

Hugo Strange: Even if that is true, Dr. Alchemy, your file indicates that you are a metahuman with the power to transmute the elements at will. Why not use that power to create gold or silver, sell it for a profit, and use that to fund your experiments? 

Dr. Alchemy: And debase my powers by using them for something as mundane as earning petty cash from the mindless multitudes? Never. 

Hugo Strange: But you’re perfectly willing to use those same powers to steal money from the same mindless multitude? 

Dr. Alchemy: Of course. I am the lord of the very elements! It is my right to take whatever I desire. 

Hugo Strange: You are stealing! Like a common thief! 

Dr. Alchemy: A common thief could not turn your blood into formaldehyde, Dr. Strange. 

Hugo Strange: Was that a threat, Dr. Alchemy? 

Dr. Alchemy: No, not a threat. Merely a reminder of your position. 

Hugo Strange: (Angry) Let me make one thing clear, Dr. Alchemy. When you were sent here, you were, effectively, declared a ward of the state. I am the head of this Asylum. I want to help you, but if you prove to be a threat to me, the other patients, or the staff, I will authorize that you be put on a regime of enough antipsychotic drugs to all but kill your conscious mind. 

Dr. Alchemy: (Quiet laugh) And break your Hippocratic Oath by sentencing poor Dr. Desmond to a living death? I don’t believe you have that in you, Dr. Strange.

Hugo Strange: (Icily) To prevent one of the most powerful metahumans in the world from laying waste to this institution? There is very little I would not do, Dr. Alchemy. Metahuman power dampeners have a very limited effect on you, and I am not enough of a fool to rely solely on your goodwill to keep you in check. 

Dr. Alchemy: (Quickly) In that case, I rescind my reminder. 

Hugo Strange: I’m glad to hear that, Dr. Alchemy. (Pause) So tell me, what is your relationship with your city’s scarlet-clad vigilante? 

Dr. Alchemy: The Flash? He’s an impediment to my research, nothing more. 

Hugo Strange: And your decision to put on a costume was in no way inspired by him? 

Dr. Alchemy: Perhaps on some level. But he means nothing to me. Dr. Desmond is the one who cares about him. 

Hugo Strange: In that case, will you permit me to speak with Dr. Desmond? 

Dr. Alchemy: Certainly not. That weak-willed fool would only interfere with my studies. 

Dr. Hugo Strange: If you cooperate, I’ll see what I can do about getting you a first-edition copy of The Grapes of Wrath. 

Dr. Alchemy: Very well. If I can find Dr. Desmond, I’ll let him know that he wishes to speak with you. 

(Long pause) 

Hugo Strange: Are you all right, Dr. Alchemy? 

Albert: (in a voice that is similar to, but distinguishable from, Dr. Alchemy’s) W-where am I? What’s going on? 

Hugo Strange: (Realizing) Is this Dr. Albert Desmond? 

Albert: Y-yes. (Pause) Who are you? What is this place? What am I doing here? 

Hugo Strange: I am Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. What is the last thing you remember, Dr. Desmond? 

Albert: I...I was at home with my wife, Rita. She was making dinner, and I felt a headache coming on, so I went outside to get some fresh air and-(Pause) Oh, no. It happened again, didn’t it? 

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid so, Dr. Desmond. A week ago, Dr. Alchemy was captured by the Flash whilst attempting to turn an entire stadium’s worth of people into tungsten. Since Iron Heights Penitentiary is currently incapable of holding metahuman criminals, it was decided that he should be transferred to Arkham Asylum, pending his trial. 

Albert: Not again...not again!  It’s been three years since the last time. I thought that the nightmare was finally over. 

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, the courts are aware of your… highly unusual...form of Dissociative Identity Disorder. You will almost certainly be declared not guilty by reason of insanity. 

Albert: And then they’ll lock me away in a hospital instead of a prison. Rita and I...we have a baby son! Is he going to grow up with his father shut away in a mental institution? (Pause) I should have had her divorce me. At least that way she wouldn’t be raising our son all by herself. And she wouldn’t have to worry about both her and the baby being murdered by a costumed maniac! 

Hugo Strange: Neither of your alters have ever actually murdered someone, Dr. Desmond. 

Albert: No. But from what I’ve been told, it hasn’t been from lack of trying. (Pause) I let her marry me. I knew what I was, and I let her marry a monster. 

Hugo Strange: You are not a monster, Dr. Desmond. Your family members, the police and judicial departments of Central City, and even your city’s costumed vigilante all swear as to your good moral character. 

Albert: Good moral character? Dr. Strange, both of my alters are criminals; which means that there’s a part of me...there’s a part of me that wants to do the things they do. If there wasn’t, surely I would have been able to get rid of them by now. The fact that I haven’t proves that I don’t have good morals. 

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, do you ever remember the actions of your alters? 

Albert: Almost never. (Pause) I usually end up finding out about it after the fact. You have no idea how horrible it is to have someone tell you that your body went on a crime spree that you don’t remember anything about. 

Hugo Strange: In other words, you have dissociative amnesia during the periods in which your alters are dominant. (Pause) Do you make an effort to prevent your alters from emerging, Dr. Desmond? 

Albert: Of course I do! I take medication, I exercise, I ensure that I always get a full night’s rest, I go to therapy….I don’t want to be a monster. 

Hugo Strange: A monster wouldn’t battle his illness in the way that you do, Dr. Desmond. You are not a monster. You are ill, and through no fault of your own. 

Albert: I...I wish I could believe that, Dr. Strange. (Pause) But honestly? I’m starting to think that maybe I should just be locked up forever. It would...it would be better for everyone. 

(Long pause) 

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond? Dr. Desmond, are you all right? 

Mr. Element: (in a voice that is similar to, but distinguishable from, Dr. Alchemy and Albert’s voices) I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man, Doc.

Hugo Strange: Who are you? And what happened to Dr. Desmond? 

Mr. Element: Nothing. I just decided to take control. It seems that Doc Alchemy’s actions have caused him to almost give up hope completely this time, and that meant he couldn’t put up much of a fight against me. (Pause) Thanks for getting Doc Alchemy to give up control voluntarily, by the way. You have no idea how tough it is to win fights for control with that guy. 

Hugo Strange: I take it you’re Mr. Desmond’s other alter? 

Mr. Element: That’s right, Doc. You can call me Mr. Element. 

Hugo Strange: Not Dr. Element? 

Mr. Element: Nah. The other two got most of the brains, I’m afraid. It’s why I’m not as powerful as either one of ‘em. (Pause) Not that you’d know it from looking at Albert, of course. He’s got no idea how powerful he really is. He’s even more powerful than Doc Alchemy! 

Hugo Strange: I suppose that that makes a certain amount of sense. Dr. Desmond is, after all, the personality from which the two of you split off. Perhaps that allows him to mainline the power, so to speak. (Pause) So, Mr. Element, why do you commit crimes in a silly costume? 

Mr. Element: To get money and attention. Doc Alchemy could care less about that sort of thing, and Albert’s too much of a goody-good to admit that he wants either, so it’s up to me to make sure people remember us. 

Hugo Strange: And the costume, was it inspired by the Flash? 

Mr. Element: No. It was based on our fascination with elements. The mask was so that I could inhale pure oxygen; I used a carbon atom as my symbol because life has its basis in carbon-you get the idea. Albert’s the one who has an emotional connection to the Speedster. 

Hugo Strange: Yes, yes. Dr. Alchemy said the same thing. (Pause) So, are either you or Dr. Alchemy Rogues, Mr. Element? 

Mr. Element: No. Doc Alchemy and I both prefer to work solo. Besides, I think the Doc kind of freaks them out. 

Hugo Strange: Are there any particular concerns you want to talk to me about, Mr. Element? 

Mr. Element: Not really. Albert’s the one with the hang-ups. 

Hugo Strange: In that case, I am going to bring this session to a close. I need some time to reflect on your case and how to best treat it. It is noticeably abnormal, and I will need to adjust my strategies accordingly.

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

[generallynerdy]

At Home (Elrond X F!Reader)

Summary: And when he kissed her-- fiercely, recklessly-- she’d never felt more at home.

Requested by @lovinghufflepuffgirl: Hello, I believe this my first time requesting and I am so excited! My request is (if possible): Elrond courting the reader (she's a high born elf and a princess) and they fall in love. A grand wedding soon follows. Thank you so much!

Key: (Y/N) - your name, Imladris - the Sindarin (the more common Elf-tongue) name for Rivendell, fëar - souls/spirits in Quenya (the older, rarer Elf-tongue of High Elves) Warnings: cursing in the author’s note as usual, my sister and I made Tolkien-selves once and Elrond was my dad so this was really weird at first but I got over it, the Evenstar is from the movies and it has a sort of book equivalent but I didn’t want to leave out movie-only fans so pre-warning for book fans Word Count: 3,495 WOW. W O W. I have NO self control.

Note: technically speaking you could swap (Y/N) with Celebrian and this would be canon LMAO. Anyway, I made the reader Galadriel and Celeborn’s daughter since to my understanding Elves don’t have princesses? (I haven’t finished reading all Tolkien’s Arda things so I may be wrong, pls let me know if I am.) ALSO UH. This is the longest request I’ve written in,,,so long holy shit. This spiralled. I am so sorry.

     Imladris was beautiful, (Y/N) decided. After a mere few days there, she was certain she could live there for the rest of her exceedingly long life.

    As the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, (Y/N) was of High Elven blood, which many assumed meant that she was accustomed to a certain...luxurious lifestyle. In reality, she had spent much of her life in Lothlórien longing to be elsewhere. The forests of her home were beautiful, she had no doubt of that, but something in her wanted to be elsewhere.

    And, frankly, Imladris felt like that elsewhere.

    It was here she felt safe, here that she spent hours wandering the gardens, something she had hardly ever bothered to do before.

    It was also here that a certain Elf Lord lived.

    Lord Elrond was about (Y/N)’s age, relatively young-- for an Elf-- and a good leader, in (Y/N)’s humble opinion. He was respectful, well-spoken, and, well, handsome.

    The very moment (Y/N) met him, she received a knowing, teasing glance from both of her parents. It took every ounce of will the Elf maiden had to keep herself from either turning bright red or outright flirt with Elrond.

    Despite her excellent first impression of him, she wasn’t quite certain he thought the same of her. He’d hardly spoken a word to her beyond pleasantries.

    She would be offended, but he was a busy man and for that she could not blame him.

    (Y/N) was lucky enough to have a clear schedule. She used most of her time exploring Imladris and found what she believed was going to be her favourite place: a balcony carved into the mountains that overlooked the entire city, a waterfall tumbling nearby. There, she sat on the railing, letting her legs hang over the side despite the danger.

    “Might I join you, my lady?”

    She startled at the voice, but was smart enough not to jolt before she glanced back. “At your leisure, Lord Elrond. This is your home, after all.”

    The man that had yet to leave her thoughts since her arrival was standing there, remarkably relaxed for someone who'd been hosting the Elves of Lorien. The distant setting sun landed on his raven hair, bringing (Y/N)'s attention to it before her gaze slipped to his eyes. Often, the few humans she met spoke of the knowledge the Elves held and how it manifested in their eyes; how they had something beyond in them, how the years they'd lived always seemed plain in their irises. She'd never really understood it until she saw him, saw the wisdom his hundreds of years gave him. It was a funny thing, she thought, that their age would show in their eyes of all things. His were lovely.

Elrond moved to join her at the edge, allowing himself to sit on the railing almost sideways. His feet did not hang over the edge as (Y/N)'s did, but the idea that he'd already followed her so far made her smile.

"I had no desire to interrupt your thoughts," he added quietly as he made himself comfortable.

She knew he was fishing, curious as to what had brought her here. It amused her like nothing else. "Oh, I'm hardly preoccupied. I'm simply...admiring. Your realm is beautiful."

He raised his eyebrows. "High praise from a Lady of Lorien."

"Believe me, the forests of my home are a sight like none other, but this place..." She let out a deep, awed breath. "I have not the words for it. I find myself lost in its sights. I've done nothing these last days but explore, yet I feel there is still so much more to find."

His chuckle surprised her. "I thought the same when I found it. It's why I settled here, after all. I couldn't tear my eyes away. You find it to your liking, then?"

"I adore it," she declared. "Especially the waterfalls. They're almost...other-worldly, as odd as that may sound."

"Hardly," he said, waving a hand. "Have you passed through the one in the lower gardens? There's a cavern behind it with the most beautiful crystal formations in the walls."

Her eyes widened. "No, I hadn't realised. Which garden did you say?"

"I'll have to show you, I think, it's difficult to find." A smile crossed his face. "If you don't object."

"On the contrary, my lord, I'll hold you to your word," she teased, laughing. Then, she sighed. "I do think I could stay here for the rest of my days, if I had the choice."

A pause.

"You could stay, if you wanted," Elrond said suddenly.

(Y/N) turned to look at him so quickly that it almost hurt. "Pardon?"

The smile on his face was...shy, now, and hesitant. It took everything in her not to gawk at the Lord of Imladris being sheepish.

"You could stay, if you wish. There's too much to see for one visit, I think, but you could always return," he said, glancing out onto the horizon.

"And...you wouldn't mind if I stayed? I wouldn't want to become a nuisance," she murmured, reaching up reflexively to fix a strand of hair.

He looked over and shook his head immediately. "Not at all, my lady." Then, he smiled. "In fact, I would enjoy your company."

She was struck with overwhelming joy. Clearly, he hadn’t thought bad of her at all, a thought that had been nagging her. Maybe-- maybe he even thought of her what she did of him. Perhaps he was interested in her in the same way?

(Y/N) couldn't help a wide smile. "Very well, then, I'll stay. We can't have the mighty Lord Elrond dying of a broken heart, after all."

He laughed, his voice a song to her ears. Sitting there, overlooking the city with him, it occurred to her that, yes, she was right before. She could stay here for the rest of her life and be perfectly happy.

*

Many months later, (Y/N) had taken residence in Imladris permanently. (Of course, the lives of Elves were long and she knew not to take her welcome for granted, so many of her belongings still remained in Lothlórien.)

She'd explored much of the city by now, though there were always little things to discover. Many of her days were spent with Elrond, so many in fact that she was practically taking part of Lindir's job. The poor man didn't mind at all-- he was glad to have someone helping, actually.

Especially when it came to Elrond and his habits. (Y/N) found out quickly that he tended to bury himself in his work, regardless of what the work was. She decided, much to Lindir’s amusement, that it was her job to keep him from getting buried alive.

"My lord," she said in a sing-song tone, clearly teasing. "My lord?"

Elrond shot her a dry look from over the edge of his book. He was at his desk in his study, which was covered wall to wall in bookshelves. Lindir hovered by the door, holding back snickers as he watched (Y/N) walk about the desk, almost like she was teasing out a predator; far enough to be safe, but getting dangerously close. The glare they both received only added to the concept.

"This is important business," Elrond drawled. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"You said that many, many moments ago,” she sighed.

"You need to take a break."

"I need to be left alone," he shot back.

She gasped, offended. "Did you hear that, Lindir? How rude."

"How unbecoming of a Lord," her compatriot added, grinning mischievously.

Elrond looked up at both of them with a tired expression. "Don't you have someone else to bother?"

"Not until you die, my dear Elrond," (Y/N) declared decidedly. "Now, let's see...how could I possibly drag you away--"

She cut herself off, snatching the book he held from his hands with the speed of Shadowfax. He made an offended noise, but the deed was done and she waved it about almost gleefully.

"Oh, look! No work now," she said lightly.

"Give it back--"

She smiled brightly. "Or I could--"

"Don't you dare," he very nearly growled, already pushing his chair back and getting to his feet.

"I dare!" she laughed, already darting toward the door. "How rude of you! You are chasing a lady of Lorien!"

"I am chasing a nuisance!" he huffed, chasing after her. "And a threat to my crown!"

The laugh she barked out was almost uncivilized, but she masked it by slipping behind Lindir, using him almost as a human shield. Meanwhile, Lord Elrond stood opposite her, frowning and no doubt trying to use Lindir to his advantage.

"Did you hear that, Lindir?” she asked once more. “I'm a threat to his crown!"

"I can hardly believe it, my lady," he replied dryly.

Elrond made a grab for the book, but she ducked away at the last moment, making a run for the door.

"You'll have to catch me, my lord!" she cackled, very glad that she'd chosen comfortable shoes that morning.

He was right on her heels. "You'll regret this!"

Left behind, Lindir sighed and rolled his eyes, now that he was no longer in respectable company. "One of these days they'll realise this isn't normal."

Outside, in the streets of the city, it was thankfully too dark and too late for anyone to witness Lord Elrond chase Lady (Y/N) building to building, garden to garden. She led him right to the lowermost garden, where he'd shown her the cavern beyond the waterfall weeks and weeks ago. Once there, she quickened her pace and ducked behind a tree to hide.

(Y/N) tried to keep her heaving breaths quiet, peeking around the trunk every few moments.

She frowned when he didn't seem to follow. He'd just...disappeared, really. Looking in the direction from whence she came, she took a step back and shrieked when she hit someone's chest.

Strong arms wrapped around her, but not in a way that was restrictive; she could fight her way out if she wanted. Elrond's rumbling laughter came from deep within his chest. (Y/N) felt it more than heard it as he grabbed his book from her hand. She burst into near-childish giggles.

"I believe this is mine," Elrond hummed.

When she could breathe again, she turned in his hold and hit his chest good-naturedly. "That was terrifying!"

"I thought it would make us even," he said, the smile on his face worth every second of fear.

(Y/N) realised abruptly how close they were, mere inches apart, really. It didn't help that she was still breathing heavily from their chase, something he mimicked as well. His smile fell and his expression became...not solemn, but thoughtful.

"Is my distraction working?" (Y/N) asked, tilting her head slightly.

He chuckled. "Thoroughly." His gaze moved from her eyes to her lips, then back up again.

(Y/N) felt her heart in her chest. For months they'd danced around each other, always thinking but never acting. She was so unbelievably fond of this man, this place, this feeling. It never seemed to leave her alone and yet she'd never done anything about it. Her mother had urged her repeatedly to ask to court him, but it always felt...early.

Elrond let out a sharp breath. "May I--?"

"Yes," she answered breathlessly, already knowing what his question was.

He leaned forward and slanted his mouth against hers, taking away what little air she had left in her lungs. His touch was unbearably gentle and curious, always curious. (Y/N) had never experienced anything quite like it, she thought. It was remarkably like her first day in Imladris.

When they finally pulled apart, she let out a soft laugh, which he echoed. He pulled her closer, closer still, and held her, resting his forehead against hers. And they stayed there, in the garden, comfortably silent.

*

Months went by and slipped into years. The time that passed was mere moments in the life of an Elf, yet (Y/N)'s days in Imladris had never felt longer. Each one was a new adventure, a new experience, and to get to live it by Elrond's side was a blessing.

They began officially courting some time after the garden incident, which Lindir was grateful for. (According to him, their 'pining' was becoming insufferable. (Y/N) had no idea what he was talking about.) Elrond wore the Evenstar, a family heirloom gifted to him by his new partner, while (Y/N) had a circlet of silver to match his own, which he'd had specifically made for her.

It was a slow, comfortable sort of thing, a pace both of them were comfortable with.

Some days, though, (Y/N) felt as though the courtship was pointless. They were practically married as it was, living together and ruling together, in most ways. Elrond had insisted on her becoming comfortable as a lady of Imladris, simply to see if she would enjoy it at all, and she'd fit into the role quite well. The two were, essentially, already settled into a life together.

(Y/N)'s parents thought the same from what she could gather from their letters. Her father, at least, was insisting on a wedding soon, but her mother was far more patient. Celeborn had always been fond of ceremonies, but (Y/N) begged him to wait. She didn't want to push Elrond, not with how busy he always was.

Every week, another letter would come in the mornings by messenger and, every week, she would write a letter back.

One week, however, she didn't receive a letter.

"You're certain?" she asked the messenger.

"Yes, my lady," he replied nervously. "I have no letter for you, only two for my Lord Elrond. I'm sorry."

She frowned. "Odd. Here, I'll take them. He's out with a hunting party."

He handed over the letters, which she took graciously. Biting her lip, (Y/N) was almost tempted to read them when she recognised her mother's handwriting on the outside of both letters. She stopped herself, though, reminding herself that it could be official White Council business. (That was one of the few things she had yet to get involved with.)

Still, it made her smile, seeing her partner's name written in her mother's script. He was fitting in with her family as well as she was fitting in with his home.

A storm of horse's hooves against stone echoed across the city. (Y/N) smiled to herself. Speak of the devil...

Turning on her heel, she watched Elrond ride up to her on his faithful steed, covered head to toe in shining, beautifully crafted armour. He smiled fondly at the sight of her, coming to stop just beside her.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, dearest?" he asked, preparing to dismount. "You never greet me upon arrival."

She rolled her eyes. "I hate to embrace you with the armour and you know it. A messenger from Lorien arrived this morning with two letters for you. From my mother."

His eyes widened. "Oh. I hadn't realised-- one moment--"

He dismounted from his horse, his hesitation making (Y/N) frowned. As soon as he was on the ground, he removed his gauntlets and took the letters, opening the first envelope curiously. When he looked up to see (Y/N) watching him, he smiled.

“I would ask you not to worry, but I know it’s pointless,” he teased.

She huffed, crossing her arms. “Since I’ve come here, my mother has never neglected to write to me, but the one time she does, she writes two letters to you. Care to explain, dearest?”

Elrond chuckled. “Momentarily.”

Pulling out the first letter, he skimmed over its content. Something in the letter caught his eye and suddenly he was beaming, his smile brighter than the sun.

“What?” (Y/N) asked, voice tinged with concern. “What is it?”

Abruptly, he handed her the second letter. She went to rip it open, but he stopped her. “Ah, wait.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? I’ll break your fingers.”

He grinned and held out his hand to her. “Humour me?”

“Fine,” she sighed.

Much to (Y/N)’s surprise, he led her away from the main road of the city and down a familiar path. She laughed when she realised they were headed for the lowermost garden, the place he’d kissed her for the first time, the place he’d spoken of the very first time they’d met. Elrond muttered something about wanting to get rid of his armour, but when she asked, he waved her off.

Finally, he seemed pleased when they found a small stone bridge over a deep creek, a place shaded by trees with a waterfall nearby.

Elrond turned to her and took both of her hands in his, caressing her knuckles with his thumbs. (Y/N) eyed him curiously. She appreciated the gesture, but her curiosity was eating at her. What could her mother have possibly said that prompted this?

“(Y/N),” he called gently, gaining her attention.

“Hm?”

She smiled when he reached out, taking a gentle hold of her chin.

“You have become as much a home to me as this city is,” he murmured, his thumb running up and down the length of her jawline. “Anything you’d ask of me, I would do it.”

She shook her head. “Elrond--”

“I know you would never ask for anything unreasonable and I love you all the more for it,” he added quickly. “And I do love you, more than anything. I don’t think I can imagine living as long as I will without you here.”

“Neither can I,” she admitted with a little laugh.

“(Y/N) of Lorien,” he breathed out, taking both of her hands again, “I humbly ask for your hand: your life, your love. I ask that you make Imladris your home, that you stay at my side for as long as the both of us are on this land and beyond.”

    (Y/N) exhaled shakily. “Oh...oh, my Elrond,” she said, moving to cup his head in her hands. “I’m already home. You never had to ask.”

    She initiated the kiss, capturing his lips with hers and pulling him close. The way he responded, clutching the material of his dress, was almost a thing of relief. He was weightless, so weightless, standing there with her. And (Y/N) felt the same, felt at home here, in ways she never had in the forests of her birth.

    Elrond was the first to pull away. “I had to ask your parents,” he said, laughing.

    “I’m going to kill them,” she hissed, though she didn’t mean it for a second.

    When he pulled her back into his arms, she let herself breathe in and breathe out, her lungs filling with the sweet smell of safety and of love.

*

    Weddings weren’t as ceremonial to Elves as they were to Men. Yes, the ceremony was still a beautiful thing and the respective families attended as best they could manage, but it didn’t take nearly as long to plan.

    As soon as (Y/N)’s parents arrived, they were ready to go.

    (Y/N) donned her best fabrics, just as Elrond did, and met her father, who would escort her to her soon-to-be husband.

    Because Elrond was lord of his people, there were many, many Elves in attendance, which made (Y/N) nervous. However, from the moment she spotted her beloved Elrond, the crowd melted away and a smile came across her face.

    He was speaking quietly with her mother, who held the strips of fabric that would symbolically bind them to each other. But he looked up and saw her, his entire demeanor seeming to shift. He was lighter, all of a sudden, and his eyes shined. Her heart ached to stand with him, to hold his hands and tell him she loved him.

    Soon enough, she was standing with him, her father standing dutifully beside his wife.

    Her mother smiled softly at both of them, but (Y/N) couldn’t draw her eyes away from her partner. Elrond was the same, the twinkle in his eyes saying what he couldn’t.

    “Elrond Peredhel, (Y/N) of Lorien, today the Valar will witness a binding of your fëar,” her mother said. 

She lifted the white fabric and motioned for them to hold out their hands. When they did so, (Y/N) grasping Elrond’s with a breath of relief, she wrapped it around both of them, binding them together.

“And with this, the two of you are bound, forever promised, on these shores and beyond. May you live and love without fear, without darkness.”

As one, (Y/N) and Elrond spoke; “On these shores and beyond.”

And when he kissed her-- fiercely, recklessly-- she’d never felt more at home.

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme

Masterlist

[erinxneil]

3. Please hold my hand.

I didn’t forget about prompt #2! I just had an idea for #3 and I’m doing these prompts in whichever order I feel like. If you have any requests for the next prompt, as you want to see it sooner than later, simply message me! The prompt list is here and I am more than willing to write it! :)

this is going to be a long one, so I hope you enjoy, I spent a long time on it <3

masterlist

Pairing: Spencer Reid X Reader

TW: Graphic depictions of crime

Summary: Spencer gives up hope for himself way too easily.

>>>These will all probably be Spencer Reid X Reader unless someone requests something different :) Also, this one I will leave up for interpretation- if you want to view it as romantic, it can be, or if you want to view this as platonic, it can be!

“So, we know that our unsub tends to kill quickly. He uses a long dagger, and slits the victims throats from just below the jaw and drags it all around. The victims die almost instantly.” Hotch spoke.

“Well, then I guess we can rule out sexual sadist. There’s no sexual component to the crimes, and the kill is quick.” I replied, examining the photos on the board in front of us.

“Yes, but also the autopsy report from the past three victims shows that they were missing for eight hours before they were killed, so we don’t know what he’s doing to them during that time.” Spencer rebuked my claim. Of course, the genius has something to say.

“While that may be true, there are no obvious wounds on the victim other than the slit throat. While one of the three victims also had a stab wound in her side, this was likely just to slow down the victim, as there was skin beneath her fingernails. She probably tried to escape. But none of the other victims have any other wounds, so while he held them for 8 hours, he didn’t touch them.”

Spencer chuckled. “Yes, Y/N, but I think we can both agree you don’t need to physically touch someone in order to torture them.” I nodded. That’s very true.

Morgan coughed. “Well, now that we’ve discussed the possibility that our suspect is a sexual sadist and have been unable to agree on a concise point..” He trailed off. “What’s next? Why does he target females in their forties?”

Emily glanced up. “He probably had some sort of rejection from a female in his life, who fit the description that his victims have in common. Tall, white, brunette. Maybe a girl he liked, or his girlfriend, or even his mother. Either way, some sort of traumatic life event caused him to strike out like this.”

Hotch intervened. “We can discuss this more on the jet. Grab your go-bags, wheels up in 30. We’ve been asked to come to California, where these crimes are occurring.” He left the room without another word.

“Well, this should be an interesting case.”

-*-*-*-*-*-

I took my usual seat on the jet between Prentiss and Reid. Morgan sat across from me with Hotch and Rossi on either side of him, and JJ generally sat to the side alone, since she liked to catch up on her sleep the moment we were able to.

After debriefing for a while, the team had come to the conclusion that the killer was likely a male between the ages 20 to 30 who had felt rejected by his mother at a young age. She likely kicked him out of the house, where he found solace in some hobby that would hopefully be identifiable at the scene. Due to the precision of the cuts, the unsub likely has knowledge in the medical field, and may even work in a hospital. This would be the first place we would check when we landed.

“Good work, team. Try to get some rest in before we land.” Hotch stood and moved to the front of the jet, where he probably wouldn’t take his own advice.

I squirmed in my seat, trying to get into a comfortable position. Everyone around me had already fallen asleep. Or so I thought.

“Having trouble, Y/L/N?” I sheepishly glanced up at the voice, coming from none other than Spencer Reid.

I sighed. “I can’t get comfortable. I’m exhausted and got no sleep last night, yet I can’t seem to fall asleep.” Spencer offered me a small smile and patted on his shoulder, nodding down at it.

I blinked. “Are you sure? I really don’t want to be a both-” “I really don’t mind, Y/N.” I smiled in thanks and rested my head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Reid.” I murmured, already sleepy. He was so warm.. and smelled like strong cologne.

I fell asleep quicker than I’d like to admit.

-*-*-*-*-*-

“This is gold.”

I woke to the sound of giggling and photo shutters. Still dreary, I groaned quietly and attempted to burrow myself deeper into my pillow.

However the pillow felt a lot more solid than usual.

I slowly opened one eye to see Emily, JJ, and Morgan peering over me. Morgan held his phone, taking countless photos, while Emily chuckled quietly and JJ rolled her eyes in amusement.

“What’s going on? Did we land?” I rubbed my eyes tiredly before looking beside me and realizing I was practically straddling Reid. I jumped in surprise, scrambling off of him, which caused him to wake and the others to laugh. 

“Morning sleepyhead, sleep well?” Morgan teased.

“Actually, I did. Did we land?” His groggy voice took me by surprise. I felt my cheeks tinge, knowing the rest of the team had caught me basically cuddling into him as we slept. Screw Reid’s chest for being so comfortable! I usually sleep with a body-sized pillow, and in my sleep, I must have mistaken Spencer for it.

“Yes, lovebirds, we landed.” Emily laughed at us, walking off the jet, JJ following shortly behind.

Reid shot me a look of confusion. “Lovebirds?” He looked to the side, trying to recall his memory, before his eyebrows likely shot up in realization. “Right, uh, well... I’m just going to go meet the others.”

Spencer walked away, scratching behind his neck in embarrassment. Morgan sent me an amused look. “Got anything you wanna admit, Y/N?” He shoved his phone in my face, showing me the photo of me sprawled across Spencer. I had one leg stretched across him, my head on his shoulder, and a hand on his chest. Meanwhile, Reid was resting his own head on mine, while his free hand was wrapped around my waist. If I had seen this photo of anyone else, I would have immediately assumed that they were a couple. Even looking at the photo, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t adorable. But this was Spencer and I. That would never happen.

I rolled my eyes. “So childish. There’s nothing going on between us.” I shoved him playfully before joining the rest of the team outside the plane.

Hotch stared down Morgan and I as we left the jet. “Alright, is everyone all set? No more groping before we leave?” His face was deadpan however there was a hint of humor to his eyes. My jaw dropped, trying to hide a smile. JJ, Emily, and Morgan burst out laughing, while Reid covered his face with his hands to cover his red face. We walked toward the car that was waiting for us, Morgan highfiving Hotch as he passed him.

“Not cool, Hotch..” Reid grumbled.

-*-*-*-*-*-

When we arrived at the crime scene, all traces of humor were lost. The jokes had been forgotten, as we strode up to the police tape and began analyzing the scene.

Hotch turned toward us. “Alright. Y/N, Emily, Reid, and I will analyze the scene, while Morgan, Rossi, and JJ will go to speak with hospitals around the area. Anything you can find will help.” We all nodded and set off to begin our tasks.

Emily looked at the photos as she examined the scene, to ensure that nothing had been moved. Emily, Reid, and I headed toward the bedroom, where the crime had been committed. I fell behind slightly, pulling Spencer back with me to talk as we walked.

“Hey, about earlier, I’m sorry. I guess I get kinda handsy when I sleep.” I chuckled. Spencer grinned. “It’s fine, Y/N, in case you hadn’t noticed, you weren’t exactly alone.” We laughed and nodded. There were no hard feelings, and we both were content. It was time to focus entirely on the case.

“Hey, I found something!”

Reid and I quickly moved into the room. Emily was on the floor, below the victim’s desk.

“...Um, Em? What are you doing?” I stepped closer to her, raising an eyebrow in confusion. Emily took a photo with her phone, before crawling out and showing us the picture. Beneath the desk, there were strips of paper, seemingly cut out of a book, glued to the underside. We read the quotes, trying to decipher them.

The first quote read. “Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to feed us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.“ “This is from Hamlet.” Emily and I gazed at Reid expectantly. “This quote is known to reference the morbid obsession with death that Hamlet holds. These quotes weren’t chosen randomly. I’d assume that not only has our unsub read Hamlet several times, he’s also analyzed every line in order to fully comprehend what each segment means. He’s basically saying that death is inevitable, as we all will succumb to it eventually. Our unsub is confident, and is flaunting the control he has in causing the deaths of his victims.”

“That explains the single slice to kill them.” Emily comments. I nodded. “True. The unsub seems to have some sort of obsession with control, as if he prides himself in it.”

We moved on to the next quote, that read, “You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe in an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving.” Emily and I looked over at Spencer. He paused for a moment before nodding. “When Breath Becomes Air. Dr. Paul Kalanithi wrote this. It’s the autobiography of a neurosurgeon.”

I furrowed my eyebrows. “He reads books related to medicine, as well? He must be very dedicated to his job.” Spencer skimmed through the rest of the quotes. “Or self-taught...” He trailed off. “The rest of these quotes are also from medical books. Either we were scarily on point with out assumption of his job, due to how much he studies them in his spare time.. or the profile is wrong. He may not even be a doctor at all.”

We all looked at each other.

“The only other quote that doesn’t belong to some sort of book about medicine is the quote “It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden.” Lamb to the Slaughter. “All of these quotes are somehow related to him and to murder. He wanted us to find these.”  Spencer announced.

Emily sighed. “Isn’t this a bit too much effort for a serial killer focused on revenge?” “Not if he was psychotic already. Perhaps that’s the reasoning behind his mother kicking him out when he was younger? He might have shown some sort of signs of psychopathy and due to the differing times, there was more of a stigma around mental issues. She likely made him feel as if he was alone.”

I paused, looking at Emily’s phone when something caught my eye. They both glanced at me. “Y/N?”

Grabbing a tissue, I crawled on the ground and looked around, spotting what I had seen in the photo. I picked it up with the tissue, and showing it to Reid and Prentiss. Peeking slightly from beneath the desk, as if it had slipped from the unsubs grasp, was a small slip of paper, tallied with 18 marks. The pen color changed throughout the paper.

They furrowed their brows and looked up at me. I sighed.

“There’s more victims than we are aware of.”

-*-*-*-*-*-

After informing Hotch what information we gathered from the victims bedroom, he called JJ, expecting that they wouldn’t have found anymore information.

However, surprisingly, they had.

Within the past 8 months, there had been atleast ten victims who came in with similar wounds as our victims, however the cuts weren’t as clean. There were mistakes, such as jagged marks, or the slice wasn’t deep enough, or there were several slices around the body rather than one slit in the throat. They had never tied the murders to our current investigation because of the differences in attacks.

“He was practicing...” Reid realized. “Y/N was right. There’s more victims than we initially realized.”

Hotch dialed Garcia.

 “Your brilliant and beautiful is speaking, how may I be of assistance?” “Garcia, I need you to look for any cases of stabbings in the past 12 months in our area, primarily attacks that are focused near the throat.”

“Your wish is my command, my gorgeous friend.” The sound of typing ensued. “Alright, in the past 12 months, the furthest attack was 9 months ago, and there are 26 documented attacks, 22 of which are focused around the neck.” Hotch spoke, “Alright, now can you narrow that list down to brunette females between the ages of 35 and 45, above the height of 5′6″.” “13 results.” The team shared a look and nodded. 

“That sounds about right, as we can’t assume that all of his attacks went reported. Before he became serial, he probably began covering his tracks.”

I thought for a moment. “If our unsub is attacking victims that resemble his mother, wouldn’t it be likely if his mother was one of his victims?”

Reid glanced at me and nodded in agreement. “It’s common that serial killers who kill for revenge often kill people who resemble their actual target, however over time the high dies down as they know they aren’t killing who they actually wanted to kill. Our killer probably killed a few victims before killing his mother herself. After killing so many people, he’d gotten a taste for it and became unable to stop.”

Hotch spoke again to Garcia. “Garcia, can you look for how many of those victims have children in their 20s or 30s?” “Of course I can... There are 4.”

-*-*-*-*-*-

Hotch gathered the information from Garcia regarding where their families lived, and we decided that we would split up and speak with them in the morning. In the meantime, we would spend the night in a hotel. We all got separate rooms, and we were told to rest well, as tommorow would take a lot of strength.

I got to my room and took a shower, taking my time and enjoying the feeling of the burning water on my back. Today had been a long day, but the trip over was the best I slept in ages, so I couldn’t really complain.

After showering and getting into pajamas, I slid under my covers, although unsurprisingly, I was unable to sleep. I settled for scrolling on my phone in bed, hoping that sleep would eventually take over me. While looking at Rossi’s Instagram photos from a party he went to last weekend, I heard faint shouting from down the hall. I checked the time to see it was nearly 1 in the morning.

Confused and worried, I grabbed my robe, and my gun, and walked over to the door. I opened it, to find none other than Spencer Reid, fist hovering over the door as if about to knock.

He jumped back in surprise at my appearance at the door. “Uh!- Y/N! You’re awake!” I raised an eyebrow at him and took in his appearance. He wore a friendly smile, however the creases in his brow and the bags under his eyes were impossible to not notice.

“Spencer? What are you doing here?” He looked down at the ground. “I uh.. I couldn’t sleep.” I tilted my head to the side in confusion and he continued. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come over, it’s just that I know you’re always up late and you have trouble sleeping yourself sometimes and I-” I cut him off. “Spencer, did you want to come in?” He smiled softly and walked in as I stepped aside.

“Thanks. Sorry again.” “There’s no need to apologize, Spencer. Are you okay?” He grinned tightly. “Of course. I’m just exhausted, yet can’t sleep and I didn’t really want to be alone. I can just crash on the couch.” 

I scoffed. “Spencer, don’t be ridiculous. You can take the bed.” He shook his head. “No, Y/N, it’s yours, I can’t ask you to sleep on the couch in your own room.” I thought for a moment. “Would you be okay if we slept in the bed together? Obviously nothing would happen, but we both can’t sleep and I think we’ve realized that we sleep better near eachother.” 

Spencer’s cheeks tinged at the mention of this morning. “Y-Yeah, that’s okay with me.” I smiled and sat beside him in the bed.

He looked over at me, tilting his head in surprise. “Y/N, do you sleep with your makeup on?”

I laughed softly. “What are you talking about, Reid?” He ran a hand through his hair, unsure how to proceed. A smile spread across my face as I realized what he was implying. “Spencer, I’m not wearing makeup.”

Reid’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh!- Uh, sorry then. I just... thought you were.” I grinned before sliding down, staring at the ceiling above us.

“Spencer, how long have you had night terrors?”

He froze for a moment, before shifting uncomfortably. “What happened to not profiling our coworkers?” I turned to face him. “If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine. I’m just worried about you.” He sighed before turning to face me as well. 

“I’ve always had them, they just got a lot worse once joining the BAU. And it seems like the more cases we do, the worse they get.” I nodded. “Have you ever seen someone about it?” “Once, but I had to stop because I criticized their techniques since I knew more about what they were doing than they did.” 

Laughter bubbled in my throat. “Only you, Spence.” We laughed together for a bit before a comfortable silence settled between us. 

“Y/N?” “Yeah?” “Thank you.”

I smiled. “Of course, Spencer.” He hugged me, and we remained in the position, and I fell asleep to the scent of pine and cinnamon.

-*-*-*-*-*-

“Alright, the groups will be as follows- Emily and Y/N, Morgan and Reid, JJ and Rossi, and I will go alone. We will split up to interview these families. Keep in mind that they’ve just lost a loved one. If anyone happens to find anything, inform us and we will meet up. Do not engage with the unsub if you happen to find any information. Your reasoning will fall upon deaf ears. Understood?”

We nodded, and set off. I sipped my coffee, reminding me of the events of this morning. When I woke up, Spencer was gone. I assumed that he left so that things weren’t awkward again in the morning, until he returned. He had brought all of us coffee, and thanked me again for last night. I grinned at the coffee he gave me, as he remembered that I take it black. Beside the fact that he has an eidetic memory which helps him remember these things, it was still a sweet gesture.

After about an hour or so of speaking with the family, we realized there was no way that this was our unsub’s family. Their dynamic was too loving and there was no resentment that could be seen between any of the children. All of the children were also present, and none of them gave any noticeable reaction or indication that they were guilty when we discussed the murders.

As Emily and I headed back to the car, we received a call from Morgan. “Hey, girls. I think we’ve found our guy. The dude had one sibling who explained that his brother always had a tense relationship with his mother. His name is Chase Matthews. Garcia’s currently trying to locate him right now. His brother said he would be at work at this time, but he isn’t sure where he works because he isn’t necessarily involved in his life. Chase was also kicked out of their house when he was younger because his anger tended to scare their mother. If we can find where he works, then we can find him. “

I thought for a moment before a realization crossed my mind. “A butcher-shop.”

Emily looked at me. “What makes you say that?” “He’s done extensive research on the quickest way to kill someone, and has been using test subjects until he perfected his technique. If he isn’t a doctor himself, a butcher is the perfect job for practicing slaughter. He even tried to tell us with the quote from Lamb to the Slaughter.”

Morgan responded, “Good work, gorgeous. I’ll tell Garcia to look for butcher-shops in the area and I’ll text you and the others the address.”

When he hung up, I received a text moments later.

Only butcher shop in the town. Gotta be here.

We left to the address and arrived only moments after Reid and Morgan, as we were closest to the location. We met up with them, to see Morgan on the phone. 

“Are you serious? Ugh. Thanks Garcia.” He hung up before turning to us. “Garcia says that for this shop, Matthews’ shift ends in five minutes. We can’t risk him coming outside and seeing the cop cars when they arrive along with all of the agents standing outside of the building. We can’t wait for the others. We have to move now or we’ll lose him.”

Spencer interrupted, “But didn’t Hotch say-” “I know what Hotch said. But this is our only shot.” 

We nodded before heading inside. Emily showed her badge to the worker at the front. “We’re with the FBI. We’re looking for a Chase Matthews.”

Immediately, clashing sounded from the back, and a door slammed. We all rushed toward the noise and followed him out the door. 

“Chase Matthews!” Morgan screamed. “Stop right there!”

And stop he did. Behind the butcher-shop was a town park. Chase grabbed hold of a woman walking the path and held her against him, butcher-knife against her throat.

“Another step forward and she’s dead.”

We all stopped in our tracks, guns aimed toward him.

“Everyone get out of here!” Emily yelled out to the others in the park. They quickly abided, leaving the park in a panic.

“Don’t come any closer. I can kill her quicker than you can shoot me.” We froze because we knew he was right. He could kill her in just a matter of moments. Regardless, Spencer stepped foward.

“Reid what are you-” “I’ve got this.”

We watched in anticipation, worry across our features.

“Look, Chase, I know how you’re feeling.” The unsub scoffed. “No, I’m being serious. I know how it feels to feel betrayed. I understand how it feels to be rejected. Unwanted.” My heart sunk at his words.

He continued, slowly walking foward.”It doesn’t have to be like this. I know that you felt that killing your mother and anyone who reminded you of her was your only choice. But look at this girl. She looks nothing like your mother. This isn’t neccesary, and you know that. I don’t think that you want to hurt her.” Chase glanced down at the terrified woman and seemed to be considering his words.

“Just let the girl go, and we can talk about this.” Cautiously, the unsub let the girl go. Emily quickly pulled her away from the man and comforted her.

“Thank you. Now please, there’s no need for weapons. Discard your knife.”

Chase glared at Reid. “I’m not an idiot. All of you have guns.”

Spencer paused for a moment before placing his gun on the ground before him, and gesturing for us to do the same.

Morgan scoffed. “Reid, don’t be stupid.”

Spencer glanced at us. “Please. I know what I’m doing.”

“This is a bad idea, Spencer.” I scolded.

“Just trust me.” I frowned and placed my gun on the ground beside me, Emily following suit and Morgan, several glares later, also did.

“Thank you. Now please, give me the knife.

The unsub seemed hesitant but nodded, and held out his hand. Spencer slowly took steps forward. As I watched what was about to happen, the faint hint of a smile on Chase’s face mixed with the knife’s placement on his hand lead me to understand what was about to happen.

“Spencer, wait!-” But it was too late.

We watched in horror as the unsub gripped the knife in his hand before stabbing Reid just below the ribcage. He fell to the ground, blood pooling out from him, as the unsub sprinted in the opposite direction.

“Reid!” I screamed and rushed toward him. Morgan and Emily grabbed their guns and ran to him aswell. “Go, chase after him, I’ll stay with Spencer. What he needs from you right now is to catch him.” Morgan was terrified, but his anger took over and he sprinted after the man faster than I’d ever seen him run before. Emily followed shortly after.

I quickly dialed 911, and then took off my shirt and placed it over his wound, applying pressure in an attempt to stop the blood-flow. “Reid, you’re an idiot, but you’re going to be okay. Hold my hand.” I reached out the hand that wasn’t pressed against his abdomen for him to hold. 

He closed his eyes. “Don’t waste your time, Y/L/N. The man knows his anatomy. He’s probably pierced some sort of vital organ. If the bleeding out doesn’t kill me, that will.”

I shook my head, tears glistening in my eyes. “Shut up, Spencer, for once you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re going to be just fine. Just hold my hand.”

When Spencer mentioned that someone can be tortured without anyone physically touching them, this is exactly what that feels like.

Reid coughed. “Lets just face the reality, Y/N. It’s not going to happen.”

I shushed him, voice becoming higher with fear. “Reid, stop talking. Save your energy. You are going to be fine. Just, please, for the love of god, please hold my hand.”

Whether it be out of his own fear or pity for me, knowing it would make me feel better, Spencer finally let his hand fall in mine. I kept strong pressure, tears falling down my cheeks, until the paramedics arrived.

-*-*-*-*-*-

“You’re an idiot. If you weren’t in a hospital bed I’d be slapping you right now.”

Reid laughed weakly. “Jeez, it’s great to see you too, Y/N.”

Morgan rushed into the room at the sound of Spencer’s voice. “I can’t believe you! Do you understand how worried you made me? I didn’t think you were going to wake up!” The anger in Derek’s words were clear and Spencer cringed, knowing he had messed up. His expression softened. Morgan sighed. “I’m just glad you’re okay, kid. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

The team all rushed in and comforted Reid until the doctors came in and told us we all needed to clear out the room. Spencer played dead for a moment, which the doctor found humorous and allowed for one visitor in the room. After much deliberation, I was allowed to stay.

The team left and I was alone with Spencer and the doctors. I grabbed his hand and squeezed softly.

Reid chuckled, recalling the moments after he was stabbed. “You really just wanna hold my hand, huh, Y/L/N?”

I gasped and feigned offense, laughing with him. “I mean, come on, was it really that hard to just hold my frickin’ hand?”

The laughter died down and I sighed, taking in his appearance. “I feel like this is my fault.”

“Y/N, please. It’s nobody’s fault but myself. I’m the one who made you guys drop your weapons. I didn’t listen to Hotch saying we wouldn’t be able to reason with the unsub, and I paid for it.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, that was pretty stupid.”

Spencer turned his head to face me. “The doctors tell me you saved my life. The knife had just missed a vital organ, so I was wrong again, it really would have been the blood loss that killed me.”

“Wow, it must be my lucky day, proving Dr. Spencer Reid wrong twice in one day.” I laughed to which he smiled softly. “I’m serious, Y/N. Thank you.”

I smiled back at him. “Anything for you, Spence.”

-*-*-*-*-*-

God this took me so long to write. I hope you all enjoyed and as always if there’s a prompt you’d like me to do next let me know!

P.S. Out of curiosity I put this into a machine to count the words and there’s almost 5000 words in this. Just putting that out there ;p

[easily-infatuated23]

I Hate That I Like You (Draco x Male!Reader)

Request: “Hello! I’m glad that you can do my request. I would love if you could write Draco x Male Slytherin. The reader is a tall brunette who’s kind of like rivals with Draco (but has the hugest crush on Draco) using prompt 13″- @daleanjustwantstohavefun​

a/n: this is my first reader as male and i really hope you like it! and if there are things i could have done better please let me know. i had fun so if someone wants to request an x male i will do it! also- as someone who is not fully gay i didn’t feel right trying to write what someone goes through when discovering or accepting that they are gay so i decided to just make the reader queer because i have a real understanding of that. 

pairing: Draco Malfoy x Male!Reader (Slytherin)

word count: 1k

warnings: none

summary: Reader and Draco have always been rivals, but things change once feelings (and a push from Pansy) get involved

October Prompt #13: “I never thought I’d say this but, under the circumstances, I’d have to agree with you”

It was common knowledge that the Slytherin prince Draco Malfoy hated Harry Potter more than anyone at Hogwarts, but there was someone else who Draco had a rivalry with that nearly beat Potter. Y/F/N Y/L/N was the other top dog of Slytherin house. He and Draco were neck and neck when getting top grades and being the best at well…anything. The two boys were constantly trying to one up each other. When Draco got on the Quidditch team second year, Y/N was captain by fourth year. If Y/N got top marks in Potions, Draco made sure to get top marks in Charms and Transfiguration. This pattern was a constant in the two boys lives. It also didn’t help that their families had been adversaries. Even though each family were long time Slytherins, something had happened generations ago that at this point no one could remember. But, the tension had stuck.

While their relationship had started out as a true rivalry, recently Y/N was starting to feel differently about him. The intensity with which Draco tried to one up him was now becoming more attractive than frustrating. Y/N had known for a while that he wasn’t fully straight. He liked girls, he liked boys, he liked anyone who made him feel alive, regardless of gender. When he realized he was crushing on Draco, he was shocked that someone he had borderline hated for so long was giving him butterflies. But he supposed feelings strong enough to make him feel alive could be positive or negative initially. Now planning ways to one up the platinum blonde was much more fun. Seeing Draco get all hot and bothered when Y/N did something better than him was exhilarating. When Draco would try to provoke Y/N, he would just be as calm and smug as possible. It made Draco furious. His face would turn bright red as he huffed away. Although Y/N tried to keep his feelings to himself, best friends can see through any mask.

Y/N was sitting in the common room with his best friends Blaise and Pansy one night when Blaise finally asked him about the slight changes in his behavior. “Y/N, are you ok? You’ve been acting kinda different recently”. Y/N tried to act nonchalantly. “Yeah I’m perfectly fine. Why?” “It’s just, every time Malfoy is around you get a bit…weird.” Pansy nodded in agreement and looked at Y/N. “Yeah the tension between you guys has totally shifted. Like it’s almost sexual tension” she said. Although he had never officially come out to his friends, he didn’t try to hide the way he felt about boys. It was never really a big deal whether or not someone was queer at Hogwarts. Y/N sighed and leaned closer to the two. “I never thought I’d say this but, under the circumstances, I’d have to agree with you”. “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on Draco don’t you!” Pansy said excitedly . Y/N shushed her and checked the room to see if Draco was lurking. Luckily, he wasn’t. Y/N ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair and then spoke again. “Recently I’ve started to develop feelings for him which feels so weird but also kinda makes sense”. “I can see you guys together once, you know, you ease up on this rivalry thing” Blaise added. Y/N laughed and shook his head. “No way, it is so much fun to mess with him like that!” The three laughed. “You know now that I think about it, if anyone else acted the way you do towards Draco, he would hex them into the next century. He lets you do it! Maybe he likes you too” she pointed out. “She does have a point” Blaise replied. Y/N thought for a minute. Could Draco really have feelings for him to? It was a possibility. “Maybe I’ll ask him. I don’t know, I have trouble reading Draco sometimes.” Y/N said.

“Talking about me again are we Y/L/N?” Draco said, as he strode into the common room. “Only always your highness” Y/N said teasingly as he stood up from his chair and dipped into a low bow. “Oh shut up” Draco said, pushing him over. “It’s actually good you’re here Malfoy, Y/N has a question for you” Pansy said. She looked over at him and smiled giving a small thumbs up. Y/N rolled his eyes slightly and reclined back into his chair. He decided that if Pansy was going to force him to do this now, he was going to act as cooly and smugly as possible, just incase it all back fired. “Have you ever considered that the reason you are such a prat to me sometimes is because deep down you have feelings for me?”. Draco froze. “W-What are you talking about?” “It’s okay Draco I understand. I’m hot what can I say. Don’t worry you are attractive too.” Pansy and Blaise were on the edge of their seats. They may or may not have made a bet last year that the two boys would end up together and Pansy wanted her five galleons. “I- I uhh I…” Draco stammered. “Look at that, finally speechless! I guess this means I win.” Y/N said, standing up from his chair so he was now eye to eye with Draco. He put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Take all the time you need to think about that, I’ll be here” Y/N said. He turned and began to walk away but Draco said something that made him stop. “So what if I do have feelings for you. What are you going to do about it?” Pansy and Blaise gasped and held hands. This was better than studying any day. Y/N chuckled slightly and turned back around. “Say something like that again and I may have to come over there and shut you up” he replied. Draco raised his eyebrow. Then Draco said the only two words that unmistakably mean kiss me. “Make me.” Y/N smiled and walked back across the room to where Draco was standing. In one swift motion, he cupped Draco’s face and kissed him. “Yes!” Pansy said, turning to Blaise. “Pay up I win”. Blaise rolled his eyes and fished the money out of his pocket, placing it in her hand. Y/N and Draco looked at the two and laughed before kissing again.

[honestsycrets]

65 Shillings | [King Alfred x Slave!Reader]

❛ pairing | alfred x slave!reader

❛ type | very soft oneshot

❛ summary | queen Judith has a slave to watch over alfred when she can’t-- and things happen.

❛  warnings | slavery, referenced prostitution (as concept), referenced sexual assault (as concept), alfred’s sickness, gentle love story, light jealousy, Bjorn being bjorn.

❛ sy’s notes | this is a very slow and soft story. i’m sorry if there’s some discrepancies also, i started using ‘her’ and switched to ‘you’.

His sickness happens again. 

Alfred spreads his bleary eyes open, past the water that runs by a cool damp towel. He hears you wipe his pale skin clean and turns over. The room is silent all but for the occasional clink of his guards outside the heavy wooden door. His eyelids feel like gates of steel as they pull apart. He pulls himself up to sit all at once and all at once his world spins. 

“Wait-- m’king,” ah, so there it is. The slave girl who mother purchased. Alfred tilts his head toward you, falling more than tilting really. You secure his head against your breast. “You’re not well.” 

You smell clean. Not of flowers or of dirt. He notes that it’s mother’s preference to have a clean slave to promote his own healing. He smells the distant scent of blessed holy oil when your fingers shakily cover over his head. “I should…” you speak small. So small and soft and warm. Alfred closes his eyes. “Not yet.” 

“O-oh,” you say softly. His heavy hand supports his weight on your waist, equally small under his hands. His body sags in the comfort, barely managing his words. “Get into my bed.” 

“I-- I’ve never been leant out.” No doubt your mind fell like a fallen angel because he feels you quiver in what he deems is fear. A slave woman cost a man 30 shillings if prostituted out. Although Alfred had no such interests. 

“It’s none of that,” he clarifies. “I’ve the mind to think this position is uncomfortable for you.” 

You nod, removing your shoes and dare you say, climb into the bed with the king. You reach for the damp cloth when you suddenly realize that the king is shivering. Your hand settles on top of his head. “I have a salve that can--” 

“It’s nothing.” 

Your hands palm the lavish sheets. Perhaps you feel wrong to be here, in a king’s bed, without serving him his pleasure or caring for him in other manners. Alfred rests his head upon downy pillows, an even but rough breathing causing his chest to rise and fall. 

“What is your name?” he asks. 

You give him your name. It rolls off his tongue and past hazy eyes, he’s somewhat aware of the damp cloth over his forehead. The cool water dribbles over his forehead, relieving the fire that settled over his damp skin. 

Usually, he would never have been so brazen. But today he seeks the warmth and comfort from someone other than his doting mother. He dares to reach out, clutching your shoulder and brings you flush against his side. His chest flutters when your hand comes upon his chest: small and secure. He doesn’t correct you that night.

Alfred feels manageable a few days after; he manages to dress with his new slave’s aid, dragging a belt across his luscious dark red tunic. He draws up his drawers and seals them shut, saving your beautiful cheeks from lighting on hot fire. You kneel before him to lace up his shoes. The door whirls open, clacking boots draw his attention up. Standing there he finds Bjorn. His ocean blue eyes look uncharacteristically subdued, only brightening up when you stand up, sparing you a long look over. 

Longer than it needs to be. Alfred feels the pressing need to clarify something as it eats upon his mind for longer than it should. Your level of discomfort is palpable. Your head lowers, fingers running over the wonderfully long strands of hair down your breast. “She is not for sale.” 

Bjorn’s lips spread out into a forced smile. “Are you ready?” 

He has a mind to think that was not what he had in mind in the first place. Alfred familiarizes himself with the common people of his plaza as well as the Vikings. Judith is at his side as the Vikings pick and tease, going as far as to throw jeers after you. He knows as much based upon two such men trailing behind Bjorn, Ubbe, Torvi, Judith, and yourself. Of them all, Ubbe is the one to call out after them. 

“Protect your skirt,” Judith tells you. “Or these men will take it from you.” 

Clearly, Ubbe would not always be there to protect you. Nor Alfred, whose eyes last upon you as you rush to keep up, effectively brushing the king’s sleeve. You acknowledge his mother with a nod and keep quiet. Alfred reaches over, squeezing your bare-knuckled hand with his, crusted in rings of a king. 

“I will do something of it.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he’s almost sure that was a smile that squirmed its way up to your lips. He releases your hand just as quickly as he took it. Judith fails to realize what her son is meant until the week passes.

“The attention you give her is unwarranted.” 

At the beginning of the next week, Judith has her concerns on the back of what Alfred has ordered of the witan. Aethelred sits on one side of him, his mother on the other. Aethelred reaches for his goblet as he speaks.

“And now kings are not allowed concubines?”  

“If anyone rapes the slave of a commoner, he shall pay five shillings to the commoner, and a fine of sixty shillings. The slave is not recompensed, only the owner.” His mother recites it as if it had been pressing her mind for such a time, that it ate her inside. “Is that not the law you’ve instated for her?” 

His cheeks flare. Alfred reaches for his drink uncomfortably. He takes a drink. “I like her. What does our relationship harm?” 

“If like turns to love. Alfred,” she reaches out. “Do not be misled by a slave.”  

“I am not,” he reasons it off, despite knowing that you stand in the background. “The laws I’ve instated ensure the safety of all of our women.” 

She’s suspicious of his intentions. He should have known she would be. Judith swirls her cup and drinks of it, washing down her dinner. “Then you’ll be glad to know I’ve arranged it.” 

Alfred nods-- and sees your crestfallen smile.

You imagine his wife is beautiful. 

She probably is born in fair skin and deep hair as deep as the night sky. It likely touches her knees in its beauty. After all-- she is a princess. And he is a king. It’s a fair agreement. It’s that thought that he knows you carry when you slip behind the dividing wall to undress into your plain white nightgown. 

Except this time, his hands curl around your shoulders as you pull it on, realizing that the king had been watching all along. It is his right to; as king, as your owner. “You’re upset,” he says pointedly. 

“I’m fine,” you whisper, tugging the dress down lower. “It is nothing, I am tired.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” he says sharply, remembering his tone. “Please… not to me. What do you need?” 

You loosen your hair, letting it down from its bound state, and turn to face him. This is his favourite time. A time when his mother, his brother, his state all melted away. He could have no other worries than the woman before him. Your eyes soften. You want to tell him, he knows, but he only feels you turn away. Whatever it was-- you wouldn’t tell him. 

His temper flares then. He lurches out for your elbow, tugging you back to face him. Despite the growth of splotchy bruising on your arm, he holds you in place with cool emotion. “What is it?” he tempers out his hiss to an even tone. “What have I not done for you?” 

“I am on borrowed time.” 

“What do you mean?” Alfred asks. 

“When you marry, I will be sent away.” 

“You would never--” he begins to reason with something he knows he could not hold true. A wife would do as a wife wanted to do. If that meant sending you away, what sort of fool would he be not to? “I will work and then I will be forced to serve men on Ember weeks to earn something for myself.” 

“You are not a prostitute,” Alfred says, clopping his other foot behind him for emphasis. He leans forward, yet still holding your arms, bowing his head. “I have done all that I can to assure that.” 

“I know. I know you have. It-- I… it’s just it’s inevitable.” 

Inevitable things were practical things such as the sun rising and falling. Church on Sundays. The need to see the Witan. Not this-- not the possibility of being raped by men or serving like a harlot. Alfred stands upright and draws you in, and this time it’s you that shivers in his arms. 

He doesn’t have time for this new woman. 

Mother brings her anyway, his cousin-- one who would be his newfound wife. You’ve become still and quiet, as if the distance of a door had slammed between you and him. It burns him to know this was the reason of such things. But, you should have known it was inevitable. He always did. 

“Princess Aelswith.” His lips moved over her knuckles. You mutter something that he half-listens to. His disinterest was palpable. It doesn’t escape him that you look away, even as he sweeps away in a heavy sweep of cloth. 

She sleeps with Bjorn. He’s not so unattached to the Vikings that he doesn’t know this. His intended princess has lain with him but he doesn’t care much for that knowledge so much as he cares about what it could do for him. He could send her away. 

“Marriage?” 

Alfred stood in front of his desk with his arms drawn over his chest. Aelswith was not a woman he thought he could force into any sort of marriage. Much less to a 

Viking-- but she is torn between damningly enthralled by Bjorn and repulsed. Bjorn stands there like a great bear, unmoved by the push into this marriage, but enthralled as well. 

“I expect it isn’t an issue.” He leers, setting his hand to the desk. “I’ve heard you’ve helped yourself to my cousin as it is.” 

Bjorn’s expression curls. Surprise? Perhaps. Disgust? No. 

“We should join with one another in an alliance.” He pauses. “Like family.”

Bjorn doesn’t object.

He’s secured loose ends. Loyalty through Bjorn and Ubbe, who muses when he hears the news but isn’t surprised. Aelswith welcomes an opportunity to become something more than what she is expected to be and admits her failings to him. He doesn’t smear her looseness. Bjorn is worse. Nothing more could be expected of her-- or Gunnhild who follows Bjorn after his battle against King Harald’s forces. He’s heard a great deal of polygyny.

“Are you feeling well?” 

His mind has wandered off again. He holds the reins to the horse tight in his fist, glancing over only momentarily to you at his side. He’s had the luxury of riding in on a horse while you, for much of this time, have walked beside him through the entirety of this village. Undoubtedly you must be exhausted. And yet-- you ask him how he fairs? Alfred scoffs so lightly.

“I want to offer you freedom,” Alfred says, bringing a hand away from his chest, and offering out what he had in his hand. As he unfolds it he offers a lilac-blue flower, bouncy and strong. A crowd has gathered in the afternoon, where the sun has begun to set, and church will soon be held. You stare at the flower in his fingertips but do not take it until he urges you to do so. He dismounts. “And ask you to marry me tonight.” 

“...oh.” 

The crowd has gotten murky and loud. Over their whispers, you can hear what they’re saying. A slave? They say. You shirk from their whispers even as Alfred jerks his hands up, turning around to look at them as if appalled by their words. “Hush. If you don’t want to…” 

“I do!” you shout. “It is just… it is…” 

There’s a genuine fear in your eyes. Perhaps it’s too much all at once. Alfred reaches out, cradling your head against his chest. He grips your fingers in his hand, setting a kiss upon the knuckle, and carrying on with a soft smile. 

“Not today then,” Alfred says. “We have the time.” 

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24​, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071​ @daughterofthenight117​ @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @therealcalicali​ @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou​ @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever

[krsnbgirl]

Fly High! || Kageyama x Fem!Reader || Part 2

Summary: Still reeling over what had happened the week before, you look back at how your daily life at Karasuno immediately changed for the better. Nishinoya also comes to ask you for a favor that helps you grow closer to the weird quick duo after school. The boys also learn more about your past from middle school.

Pairing: Kageyama Tobio x Fem!Reader

Genre: Rom-Com, Slice of Life, Sports

Word Count: ~3.1k

Warnings: Slight swearing, smoking (for Ukai), Signs of Anxiety from Reader, Timeline heavily based on the anime

Author’s Note: And here is part two of the series! I hope you guys enjoy it! Thank you to anyone that has interacted with the first part :) Taglist is still open if any of you would like to be a part of it! Also crossed posted on AO3! xoxo, Ren  ❤

Taglist: @misnmatchedsox​

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Masterlist

It’s been a week since the boys caught you doing a serve in the gym and a distraught look could be seen on your face as you made your way to the rooftop during one of your breaks. The boys began to try and convince you to become their manager even more ever since that practice. Tanaka would always call you their manager, a hopeful glint in his eyes, in the midst of his jokes. Hinata would try to bug you whenever he bumped into you in the hallways with Kageyama being dragged behind him. Then there was also Yamaguchi who would just give you a smile while Tsukishima would give you snide remarks whenever they passed your desk to sit at the back of the classroom. You sighed as your daily life at school was becoming more filled with the different presences of the boy’s volleyball team. It was nice finally getting to see the boys that Nishinoya always talked about, but you heavily underestimated the chaotic energy they brought with them. Escaping to the rooftop had become more of a daily thing for you so you could take a moment to breathe. You rested your arms on top of the railing as your mind flashed back to the moments right after you served the ball.

The boys gaped at you as Hinata began his typical rambling after seeing something amazing with Nishinoya and Tanaka closely behind him with proud smiles. Sugawara, Daichi, and Asahi shared a look before smiling to themselves and giving a thumbs up to Shimizu. The second and third years were aware of your situation with volleyball because you used to frequently appear at their games when Nishinoya, Tanaka, Ennoshita, and the others were first years. The team had found out that you used to play volleyball when Nishinoya mentioned that he was going to attend one of your matches as his weekend plan. You were similar to Nishinoya on the court and a lot of people at Chidoriyama used to call you two  ‘The Yin and Yang Twins.’ Nishinoya was always the hyper one but quiet on the court meanwhile you were the more composed one but very hyper on the court. They were all there when you got injured and watched your downfall. All of them tried their best to be there for you, but the players knew how devastating it was to have one’s ACL tear. It’s one of the worst injuries to have and the hardest to come back from depending on the degree it got injured. Unfortunately for you, it was the degree that had to be taken with caution and the healing process was a lot longer. 

So once the boys gave up on finding Kageyama and Hinata on their jog, they decided to return and Nishinoya was the first to come back. He noticed right away the look in your eyes and looked to his side to find the rest of the team approaching. Motioning them to stay quiet, he pointed towards you and they all crowded by the entrance. As they watched you serve the ball, those that were by your side and respected your space felt a warm feeling spread across their chests. This could be your time to finally realize your worth once more. Before they knew it, they all surrounded you and complimented you on the serve.

You ruffled your hair in frustration as you looked over the school grounds to find Hinata and Sugawara practicing at the gym’s entryway. You noticed Kageyama walking towards the vending machine near them and pressing the buttons to get his drink. A chuckle escaped your lips as you watched a couple of students get scared of his presence. You shook your head in amusement and raised an eyebrow once you noticed a soft expression on his face as he enjoyed his drink. ‘So he does have a soft side to him…’ you thought to yourself as your eyes followed him.

“(Y/N)-chan~” 

“Oh, Yu-nii, did you need anything?” you asked as Nishinoya joined you by the railings and he shrugged. 

“I just wanted to check up on you after everything that’s happened.” he asked and looked at you from the corner of his eye. 

You gave him a scrutinizing look because he typically checks in on you like this if he needs something. He’d usually just try to tease you or joke around with you when he knows that something is troubling you or waits until you come to him. Besides, he already scolded you on your way home about being more careful with your knee since you haven’t been conditioning lately and skipped more than one appointment with your physical therapist.

“Liar, you need something from me.” 

Nishinoya laughed out loud and smiled at you. “You know me too well, (Y/N)-chan.” 

Turning your attention fully onto Nishinoya, you waited for him to speak. He rubbed his neck sheepishly and said, “Daichi said that we needed to pass our exams in order for us to go to Tokyo for training. If we fail, the supplementary exams fall on the day that we leave.” 

“Yu-nii, I can’t help you with your studying. I’ve tried and can be a lost cause sometimes.” you sighed.

He winced at your bluntness but knew he had it coming. You were always the more studious one and had to always make sure he concentrated on homework whenever he came over. But in this case, he already had the third years and Ennoshita whipping him into shape during their after school sessions. But seeing the first years struggle and being the amazing upperclassman he was, Nishinoya wanted to give his beloved underclassmen some help. 

“It’s not for me, (Y/N)-chan. If you think Tanaka and I are stupid, Kageyama and Hinata are struggling more than us.” 

You couldn’t believe what came out of Nishinoya’s mouth and you burst out laughing. “W-Wait, are you saying that Kageyama-san isn’t smart? But he looks like he has good grades!” 

“That’s what we thought too but I guess he’s only smart when it comes to volleyball.” Nishinoya pouted. 

You couldn’t stop imagining Kageyama failing at regular school work because he just gave off that impression that he had some common knowledge in him. With Hinata, you had a good feeling that he wouldn’t be that smart since it looked like volleyball was the only thing on his mind. But it was a good surprise to you to find out that Kageyama was just as bad because it proved to you that you shouldn’t have assumed in the first place. It did give you some amusing thoughts though. Crossing your arms, you looked at your best friend as he rubbed his hands together and bowed slightly towards you.

“Please, I’m begging you (Y/N)-chan, please help Kageyama and Hinata! We need them to be there with us! I’ll even buy you lunch for a week straight because you helped them!” 

With such a good offering, you smirked to yourself and ruffled his hair. “Alright Yu-nii, I’ll go help them.” 

You could see his eyes immediately light up and was about to go hug you when you held your hand up to him. 

“But, they have to come and ask me for help first.” 

Nishinoya cheered before hugging you tightly, thanking you a million times before darting off to tell them the good news. You shook your head in amusement and gathered your things to head back to your classroom and get a jump start on your homework in order to help the team’s newfound duo. 

------

The lunch bell finally rang and you mindlessly sipped on your carton of juice that you got during the previous break. You weren’t sure if the boys were going to come to you that day since Nishinoya never texted you back after the conversation on the roof. Listening to your stomach, you considered dropping by the shop that Coach Ukai ran for some snacks and a meat bun. You frowned to yourself as you realized that Coach Ukai still wanted to talk to you about your volleyball history. The grip on your juice carton slightly tightened and your other hand began to tap your desk as you thought about the questions he was going to ask. With a sigh, you shook your head to try and clear the questions and assumptions racing through your mind. You were snapped out of your thoughts when you heard your name being called and looked over to see Hinata and Kageyama walking into your classroom. You smiled at them and waved them over. The look of determination was evident on their faces as they stood in front of your desk and you couldn’t help but find their dedication towards the sport endearing. 

“Hey (L/N)-san!” Hinata greeted you happily and Kageyama met your eyes as he nodded at you and said, “Hey.” 

You held his gaze and greeted them back. Kageyama’s eyes widened slightly, surprised that someone was able to hold his gaze like that outside of practice, and looked outside the window. You smiled to yourself and turned your attention towards Hinata who asked you a question. You laughed to yourself because seeing Kageyama be so awkward outside of the gym was a cute sight to see.

“(L/N)-san, do you like studying?” 

You looked up in thought before shrugging. “I don’t hate it…” 

With a hopeful look on his face, Hinata held out his notebook and asked, “Could you teach me this English?” He tugged on Kageyama’s shirt too and continued to say, “You should ask her, too, Kageyama!” 

You looked back to the quiet setter who stuffed his hands in his pocket and you met gazes once more. “Please teach us.” 

Hinata continued to try and convince you as he stepped forward and said, “If we fail any tests next month, we won’t be able to go to the Tokyo away games, so we’ve been having the tall guy with glasses named Tsukishima help us...But lately, he’s getting irritated because Kageyama and I are so stupid.”  

“I’m not scared of him.” Kageyama snorted, glaring at Hinata.

“But it’d be better for someone to teach us nicely!” Hinata huffed.

You couldn’t stop yourself from letting out a soft chuckle, holding your hand to your face to cover your reaction. “You guys are really too much. I didn’t think you guys would be struggling this much.” 

Kageyama felt an unfamiliar burning on his cheeks as he noticed your cute expression and shook his head to get rid of any unnecessary thoughts. He couldn’t get his focus messed up now, even if you did catch his interest. He didn’t need any distractions but a small part of him wanted to do something to keep seeing similar reactions from you.

Giving both of them a warm smile, you gestured towards your desk and said, “If I’m good enough-” 

“Really?!” Hinata excitedly asked. 

You pursed your lips as you let them know what you were thinking, “But I wonder if I’ll be able to teach in a nicer way than Tsukishima...I used to get really strict when I helped Yu-nii with his homework.”  

Both of them shook their heads simultaneously as Hinata reassured you, “You definitely don’t need to worry about that.” 

“Well, then shall we get started?” You smiled as you clapped your hands together and opened up your notebook. 

As the study session took place, you simplified what was being taught to them in a way the two would understand it. If what Nishinoya told you was true, then the way that you outlined things would be easy enough to teach to them. 

“I see! Wow!” Hinata exclaimed as you explained the construction of an English sentence to him. 

You rubbed her your sheepishly and shrugged. “Oh, it’s nothing..”

“Your notebook’s really easy to look at, (LN)-san. You’re great at drawing too.” Hinata commented when he noticed the small doodles that covered the sides and corners of your notes.

“Ah well, when I was on a break I suddenly got into drawing and I typically try to be the best in everything I get into so I guess it’s from my perfectionist side.” you sheepishly replied before pointing at Hinata’s notes. “Oh, if you leave a space here, it’ll be easier to fill in later. Also, if you limit the number of colors you use, it won’t get confusing.” 

Kageyama watched as you bit off the cap of your pen and began to write guides on Hinata’s notebook. He wasn’t much of a talker, but he was grateful for you being willing enough to help them. There was something about you that helped calm down his nerves as you taught them their class’s material. He didn’t feel as competitive or stressed when they studied with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi. You were encouraging but knew when to be strict with them. As he quietly took down his notes, Kageyama listened in on your conversation as you and Hinata talked about his dislike for studying and how he’s just trying really hard to get to Tokyo. 

You were amazed at Hinata’s passion and was surprised to also find Kageyama chiming in on the conversation when Nekoma High was brought up. She vaguely remembered Nishinoya complaining about Nekoma one time so she assumed they were pretty strong opponents and now friends off the court. Especially if Kageyama mentioned that there was someone as good as Nishinoya on their team. It reminded you that you should check up on your friends from that school and filtered a mental note to do so once she got home. You lost contact with them for a bit during your rut and since volleyball was starting to make a comeback in your life, it was a good idea to check up on a childhood friend. 

Resting your chin on your palm as the two boys got lost in their own banter, you began to think about going to their games more. Nishinoya had been trying to get you to come back to their games but then he got suspended after his scuffle with Asahi. You mentally sighed and realized you had been so caught up with your own problems, you fell short on supporting your best friend. If anything, you should be thankful for Nishinoya introducing you to his new friends at Karasuno. With your budding relations with the current team, you were able to make new friendships with classmates you never noticed before. Your eyes unconsciously went towards Kageyama and you began to admire his features as he continued to talk to Hinata. You hated to admit it but now looking up close with him off the court, Kageyama was quite attractive. It was funny to you because people often got scared of him, but all you saw was a socially awkward guy. Also having grown close to the second and third years, you saw those boys as older brothers so none of them had gotten your attention when you got to know them. It didn’t help that Nishinoya would try to get in on your business to see if he could play cupid between you and a member of his. That idea didn’t sit right with you in the beginning but now, you might just be open to it. 

“So, (L/N)-san, did you used to play volleyball?” 

You sighed as you knew that this question was going to be brought up sooner or later after they saw you serve. 

“I’m pretty sure Yu-nii has already told you guys this, but we went to the same middle school together. He was the libero for the boy’s team and I was the wing spiker and pinch server for the girl’s team. Our school called us ‘The Yin and Yang Twins’ because of how our personalities switched in and out of the court.” 

The boys noticed your eyes softened as you remembered your days playing the sport that they loved and Kageyama couldn’t help but ask, “How come you stopped?” 

“I tore my ACL during my final match.” 

They winced trying to imagine how that went down and you shrugged. Kageyama couldn’t help but blame himself for making you remember something that terrible and murmured, “Sorry, I didn’t know.” 

You shook your head dismissively and looked down to play with your hands. “It’s okay. To be honest, taking time off to heal has opened my eyes a lot. I just don’t know if I’ll ever be fine to properly play again.” 

“Have you tried to give yourself that chance?” Hinata asked.     

You looked up to find Hinata smiling down at you as he stood up from his seat, palms resting on top of your desk. “I know that there are times where things seem to be impossible. I’ve had those thoughts for the longest time, but giving myself a chance to try things out and see where it goes has gotten me to where I am now. A lot of people underestimate me for being small and even if I’m not big, I can fly.” 

Your eyes widened as you saw the look in Hinata’s eyes. His words had an impact on you and you sat back in your chair, your mind going back to your serve. Kageyama noticed the thoughtful look on your face and understood that you needed your space for the time being. 

“Hinata, don’t you need to copy this down?” Kageyama asked to divert Hinata’s attention from you.

You looked out the window as Hinata sat down, continuing to write down his notes. While doing so, he began to ramble about volleyball again and while listening, you mindlessly said, “Then you’re like the Little Giant of the team, Hinata.” 

Kageyama sighed as Hinata got amped up again just by hearing the nickname he respected so much and then met your gaze. It was asking for him to help you calm him down so that you could all wrap up the study session. Turning his attention back to his notes, Kageyama continued to write down what he needed to know. 

“Hey, Little Giant that’s not gonna make it to Tokyo, hurry up and copy this.” 

Once the two finished copying down your notes and finally understanding some of the material, you agreed to continue to tutor them. You walked them to the hallway and the both of them thanked you once more before bumping into Nishinoya who held up your lunch in the air on the way back to their classroom. 

“I hope she’s been treating you well, boys!” Nishinoya greeted his underclassmen before walking up to you. 

Kageyama couldn’t help but turn around and watch as you gave Nishinoya a bright smile and hug. An unfamiliar feeling crept inside of him as he grew irritated for some unknown reason. He clicked his tongue and tried his best to forget about the part of him wishing that you would greet him like that in the near future.

[ikevamp-annalyne]

Annalyne Sonata [IkeVamp OC]

Hey guys! I am so verry happy to finally being able to officially introduce my IkeVamp OC, Annalyne! ٩(●ᴗ●)۶

This is a very long post, but I hope you won’t be discouraged and will enjoy learning a bit more about her, and the story I imagined for her (^.^)ゞ

I also commissioned the MOST AMAZING ARTIST EVER @lemonsqueazie​ for drawing my baby OC! ღවꇳවღ She is my favourite artist, and also an amazing human being that I love very much. She is so attentive to what you tell her, always doing everything to meet your ideas and make the best art for you! I highly recommend to check out her blog @lemonsqueazie​ alongside her Instagram and her DeviantArt post about her commissions! You can also find all the infos here.

NOW, ON WITH THE OC! (๑ゝڡ◕๑)

Name: Annalyne

Last name: Sonata

Nicknames: Anna, Nana, Lyn

DOB: June, 19, 1995 (25 years old)

Origin: French

Languages: French, English, Spanish, Italian, German, Japanese, Korean

Height: 160cm (5.25ft)

Sexuality: pan

Job: freelance fashion designer, blogger, gamer

Passions: fashion, drawing, eating, baking, cooking, videogames, reading, music

Phobias: larvas and maggots, bugs (except ladybugs)

Lover: Leonardo Da Vinci

"Heh? What is this? Kinda like a storage room?"

Annalyne is a very chill woman, taking things at her own pace and working hard towards her goals and dreams. When she doesn't work, she becomes a lazy slug chilling with a good book or videogames -part of why she is also a gamer-.

Her most prominent traits are definitely: her kindness, her humour -made of bad puns and references-, her caring side, her clumsiness and her supportive behaviour. Number one fan of her family and friends.

She will always go out of her way to make her loved ones feel loved, supported or just important. She can also easily throw hands if needed. No one messes with her or her close ones without getting punished.

She has a hard time trusting people. It looks like she is close to everyone, but she hardly confides in people. It takes a hecking long time to build a relationship of trust with her -due to some childhood traumas-

She is strong-willed and -way too- a tad stubborn. But she compensates by being very sweet and cute. She can be very anxious but eating calms her, explaining her chubbiness. Also, count on her for helping everyone.

She is very good at cooking and baking, and loves making things herself. She loves dogs, but honestly, she loves almost every animal ever. She has a talent with them, understanding them beyond reason: animals love her.

"Call me the PUNisher."

She is easily triggered by disrespect, racism, homophobia, bullying and abuse. She can kick your ass off if needed, being very rude and violent when angry -she already broke the arm of a racist, and slapped Shakespeare...-

Comte is the one engaging conversation with her, asking her if she likes this painting. She is hyper excited talking about it and Comte cannot help but giggle, finding a Da Vinci's fangirl in modern days being pretty rare.

How she met Comte:

Annalyne lives near Paris and absolutely loves museums. Therefore she spends a hella lot of time in the Louvre, especially contemplating Da Vinci's works. She meets Comte in front of Da Vinci's painting Saint-Jean-Baptiste.

They spend some time debating and chatting over Leonardo Da Vinci's life, works of art and other controversies. He smiles a lot throughout the whole chat, since he wonders how his old friend would react.

How she ends up in Comte's mansion:

Comte bids her goodbye after they have finally seen Mona Lisa from up close. She thanks him for the delightful conversation, happy she has met someone as knowledgeable as him on her favourite historical figure.

She is taken aback, quite surprised, and thinks the mansion is a storage room. Maybe the man is actually an employee? She is curious though so she walks through the hall and stares at everything in awe.

When he leaves, waving his hand, his pocket watch falls and Annalyne picks it up. She chases after Comte all over the museum and sees him going through a door. She opens it and ends up in the mansion's hall.

Who she meets:

While discovering the hall, she stumbles upon Leonardo who's asleep. She doesn't want to wake him up but God, she stares for a good minute at the sleeping man. "I have never seen such a gorgeous man..."

She walks past him and continues looking for Comte. But then, Napoleon appears and asks her who she is, and what she does here. She tells him she wants to find the gorgeous blonde man to give him his watch.

He offers to give to him in lieu of her. But she is wary of him, a stranger. And Comte appears, the noise having caught up his attention. He recognises Annalyne and is surprised she is there. She gives him the watch.

The first dinner:

Comte gladly accepts the watch and asks her if she wants to dine with him and the residents of this mansion. Mansion? She stares at him, dumbfounded, and frowns. "Mansion? Isn't that a storage room or something?"

Comte giggles and promises to explain it all over dinner. Her trust for Comte and her love for food makes her accepting the offer. How surprised she is upon seeing all these people gather around a huge table!

She sits down and gets served by Sebastian, under all the surprised looks. Comte then proceeds on explaining it all to her: how all the residents in there are famous historical figures, and how she is the past.

How she reacts:

She is surprised, but she believes in timelapse, magic, etc. So she just stares in surprise and shock but is soon overexcited to meet all these people who changed history and inspired her throughout her whole life.

She will ask a bunch of questions to each of them, questions she has always been curious about, like the rumours and alleged controversies. Even when she hears about not being able to go back in her time, she is strangely chill about it.

"Well, there's no helping it! I will come up with a lie when I go back there!" But she will write letters and leave them -along jewels of hers- in places she thinks her friends or family could find them in the future.

Meeting her soulmate:

Sebastian shows her her room and then tells her to explore the mansion if she wants to. What she does! She then remembers the man sleeping in the hall? He must be a historical figure as well, but who can he be...?

She wants to know so she goes to find him and stumbles upon him, nearly falling on top of him. He seems awake since he is sitting on the floor. He had heard her footsteps so he smiles at her. "Well, who do we got there, Cara Mia?"

She smiles at the Italian nickname and tells him everything about her being here. He is surprised she is so chill about it but he smiles and introduces himself. "Well Cara Mia, nice to meet you. I'm Leonardo Da Vinci."

Upon hearing the name, her eyes widen and her breath catches in her throat. She stares, her heart beating faster every passing second. His smile is intoxicating and she cannot help but blush and stutter.

"W-well, nice to meet you, Leonar- huh Sir Leonardo? How, how should I call you?" He laughs."Leonardo is enough, Cara Mia." He smiles and pats her head before standing up. "Watch yourself, Cara Mia."

Her reaction upon the vampiric reveal:

After having talked with Comte and decided to stay in his mansion, she actually wonders how he could resurrect them. She decides to ask Sebastian, her new colleague, and he just shows her the Rouge and Blanc bottles.

"What's that?" She asks, pretty curious."Take a look and you will understand." She first goes for the Rouge and recognises the metallic smell of blood. She stares at Sebastian. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"They are all vampires. Except I, who is human." She widens her eyes, sueprised, and then goes "Aaaaah, that's how he did! Makes sense!" She smiles. "Is Comte the one who transformed them all or no?" "He did, yes."

"So, is he like, a pureblood vampire? A superior vampire who can turn humans into vampires?" "How do you know about this?" "Oh please, Sebastian. Cinema, animes, mangas and books are full of vampires."

Sebastian stares at her, bewildered. "And you are not afraid? They could easily feed off of you, even kill you." "Oh please Sebastian, they're more like puppies than wolves! If they were capable of this, you wouldn't be here!"

"Plus," she says while flashing a big dumb grin. "If they wanted to eat me, they would have already bitten me and emptied me of all my blood. They are not dangerous." Sebastian is shocked at how chill she is.

Her relationships with the residents:

She gets close to every resident ofthe mansion pretty fast, especially since she is not pushy, funny, kind, calm and knowledgeable on a lot of matters. They all grow a soft spot for her, even shyer and harsher residents.

Napoleon: they bond over cooking and baking. Also, since she is French, she can tell him about the impact he had on her country.

Mozart: music is common ground for them. She knows a lot about him and will sing for him, being allowed in the music room.

Arthur: writing sessions together, in his room or hers. They tease each other a lot and she is quick to react to his flirting.

Vincent: they are very close, bonding over drawing and painting. They talk a lot about art and have art sessions.

Theodorus: she doesn't let him win with his harsh replies and he likes that. She is strong and adores Vincent: he likes her a lot.

Isaac: she isn't pushy and gives him room so he likes talking with or teaching her a few things. They often meet in his room.

Jean: he likes how pure she is but she doesn't let him avoid her. She will do anything to befriend him and he gives in.

Dazai: sharing writing ideas brings them closer. They also laugh a lot because they are both airheads amd chaotic walking memes.

William: she likes his work but hates him. She will always avoid him, or shoot sharp daggers glares at him.

Comte: the father figure. She loves going to him to talk or when she needs some calm, and having tea together.

Sebastian: always laughing and teasing each other. She will flick his forehead when he assumes things for her.

Her relationship with her soulmate:

She is a Da Vinci's fangirl so of course, she is a mess around him. At first, she just blushes a lot, stutters a bit around him and she fangirls when he is not around. "Omg I can't believe I witnessed him sketching!!!"

They bond very easily since they both love arts. And Leonardo is very curious about her fashion style, her job, and basically how the world works in modern days -she spent an entire night talking about phones-

One day, he finds her sighing in her room: "what's the problem?". "Ah, nothing, I'm just, not comfortable in Comte's dresses. I'm more into trousers or skirts from my time." He is curious so she tells him about modern day fashion.

"Ah, so women wear pants and shirts. Whatever they want." She nods excitiedly."Yeah, and I hope one day men will be able to do so as well! Wear skirts and dresses and heels. But toxic masculinity is still pretty deep..."

"Wait for me, Cara Mia" and he dashes off the room, to come back later with a stack of shirts and trousers. "Here, take these. They're mine but for now, it will do. Tomorrow, we're going shopping for you."

And they do go shopping the next day, buying loads of men clothes alongside jewels and shoes. Also, they buy fabrics, needles and everything for Annalyne to sew her own clothes. He loves seeing her so happy.

She spends the next days adjusting Leonardo's clothes and the ones they bought to her chubby curves. And Leonardo surprises her by wearing a dress. They go have dinner like this: her in men's clothes, him in women's clothes.

Legend says every resident nearly choked themselves of either shock or laughter. And Leonardo and Annalyne really enjoyed it a lot and decided to do this at least once a week -Leo enjoyed the dress, actually-

The purebloodness revelation:

She catches very early on that he is a pureblood, without him even telling her. She is extra sensitive so she kinda feels auras and saw how Comte and Leonardo's eyes are similar. His genius made even more sense.

"Leonardo. Are you like Comte, a pureblood vampire?" She asked him while they were shopping for fabrics. Leonardo nearly fell out of surprise. "What are you talking about, Cara Mia?" "Well, you know..."

"Same eyes as Comte, genius who can do anything, super strong and intimidating aura. Open-minded as if you've already seen everything, and laziness that can be explained by already having done everything possible..."

He stares at her and then laughs, patting and ruffling her hair. "You're awfully clever and intuitive, Cara Mia. Yes, I am a pureblood. Does it change anything between us? "HELL NO!" she shouts. "But I've got questions!!!"

She drowns him under questions on everything he's done, seen, lived. They spend almost all of their time together, teaching each other about their lives and their knowledge. Residents are jealous of the Leonardo monopoly.

How it "ends" between them:

She is a strong woman and will go back to her time. But she promises Leonardo she will find him, right after returning to her time. He asks her what day it was, when she entered the mansion. "March, 15th, 2020."

When she leaves, while everyone is crying, Leonardo calculates. "Okay, gone for a month in her time, so she'll be in the Louvre in April, 15th, 2020. Ah. My birthday." He smiles. Almost 200 years, but it will be so worth it.

When she passes through the door, she is back in her time. Asking a guide what day it is. "April, 15th, 2020". The day they agreed upon, and Leonardo's birthday. She smiles and then proceeds to rush out of the Louvre to look for him.

But then she passes in front of Saint-Jean-Baptiste. Her favourite painting. A tall and gorgeous man is standing there, in a blue shirt and blue jeans. She feels it. She goes to the man, pats him on the shoulder, and asks: "Leonardo...?"

The man turns around, a huge grin on his face, bright golden eyes shining with love: "Was about time, Cara Mia..." she cries and throws herself at his neck; he spins her, crying as well, burrying his face in her neck.

"I missed you so much. Never do this again. 200 years was worth it but it was too long." She is a mess while crying. "I, I pwomiss Leo, I will neba leaf you again-" he laughs at her messy face. "Look at you, silly girl." He kisses her.

"I want you to see how much I love you in my eyes. They speak on my behalf."

Trivia facts:

She has a tiny water spray bottle she labelled as "Holy Water". Whenever a resident smiles or laughs, she opens it and "collects" their happiness. Thus, when one is talking shit about himself, she sprays the water on them.

"There, you have been blessed with Holy Water. Now love yourself or I agressively hug you." -the mistake on the label,on "thoughts" is intended, as it is is a mix between thots and thoughts, bitch thoughts she's gonna spray away.

She hates Shakespeare, Faust and Vlad. Whenever they pass by the mansion, she grabs the garden hose she labelled "Garden Hoes" and splashes water on them. "Oh no, you walking sin, stay away from my babies!"

She eats A LOT and puts shame on Theo when it comes to eating sweet things. They have pancake-eating competitions -and guess what, she wins-. She will be snacking 24/7 when nervous, anxious, sad and basically under negative emotions.

She listens to every type of music. She really enjoys any kind of rock music, and is also very knowledgeable on classical music. She likes to dance on Kpop and sing on Disney songs: her favourites are definitely I’ll Make A Man Out Of You and Why Should I Worry -in French-

She used to practice martial arts so she can beat the crap out of anyone being a little sh*t with her or her loved ones. She also has a very scary aura when furious, leading to most people just running away from her wrath.

She loves gossiping with Arthur. Whenever she knows about some rumours, or when she needs to talk about something that upset her, she goes to his room with coffee or tea. They both irradiate chaotic gossiping energy when together.

She is the mom friend, and becomes the mom of the mansion. She already told Jean to “get his bottoms in the living room to eat with all of them”, else she was going to kick his butt so hard he would be unable to sit or practice fencing.

All the animals LOVE her. Chérie is missing? She is cuddling with her in the patio. Lumiere is not under the bed? He is sleeping on her laps while she reads. King is nowhere to be found? She is playing with him in the garden. Snow White vibe.

She loves flowers and will put some all over the mansion. She puts one every day in front of every resident’s door, with a message written on a tiny piece of paper, something like: “You are a sweetheart and you deserve the best, keep going, dearie!”