#the things peter endures for love

[blackhholes]

teen wolf meme: [6/6] creatures -> ghost riders

In storm clouds just like these, phantom hunters would appear, riding black horses with blood-red eyes, and wolves and hounds at their side, baying and snarling. What were they hunting? Souls.

[hide-your-bugs-away]

Music-related content mill YouTube channels making uncanny AI videos about the Animals' history is almost funny to me for how ridiculous they are but then I remember that the emphasized details of said history (usually regarding Alan and Eric's relationship) are going to be the over-exaggerated parts that have been regurgitated uncritically since the 90s for the most shock value and drama and will just poison the well for their impressionable audience of boomers and "did you know the bassist of the Animals managed Jimi Hendrix?" fun-fact sharers, yet again pushing the blame and scapegoat status onto Alan and sullying interpretations of their relationship (and the band's general dynamic) further.

...Bring it on. Those shitty channels may work hard to spread misinformation, but my overly affectionate art and earnest infodumping about a band and a musical duo only like eight people care about works harder. 😎

[ahqkas]

your work so so beautiful!! i really loved the dick grayson one where he is teasing his s/o and he accidentally hits a nerve and his s/o entire aura just becomes sad and they look at him so sad! can you please write an x jason response? would love to know what you think

♯ CAREFUL WHO YOU ARE TALKING TO

— gn!crush!reader, fluff + a bit of angst, cursing, mention of reader’s hair, i projected myself into this one 🥹

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

JASON PETER TODD WAS IN THIS UNUSUAL MOOD, a playful edge in his voice as he lounged against your kitchen counter. he was wearing a black henley with the sleeves pushed up, showing the faint scars that crisscrossed his forearms—a reminder of how much he’d endured, and how much he tried to shield the people he cared about from the same. his lips curved into a smirk as he watched you shuffle through a stack of mail at the table, muttering something about overdue bills and junk flyers.

you were so fucking pretty like that.

“you’re really going to spend your whole evening worrying about that crap?” he asked, his tone light but teasing.

you glanced up at him with a small smile, though your brows were furrowed in focus. “it’s not crap, jay. some of us have to deal with real-world responsibilities, you know.”

“yeah, yeah,” he said with a wave of his hand, crossing the room to sit across from you. his grin widened as he leaned forward on his elbows, resting his chin on one hand. “you always get this little crinkle in your forehead when you’re stressed. like you’re trying to be a serious adult or something.”

rolling your eyes, a faint warmth dusted your cheeks. “trying? i am a serious adult, thank you very much.”

jason chuckled, voice warm and teasing as he continued in his teasing. “sure you are. except when you get all flustered over stuff that doesn’t even matter. like the time you panicked because your phone case didn’t match your bag, or when you spilled coffee on your shirt and refused to leave the house until you changed—three times.”

his laughter was soft at first, but it gained momentum as he spoke, clearly enjoying himself. he didn’t notice the way your smile faltered, how your hands stilled over the papers you’d been sorting. his words kept rolling out, lighthearted and without malice, but they landed differently this time.

“and let’s not forget the way you freak out when you’re running late. it’s like you think the world’s gonna end if you’re five minutes behind.”

he finally looked up, expecting to see your gentle smirk or the playful eye roll you always gave when he acted this way around and with you. instead, jason saw the way your shoulders had tensed, your posture folding in on itself like you were trying to disappear, make yourself seem as small as possible. your lips were pressed into a thin line, and your eyes looked down at the table, avoiding his.

“hey,” he said, his voice softening immediately. “i was just messing with you.”

you didn’t respond at first, your fingers fidgeting with the corner of one of the crinkled envelopes. when you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, trembling just enough that it shattered jason’s heart. “i know. it’s just . . . i already feel like i’m always messing things up.”

jason froze, the weight of your words hitting him like a freight train. he thought back over what he’d said, how he’d turned your small quirks into a supposed joke without realizing how much they might mean to you. cursing under his breath, jason’s chest tightened as he saw the sadness in your eyes when you finally glanced up at him.

“you’re not messing anything up,” he said firmly, sliding his chair closer to yours. his teasing tone was gone, replaced by something serious and sincere. “i didn’t mean it like that. you know i don’t think that, right?”

you gave a half-hearted shrug, trying to brush it off, but jason wasn’t having it. he reached out, his hand warm and solid as it covered yours, stilling your nervous movements.

“hey,” he said again, his voice low and steady. “look at me.”

reluctantly, you raised your eyes to meet his. the vulnerability there made his heart ache. you looked like a kicked puppy, like you were waiting for the next blow to land, and jason hated himself for being the one who put that look on your face.

“you are not a screw-up,” he continued gently. “you’re the furthest thing from it. you’re . . . you’re the best thing in my life, and i’m an idiot for making you feel like anything less than that.”

your lips parted as if to protest, but jason squeezed your hand, cutting you off.

“no, don’t argue with me,” he said, his tone softening into something almost pleading. “i know i tease you, but it’s because i like the way you get all flustered. i like that you care about the little things, even if i don’t always get it. it’s not a bad thing. it’s what makes you . . . you. and i’m sorry for being an ass about it.”

you stared at him for a long moment, the sadness in your expression slowly giving way to something softer. he was confessing. jason peter todd was practically confessing his feelings for you. he leaned in closer, his free hand brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

“you mean everything to me,” he said quietly. “i never want to make you feel like you’re not enough. because you are. more than enough.”

a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, and jason immediately reached up to brush it away with his thumb. “aw, don’t do that,” he said, his voice laced with guilt. “now i feel like a real jerk.”

you laughed softly and the sound broke the tension in the room. “you’re not a jerk, jay. you’re just . . . you.”

he grinned at that, though it was tinged with relief. “damn right.”

you rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your smile was back, and jason felt like he could finally breathe again.

“come on,” he said, standing and tugging you up with him. “i’m making it up to you. whatever you want—takeout, movies, ice cream, you name it. your call.”

you hesitated for a moment before nodding, leaning into his side as he wrapped an arm around you. “okay,” you agreed softly.

he knew he’d have to be more careful with his teasing in the future, but for now, he was just grateful to have you back in his arms, where you belonged.

[eleonoraalbright]

The Mystery of Mistletoe

Pairing: Peter Pan x fem!reader

Summary: You find yourself underneath a mistletoe with Pan. Unfortunately for you, when you rush off in a hurry it leaves Peter with an insatiable desire to know why you are afraid of the small plant.

You hummed a merry tune while your hand brushed over the bushes’ green leaves to find edible berries. The dazzling sun hung high in the cloudless blue sky, causing beads of sweat to roll down your forehead.

You wiped them away and continued your work. It was a great pity that berry picking had to be done during the hot afternoon. The cool mornings were too full to add this chore to the busy schedule, and the evening sun would trick your eyes into picking the wrong, poisonous berries.

Your two consolations were that three out of the four baskets were filled, and you had help with the task. Peter Pan himself labored alongside you in the humid jungle. You were very grateful for his aid though you couldn’t fathom why he did it.

Surely, as Neverland’s ruler, he had better things to do than this. You wouldn’t voice this question aloud, lest he decide to quit the drudgery. Pan straightened out from hunching over the greenery and arched backwards, a satisfying pop emitting from the stretch.

“Let's take a quick break,” he suggested. Even though you had half a basket left and a break would prolong your time out here, you agreed. You and Pan sat on a log to rest. You brought out your waterskin and took a much-needed drink.

The cool water soothed your parched throat. You would have taken another long swig, but Pan held out his hand for a turn. You handed it to him for he must have been as thirsty as you were. He tipped the water skin and gulped down the refreshing liquid.

A trickle of water escaped his mouth and ran down the side of his chin. You had half a mind to catch the single drop with your finger and lick it. Not one bit of water should go to waste, should it? You shook your head to clear your muddled thoughts. It wouldn’t be a good idea to do that.

Annoying insects buzzed around your head, adding to the discomfort. A mosquito landed on your arm and you slapped it off. Had you been thinking, you might have worn a long-sleeved coat to ward off the blood-sucking bugs, but the notion had seemed like lunacy in the oppressive heat.

Your options were being drenched in buckets of sweat or covered in small, red bites. You had chosen the bites. Now it seemed the wrong one to pick; the following nights would be spent scratching your arms, legs, and neck to relieve the itchiness. Pan let out a sigh and scooched closer to you on the log where it was partly in the shade. He tossed the empty waterskin to the ground.

“Do you think you could assign some other Lost Boys to berry picking tomorrow?” If you had to endure yet another day in the muggy forest, you would scream. Well, that was a lie. You were too tired to scream, the most you would be able to muster would be a grumble.

“I don’t think anyone will do any chores tomorrow. We’ll all need a respite from this blistering heat. Tomorrow we’ll go down to the river. It’s been a while since we’ve played any river games anyhow.”

“Oh, that sounds amazing.” You imagined splashing in the water, your whole body cooling off from diving down and swimming. You would have a breath holding contest with Qian, Devin, and Darragh.

Last time Qian had won, but you had been practicing. Maybe everyone would participate in the game Marco Polo you had introduced to them. They had loved it previously, a little too much.

Bjarki had gotten a bit too invested in the game and gave one of the smaller boys, Andres, a black eye and knocked out his tooth while trying to catch him. The scuffle had turned to a full out war which led to three boys getting concussions and almost drowning underwater.

No lasting harm had been done as they had been rescued and resuscitated. The group could also play sharks and squids which was similar to the game of sharks and mermaids you used to play at the pool, but with more violence.

Pan interrupted your thoughts by mumbling, “I wish we were able to eat mistletoe. It looks delicious.” You followed his gaze upwards and saw the plant dangling from a branch above you both. All drowsiness and lethargy disappeared from your mind as you hurled yourself off the log, tumbled to the ground, and scrambled farther away from the red berries.

Peter was surprised by your actions. He glanced at the plant again to see if anything was wrong with it to have caused such a reaction. Nothing was. It seemed to be a regular old mistletoe. He said with slight amusement coloring his voice, “You seem more terrified of that plant than the dreamshade.”

“And for good reason!” You blurted out. You were confused by Pan’s words. Wasn’t it obvious why you wouldn’t want to be caught under a mistletoe with him? It then occurred to you that, of course, he wouldn’t be aware of the implications and traditions from your world.

He wasn’t from it, so why should he? You breathed a sigh of relief and stood up, dusting yourself off. You laughed, “My mistake, Pan. The heat must be getting to me. I’m not acting like myself.” You grabbed two baskets and began dragging them away.

“Well, I think we have enough provisions. I’ll get these and see you back at camp.” Thankfully, Pan allowed you to leave. You didn't know whether your face burned from embarrassment or from the sweltering temperature. Instinct made you leap from him, but to be honest, kissing Pan might not have been the worst scenario to find yourself in.

You doubted that would happen even if you did explain the custom to him. Doubtless, he would think you were making it up in a poor flirting attempt and mock you. It was better for him to think you batty for a fear of a mistletoe plant or going delirious in the stifling atmosphere.

Peter plucked the plant from its place off the branch and inspected it. He had thought perhaps there had been an enormous beetle or arachnid in its leaves. Just as he thought, there was nothing outright alarming about the humble flora.

Heat had not been an issue for you before, so why would it be now? No, Pan was quite sure your peculiar behavior was because of the mistletoe. The question was what exactly. It seemed like some tests were needed to find out. Was it the whole thing or only parts of it that scared you? Peter Pan was determined to find out.

A day later, the sun was setting in the west, bathing the clear sky in a multitude of blazing colors. An array of pinks and purples washed over the blue and tinged the horizon edges with orange. The Lost Boys were chattering and laughing as they prepared their crude makeshift beds for tonight. A few tents were pitched up.

There weren’t enough to go around for all the boys due to an unfortunate mishap regarding a not-properly-put-out-fire and high winds, meaning the boys had to take turns in sleeping in them. Luckily for Pan, tonight was your turn to sleep directly underneath the stars. He watched from a good distance as you made your pallet ready.

You managed to take another blanket from an older boy and gave it to a younger one who had been complaining about being cold. You went to fluff up your flat pillow when you spotted the small gift Pan had left on the mat. Teleporting closer, Pan lurked in the nearby bushes to witness firsthand your reaction.

He saw you bend down and pick up the bunch of mistletoe berries he left scattered there. You brought them to eye level and stared at them hard as if unsure what they were. Recognition flashed in your eyes and Peter noticed with delight your head swivel this way and that, looking for the person who did this.

Well, that got an interesting reaction out of you. However, to his disappointment, you tossed the red berries into the fire and went off to bed. He was hoping for a bigger outburst from you. He had even speculated you might try to switch sleeping pads with someone else from fear that more berries would appear.

But no, you had been quite commonsensical. On the other hand, there had been that little panicked moment when you realized what the unwanted gift was. Intrigued by your reaction, Pan decided more testing was needed.

The temperature had cooled down considerably the following morning when Peter sent you on a ‘special’ mission. He assigned you the task to find a particular carrot which could force whoever ate it to dance an entire day and night.

The root was on Neverland’s southern side and grew in the rocky area between the forest and the beach. He told you it was identifiable by its bright, sparkly pink leaves. This was complete balderdash needless to say; Pan only wanted you in that region because he had a certain surprise in store.

He tracked your location and became more excited as you approached the destination. Hiding behind a large boulder, Pan spied as you trudged out of the forest and came into view. Your expression morphed into one of great confusion.

Spread out for what looked like the whole beach were leaves. You stepped onto the green mass and grabbed a leaf, tracing its spiky edges. You let it fall to the ground, placed your hands on your hips, and gazed upwards. As far as he could tell, you were very bewildered at the strange situation.

Pan waited with eagerness for you to throw a fit of some sorts or at least run away from the mistletoe leaves. Again, to his disappointment and ever-growing bafflement, you did not. Instead, you plodded along, kicking your feet through the leaves. Evidently, you were still on your quest to get the imaginary root. Pan cursed.

How thick-headed could you be? Did you not see that it was a trick? Pan left. He would let you waste all morning, afternoon, and evening searching for the stupid carrot. It served you right for being such an enigma; worrying about mistletoe one day and not caring about it the next.

Pan sulked. He sat on a log on the camp’s outskirts, fiddling with a crown made of mistletoe in his hands. This was preposterous. Why should he care whether or not you were afraid of the parasitic plant? In an instant, he answered himself: because it would be funny if you had a mistletoe phobia. What was different regarding the circumstances? It couldn’t be the presence of people.

He was there the first time and the Lost Boys had been there the second time, but you had thought you were alone in the last instance. Your first reaction was big while the other two weren’t. Peter held up the leafy crown to study it.

Should he try to recreate the situation to see if the same thing happened? He was so deep in his pondering that he didn’t notice when a Lost Boy came up to him until the youngster spoke.

“Hiya, Pan. Me and some boys made another tent outta the animal hide and we’re wonderin’ if–” He stopped and gawked at the plant his master was holding. “Say, ya got yourself some mistletoe! Neato! Ya gunna use it tah kiss some mermaids? Sure as heck wouldn’t mind smoochin’ those setta fish lips! Ya should–”

Seizing on the peculiar words, Pan leaped to his feet and clutched the boy's shoulders. “What do you mean by ‘use it to kiss some mermaids’?” Did this flora have a secret magical ability he was unaware of? Could this have any connection to your dislike of it? Would it have anything to do with why you flung yourself away from it and threw the berries in the fire?

The scared boy gasped, “If t-two people are under a mistlet-toe, they have tah kiss. It’s tra–tradition.” Pan released the boy. It all made sense now! Patting the boy on the back, he set off to one of his tree houses on the island. He had much to plan and prepare!

You plopped down at the Lost boys’ campsite. Your bones ached and hunger gnawed at your insides. All day was squandered looking for that carrot. You foraged high and low for that thing and had nothing to show for it, not even a sparkly, pink leaf.

You were beginning to wonder whether it existed or if the expedition was a mean joke played for fun. If that was the case, then it wasn’t a very good joke.

If it was real, you would be in hot water with Peter Pan for not finding it. Why would he want a carrot that made you dance? Your tiring questions were forgotten when Felix marched to the spot where you were sitting.

As usual, he spared no time on pleasantries. No, how are you? Do you want some food? Where have you been? To your annoyance, he stated, “Pan wants to see you at trumpet vine tree house.”

You huffed in displeasure, “Why?”

“I don’t know why. He wants you there now.” Felix gave you a stern look which clearly said, If you don’t get up of your own accord, I will drag you there myself.

You groaned. Pan’s word was law. Any protest against his commands would not end pretty for you. You complied with the order and made your way to the trumpet vine treehouse. The place got its name from the vines curling along its trunk and branches, beautiful reddish-yellow flowers bloomed to add a lovely fragrance in the air.

It was about a fifteen-minute walk away. Why did Pan want to see you and in a private setting to boot? Did he want the enchanted carrot? How angry would he get when he found out you didn’t retrieve it?

Should you pretend to have eaten it and dance for twenty-four hours. No, that was a dumb idea. Oh well, you would just have to tell the truth. You arrived and began to climb up the rope ladder.

You poked your head through the opening in the floor and your jaw dropped. On the ceiling, hanging above you, were dozens of mistletoe plants. What the hell was going on with mistletoe! Two days ago, had been the starting incident, then it was the berries on your pillow, then a whole beach full of them!

You didn’t notice Pan was in the room before he spoke, “Something the matter?” You had difficulty in forming a sentence. He pulled you up the rest of the way into the treehouse. He looked pleased with himself and rather smug. “Surely you’re not afraid of a little mistletoe, are you?”

“No, no, no! It’s– it’s fine. I wasn’t expecting it though. Nothing to be afraid of with mistletoe after all.” You prayed he wouldn’t be able to detect your lies.

He held onto your wrists and pulled you closer. “Oh? So, you’re not scared of anything we might have to do underneath it?”

“You know…” You admitted, defeated. “How did you find out?”

He smiled in a self-satisfied fashion. “I have my ways. It took a little bit of careful observing, a couple of tests, and a sprinkle of luck. But it was well worth it. Although it is an odd custom to be sure. What other eccentric traditions did you have back in the Land Without Magic?” He stroked your cheek with his thumb which trailed down your neck. His other hand grasped your waist.

Your attempt to answer was blocked by another query. He quirked an eyebrow up and leaned in further to ask, “Don’t you think that for all the grueling work I put in to understand your old world’s ceremonies and rules that I should be rewarded for my effort?”

Hmm, he did have a point. Giving him a small prize for all the work he endured couldn’t be that bad. Grinning, you performed the exact act that you had avoided doing not forty-eight hours prior. The kiss was sweet and simple and you pulled back three seconds later. 

“I would have preferred a kiss on the forehead, but that wasn’t too bad either.” He chuckled at your shocked and hurt face. “That was a mere jest, love. The kiss was near perfect. Much too short of my liking however.” He took a step to the right, bringing you with him. “That’s fine because we are under a different mistletoe and have plenty more to practice under.”

He was right as he always was. Evening faded into night and you and Peter were still in the treehouse practicing.

[majoruyeda]

[ LORE Migi ]

"Even with words, touches, and gestures of comfort and love, Miguel still struggles to accept his new reality. Not because he finds it bad, dull, or anything negative of that sort; on the contrary, having Gio in his life has been one of the few good things that happened to him. However, the fear of not being enough for her weighs on his mind and heart when insecurity haunts him. For Miguel, while moments of quiet and comfort bring him feelings of peace and protection, doubts also arise about being deserving and worthy of such tranquility, after the traumas he has endured and the responsibilities he has taken on. He still fears hurting his beloved wife and not being able to lead the Spider Society in the best way. But despite all the insecurity, Miguel can no longer imagine his life without Gio and his Spider friends."

🕸USELESS FUN FACTS AND HEADCANONS 🕸

🕸 The frog plushie wasn't a gift from Miguel; Gio already had it long before, back when she lived in the lower city (I'll call it the lower city, but in the comics, they call it the Underworld), and it's her favorite plushie. The frog doesn't have a name; they just call it frog. 🕸 When Gio leaves the house and Miguel stays at home, he sleeps hugging the frog. He keeps the frog under his arm when he's relaxing, like sitting on the couch watching something on TV, reading, etc. 🕸 Miguel sleeps without underwear most nights, even if they're not getting intimate. 🕸 In this art, I drew his phone, and he uses a picture of her as both his lock screen and wallpaper. His favorite picture is one he took of Gio at the park. (I used the same image of her from another artwork lol). 🕸 He loves being the big spoon. But do you think he would ever let her be the big spoon one day? 🕸 Many times, Miguel wakes up with Gio stuck to his body because she has the spider power to stick to any surface (Like Peter, gwen, Miles...). She's usually stuck to his chest or back.

[beaniebabyidiot]

i always have a minimum of like 5 AU ideas rattling around in my head, but this is the first time I have really drawn those ideas

So, here it is!

I call it the Children in Black AU, where Webby got tired of her brothers’ crap, and decided to learn empathy, they would be sent down to earth as children

Here they are, they have no memory of their pasts as dark gods, they are just human children!

More info below the cut!

So the whole premise is that Webby sent them down to PEIP to be put with families, and they are still all brothers, they just live with different families and have different adopted parents. PEIP knows about their alternate timeline shenanigans so they put them with people who are most connected with them in those alternate universes.

Some bits about their personalities and lives

Blake Woodward/Blinky: Very, very shy, mostly just stares at people. He is taken care of by Bill and his wife, so he and Alice are adopted siblings! Once Bill got divorced when Blake was in middle school, Alice went to live in Clivesdale with her Mom and Blake stayed with Bill. He is a chill kid who love cartoons and tv dramas, like medical, cop, or reality shows. Though, he has always been drawn to the more gruesome and mean spirited sides of these shows. Hopefully the Woodwards can change that.

Theo Spankoffski/Tinky: He is being raised by Ted Spankoffski, so Peter is technically his uncle, but they are the same age (Ted and Pete have a big age gap). Theo is full of energy, always bouncing off the walls and wanting to play games. He loves all kinds of games and playing with other kids, though he gets too rough in these games often. The only thing that will make him sit down for even a second is puzzles, he specifically has a rubix cube that he adores.

Neil Monroe/Nibbly: He was taken in by Gerald and Linda Monroe, and is the oldest of their beautiful blonde boys. He has an insatiable hunger for everything and anything, the least picky eater you will ever meet. He is also quite the biter, often saying that he just “wanted to know what they tasted like”. His parents are working on remedying this, so got him a chewy necklace he can munch on. He is considered the nicest of his siblings.

Patrick Perkins-Matthews/Pokey: He has been taken in by Paul and Emma, just after their marriage (and no, there are no clones or androids in this timeline, just normal human Paul and Emma). He has a constant need to be in the spotlight, and can be a bit of a brat. He loves to sing and act more than anything, and will include other kids in his plays (granted he gets to be the lead). As much as he loves the spotlight, nothing is better than when people work together to make his final musicals beautiful, and as much as Paul hates musicals, he will endure them for Patrick.

Will MacNamara/Wiggly: PEIP knew that Will would be the most difficult, so a recently reformed Wilbur Cross and his partner John MacNamara (they do eventually get married in this AU and Wilbur becomes Wilbur MacNamara) took him in. There is something incredibly creepy about Will, he just never looks or acts quite right. He can be a brat for sure, but Wilbur and John are trying to teach him right. He has a Wiggly doll Wilbur got him as a present (one that doesn’t make people go insane of course) and he clings on to that thing like a lifeline, he won’t go anywhere without it. He has a darkness about him, an anger, a need to control others, but he is still a child, he can learn.

That’s pretty much what it’s all about! Just the hijinks these families get into and the Lords in Black learning how to be good people! I have teenage designs of them too which i’ll post soon.

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ THIS IS A LIFE, PART TWO !

summary :: in every universe, spiderman will inevitably lose the one thing that matters most to him: y/n l/n. miguel o'hara, peter parker, and hobie brown have all suffered through this story. they soon discover another version of you is alive, bound to fall in love with miles morales and to die abruptly. with the prospect of a second chance and a newfound obsession, these four men will do anything to keep you at their side.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 10.2k

content warnings :: yandere!miguel, yandere!miles, murder/death, gore/blood, stalking, age-gap, non-con touching, drugging, invasion of privacy, force-feeding, mentions of rape/assault, mentions of vomit, hanging, insinuations of suicide, physical restraint, child neglect/abuse, child abandonment, & a lot of gross shit.

miguel o'hara's yandere traits are . . .

smothering, territorial, & paranoid

──── Electricity. It is what Miguel O'Hara lost you to on October 17th, 2099. And it is what he felt on May 16th of the same year.

A soccer coach, that is all you were. Simply there to guide a gaggle of tiny rascals toward their dreams of becoming Olympic athletes. That is all you should have been. Spending your days beneath the sweltering sun, collecting quick money and soccer-ball-induced bruises, before leaving Nueva York to settle down elsewhere. That is what you could have been.

Gabriella O'Hara was one of your many students. However, her dad was rarely present during her games. The lack of fatherly presence struck a parental nerve in your body, hence your perceptible favoritism for her. The efforts you made did not go unnoticed by Gabriella, either.

The time she had preferred tying dandelion stems to one another instead of participating with other classmates, you joined the lonely girl and taught her how to craft flower crowns. Since then, she has always arrived to practice with light in her eyes as she gifts you another flower crown of millions. And of course, you thank her graciously for the present. Even after they wilt and wither, they will forever have a home in your residence.

Today was a particularly gloomy Saturday in late March. The carpool Miguel relied on had been cancelled last minute, much to his dismay. The parent he couldn't remember the name of informed him their child was stricken with a case of chickenpox. After reading their incessant apologies, he groans in a fit of annoyance upon realizing he would have to chauffeur his daughter for the day.

Soccer Ball and weed-ridden flower crown in her small hands, Gabriella clambers into the back of the car and fastens herself into the car seat. In the process, she finds yet another way to bring you into the conversation. Somehow in the span of a few weeks, everything Gabriella does revolves around you in some shape or form. If Miguel hears 'Y/N,' 'flower-crowns,' or 'soccer' once more, he is positive he will implode on the spot. Clenching his jaw, he mentally prepares himself for the most excruciating car ride he is sure he will ever endure.

When they arrive at the field, there is no hug, no kiss, not even a wave of goodbye. Miguel merely lets his daughter exit the vehicle herself, ignores her exclamation of "See you later!" and zooms off. Despite how harrowing her father's negligence is, Gabriella knows she will see you and that fact aids all. If she were honest, she would say she likes you far more than she does her own family. It is tacitly evident through the attention you give her. You lighten up like a Christmas tree when she runs and engulfs your legs in a tight hug. Gleefully, you accept her gift of yet another flower crown and praise her for the effort she put into crafting such. And after being so deprived of the necessity of love, Gabriella practically clings to your side like a parasite.

In the meantime, Miguel returns home and hastily sorts through reports sent in by Alchemax. From technological hiccups to your average-day Karen, being in this field never failed to make this man roll his eyes in annoyance. Despite the admiratio he holds for his career, he still grumbles when his responsibilities creep up on him. And much like everything else in his life, he despises it all.

A monitor then pops up beside him, the translucent screen displaying a reminder he had set hours ago. "May 16th, 2099. Saturday. 3:45 PM. Pick Up Child." His head is thrown back in a fit of irritation when he is reminded of her presence. Miguel closes the tab and leaves the expanse of his office, counting down the days until his daughter blows out her 18 candles and he can finally be at peace.

After the car ride spent pondering over why he had chosen this life, he soon arrives at the soccer field. Scrutinizing through the cluster of children playing in the field, he cannot find Gabriella through the chaos. Miguel does not worry about her well-being, as opposed to how other parents would react to their child being missing. He merely huffs before departing from the vehicle. His large hand tracks through his hair as he searches for where the brat had wandered off to, ignoring the lustful gazes from mothers who were explicitly unhappy in their marriages.

Tucked away in the corner is the first-aid center. Within the bell tent, he spots his daughter. She is blissfully happy as she laughs hysterically, which makes her father red with rage. His talons dig into the meat of his palms; his fangs protrude into his lips. He had already driven all this way for her, how dare she force him to travel even further!? Stomping across the field and through the threshold, his towering frame suddenly halts when he takes notice of the additional presence inside the tent.

And just like that, for the first time in his entire life, the anger simply... vanishes. It is almost like magic. Through tireless efforts, Miguel has done everything in his power to deplete this suffocating rage. All efforts made by him were brought to no fruition. In this moment, however, the mere presence of this stranger brings such a candy-sweet shock to all his senses, that he forgets where his anger was in the first place.

They cast a look over their shoulder to acknowledge his sudden entrance. And their features sit like stars on the expanse of their face, their eyes like the sun and moon basking him in its holy light. A kind smile that could rival the luminescence of heaven grows on their face. Miguel is shocked the sight hadn't caused his knees to lock beneath him. They introduce themselves and if he could write their name on his tongue and only ever speak of them, he wouldn't waste another heartbeat.

Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.

The word sounds like flowers in the wind; like an answered prayer for brighter days. Extending their arm out to shake his hand, Miguel fervently takes their hand into his and shivers from the close, yet minimal, contact.

"So, this is the notorious Y/N I've heard so much about." His voice drops to a low husk, attempting to woo you.

Miguel presses your knuckles to his lips and kisses them with fervid haste. The skin, flesh, and warmth pervading the expanse of his lips make him feel weightless. He doesn't have a romantic bone in his body, but with you now in his life, he'd tear every raw bone from his body and place them at your feet if you so much as asked. Just keep making him feel the way you do.

He then introduces himself and punctuates the syllables with the inflection of his accent, knowing of how it drove others wild. In this case, he was not given the heart-lurching sight of you averting your gaze or listening to your flustered giggles. Instead, you yank your hand away from his affections and revert your attention to Gabriella. Miguel had forgotten she was there altogether, and once again, the permeating rage returned once more.

Without your blessed attention, his lost soul returns to the home it built out of anger and misery. He had so greedily absorbed every sliver of good you possessed, he never fathomed how he would feel when it would be inevitably revoked.

Upon closer inspection, Miguel notices how his daughter's cheeks are puffy with stained tears. On her knees are a clutter of superhero-themed band-aids, a few displaying her father in his work attire. You inform him of the tumble she had taken earlier that day and of how there was nothing to concern himself with, gesturing to the bandages adorning her frail legs. He was never worried in the first place, only captivated by your sheer existence.

You then bend down to where Gabriella is seated on an ottoman and take her tiny hands into yours.

"I was going to wait until later on, but I got a gift that I just have to give you!" Gabriella lightens up as if you had told her you were taking her to Disneyland, anxiously anticipating her present.

Quirking your head, you turn to her father. "If that is alright with you, of course." Yes, anything you want. I will give you everything you could ever want.

A nod of his head and you stand to your feet. That mellifluous voice of yours that Miguel could listen to forever apprises Gabriella to close her eyes, which she obliges to and brings her palms to her face. Grasping hold of the gift hidden in the corner of the tent, you begin to tread toward the young girl. Before you had granted her to, she not-so-sneakily peeks through the expanse of her fingers. She can't abstain from squealing in excitement when she catches sight of what is in your palms. She closes the distance between you both and rushes to you, before practically yanking the gift out of your grasp. A harsh scolding bridges upon Miguel's lips for the action. However, when he takes notice of the admiration in your expression, he is rendered speechless with sudden envy.

A flower crown is what you had given her. The detail is exquisite, evident in the sheer awe plastered upon Gabriella's face as she studies it. Strawflower, lavender, eucalyptus, and daisies adorn the garment, as well as strands of amaranth that would cascade down her back. In addition to this, a myriad of other ornamentations clung to the crown. Vibrant gemstones, pastel buttons, and a pink, silken ribbon that ties the crown together in a flawless bow — it is a tiara befitting the most beautiful of princesses. And you told Gabriella she fit that standard effortlessly.

Meanwhile, Miguel stands in the background and seethes. How despairingly he wishes the gift were for him instead. In any other light, he'd say the garment was tacky. Ugly, even. He would have no resourceful use for it, either, and it would inevitably be chucked into the garbage. When it is you who put all care and detail into the gift, however, the story changes. Mere seconds have gone by since he has learned your name and still, he'd flaunt that crown for the rest of his life if you had gifted it to him. No matter the judging heaps of laughter he'd receive from others.

Gabriella thanks you profusely and engulfs your legs in another hug. Her gratitude is met with a reciprocated squeeze, as well. The act of affection is given to one another entirely oblivious to the third party overwhelmed with jealousy. His thick brows are plastered in a permanent furrow and his lips have morphed into an envious sneer. You are so effortlessly good with children and Miguel can't refrain his brain from catapulting to conclusions.

What does your life look like outside of being his daughter's favorite person? Do you have children of your own?

Is there someone else?

You and Gabriella then perform your secret handshake. It had been choreographed during one of the numerous soccer meets after her father neglected to collect his daughter on time. Soon, the two are leaving the tent. And every step away from you feels like walking on hot stones. The further Miguel treads, the scorching temperatures increase. He cannot look back. One glance and he'd be barreling for the poor tent like some rabid animal, desperate for another taste of your bottled happiness.

May 16th had only been the beginning of the Miguel-ridden chaos that would soon embark into your life.

Considering his negligence, you were stunned to see how he had signed his daughter up for several classes a week. But, you become entirely aghast with shock when you find him attending every meeting and game, remaining in the same spot for the entire course. Most parents twiddle on their phones while others mingle with the other adults. Miguel O'Hara was different. His sole, undivided attention was reserved for the actions taken on the field. And his sweet child could not have been more elated.

You presumed this alter in behavior to be a spark of realization that manifested into becoming a better parent. However, as the weeks go by and he continues to attend, you are quick to realize how his attention isn't appointed to his daughter, but it is set on you instead.

It is impossible for you to disinter what about yourself he finds so entertaining. With his eyes glued to you, it fills you with a sense of insecurity when you assume he may be mocking or judging you. The seemingly permanent dead emotion cast on his face makes you squirm with discomfort.

Upon closer inspection, or during the constant chatter he provokes when you're not occupied with the children, you swear the pupils of his eye almost appear... heart-shaped? You also cannot remember a time when he looked you directly in the eye, either. You're sure if you asked him what your eye color is, he'd be dumbfounded (he knows the exact shade by HTML color code, but that fact remains unknown to you). They are locked onto your lips, instead. Do you have something on your face? Maybe something in your teeth? The lack of emotion he communicates through facial expressions has you ridden with worry.

The most evident response you've been able to perceive in his expression was on a random day after practice. In the midst of a conversation with Miguel, another father interrupts him. His face morphs into something murderous when the unwelcome guest has the audacity to ask for your number. He claims it is to inquire you about his son's performance while he is not physically present in the game. With the way his eyes leer to your body, Miguel knows exactly what kind of revolting, perverted visions are plaguing his mind.

Clenched jaw, tense frown, eyes blown wide — Miguel’s chest rises and falls with rapid breaths while he glares bullets into the man. It takes everything within him to not release his talons, flash his fangs, and rip this pervert into nothing but a bloodied mess of gore on this very soccer field.

He is dead by dawn.

Exposed to several counts of rape and assault, Spider-Man hanged that man with his red web-matter beneath a bridge. His written confession was pinned to his chest with a hunting knife.

The disturbing events led his wife to officially resign her son from your practice. On live television, the widow swears on her life that her husband would not do such a thing. The sudden exposure of random crimes without any victims or proof does seem a tad suspicious, you think to yourself. Due to the circumstances, however, you cancel soccer meetups for the following several weeks so parents and children can process these disturbing events.

While you are typing another empathetic message to the apparent-criminal’s wife, another message pings on your device.

The culprit is no other than Miguel O'Hara. As if the news that had spread amongst the city like wildfire had chosen to leave him intact.

As if nothing happened.

Miguel invites you to an ice cream parlor with him and Gabriella, a weird undertone that implies it's a date while his daughter is the annoying third wheel. To get your mind off the poor boy whose father was brutally murdered, you agree to the rendezvous. His response is far too ecstatic to be deemed platonic, but much like all of his other flirtatious insinuations, you ignore it. You are juggling much more important, colossal matters in your life, after all.

Early afternoon rolls around and you arrive a mere five minutes early to the parlor, only to find the two were already seated beneath a pastel-striped umbrella. Gabriella is adorned in the flower crown you gifted her weeks ago, babbling about frivolous matters while her father sits beside her. Chin rested against his palm, you have never seen a more bored expression on a human's face.

Double-checking the clock to ensure Miguel's apathy wasn't a result of your poor planning, you're relieved to see your suspicions were false. You briefly scroll through the new messages on your phone from parents and neighbors regarding their children. As much as you adore your job, juggling the well-being of so many lives can be exhausting.

The click of your car door opening cuts your actions short. Looking at the sudden intrusion, you find Miguel O'Hara towering over you with Gabriella at his side. Her eyes beam beneath the flower crown you crafted, while her father perceptibly softens at the sight of you. Almost as if a tidal wave of relief washed over him after years spent breathing in trepidation. Not wasting another second, Gabriella crawls into the car and engulfs you in a hug. You are able to reciprocate the affection before her father pulls her away from what's his you. He is rather rough with her, but the smile that paints her face aids the dread inside of you.

Miguel lends a hand, which you take with reluctance. He guides you from your beat-up, engine-sputtering vehicle as if you were royalty. Your other hand was now held hostage by Gabriella, who attempts to conquer her father's strength and guide you to where they were once seated. Her efforts are futile when you are yanked into Miguel's sudden embrace. He was never shy with his affections, but this is the first time he was so close to you. And God, is it overwhelming. His imposing frame envelops every inch of you, to where all your senses are deluged in all of him. His cologne, his muscles, his warmth — he is everywhere and it is wholly suffocating.

"I missed you so much..." A beat passes before you realize he is referring to the mere week you have spent without seeing the O'Hara family.

Slowly and painstakingly, he releases you from his tenacious hold. Gabriella is then swift to fill the silence. She grasps your attention easily, something her father has struggled immensely with.

She pantomimes about the fashion show she hosted for her dolls back home and the success she earned during her P.E. class a few days prior. So indulged in the stories of this poor, attention-deprived child, you failed to notice how your hand was still held in Miguel's grasp. His lips find your knuckles, as they always do. The sensation of his kiss against you was nothing out of the blue. The act of affection had become a strange routine for every encounter you both shared. Without your resistance, Miguel fully indulges himself in how much he has missed you and plants more long, abiding kisses to your hand.

When you finally perceive his actions, you swiftly yank your hand away from his relentless affections. An awkward, forced smile sits on your face as you look at him with furrowed brows, seemingly scrutinizing him for some sort of explanation of his actions. Gabriella then pulls you away and drags you like a dog to their reserved table. Not without a sharp demand from her father to be careful with you.

On the surface, you find a colossal bowl of your favorite ice cream. The question lurks of how they had known this fact, but you merely brush it off as dropping the information to Gabriella a while ago. Besides the treat, a bouquet of paper flowers scribbled with bright-hued markers sits. She expresses how she crafted it for you during her time in school. Students were given art equipment and assigned to create a heartfelt gift for their parents. In the brain of Gabriella, she neglected her actual parent and put all her love into creating something perfect for you. And to you, it was all of that and more.

The three of you sit. You thank the young girl for the beautiful gift. Then, you pretend to inhale the scent of fresh flowers and jokingly compliment her on how she picked the finest posy from her garden. Before you can continue to pantomime about the process she went through to craft the bouquet, her father interrupts her. He proposes a gift he has gotten for you, as well.

A box is then placed before you. It is enveloped in vermillion velvet and silver tracings of 'Cartier' are threaded among the sides. You restrain from expressing your shock at the expensive appearance. Flicking the small latch that probably costs more than your bedroom alone, you gently clutch the two adjacent covers and open the box.

Sat inside is a diamond ring. The way the July sun reflects against the gift and into your eyes is harsh. You're shocked you hadn't gone blind from the unwelcome pervasion. The intricacies of the garment are delicate and precious, to where you are afraid of even putting your hands on such finery. You become entirely ridden with shock and terror when you grasp the thin thread attached to the box and read the price tag.

$2,000,000 is written in bold letters, almost as if the striking font was ridiculing you.

As heard through the fits of gossip from bored parents during practice, you were aware Miguel was a billionaire working at Alchemax. In these past few weeks spent handling nagging parents worried for their children's safety, the fact seems to have escaped your brain. And even with receipts that look like phone numbers, you still cannot fathom how pure diamonds are mere pocket change to him.

Jaw on the ground, you don't realize just how much time you spent gawking at the ring. A hum of amused, affectionate laughter clutches you away from your state of captivation. You shift your gaze away to see Miguel and those all-too-familiar heart-shaped pupils. Staring into your soul. It is the most emotion you have seen on his face since you met him. You wonder how many times he has looked at you like that when you were occupied with other matters.

He moves closer to you. You stalk his movements with curiosity, watching as he grasps your hand for the zillionth time since you met him. Uncomfortably pressing himself against you, Miguel reaches over your shoulder and grasps the ring. He evidently indulges in every second spent in close proximity with you. The hot, heavy breath fanning against your ear informs you of what captivated chaos is taking place inside his brain. Goosebumps bloom on your skin when the frigid diamonds meet the flesh of your ring finger. He assumes the sudden shiver engrossing your body is due to his closeness and he does little to hide his perceptible excitement.

You loving him nearly as much as he loves you — that is all he could ever want.

You lightly tread your digits among the ring, almost afraid to dirty the expensive jewelry with your mere touch. You stutter through an attempt at thanking Miguel for the gift. And your awe mending with your gratitude has his heart lurching in his chest. God, you are just so sweet. He is surprised his teeth haven't all rotted just from standing here in your presence.

Gabriella is in a similar state to you, as well. Any child in the presence of jewelry meant to be worn by a deity would react in a similar manner. Though, her childlike wonder fogs all the polite manners she prided herself in having. Her small fingers reach to touch the diamonds, but her efforts are halted a mere picosecond after they had begun.

Miguel snaps his fingers. That is all he does. Gabriella freezes at the sound, turning her attention to her father, and then cowering like a scolded puppy. She scoots away from you, abandoning her endeavors the second his fingers meet his palm. You fear what occurs beneath the roof of their home when there are no prying eyes there to witness anything.

A sultry whisper of "you look perfect" in your ear and the state of discomfort you were in only intensifies. Miguel's finger drags from your left shoulder blade to the other as he begrudgingly moves away from you, returning to his original seat.

Nearly incoherent blabbers of the ring being too much money tumble from your lips as you try and rid yourself of the diamonds. However, no matter how tireless your efforts are, the ring almost seems locked around your finger. A gentle tap to your elbow from Miguel beside you and you halt your efforts. You've heard he is quite scary when angry, after all.

With melted ice cream left on the table and diamonds superglued to your finger, you come to the conclusion that leaving your house today was probably a mistake.

When you do return home, however, you now realize you should have seen the blatant red flags long ago and left Miguel in your shadow. Your incessant assurances of how he just has an odd way of expressing kindness halted you from accepting the truth.

Standing before your bathroom mirror, a myriad of cleaning products from beneath the sink sit before you. Your laptop sits there, too, and displays countless YouTube videos adhering to removing a tight ring. Attempting to unravel the glimmering, red knot tying the ring to your hand, the revelation of Miguel's intentions finally begins to settle. These matters are so important, that you don't even acknowledge how the vermillion string looks oddly familiar to what you see the city's superhero using to travel.

Deep within your thoughts, the sharp vibration of a text message startles you out of your inner turmoil. A hologram expands from your phone left against the bathroom countertop. Lo and behold, no other than Miguel O'Hara has messaged you. He thanks you for joining him earlier (avoiding mentioning how his daughter was there, too). He slides an additional compliment of how diamonds look stunning on you. You're glad the toilet is so close to you, as you may need to vomit from the rotten sweetness of his words.

Instead of replying, as you would normally thank him for his kindness, you ignore his message. You are far more interested in trying to rid your hand of this ring without harming the accessory and washing his $2,000,000 down the drain.

With fruitless efforts and exhausted arms, you slouch against the bathroom wall and wave a white flag. You decide to succumb to the stubborn ring's desires and move on with your nightly routine. Instead of having your usual shower, however, you run a bath instead to avoid harming these damned diamonds. It is almost comical to lay in these bubbles completely nude while still wearing this single piece of jewelry. You wonder how Miguel would react to seeing you like this, physically scowling at the lust-ridden response you know he would have.

Speak of the devil, another message from him chimes on your phone. The hologram expands from its spot on the counter, once more. He inquires why you haven't responded to him, as if you would drop everything just to converse with him. He would do the same for you in a heartbeat, but that fact remains unknown to you.

A mere minute passes before an onslaught of messages begins to pour into the room. The rapid ding! of your phone causes you to clench your teeth with fervent irritation. You groan before abruptly escaping the warm embrace of bathwater to grasp your phone. Ignoring all incessant begs for your attention, you put your phone on mute and savor the tranquility that follows. You also overlook the mentions of "not being able to see you" and "his cameras disconnecting" in favor of returning to your peaceful bath.

Your state of relaxation is short-lived, much to your dismay. Not even several minutes later the tumultuous sound of fists banging on your front door permeates. The sudden intrusion of noise sends a shock of terror into your heart. Due to recent events, you fear the crime that has spread throughout Nueva York is now standing outside your home. Could it be someone begging for help? Or could it be someone eager to take your life? Swiftly ensnaring a robe around your body, you hastily tie the knot as you rush to identify the one responsible for the clamor.

Another groan of vexation escapes your throat when you see Miguel at your doorstep through the peephole. The fear simmers but returns when you can't piece together how on Earth he knew where you lived. You hesitate to open the door, but it isn't like you have much of a choice in that matter.

The door creaks open. And the reaction Miguel has seeing you in a robe and his diamonds is more than perceptible. Almost as if whatever excuse he conjured up for being at your home at this hour had been snagged from his brain. His eyes travel from your head to your toes, then back upwards, before reality slaps him across the face and forces him out of wonderland. The fear pumping through his body depleted the second Miguel saw you, to where nothing but a hot canopy of tranquility embraced him. The confused, puppy-like expression on your face, the thin robe protecting you from exposure, and his precious diamonds on your hand — nothing about this sight could save him from the tsunami of devotion that has swallowed him whole.

His arms are around you faster than you could think. And he just melts.

You meekly attempt to escape his tenacious hold, but your efforts are never brought to fruition. With his large hands clasped onto your body and his face nuzzled into your neck, escaping this man and his smothering love was a mere pipe dream.

If the emotions coursing through Miguel in this moment had somehow become a physical matter, he would care for it like he would a newborn baby. Tend to its every need, soothe it when it fusses, give away every ounce of love his heart can possibly accommodate. It contradicts his current performance as an actual parent, but all of his soul was reserved for you, after all.

"I can't live without you." It has only been several hours since you last saw him. Why is he acting like this?

Your efforts to escape accelerate when the razor-like point of his teeth poke against your neck. A harsh shriek then emerges from you when fangs protrude into your flesh. Something unfamiliar pumps through your system with rapid speed. It courses through your body and envelops every inch with profuse lethargy. The exhaustion satiates everything. It is all you can perceive. You slump against Miguel's toned physique like a wet noodle, to where he fully supports your weight with adoring fervor. Whispers of praise and gentle proclamations of love are the last thing you perceive before you drift off.

The dizzy sight of blurred city lights and bedsheets is what you see next. No Miguel, no bathrobes, no ensnaring embraces. Just you and your warped, distorted vision. You attempt to pull your head forward, only for gravity to fail you when you loll back onto the puffy pillows. When your hazy vision fades into something more distinct, you are finally able to discern some of your physical surroundings.

A bedroom that certainly does not belong to you is what you are met with. It is luxurious. Expensive. Lush. An incredible contrast to the small, decrepit bungalow you called home. The tall windows display the remarkable city from its highest point. The gentle, red-hued lamplight frames the late-night clouds drifting about and the planes soaring through the sky. You are laid against a circle-framed bed where several exorbitant comforters are draped around you. The robe you were adorned in hours ago was gone, too. Now, you are dressed in a high-quality, silken pajama set you do not recognize.

Your head relentlessly aches as you attempt to study the entire scene before you. The sensation is alike someone slamming a hammer into your brain. You bring your hand to your temple in a feeble attempt at easing the ache, but the freezing touch of the diamonds on your finger make you hiss from the stimulation. It channels a groan from your throat. The sound you make is simultaneously met with the distorted echo of a stranger's cooing. They purr out whispers of comfort and love, failing miserably in mending the fear stirring within you.

"Oh, button… You have no idea how long I have wanted this." Miguel fucking O'Hara. That revolting, candy-sweet voice belongs to no other than Miguel O'Hara.

He towers over you, as he always does. Dread tickles your bones and dances among the goosebumps trailing your flesh. Questions swarm within your brain as you attempt to scrutinize what you could have done to anger this man. You've heard through the grapevine how catastrophic his fury is, after all.

Contrary to popular belief, however, Miguel is not the flaming ball of rage he appears to be. Well, he at least isn't like that with you. Everyone else has clear evidence of the absolute rabid dog this man can be. It is evident in his greedy, adoring hands that have been stained red more times than he can count. It is evident in the warm pool of his brown irises that only appear blood-hued when you are not around. It is evident in absolutely everything he does.

This fact doesn't change at this moment, either. With the speed of a predator stalking prey, Miguel steadily climbs onto the bed and straddles you. You can only lay paralyzed and stare at the man above you in trepidation. With frail efforts, you are able to garner a sliver of mobility when you attempt to push him off. He resorts to grasping hold of your wrists and pinning them beside your head. So much for that plan. His abnormally sharp nails dig into your flesh; his nose pokes the bridge of yours when he bends down. His breath fans against your face and the familiar sight of his heart-shaped pupils is now overwhelming. Once again, his eyes are glued onto the one place they always seem to be: your lips. You can practically taste the need exuding from him.

A hologram then appears in front of his face. A monotone, robotic voice emanates into the silent room. "Your heart rate is 110 BPM. This has alarmingly exceeded your average BPM. If you are in danger, please press-"

The anger you heard rumors of fills him to the brim. Something daring to refrain him from drowning you in his love is equivalent to ordering a one-way ticket into the depths of Hell. A grunt and curse emerge from him. With a rushed flick of his finger, the hologram disappears as quickly as it came.

And without another second to perceive his actions, his lips are on yours. It is an almost god-like fervor he possesses. Your relentless struggling flies over the head of the absolute beast on top of you. It is instead met with the sharp prick you felt the night before on your lips. The same sensations flood through your veins, once again. This time, however, you are still able to regain consciousness and the small dosage succeeds in immobilizing your body. Now, you are entirely susceptible to whatever your kidnapper intends to have you endure.

Meanwhile, Miguel is utterly convinced he has left Earth and is now resting on Cloud-Nine. The unadulterated affection and sheer giddiness derived from your kiss bubble in his chest like a fizzy, sugar-ridden soda. He even considers he had somehow gotten drunk on the beverage, even though there is no physical indication of the beverage even existing. The way his heart batters like a savage animal locked in a cage is enough evidence to convince him otherwise, though. This kiss was only done to debilitate you, yes, but he would be a fool if he believed he could hold himself back from indulging in this moment.

Forehead pressed against yours, he speaks with breathless tremor. "I..." He gulps, "I got you another gift, button."

Once Miguel deems himself satisfied, he laps up the drops of blood that cascade from your lips with bone-chilling glee. Reluctantly, he withdraws from the close contact. His attention then begrudgingly drifts from you and to something on the bedside table. You are unable to turn your head and identify his actions, you can only lay on this bed in complete, paralyzed submission.

In his hands is a bowl of your favorite ice cream. "You never finished your bowl at the parlor. Remember?" You are still unsure of where he learned this was your preferred flavor.

When you expect him to bring the plastic, pastel-pink spoon to your lips, he does the opposite. Instead, he feeds himself a spoonful of the ice cream. Then, much to your horror, he presses his thumb to your chin and indulges in another kiss. His tongue slithers into your mouth, to where he coerces you to consume the sugary substance directly from him. Like a fucking mother bird. Your moans of discomfort are mistaken for sounds of pleasure. The noise elicits a muffled grunt from Miguel that vibrates against your lips. After all, the guttural groans protruding from him are enough to inform you he is enjoying this far more than you are.

"You can't just walk into my life, take my heart, then try and leave." Another quick, yet deep, kiss is forced upon you before he continues. "I won't let you. I can’t let you…”

A mess of ice cream, saliva, and stained blood paint your abused lips. Miguel backs away from your mouth and the separation provides you ephemeral comfort. For the umpteenth time, he hastily scoops another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth and fervently forces it into yours. It is absolute torture.

Any attempt at pushing this monster away from you and puking out any trace of him left in you was entirely fruitless. The spongy muscle of his tongue continues to explore your mouth with more heaps of ice cream. Miguel kisses, slurps, and guzzles all remnants of you he can garner. You wonder if he had bought the entire parlor with how much ice cream he appeared to have.

"I love you too fucking much..." All you can do is let him relish in the euphoria he feels upon his actions and pray to God that it will end soon.

This is what life looked like for the following months. Miguel forcing his love onto you the way he forced ice cream down your throat.

And it is what life looked like when he lost you. Miguel forcing the universe to adhere to his needs the way he forced you into being his lover.

October 17th. It was all his fault. 

He remembers the day the same way he will never forget you. It was a frigid Saturday morning. Miguel dropped Gabriella off at school for soccer practice, not bothering to wave or kiss his daughter goodbye, once again. Instead, he leaves quickly to purchase an expensive necklace and another order of your favorite ice cream to surprise you. Diamonds and sugar are the best way to someone's heart, right?

The ice cream falls from his hands and splats against the ground when he finds you. The diamonds are now chipped and dented from falling onto the hardwood floors. His breath is lodged in his chest as if his lungs had been crushed beneath the weight of the sight that stood before him. His eyes are blown wide in confused horror as if the mere action of blinking would kill him in his stance.

You lay on the floor of his office.

Lifeless. Cold. Dead.

The vibrant spider webs he used to tie the ring to your hand had conducted an electric flow from the watch he had been working on and into your body.

The electricity you made him feel was now the reason you were dead.

However, Miguel refuses to see this. He brings your body into his embrace, choosing to ignore the lack of reciprocation and silent pulse. You are just asleep, you are just asleep, you are just asleep. Tears overwhelm his vision, hiccups penetrate his chest, and unruly sobs fill the air. Still, he clings to you and persists in what he is desperate to believe as the truth. You are just asleep. You're always so sleepy, it is just too adorable! Maybe some ice cream will wake you up. Right? Right...?

Incessant demands to open your eyes fill the air, which soon turns into a series of relentless, incoherent pleads. Miguel webs the battered necklace and spilled ice cream into his hands. He ensnares the jewelry around your neck, a choked compliment of how beautiful you look barely able to escape through unruly sobs. His trembling hands then bring a spoonful of your favorite ice cream to your lips, ushering you to open your mouth and let him feed you. The tears staining his vision make it hard to see what he is doing. He loses the mobility of the spoon, to where it then clatters against the ground.

Large hands then cling to your face as he forcefully shakes you and calls out your name.

"WAKE UP! Y/N, WAKE UP!" The desperate, thunderous roar could have torn the world asunder with its violent force. It surely would have woken you up, had you been alive. Miguel knows this and it destroys him.

Miguel grasps the watch on top of the desk, you still in his arms. The desire to absolutely destroy the very thing that took you from him was almost feral. When he thought of the intentions he originally had upon creating the machine, however, he sought against it. Clicking the metal walls back into place, he taps a few buttons in the correct order. The room is then adorned in neon colors that frame a pitch-black portal. From here, Miguel stands to his feet with you in his arms and ventures through.

He abandons his daughter, abandons his life, abandons everything.

When he first learned of the existence of the Multiverse through his job at Alchemax, he fantasized about creating the perfect world where you and him can be together. He crafted it from scratch, but it still needed a few more knots tightened and screws fastened before he could have given it to you. Blinding sunshine and vibrant blue skies; healthy green grass and a single house on a hill. The clouds drifting in the sky resemble a myriad of different shapes, where Miguel had hoped you and him could do cloud-gazing with one another. The flowers planted in the soil all contrast in variety and color, where Miguel had hoped you could make him a personal flower crown like you did for his daughter. And of course, an invisible force surrounds the small plot of land to ensure you won't go wandering.

Where it can be just you and him. Where you can never escape his love. Where you can be happy together.

Things are much different now. He was too late. Miguel can only stand here with your lifeless body in his arms, surrounded by the clean home he intended on spending forever in. The satiating grief had turned into desolate numbness. He doesn’t waste another second before taking action. Laying your body into the bed you two were intended to share, he assures himself you are just taking an afternoon nap. Then, he begins to forage the home for something, anything, that will wake you from your slumber. Like sleeping beauty, he desperately muses to himself.

Within several weeks, your poor body had been strapped to the bed with numerous tubes and IVs protruding into your body. Miguel stands by a desk, a myriad of holograms displaying information that would be incomprehensible to even the smartest of people. Eye bags sit heavy on his face from restless nights; his eyes are swollen and red from the lack of sleep.

He doesn't care if he has to kill every person in the Multiverse, endure the most gut-wrenching pain known to man, or even sell his soul to the devil himself. He will do anything to see you open your eyes again. Even if it is just to slap him across the face or to scream at him for taking you from your old life, he still needs it. You'd be home. And that is all Miguel could ever want.

However, he was so occupied in doing everything within his power to bring you back to him, that he hadn't realized just how uneducated he was about the Multiverse. When he wakes up after falling asleep at his desk to the strange sound of something sizzling, he looks and finds the furniture around the room begin to glitch. Almost as if he was living in a simulation. The closer the malfunctions accelerate to you, the quicker he is to take every device plunged into your body and bring you into his arms.

The foundations of the home vibrate beneath his feet, and he then sprints from the bedroom and down the stairs. A violent crash echoes from behind him when he finally escapes through the front door. He doesn't dare to look behind him, he only holds your body closer to him and sprints forward.

A few taps to his watch and a portal unfolds just several yards from him. When he was a mere footstep from escaping with you, the force of the destruction snatched you from his embrace. He tries to fight against the energy pulling him into the gateway he summoned and practically flails his body around like a dying insect. His desperate efforts to retrieve you are of no use when his strength is overpowered by his own machine. Inevitably, he falls into the portal.

A harsh cry of "NO!" flees from his mouth before he finds himself back in Nueva York. Alone.

The world Miguel had put his blood, sweat, and tears into creating had crumbled right before his eyes. And right in the middle of the mess is where the only thing he has ever loved is.

As the story of all Spider-People goes, Miguel uses every bit of energy derived from his grief. He, however, does not use it for the sake of others or to ensure no one ever feels the pain of losing a loved one. Instead, he vows to study more of the Multiverse and create technology that can bring your body back to him. He was so close to waking you up! He just needed a little more time!

During his endeavors, he soon meets Jessica Drew, and all delusions he claimed to be the truth shattered like glass onto concrete. Here, Miguel learns of the "Y/N-Curse," as she so called it. How every Spider-Person is destined to fall hopelessly in love with a version of Y/N, only to lose them in the end. She tells him of how she was in love with her own version of them, too, during her teenage years, which made Miguel spark with territorial rage. After beating around the push for too long, what she tells him causes his entire body to go rigid with shock.

Everyone was so used to the stoic, cold, terrifying Miguel O'Hara. Only Jessica Drew had seen that exterior disintegrate when he learned your body had been destroyed and it was impossible to retrieve you. His absolute worst nightmare had manifested into reality and nothing could ever conquer the amount of pain he feels now.

You are gone.

Forever.

If it wasn't for Jessica's high-speed, spider-induced senses, Miguel would have succeeded in killing her and then himself right in that moment.

From here, he agreed to Jessica's inquiries about starting a society of Spider-People all across the Multiverse. If not for others, then for you. Even if it is not the same Y/N from his reality, any version of you does not deserve to suffer. Still, to live every day watching millions of versions of you die through the numerous holograms sat on his desk tortures him in ways he cannot fathom. It is killing him, but when it is for you, he will do absolutely anything.

He will find a way to stop this curse. Even if it is the last thing he ever does.

With that, your life was over. May 16th, 2099 — the day Miguel O'Hara met the only thing that ever mattered to him. And October 17th, 2099 — the day Miguel O'Hara inevitably lost them.

A year has now passed since Miguel lost you and your story on Earth-1610 has kicked into full gear.

March 30th, 2023. Roughly a month has passed since you began these tutoring sessions. One hour every Tuesday and Thursday. That is all it was; that was all it was supposed to be.

Within the short expanse of 18 years, Miles Morales has never felt such exhilaration then when he is with you. Life has exploded in various hues of rapture, enchantment, and those all-too-familiar sensations of goosebumps blooming across his skin. When he miscalculates an equation on purpose to hear your euphonious voice correct him; when he feigns frustration to feel the warmth of your comfort and reassurance — oh, there is nothing that could ever equate to these newfound emotions. These two hours a week have become the highlight of his life and will forever remain so, he is sure of it.

3:27 PM flickers in neon green on Miles' wristwatch. 33 minutes until he gets to reunite with you. The love of his life, his soon-to-be spouse, the future parent of his beautiful children. It is impossible to contain the effervescent excitement as he sits here atop the numerous pillars adorning the Brooklyn Bridge.

A sketchbook sits in his hand, a technical pen in the other. Only several more empty pages are available, as the other ones have all been painted with your face. More sketchbooks contained with similar drawings are hidden in his bedroom back home. The amount of money his mother has spent on sketchbooks this month has become alarming. Rio is starting to edge over suspicion when his excuses of "I lost it" and "I spilled water on it" have been wrung dry.

And the drawings on these pages are a picture-perfect definition of lovesick. Sketches of what you would wear on your wedding day, illustrations of you and him on adorable dates, and of course, the alarmingly accurate depictions of you. Every detail of your form has become muscle memory now; every feature and "blemish" of yours is imprinted in Miles' brain. His foot taps with anticipation against the stone surface. Oh, he cannot wait to see you again.

Hastily, he shoves the art equipment into his cluttered backpack. A silver web sprouts from his wrist when he jumps from the skyscraper-high pillar. He soars through the city and hums to one of the numerous love songs on his playlist dedicated to you. Swinging past several graffiti pieces he's made of your face and ignoring a poor woman whose purse was being stolen, Miles soon makes it through his bedroom window.

At record speed, he rids himself of his sweaty suit and dresses himself in the best articles of clothing from his closet. A pair of jeans he hadn't doodled on, a Brooklyn Nets jersey over a white tee, and a pair of freshly-bought Air Jordans. For a final touch, a spritz of cologne he stole borrowed from a Tom Ford store. He would wear a tailored suit, but his request to have such was rejected by his parents. You needed to see how serious he was about you. After all, who knows how many others are in line to snag your heart? Miles' body erupts with chills at the mere thought.

Patching up the final efforts of his outfit in the mirror, he hears the front door creak open and the elated tone of his mother escapes through the thin walls. Then, there is your voice. And in our entire universe, there is absolutely nothing that can compare to the sheer music of your voice. He takes a deep breath to eradicate the black dots dancing in his vision, before finally leaving his bedroom. When he turns the corner and makes eye contact with you, the sweet shock it brings to his senses is almost enough to make him collapse onto the kitchen tile.

"Hey, Miles." He certainly would not mind waking up to that every day.

"Y-Y/N! It's good to see you! No, great, actually. It-It's great to see you! I'm happy you're here... Very happy, heh..." The fact he is able to muster a single syllable in your presence is nothing short of a miracle.

A mere 20 minutes has now passed since you have entered the Morales residence. You and Miles are sat at the dining room table, surrounded by a mess of highlighters, study guides, and practice quizzes. And this boy could win an Oscar with how well he plays dumb. Miscalculating equations, picking wrong answers, and misspelling simple words. With the few questions he purposely answers correctly, every "Nice job!" and "You got it!" has him staring at you as if he had looked into the night sky for the very first time. Oh, the sight of your sunlit smile and the sound of your mellifluous voice are seconds away from making him melt into a puddle.

Rio then enters the room with her phone in hand, much to Miles' dismay. As he is about to groan at her presence and demand through clenched teeth for her to leave, she then speaks.

"Y/N/N! Your boyfriend's on the phone! He said he had some trouble getting a hold of you." A knowing smirk is sat on her lips. However, there is also a gleam of disappointment over the fact she couldn't have someone as amazing as you join the Morales family.

With zero romance in your work-induced life, you are puzzled upon receiving this information. However, you then playfully roll your eyes, assuming it was a friend of yours playing a stupid prank. This action, however, told Miles all that he needed to know. The person on the other line has been granted the absolute privilege of calling you theirs.

And his world shatters.

With a "Thank you, Mrs. Morales," you take the phone and leave to the other room. Unbeknownst to you, you leave behind a downhearted mother and a devastated boy trying desperately to gather the pieces of his broken heart. His agony is almost palpable, which Eio takes notice of immediately. She places a comforting hand on his shoulder. She then informs him that there will be so many other fish in the sea the young boy will meet in his life, but she is oblivious to the weight of her son's devotion.

There is no one after you; there is nothing if it can't be you.

Meanwhile, you sing out an amused "hellooooo?" into the phone's speaker. You say your friend's name, exclaiming of how you know this is them and that this stunt they pulled against the infatuated student you tutor was cruel.

You wait for their witty response, to where there is none. All you can hear is the sound of someone's trembling breaths. You say their name in question a few more times, inquiring if the creepy mood was just another silly joke. When all you are met with is sheer silence accompanied by heavy breathing, you bid your friend an annoyed goodbye and end the call.

When you return to the dining room, you are muddled to find there is no one there. Before you are able to call out anyone's name in question, a loud and sharp bang! shakes the entire house. You can hear Rio's muffled voice through the walls. Although you are unable to discern her speech, the perceptible worry in her tone shakes you to your core. What has happened while you were gone? You follow the sounds, only to find her at Miles' bedroom, begging him to unlock the door and let her in. Within said bedroom, it sounds as though a tornado had formed within the small expanse and was destroying anything within its path.

Rio sees you in her peripheral and is swift with taking her phone back, ignoring your worried inquiries, and guiding you back to the dining room. A forced smile is planted on her face as she advises you to pack your things since Miles has suddenly "fallen sick." She begins to pack your things for you and of course, you aid her in these efforts, but she is far more frantic than you are. She slaps several dollar bills in your hand and when you try to inform her this was triple the pay she is meant to give you, your efforts fall on deaf ears. Rio then puts your backpack on you as if you were her child on your first day of Kindergarten.

With a gentle hand on your back, she leads you out the door. On the way, she gives you thanks and apologizes profusely for the unexpected trouble. Before you can reply, the door is slammed in your face. You are left in the dark expanse of the hallway, wondering what on Earth had just occurred. As much as you wish to help, you know there is nothing you can do at this current moment. You consider sending them a gift basket later on to aid Miles through his unexpected "sickness," before returning home as Rio advised you to.

You leave, blissfully unaware of what events are taking place within the Morales household.

When you had left to take the phone call, that is when disaster struck. With tears seeping down his cheeks, Miles abruptly stood from the dining room and stormed off to his room, his mother close behind. He slammed the door shut, locking it before proceeding to take out every sliver of emotion within his body on whatever helpless matter sat closest to him.

Miles' room became a complete disaster within the matter of seconds.

Action figures have been dismembered, posters are torn down, and art equipment has been destroyed. The dents in the wall from what he has thrown about are accompanied by the fist-shaped hole he left in the wall. A window has been shattered, his bed has been upturned, and his desk has been split in half. All emotions barreling through his body wreaked havoc on anything within his path.

His clenched fists form moon-crescent shapes into his palm; his chest rises and falls rapidly with infuriated breaths. His entire body is shaking with misery, rage, and horror. He feels everything at once and it is destroying him. The sobs being pulled from his chest feel like knife wounds through his heart. The tears falling from his cheeks paint his shirt wet and stain his hands from consistently attempting to wipe them away.

How could he not have known?

Through bleary vision, he glances at the door of his closet which has suffered immensely from his havoc, with violent indents and chunks of wood protruding out. Miles then drags his exhausted body across the room.

He enters the closet and locks the door behind him.

How could he not have known?

Just outside all of this destruction, you walk through the bristling streets of Brooklyn. A sharp chill sits on the back of your neck, almost as if someone was hot on your tail. It has you whipping around to verify no sudden danger was there to welcome you to your demise. Usually, walks through the city are calming to you. Tonight, for whatever reason, was different. You excuse it as still feeling perturbed from what had happened moments before with Miles, but the sensation still lingers.

Swinging from building to building behind you is Miguel O'Hara.

He had sat on the top of a neighboring building with a 2023-modeled phone in his hand. Hearing your voice, after a full year of being without the euphonious melody, had his heart halting in his chest. Even after you ended the call, he still sat there. Flabbergasted. Stunned. Euphoric.

The plan he conjured up was swift and flawed. Anyone in their right mind would be devastated to hear your heart belonged to another. Especially Miles Morales. Acknowledging this, he ushered the boy into a full mental breakdown right before you. The sight would surely terrify you, leading you to run away and leave him in the dust of your past. However, this was not the case. Instead, you were concerned about his well-being and wished to stay. The sharp envy coursing through Miguel led him to chuck the phone against the concrete surface of the roof, a few of the shattered remains piercing his skin.

What prevents him from tearing out Miles' throat, scooping you into his arms, and taking you far away is the state of the Multiverse. He refuses to make the same mistake he made a year ago; he refuses to put you in any sort of danger ever again.

For now, he'll create a ridge between you and the boy you're destined to fall in love with. Forging messages, fabricating lies, causing another childlike meltdown of millions. Miguel will do everything in his power to ensure you feel nothing but contempt for this boy while protecting you from your impending death in the process.

He just hopes nobody else in the Spider Society finds out you are alive, as well.

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

THE BONUS TRACK !

❝ YOU SAID I WAS THE MOST EXOTIC FLOWER,

HOLDING ME TIGHT IN OUR FINAL HOUR . . . ❞

pinterest owns my heart so i couldn't stop myself. here, here, here, here, and here are some examples/inspiration i used for miguel's penthouse.

gif creds :: miguel.

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[ssa-dado]

9 - Folie à Deux

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: fluff, slow burn, so much tension it hurts. Summary: After being called to Houston to solve a gruesome case involving a dancing, folie à deux couple, you and Hotch are forced to go undercover, posing as a couple at a dance event. The operation brings you closer, revealing unspoken emotions as you navigate dangerous waters both on and off the dance floor. Back at Quantico, a matchmaking mission further blur the lines between partners, friends, and something more, solidifying your unique bond. Warnings: The case in this one is very graphic! Mentions of blood. Word Count: 14.1 k - I know, but trust me on this one Dado's Corner: My job with this one was simply to make your heart flutter, and I hope I’ve succeeded. I’m especially proud of this chapter (I secretly titled it “the ovulation chapter.” in my drafts). Unintentionally, it also works as a stand-alone one-shot. Consider this a small treat for all the suffering you’ve endured so far. Please comment and let me know what you think!

previous chapter ; masterlist

A few months had slipped by since you had finally admitted to yourself that you had a crush on Aaron Hotchner - your stoic, impossibly composed coworker but also your unexpectedly humorous friend. Accepting it didn’t make it any easier, though; it only sharpened your awareness of him, turning every stolen glance and fleeting smile into a secret thrill you could never quite tame.

His voice, deep and steady, lingered in your mind long after meetings ended, and every accidental brush of his hand felt electric, sending your heart racing in ways you couldn’t control. You found yourself memorizing the little things: the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the rare warmth of his smile that made the room feel lighter, and the quiet strength he carried that drew you in without trying. Working alongside him became a careful balancing act, a daily routine of holding back when all you wanted was to lean closer, to let your feelings spill out in ways that terrified and thrilled you all at once.

That day especially felt different, it wasn’t just any morning at the BAU; it was the day Hotch would owe you his 200th coffee - a milestone you had secretly been counting down to with a mix of excitement and fondness. What had started as a friendly wager between two competitive colleagues had evolved into a cherished ritual of ‘ constantly reminding you of your failures’, a small but meaningful connection that gave you an excuse to be near him, to share something uniquely yours in the chaos of your demanding jobs.

You stopped by your usual coffee shop on the way to work, picking up two cups of your favorite blend to mark the occasion. And because you couldn’t resist, you brought along the book you’d bought for him months ago but didn’t have enough courage yet to hand him due to the reminders of the dreaded night at Peter’s welcome back party - Hegel for Dummies. You couldn’t wait to see his reaction. Every detail, every inside joke felt like a small victory in your ongoing, unacknowledged crush on him.

As you walked into the bullpen, the morning light was filtering through the windows, casting a soft, golden glow over the quiet office. The light caught Hotch just right, illuminating him like some kind of ethereal portrait, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but marvel at the sight. He was sitting at his desk, engrossed in a stack of case files, the crease between his brows deepening with concentration.

His hair, usually so meticulously combed back, was already starting to rebel, a few strands falling loose and grazing his forehead in a way that made your heart skip. You loved how those little imperfections softened his usually sharp, composed appearance, making him look a touch more human, a little less like the untouchable rising star agent and more like the man you admired.

His eyes, a deep, rich brown that turned to liquid gold when the sunlight hit them just right, glanced up from his work as you approached. The way he looked at you, warm and attentive, made your breath catch. Those eyes, so often serious and guarded, held a softness that in your delusional mind he seemed to reserve just for you. It was like he saw you, really saw you, in a way that only a few else did, and that small, silent acknowledgment never failed to make your heart flutter.

“Good morning, partner,” Hotch greeted, his voice low and rich. It was a voice that always wrapped around you, grounding you in a way you couldn’t quite explain. The way he said “partner” felt special, loaded with a meaning you were too afraid to fully unpack.

“Good morning,” you replied, setting the coffees and the book down on his desk with a playful smile. “Today’s a special day, so I thought we’d celebrate.”

Hotch’s eyebrow quirked, his mouth curving into a teasing half-smile that made your stomach flip. God, you lived for that smile. It was so rare, so fleeting, and every time you saw it, it felt like a personal victory. “Special day? What did I forget?”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin as you watched the subtle play of emotions on his face - curiosity, amusement, that faint twinkle of mischief that always caught you off guard. “Come on, Hotch. Today’s the 200th coffee you owe me. Two hundred times you’ve somehow managed to beat me at this ridiculous game, and I’m starting to think you have a secret strategy you’re not sharing.”

He chuckled softly, a sound that was low and quiet, but so genuine that it made your chest tighten. There was something about the way his face softened in those moments that made you want to memorize every line, every subtle shift. “I’ve been wondering when you’d bring that up,” he said, his voice laced with that familiar, dry humor you adored. “At this rate, you’ll owe me another 200 before you even come close to winning.”

The banter between you was effortless, filled with a warmth that made every exchange feel like a private little world the two of you inhabited. You leaned against your desk, studying him like you always did - quietly, reverently, as if each glance was a stolen moment.

There were so many things you loved about Aaron Hotchner, so many small details that made your crush feel like a living, breathing thing. The way his tie was just slightly askew, hinting at the frantic rush of his morning. The way his hands moved as he spoke, precise and deliberate, fingers that always seemed to know exactly what to do, whether they were flipping through case files or adjusting the cuffs of his perfectly pressed shirt.

“You know, by now, you owe me more than $200 worth of coffee,” you teased, unable to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “I think it’s about time you start paying up.”

Hotch’s eyes gleamed with that playful challenge you loved, the one that said he was always three steps ahead but still enjoyed every second of sparring with you. “Only if you can actually manage to win, which -let’s be honest - could take you an eternity. A philosopher I know once told me the story of Achilles and a turtle”

The lighthearted exchange was cut short when something on your desk caught your eye: a small, neatly wrapped box nestled under your lamp. It was a simple package, wrapped with an almost meticulous care, and you felt a surge of curiosity as you picked it up.

Hotch watched you, his expression softening, as you carefully unwrapped the box, revealing a sleek, elegant gel pen - the same kind he used religiously, except this one had a small “200” engraved near the clip.

Your heart skipped a beat, the significance of the gift hitting you like a tidal wave. It was just a pen, but it was also so much more than that: thoughtful, personal, and unmistakably him. You held it delicately, almost reverently, as if it were a secret you weren’t quite ready to share with the world.

Before you could find the words, Hotch spoke, his voice gentler than usual, tinged with that rare, intimate tone he reserved for moments like this. “I know Gideon never remembers anniversaries,” he began, his eyes flickering with the inside joke you shared, “but I’m not Gideon. And this is my promise that you won’t ever have to storm around like Rossi did on our first case together.”

It was such a simple statement, but the way he said it, so earnest and sincere, made your throat tighten. You couldn’t help but focus on the way his mouth moved, the slight pull of his lips that revealed just the faintest hint of dimples when he smiled. “Hotch, this… it’s perfect. You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugged, effortlessly brushing off your gratitude in that casual, understated way that always made your heart ache. "I wanted to. It's my favorite kind of pen, and I thought you should have one too. The only difference is the ink color," he added, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "I've noticed you always use blue... a bit of an unusual choice, but hey, if it works for you."

You couldn’t stop staring at him, your chest fluttering at the way he noticed your quirks and habits. His attention to detail, his thoughtfulness, made you feel seen in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying. It was as if he’d quietly gathered the pieces of you - those you tried to keep hidden and the small, silly traits that made you who you were - and somehow found them all worth celebrating.

“Thank you,” you managed, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Hotch. You’re… you’re the best partner I could ever ask for.”

He smiled, that small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips that felt like a reward, and it made your heart soar. He leaned back, crossing his arms in that familiar, confident way that somehow made him look both commanding and completely approachable. “I could say the same about you,” he said, his voice carrying that rare sincerity that made you feel special. “Though I’m still waiting for the day you actually beat me.”

You laughed softly, your gaze locked on his. “This is so thoughtful, it almost makes me want to kiss you on the cheek… if you weren’t so against physical contact, of course.”

Hotch’s smile turned mischievous, a rare twinkle lighting up his eyes that made your heart flutter uncontrollably. “Well, unlike Rossi and Gideon, we’re not married, yet.”

Though it was meant as a joke, it felt layered with something deeper, like a hidden promise disguised as banter. “Yet?! Are you planning on proposing? Because after all this thoughtfulness, you just might get a yes out of me,” you teased, your tone playful, even as your heart raced with the weight of your own words.

Hotch’s gaze lingered, his expression softening into something almost vulnerable. “I’ll make you another ‘lawyer’ deal,” he said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that made your skin tingle. “I’ll propose by the time I owe you a thousand cups of coffee. So, you’d better start winning, or you might just be stuck with me forever.”

The words were light, meant to tease, but there was a sincerity in his gaze that made your breath hitch. Your heart pounded, the beat echoing in your ears as you tried to think of a witty retort, but all you could focus on was the way his eyes lingered on you, the faint curve of his lips, the way his presence filled the space between you.

“Be careful what you wish for,” you managed to say, your voice wavering slightly despite your best efforts to sound composed. “You know that if you give me a deal like that, I won’t be able to help but accept.”

Hotch’s smile softened, and for a split second, his expression was almost tender, a quiet vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to show. “Forever,” he murmured, as if testing the weight of the word, as if it were something fragile and precious.

“You’re a lawyer, Hotch,” you teased, though your voice was softer now, tinged with something you couldn’t quite name. “You should know better than anyone that divorces exist.”

Hotch’s gaze held yours, steady and intense, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Forever,” he echoed softly, the word hanging in the air like a quiet dare.

You tucked the pen into your pocket, feeling its weight like a promise, a small, tangible reminder of the connection you shared, the quiet care that threaded through every interaction.

As Hotch turned back to his files, the brief flicker of vulnerability and humor slipping into the familiar stoic composure he reserved for work, your thoughts couldn’t help but drift to that thousandth day. A small, impossible hope lingered in the back of your mind, quietly daring to imagine what might happen when that moment finally came.

☐ ⬛

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite night-owls gracing me with their presence,” Rossi greeted, his voice carrying its usual mischief as he glanced up at you and Hotch. “Hope you’re ready to pack up, we’ve got a situation in Houston. Local police just found a second victim, and it looks like this one’s escalating fast.”

There was no hesitation. Within hours, you, Hotch, Gideon, and Rossi were on a train bound for Houston, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks a relentless echo of the urgency ahead. The details of the case gnawed at your mind, filling the air with a heavy dread that clung to you like a second skin. This wasn’t just another case, it was darker, more depraved than anything you’d encountered in recent memory. Two victims in two weeks, seemingly random but bound by the sheer, almost ritualistic brutality of their deaths.

The first victim, Lauren Fields, a 21-year-old English literature student with bright eyes and a future full of promise, had been found hanging from the ceiling of a derelict warehouse. But it wasn’t just the fact that she was dead, it was how she had been killed.

Her body was marred by deep, deliberate cuts, as though the unsub had taken their time, savoring the act. He had let her bleed out slowly, cruelly drawing out her final moments. The scene was a nightmare of gore: blood sprayed across the walls, congealed in thick pools on the floor, smeared in what almost seemed like purposeful patterns. The blood on the floor told a grim story of its own, scattered in ways that suggested not just violence, but movement.

The second victim, Eric Watts, a 36-year-old plumber, had been found in much the same state. Another warehouse, another scene of calculated carnage. His body hung from the ceiling, suspended like a grotesque puppet, slashed with the same cold precision. His blood had pooled beneath him, the same sickening patterns left behind, as if the killers found joy in the desecration of human life.

There were no obvious connections between Lauren and Eric: no shared history, no common threads, but the horror they endured bound them together. The only connection was the sheer sadism behind their deaths, the terrifying reality of what they had suffered.

When you and Hotch arrived at the latest crime scene, the atmosphere was suffocating, the heavy stench of decay mixing with something far more sinister - a creeping, invisible darkness that seemed to pulse from the walls and seep into your bones. The warehouse was cold and damp, every step echoing in the cavernous space, amplifying the feeling of dread that settled under your skin. The scene before you was like stepping into a nightmare: blood was smeared across every surface, splattered like a grotesque and violent artwork that told the story of terror in a language only the twisted could understand.

The victim’s body still hung from the ceiling, pale and lifeless, suspended like a gruesome puppet left to rot. The stark contrast of crimson against the cold concrete created a macabre impressionist masterpiece, each streak and spatter of blood capturing the chaos and suffering of the final moments.

But it was the floor that truly made the scene unbearable: bloody footprints crisscrossed the entire space, overlapping and swirling in erratic patterns, turning the ground into a nightmarish dance floor painted in red. It wasn’t just the sight of the blood; it was the story those prints told, a sickening ballet of violence and madness performed by the killers who saw their victims as props in a twisted dance of death.

Hotch moved through the scene with his usual composed intensity, every step deliberate, every glance calculated. He had a way of grounding you even in the most horrifying moments, his presence a constant reminder that you weren’t alone in facing this darkness.

You watched him closely as he crouched near the center of the room, his dark eyes scanning the bloody prints with the kind of focused calm that never wavered. There was something impossibly magnetic about his concentration, how he could look at chaos and find the patterns hidden within it. It was reassuring, and you couldn’t help but feel even more attracted by him every time you watched him work.

Hotch leaned in closer, tracing the jagged, uneven edges of the footprints with the tip of his pen, his expression hardening as he took in every detail. “There are two sets of footprints,” he observed, his voice steady and sure, cutting through the suffocating silence. “One left by a man, the other by a woman.” His focus was absolute, as if he were piecing together a puzzle only he could see.

You stepped closer, feeling the coolness of the blood-slicked floor through your shoes, the sticky sensation almost making you shudder. As you looked down at the prints, your mind raced, trying to make sense of the bizarre choreography. The shapes and patterns were hypnotic against the blood-stained concrete, swirling and merging in ways that felt oddly deliberate, almost purposeful.

You could feel Hotch beside you, his presence a steady anchor amid this violent tableau, and you leaned into that unspoken support, drawing strength from his calm.

“They’re not just walking around,” you said softly, your voice almost lost in the vast emptiness of the warehouse. The realization struck you suddenly, sharp and undeniable. “It’s almost like they’re dancing.” The prints weren’t just random; they moved in loops, turns, and steps that followed no logical path but instead mirrored something more fluid, more rhythmic. It was as if the unsubs were performing, dancing in the blood of their victim as they died above them.

Hotch’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting yours in an intense, electrifying moment of shared understanding. You could see the same chilling realization dawning in his expression, the pieces clicking into place with a horrifying clarity. You were both thinking the same thing, and when you spoke, the words tumbled out in perfect, uncanny sync: “It’s a folie à deux.”

Folie à deux - madness shared by two. The way the killers had moved around their victims, the sickening dance in their own blood, it all pointed to a couple lost in their own twisted world, feeding off each other’s delusions.

Hotch’s gaze lingered on yours, his expression a mixture of determination and something deeper, something that mirrored your own emotions, an unspoken acknowledgment of the darkness you were about to face.

The air between you felt charged, every breath heavy with the weight of what you had uncovered. In that brief moment, you felt a rush of warmth that cut through the chill of the crime scene, a reassurance that whatever horrors lay ahead, you would face them together, side by side.

You turned your attention back to the scene, but the connection lingered, a silent promise that neither of you had to say aloud. This wasn’t just about catching killers; it was about understanding the twisted minds that had found solace in each other’s madness.

☐ ⬛

Back at the police station, the atmosphere was tense, the air thick with the urgency of finding a connection that seemed maddeningly out of reach. The four of you were gathered around a large conference table, the crime scene photos spread out like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that refused to fit together.

You watched as Hotch leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the images before him. You couldn’t help but steal glances at him, admiring the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way he absentmindedly tapped his pen against the table, little quirks you had memorized in the quiet moments between the chaos.

“They have no connection,” Rossi said, frustration evident as he flipped through the victim profiles. “One’s a student, the other’s a plumber. Different neighborhoods, different circles. There’s nothing that ties them together.”

Gideon nodded, his usually sharp eyes clouded with concern. “Lauren was outgoing, well-liked in her classes, no known enemies. Eric kept to himself, lived alone. They were single, no significant relationships that would tie them together. No overlap, no common link.”

You studied the crime scene photos, trying to piece together the senseless brutality into something that made even a fragment of sense. The killers weren’t just murdering—they were performing, re-enacting something deeply personal.

A thought struck you, a theory that felt like it was teetering on the edge of insanity, but you couldn’t shake it. “Maybe the connection isn’t between the victims,” you said slowly, your voice trembling slightly as you spoke. “Maybe it’s about the killers. They’re choosing substitutes, victims that represent something to them. They’re killing themselves over and over, using these people as stand-ins. It’s the only way they can keep their bond alive.”

Hotch leaned back, his gaze fixed on you, piecing together the fragments of the theory you’d just laid out. There was something about the way he looked at you - sharp, attentive, and with a hint of pride that sent warmth flooding through you. “If that’s the case,” he said thoughtfully, “then the unsubs must have a significant age difference. At least ten years, maybe more. One victim is young, the other is older, they’re acting out their issues, punishing each other through these surrogates.”

Gideon’s expression tightened, urgency pressing down on him. “But now we’re running out of time. The pattern is clear: they’ve killed one victim every Friday. Today is Thursday. If we don’t catch them soon, we’ll be looking at another body tomorrow.”

Silence filled the room, heavy with the weight of the ticking clock. The profile was solidifying, but you were still searching for that key piece that would lead you to the unsubs before they struck again.

Rossi tapped his pen against the table, drawing everyone’s attention. “They’re not picking these people at random. The way they kill, it’s theatrical, ritualistic. It’s personal. It’s like they’re putting on a show for each other.”

You pointed to the photos of the bloody footprints, the twisted dance steps that had been burned into your mind since you’d first seen them. “The dance. The way they move around the bodies - it’s coordinated, like a rehearsed routine. Both victims had connections to dance events in the city. Lauren was part of an improv dance group, and Eric attended open dance nights with his niece. They’re targeting couples who, in some way, remind them of themselves.”

Hotch nodded, the pieces clicking into place. “The unsubs are drawn to these events. They’re either participants or observers, targeting couples who challenge their twisted ideas of love and connection.”

Gideon and Rossi exchanged knowing looks, their expressions shifting from grim determination to something almost playful. There was a hint of amusement in their eyes, a rare break from the tension as they turned their attention back to you and Hotch.

“You know what that means,” Gideon said, his tone laced with a sly undertone that hinted at more than just strategy. “We need someone who can really get under their skin, challenge their so-called ‘love.’”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, a smirk spreading across his face as he glanced between you and Hotch. “And who better than the two of you? You fit the victimology like a glove - twelve years apart, just like their preferred targets. Plus,” he added, his voice dripping with mischief, “you two have pulled enough late-night sessions over case files. Now you get to do something a little more… interactive.”

He gave a wink, clearly enjoying the irony, and you could practically feel the teasing energy radiating off him. It was all too clear that Rossi and Gideon were having far too much fun at your expense. They knew exactly what they were doing, and the thought of you and Hotch going undercover as a couple was like handing them a golden opportunity to poke at both of you.

They didn’t just see partners, they saw the unspoken chemistry, the way you worked together like a well-oiled machine, and they weren’t going to miss the chance to play matchmaker, even if it was in the guise of catching killers.

Rossi’s grin widened as he saw the look on your face, and you could tell he was reveling in every second of this. “It’s fate,” he said with a chuckle, barely able to contain his amusement. “Out of all the things you two have faced, this might be your greatest challenge yet.”

Gideon nodded, barely suppressing his own smile. “So, go on. Pack your dance shoes. Time to see if you can keep up with the unsubs.”

The suggestion hit you like a freight train, sending your thoughts spiraling. The idea of going undercover as a couple with Hotch was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. It wasn’t just about pretending, it was about pretending with him.

Every time you looked at him, you felt the undeniable pull of your own feelings, the crush that you’d tried so hard to keep hidden, now bubbling dangerously close to the surface. Being this close to him, touching him, dancing with him… it was everything you wanted and everything you were afraid to confront.

Hotch caught your eye, a small, almost teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Out of all the things I signed up for when I joined the Bureau,” he said, his voice edged with humor, “I never thought I’d end up dancing.”

You tried to suppress the nerves fluttering in your chest, forcing a playful smile in return. “Be careful what you wish for, Hotch. Remember the deal you made back in Quantico? That you’d propose when you owed me a thousand cups of coffee? Well, here we are—on our anniversary, rehearsing for what could be our first dance.”

Hotch chuckled, his smile widening, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Guess we’re ahead of schedule, then. I might have to get that ring ready sooner than I thought.”

You both laughed, but beneath the banter, there was a flutter of something real, something that made your heart skip. The weight of your joke hung between you, laced with the kind of unspoken longing that you’d been trying to ignore for far too long. If only he knew how much you wished those playful words were true.

☐ ⬛

Later, back at the hotel, you found yourself in the lobby, staring down at the dance steps outlined in the file Gideon had handed you. It was a romantic routine: timeless, intimate, and designed to draw attention. As you studied the sequence, you felt Hotch approach, his presence warm and grounding.

You looked up to find him leaning casually against the wall, jacket draped over his shoulder, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the strong lines of his forearms. You couldn’t help but notice how his hair was starting to fall loose, framing his face in a way that made him look almost boyish, at how he was effortlessly handsome.

“You ready for this?” Hotch asked, his voice a low, comforting rumble. There was a lightness in his tone, but you could see the hint of nerves in his eyes. It was oddly reassuring to know that he was feeling the same strange mix of anticipation and anxiety that you were.

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice steady. “The Bureau never prepared me for undercover ballroom dancing. I think the last time I slow danced, I tripped over my own feet more times than I care to admit.”

Hotch’s laugh was warm, genuine, and it sent a ripple of something achingly sweet through you. “Well, it’s not exactly standard training. But you’ve got rhythm, you’ll pick it up. And hey, if we can survive a shootout together, we can handle a dance floor.”

You arched an eyebrow, teasing. “I’m starting to think you’ve been hiding some secret dance skills. Were you secretly moonlighting as a dance instructor?”

He shook his head, grinning. “Not quite. But I did take a few lessons back in college. Thought it’d be a good way to meet people. I was terrible at first - tripped over my own feet more times than I’d like to admit.”

You laughed, the image of a younger, awkward Hotch struggling through a dance class making you smile. There was something endearing about the thought, something that made you feel like you were seeing a part of him that few ever got to see.

Hotch extended his hand, his eyes meeting yours with a gentle challenge. “Ready to give it a shot?”

You took his hand, the touch of his skin sending a rush of warmth up your arm. “Not even one bit.”

The song Gideon and Rossi chose for the two of you was ‘It’s All Coming Back To Me Now’ by Celine Dion. The music began, soft and slow, filling the lobby with a melody that felt both timeless and intimate. As you moved together, each step felt like a tentative exploration of something more than just a dance.

Hotch’s hand on your waist, the subtle strength in his hold, the way his eyes never left yours, it was all so much more than you’d expected, and you couldn’t help but feel the weight of every unspoken feeling between you.

“Careful,” Hotch teased as you stumbled slightly, catching you effortlessly. “Can’t have you falling for me on the dance floor.”

You shot him a playful glare, your cheeks burning with the double meaning behind his words. “If I do, it’s entirely your fault.”

Hotch’s smile softened, his thumb brushing against your hand as you continued to move in sync. “I’ll take full responsibility.”

The song played on, each step bringing you closer, each touch making it harder to ignore the truth you’d been hiding. Dancing with Hotch felt like stepping into a dream you didn’t want to wake from, a dangerous, beautiful dance where every move whispered of what could be, if only you were brave enough to reach for it.

As the song ended, Hotch pulled you close, his voice low and teasing. “Guess we really are rehearsing for our first dance.”

You laughed, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded in your chest. “Yeah, and just think, you’ve still got 800 coffees to go before you have to propose.”

He smirked, a twinkle in his eyes. “Better get to work beating me, then. I’m not planning on waiting forever.”

The words hung between you, playful yet laced with an unspoken promise. You knew it was just banter, just another layer of the teasing that had become so natural between you. But standing there, wrapped in the lingering closeness of the dance, it felt like so much more.

You stepped back slightly, breaking the intimate proximity but not the connection that buzzed between you. Hotch’s hand lingered at your waist for a second longer than necessary, and you felt the warmth of his touch sear through the fabric of your blouse, leaving a ghost of a feeling that you knew you’d carry long after this moment was over.

The silence stretched, not awkward but charged, both of you caught in a rare moment of vulnerability. Hotch’s gaze remained fixed on you, his dark eyes searching yours as if trying to read the unspoken words that hovered just out of reach. For a moment, you thought he might say something, something real, something that would bring down the walls you’d both so carefully built. But instead, he broke the tension with a soft, knowing smile.

“You did good,” he said, his voice a low, comforting murmur that sent a thrill down your spine. “I think we’ve got this.”

You nodded, trying to muster your usual bravado even as your heart thudded in your chest. “Yeah, well, it’s not every day I get to dance with a lawyer. I’d say that’s worth at least a few points in my favor.”

Hotch chuckled, a sound that was all warmth and affection, and you couldn’t help but bask in it, soaking up every second. “Just remember, you’ve still got a long way to go before you catch up. But I’ll admit,” he said, tilting his head with a playful glint, “you’re getting closer.”

The lightness of his words belied the heaviness in your chest, the way your feelings for him felt like a secret you could no longer keep hidden. You wanted to say more, to let him know just how much these moments with him meant to you, how every joke and every stolen glance was a lifeline amid the chaos.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to risk the delicate balance of your partnership, the friendship that had grown into something far more complex than you’d ever imagined.

Instead, you settled for a smile, one that you hoped conveyed at least a fraction of what you felt. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Hotch. And who knows, by the time we hit a thousand coffees, maybe I’ll have you dancing circles around me.”

Hotch’s smile turned softer, almost wistful, and for a fleeting second, you thought you saw a flicker of something more in his eyes, something that mirrored the quiet longing you carried for him every day. “Maybe,” he said, his voice tinged with a kind of quiet sincerity that made your heart ache. “But if you ask me, you’re already leading the way.”  

The moment passed, but the unspoken sentiment lingered between you, a promise wrapped in uncertainty, an almost that hung just out of reach. As Hotch turned back to the files spread out on the table, his focus already shifting back to the task at hand, you couldn’t help but steal one last glance, committing every detail of this moment to memory. It was hard not to get lost in the fantasy of it, to imagine that maybe you and Hotch were dancing for yourselves, not just to catch a pair of killers.

Because even if it was just banter, just a playful dance of words and what-ifs, it was enough.

For now, it was enough to be by his side, to share the weight of the cases and the late nights and the stolen moments of something that felt almost like happiness.

For now, you’d keep dancing around the truth, holding onto the hope that someday, the steps would lead you to something more.

☐ ⬛

The atmosphere in your accommodation felt charged with an energy that was hard to ignore. You and Hotch had just finished a long day of preparation, your bodies still buzzing from the adrenaline of the evening.

This was the first time you had shared a room with him since you realized your feelings for him had deepened into something more, and you were painfully aware of the tension that hung in the air.

You were both drenched in the aftereffects of your undercover mission. The dance had felt so intimate, so dangerously close, and now you found yourself grappling with those emotions in a more personal setting. The idea of showering was both a relief and a distraction, a way to wash away the sweat and tension from the evening.

As you stepped beside the bathroom, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the moment was significant, that it marked a turning point between you and Hotch. You had shared hotel rooms on countless occasions, but this felt different. This time, there was an awareness, a hint of vulnerability that made your heart race.

“Do you want to go first?” Hotch asked, ever the gentleman, as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. You nodded, grateful for the moment to gather your thoughts, to shake off the lingering tension of the evening.

After your shower, you dried your hair and slipped into a comfortable shirt and your usual pajama shorts, taking a deep breath before reentering the main room. As you emerged, you found Hotch sprawled out on the bed, a bemused expression on his face as he flipped through the pages of the book you had given him, Hegel for Dummies.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sight of him attempting to wrestle with philosophical concepts a delightful surprise. “Look at you, and I thought I was the official philosopher of our duo,” you teased, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe. “I never thought I’d see you actually reading a book about philosophy. I was sure you were too serious for ‘Hegel for Dummies’.” you emphasized the word “dummies” with a smirk, savoring the rare chance to poke fun at his usually serious demeanor.

Hotch glanced up, his dark eyes twinkling with a rare spark of amusement. “What can I say? I’m already feeling a bit wiser,” he replied with a dry smile. “But hey, who wouldn’t want their mind expanded by ‘Hegel for Dummies’?” He emphasized the word with a smirk, playing right into your joke. “Though, I’ll admit, this wasn’t exactly how I envisioned unwinding after a long day on the job.”

“Just promise me you won’t start quoting him at me,” you said, dropping into the chair opposite him with a playful grin. “I’m not exactly in the mood to have my brain twisted around philosophical notions of love and duty - especially not whatever version of that ‘Hegel for Dummies’ is peddling. That sounds like a headache waiting to happen, that could get overly-simplified.”

Hotch stood up and stretched, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt as it rode up slightly, revealing a teasing glimpse of the firm, toned skin at his waist. You caught yourself staring, heat flooding your cheeks as you quickly looked away, caught between admiration and a surge of embarrassment.

“I’ll do my best to keep the heavy philosophy to a minimum,” he said, his voice low and slightly teasing as he moved toward the bathroom. “But I can’t promise I won’t slip up.” The way he glanced back at you, a subtle challenge in his eyes, left you feeling a little breathless, as if his words were more than just about Hegel for Dummies. 

As he stepped into the bathroom to shower, you couldn’t help but stare at the closed door, the lingering warmth of his presence still in the air. It was a mix of nerves and excitement, and you were acutely aware of how much you wanted to cross that invisible line between partnership and something more.

When Hotch emerged from the bathroom, his hair was still damp and tousled, messy in a way that made him look effortlessly handsome. Droplets of water clung to his skin, trailing slowly down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, drawing your eyes to the strong lines of his throat and the hint of muscle beneath. For a moment, your breath hitched, and time seemed to stretch as you took him in - disheveled, raw, and undeniably attractive.

He exuded a quiet confidence, his body a blend of strength and subtle elegance that was captivating, even in his exhaustion, you couldn’t tear your gaze away, admiring the man who, even at his most worn-down, was impossibly magnetic.

“Are you okay?” he asked, catching your gaze. His voice held a hint of concern, a gentle nudge back to reality.

You shook your head, trying to focus on the task at hand. “Yeah, just… lost in thought.” Your voice sounded distant even to you, the weight of everything lingering in the air. “Oh, and Peter just called. He’s in Los Angeles on a case, and he wanted to know if we’d be up for grabbing drinks when we get back.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, concern and curiosity mingling in his gaze as he studied you closely. “Are you okay with that?” he asked gently, his voice softening with genuine care and a quiet, almost protective undertone. He hesitated, his eyes lingering on yours, as if trying to unravel the emotions you kept hidden just beneath the surface. “And what about the date you had with him? How did that go?”

You sighed, feeling the weight of the unspoken truth bubbling up before you could stop it. It wasn’t easy to admit, especially to Hotch, but something about his presence made it impossible to hold back. “Honestly, it just reinforced what I already knew,” you confessed, your voice tinged with a mix of frustration and resignation. “We’re compatible as friends, but when it comes to being a couple, there’s… something missing.”

Hotch leaned against the doorframe, his posture relaxed but his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. His expression was open, his concern genuine, and it was clear that he wasn’t just asking to be polite; he wanted to understand. “Missing how?” he pressed, his voice low and full of quiet curiosity that pulled you in.

You hesitated, grappling with the vulnerability of sharing the deeper truth, a truth that you hadn’t even fully admitted to yourself. “I don’t know,” you said slowly, searching for the right words. “It’s like there’s no spark, no real connection that makes me feel… grounded. I keep trying to find this balance within myself, this sense of who I am and what I want, before I dive back into dating. With him, I just felt like I was going through the motions, hoping for something that wasn’t really there.”

You watched as Hotch absorbed your words, his expression shifting with a flicker of understanding. There was a look in his eyes that told you he got it, maybe more than anyone else ever could. “You’re being honest,” he said softly, his tone filled with quiet respect. “That’s important. And it sounds like you’re making the right choice, prioritizing what feels true to you instead of forcing something that doesn’t fit.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, warmth spreading through you at his validation. “Thanks,” you murmured, feeling the comfort of his support like a gentle embrace. But beneath your gratitude, there was a lingering ache, a nagging wish that you could tell him the other real reason you were so hesitant to start something new with anyone else. The truth was, it wasn’t just about finding balance within yourself, it was also about him.

Hotch studied you for a long moment, his gaze never wavering as if he were searching for something deeper, some hidden truth that you hadn’t yet found the courage to voice. “Just remember,” he said, his voice gentle and laced with a sincerity that made your heart flutter, “it’s okay to take your time. There’s no rush to figure it all out, and no rulebook you have to follow.”

His words were simple, but they carried a weight that hit you straight in the chest. Hotch wasn’t just talking about your reluctance to date; he was offering you the space to breathe, to heal, to find your way without pressure or judgment. It was the kind of reassurance you hadn’t realized you needed, and it made you feel seen in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.

You offered him a grateful smile, feeling a surge of affection for him that was impossible to ignore. “Thanks, Hotch. That means a lot,” you said softly, and you meant it more than he would ever know.

“And, by the way,” you added, trying to lighten the mood, “Even if you are the philosopher now, I don’t think you have to worry about being proposed to anytime soon.”

Hotch chuckled, his voice playful  “You never know. A thousand coffees and a philosophical debate might just seal the deal.”

You laughed, trying to shake off the weight of your feelings. “Well, I’ll just have to make sure I’m ready for that day, then.”

Hotch turned away, rummaging through his bag for a fresh shirt, and your eyes couldn’t help but follow the movement. As he pulled off his damp shirt, you caught a glimpse of the toned muscles in his back, the way they flexed subtly under his skin. The faint sheen of moisture made his skin glisten, his hair clinging damply to his forehead in a way that was both rugged and impossibly enticing. Your breath hitched, heart pounding as you watched him, captivated by the effortless grace of his movements.

You were drawn to him in ways that you could hardly admit, even to yourself. It wasn’t just his looks - though the sight of his broad shoulders and the curve of his spine definitely didn’t help your situation - it was everything he embodied. He was stability, strength, and an unwavering presence that grounded you even in the darkest moments. He was everything you craved, everything you told yourself you shouldn’t want, and yet here you were, heart racing and pulse quickening at just the sight of him.

You shifted on the bed, trying to focus on anything but him, but it was useless. Every movement he made drew your attention. The way he absentmindedly ran his hand through his wet hair, ruffling it in a way that left it messier than before. The subtle tilt of his head as he absorbed your words, genuinely invested in what you had to say. He made you feel seen, and that was more dangerous than any undercover mission.

“So,” Hotch said as he slipped his arms into his shirt, the fabric hugging his shoulders in a way that made your heart race, “do you ever regret it? Not… dating, but just how all of this can make things so complicated?”

You looked up, surprised by the question. The vulnerability in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. “Honestly? Sometimes,” you admitted, your voice soft. “But I think it’s normal to feel that way. The job… it demands so much. And sometimes I wonder if it’s worth the trade-offs. But then I remember why I started, why I wanted this, and it keeps me going.”

Hotch nodded, his gaze distant as if he were sifting through his own set of regrets. “I get that,” he said quietly. “It’s easy to lose sight of things, to get caught up in the job and forget what you wanted in the first place.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. It was a rare, intimate glimpse into Aaron—the man beneath the stoic exterior, the version of himself he reserved only for moments like these, moments shared with you outside the rigid confines of work.

It was moments like this that made your feelings for him feel far deeper than a simple crush. It wasn’t just a fleeting infatuation; it was something profound, something that had quietly grown over time through every shared late night, every unspoken understanding, and every instance of mutual respect and unacknowledged care.

“Hotch,” you began, hesitating as you searched for the right words, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but… I really look up to you. You’re the reason I push myself every day. Because you set this standard that I want to live up to. Not just as an agent, but as a person.”

Hotch glanced at you, his eyes softening with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place. Gratitude? Affection? Whatever it was, it made your pulse quicken. “You don’t need to live up to anyone but yourself,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re… you’re better than you realize. And I’m glad to have you as my partner.”

The sincerity in his words settled over you like a warm blanket, soothing the frayed edges of your nerves. You wanted to say more, to tell him how much his opinion meant to you, but the lump in your throat made it impossible. So instead, you just nodded, hoping he understood the depth of your appreciation.

Hotch finished to dry his hair with the towel, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to imagine a different scenario. One where this wasn’t just another case, where you weren’t just colleagues sharing a hotel room for the sake of the job. You imagined lazy mornings, quiet dinners, and dances that were just for the two of you, moments untethered from the weight of your work.

“You know,” Hotch said, breaking the silence with a teasing smile, “for someone who’s supposedly my biggest competition, you’re pretty soft.”

You rolled your eyes, grateful for the lighthearted shift. “Don’t let it get to your head, Hotchner. I’m still gunning for that 1,000th coffee win, and when it happens, you’ll be the one stuck making breakfast every morning.”

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine, and it made your heart swell. “If that’s the price of losing, I think I can live with it.”

He sat down on the edge of his bed, picking up the book again, flipping through the pages as if searching for something to focus on. The sight of him engrossed in philosophy, his brow furrowed in concentration, was both endearing and a little surreal. You hadn’t expected him to take to the book so earnestly, but here he was, deep in thought, as if dissecting the nature of existence itself.

“Never pegged you as the type to dive into Hegel,” you teased lightly, hoping to steer your thoughts away from the yearning you were struggling to hide. “I thought you’d find it too abstract.”

Hotch glanced up, his smile small but genuine. ”Hegel for Dummies” he corrected you “Well, you did say it’d make me the official philosopher of the team. Besides, it’s… interesting. Challenging. A good distraction.”

“A distraction from what?” you asked, curious but careful, not wanting to pry too much.

Hotch hesitated, his eyes briefly clouding with something unspoken. “Just… life, I guess. It’s a lot easier to focus on someone else’s theories than to get lost in my own head sometimes.”

You nodded, understanding the sentiment more than you could say. “Guess we all need a distraction every now and then.”

He smiled at that, and for a moment, the room felt lighter, the heaviness of the day lifting just enough for you to breathe a little easier. Hotch stood up, stretching his arms up again, the hem of his shirt lifting slightly to reveal a glimpse of toned muscle beneath. You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on anything else, the artistry behind the pattern of the carpet, the flowers motives taking inspiration from 1800’s Art Nouveau… anything that wasn’t him.

Hotch caught your flustered expression and chuckled, the sound warm and unexpected. “If there’s something you want to say, you can just say it. I’m not a mind reader, you know.”

You fumbled for words, desperately trying to mask the fact that you’d been caught staring. “No, it’s nothing,” you stammered, your mind scrambling to come up with a quick distraction. “I was just thinking… once this case is over, maybe we should figure out a way to hand this undercover gig back to our two lovebirds. You know, let Rossi and Gideon get a taste of their own medicine. They’ve had way too much fun at our expense.”

Hotch paused, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You mean like turning the tables on them?” he asked, his tone light but carrying a hint of something more devilish beneath it. “Maybe set them up with a little undercover operation of their own. I bet Gideon would look great in a dance ensemble.”

You laughed, enjoying the image of the two seasoned profilers stumbling through a dance routine. “Oh, definitely. Maybe we should get them to ‘rehearse’ with us. A little late-night surprise choreography. We could even record it, strictly for case review purposes, of course.”

Hotch’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned in, clearly enjoying the idea. “We’ll make them pay for every smug look and every teasing comment. Let’s call it payback with a side of public humiliation.”

“Partners on the job, partners on the dancefloor, and partners in crime,” Hotch said, his voice laced with a mix of playful mischief and sincerity.

You grinned, feeling a rush of warmth at the thought of plotting with him. “The unholy trinity. They should have known better than to pair us up in the first place,” you said, savoring the moment.

Hotch’s expression softened slightly, his smile still lingering. “We would’ve found our way, no matter what,” he said, his voice laced with a quiet conviction that sent warmth flooding through you.

☐ ⬛

The next evening, the dance hall was alive with a soft, romantic glow, illuminated by chandeliers that cast a warm, golden light across the polished wooden floors. The air was filled with the soft murmur of conversations and the gentle strains of a live band playing in the corner.

Elegantly dressed couples moved gracefully around the room, their easy smiles and carefree movements masking the dark reality that lingered just beneath the surface. But for you and Hotch, this wasn’t just another night out, it was a hunt, and the dance floor was your stage.

Hotch was dressed in a tailored black suit that hugged his frame perfectly, exuding both authority and elegance. The crisp white shirt beneath his jacket added a touch of classic sophistication, but it was the open collar and the absence of his usual tie that gave him an air of relaxed charm that was rarely seen. His presence was magnetic, drawing eyes even in a room full of polished strangers.

You wore a sleek, simple white dress that softly hugged your curves, the fabric flowing with every step and catching the light as you moved. It was elegant yet daring, a statement piece that matched the confidence you needed to exude tonight. The neckline dipped just enough to be provocative without crossing the line, and the slit at your thigh gave you the freedom to dance with ease, a pair of dance heels completing the look.

Hotch’s hand rested lightly on your lower back as you entered the dance hall, his touch warm and firm, a silent reassurance that anchored you in the moment. You could feel the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of your dress, and every gentle press of his fingers sent a shiver up your spine that was impossible to ignore.

It was part of the cover, you reminded yourself, just an act to make you look the part. But every time he leaned in close, every whisper of his breath against your ear, it felt like so much more than that.

“Remember, stay close,” Hotch murmured, his lips brushing your ear as his voice rumbled low and intimate, almost sending a shiver straight to your core. “We need to blend in, keep it natural. And if you see anything—”

“Signal you,” you finished, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. You shot him a teasing smile, trying to mask the way his proximity made your pulse race. “I’ve got it. Just don’t step on my toes, okay?”

Hotch’s smile was quick and genuine, his eyes twinkling with a rare playfulness that made your breath catch. “No promises,” he said, his tone light but laced with the familiar seriousness of the job. “But I’ll try to keep the damage to a minimum.”

The music shifted, and the opening notes of “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” filled the room, the familiar melody wrapping around you like a soft embrace. You took your places on the dance floor, and as Hotch’s hand found yours, a current of electricity passed between you. This was the routine you’d rehearsed endlessly, designed to lure the unsubs into revealing themselves. But as you stepped into the familiar movements, it felt like more than just a strategy.

Hotch’s grip on your waist was firm but gentle, guiding you effortlessly across the floor. His other hand clasped yours, fingers interlacing in a way that felt both intimate and natural, as if you’d done this a hundred times before – and actually you did last night.

Each step was precise, each turn fluid, but it wasn’t just the choreography that made your heart race, it was the way Hotch’s eyes never left yours, dark and intense, as if you were the only two people in the room. His movements were smooth, confident, and you couldn’t help but be drawn to the quiet strength that radiated from him.

With every spin, you felt the brush of his suit against your dress, the closeness of his body sending heat coursing through your veins. You were acutely aware of every touch, every shift in his posture as he pulled you closer, his breath mingling with yours in the space between.

The dance was supposed to be a lure, a means to an end, but in that moment, it was easy to forget the purpose behind it. It felt like an unspoken conversation, every movement a confession of the emotions simmering beneath the surface.

As Hotch twirled you around, your back pressed against his chest, the world seemed to narrow to the rhythm of the music and the warmth of his touch. For a brief, dizzying moment, you weren’t just undercover agents, you were two people lost in each other, sharing something that went beyond words.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering near your ear, his voice barely audible over the music. “You’re doing great,” he murmured, and the sincerity in his tone made your heart flutter. It wasn’t just praise; it was a reminder that he was with you, that you were in this together, not just on the dance floor but in everything.

As the song built to its powerful crescendo, you felt the weight of the room shift. Eyes were on you - some admiring, others envious, and two pairs watching with a chilling intensity. The unsubs had noticed you, just as you’d hoped. But in that moment, it was hard to remember that this was all a performance, that the heat between you and Hotch was supposed to be an act.

“Doing okay?” Hotch asked, his voice low and steady as he pulled you closer, his hand resting at the small of your back.

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “Yeah. I think we’ve got their attention.”

Sure enough, as you continued to dance, you noticed a couple standing off to the side, watching you with an unsettling intensity. The man was tall and rigid, his expression dark and brooding. The woman beside him was younger, with a delicate, almost ethereal appearance, her eyes flickering between you and Hotch with a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled hostility.

Hotch’s grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent signal that he’d seen them too. “They’re watching us,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t make it obvious. Just keep dancing.”

You nodded, trying to maintain your composure as the unsubs edged closer, their movements purposeful and predatory. The woman’s gaze lingered on you with a kind of disdain that made your skin crawl, as if she were sizing you up, looking for weaknesses. You felt Hotch shift slightly, positioning himself between you and the male unsub, a subtle but deliberate move to protect you.

As the music swelled, Hotch spun you in a graceful arc, his hand firm against your back, guiding you effortlessly. The dance felt like an extension of your partnership: fluid, unspoken, each movement a testament to the trust you’d built.

“This is it,” Hotch whispered as he dipped you low, his face inches from yours. You could feel the tension in his hold, the urgency mixed with something else, something that made your breath hitch. “They’re coming in. Just a little longer.”

You nodded, eyes locked with his, feeling the weight of the moment. When he pulled you back up, you spotted the unsubs moving toward you, their expressions dark and taunting. They joined the dance, circling you and Hotch with a menace that was palpable. The woman moved erratically, her steps sharp and aggressive as if mocking your movements, daring you to falter.

The man sneered, his presence looming as he matched Hotch step for step. “You think you’re good enough to keep up with us?” he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. “This isn’t just a dance.”

Hotch’s expression remained calm, but you could see the fire in his eyes. “It’s not about being good enough. It’s about knowing when to stop.”

The tension reached a breaking point as the woman lunged at you, but Hotch was faster, pulling you back and shielding you with his body. The room erupted into chaos as undercover agents moved in, surrounding the unsubs with practiced precision. You were yanked out of the way, Hotch’s hand never leaving yours as he guided you to safety.

The man fought back viciously, but the agents overpowered him quickly, wrestling him to the ground. The woman was dragged away, her screams echoing in the dance hall as she cursed and spat, her eyes wild with fury. It was over in a matter of seconds, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins made it feel like an eternity.

Hotch stood beside you, his breathing ragged but controlled, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before you. “You did great,” he said softly, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and exhaustion. “We did it.”

You turned to him, the weight of everything hitting you all at once “Yeah,” you replied, your voice unsteady. “We did.”

“Guess our partnership does extend to the dance floor after all,” Hotch said with a faint smile, echoing your earlier banter. His eyes held yours, warm and familiar, and you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope for whatever might come next.

You laughed softly, squeezing his hand in return. “Yeah, but I’m still holding you to that deal, Hotch. A thousand coffees, remember?”

He chuckled, his expression softening in a way that made your heart skip, he teased. “You just might get it.”

And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, someday, you would.

☐ ⬛

Back at the hotel, the adrenaline of the night had finally worn off, leaving you both drained. Hotch was seated at the small table in your shared room, his usually sharp posture softened by fatigue, sleeves rolled up. He had his jacket carelessly tossed over the back of a chair, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp as he flipped through the case notes one last time. The quiet rustle of paper filled the room, a familiar sound that normally calmed you, but tonight, it only reminded you of how much had happened in the span of a few hours.

You sat across from him, cradling a cup of coffee that had gone cold a while ago, but you didn’t care. Hotch glanced up, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, the exhaustion in his expression softened, replaced by something gentler, more personal.

“You handled yourself well out there,” he said, his voice low but filled with a sincerity that sent warmth rushing through your chest. “That wasn’t easy, but you kept your head, and… I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.”

You felt your cheeks warm under his praise, the knot of tension in your chest loosening ever so slightly. There was something about the way he said it, the way his gaze lingered on you, that made you feel seen in a way you rarely allowed yourself to feel. “Thanks, Hotch. I couldn’t have done it without you… literally,” you said with a soft smile, trying to keep your voice light despite the emotions stirring within you.

Hotch chuckled, the sound low and warm, a rare softness that made your pulse quicken. “I think we made quite the team tonight. I’d say Rossi and Gideon were right for once.”

You both laughed, the sound easing the lingering tension in the room. You could almost hear Rossi’s smug voice ringing in your ears, the playful teasing he’d surely throw your way once you were all back at the office. But as the laughter faded, the reality of the night settled back in, leaving you with a quiet, contemplative moment that was all too fleeting.

“It was strange,” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the coffee in your hands. “Being that close to… everything. To you.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, vulnerability lacing your voice, and you quickly tried to cover your tracks with a joke. “Especially because you’re not the most physical person I know—and this comes from another relatively not-so-physical person.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, as I’ve already told you, you’ll have to wait until the 1,000th coffee before you get any kind of physical contact.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, the joke a reminder of your earlier banter, but underneath it, you sensed the deeper acknowledgment of the closeness you’d shared on the dance floor.

“Be careful what you wish for, Hotch,” you teased, your voice light but tinged with genuine affection. “With the way things are going, we’re not just approaching our 1,000th coffee; we’re practically rehearsing for our first dance.”

Hotch shook his head, his smile widening as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Maybe it’s all part of Rossi’s master plan. Get us so tangled up in undercover work that we forget how to do anything else.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes at the thought of Rossi’s meddling. “If this is his idea of fun, then I’d hate to see what he has planned for our next assignment.”

The teasing between you felt like a lifeline, something solid and real to hold onto amid the chaos. But even as you joked, there was a flicker of something deeper in Hotch’s eyes, a quiet recognition that this was more than just another case, more than just another day on the job.

Eventually, Hotch set the case notes aside, his focus shifting entirely to you. He leaned back, studying you with an expression that was equal parts admiration and something softer, something you dared not name. “You should get some rest,” he said gently, his voice carrying a note of concern that tugged at your heart. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow, and I think we’ve both earned a break.”

You nodded, feeling the exhaustion tugging at your limbs as you stood and made your way toward your bed. But before you turned off the light, you glanced back at him, unable to keep the small, grateful smile from spreading across your face. “Goodnight, Hotch. And… thank you. For not having stepped on my toes.”

Hotch returned the smile, his eyes lingering on you in the dim light. “Goodnight,” he replied, his voice soft but resonant. “And thank you, for the dance.”

☐ ⬛

When both of you were back to Quantico, the bar was buzzing with the lively hum of weekend chatter and soft music playing over the speakers. After the intensity of your recent cases, you, Hotch, and Peter had agreed to meet up, seeking some semblance of normalcy amid the chaos of your jobs.

The three of you were seated at a circular table, dimly lit by the glow of a nearby lamp. Peter was talking animatedly about his case in Los Angeles, recounting the details with a mix of exasperation and pride, while you and Hotch listened, nursing your drinks.

You watched Peter with a fond smile, grateful for the easy camaraderie you shared, but also feeling the weight of recent revelations about your own feelings. As he talked, you couldn’t help but notice how animated he became when he was excited, the way his eyes lit up when he was deep in a story. It was moments like these that made you value his friendship so much, but also reminded you of why things between the two of you could never be more than that.

Your gaze drifted absently around the bar, soaking in the low-lit ambiance and the scattered patrons enjoying their evening. The clinking of glasses, murmured conversations, and soft laughter created a comforting buzz in the background.

But something else caught your attention: a woman at the table next to yours, just out of Peter’s line of sight, was eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and barely concealed interest. She was attractive, with an easy smile and bright eyes that flickered over to Peter whenever he wasn’t looking. Her body language screamed intrigue—subtle glances, a quick smoothing of her hair, and the nervous excitement of someone contemplating making the first move.

Instinctively, you glanced over at Hotch, who was already watching you with a knowing smirk, as if he’d been waiting for you to catch on. His dark eyes gleamed with the unspoken mischief you both shared, reading your thoughts without a single word.

It was one of those moments that felt like a silent conversation, a shared understanding you’d perfected over years of working together. You both knew what this was: Peter deserved someone who saw him, who could give him the attention he deserved, something you were too tangled up in your own unresolved feelings to offer.

Hotch leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial, his breath warm against your ear. “We should give him a chance,” he murmured, his lips twitching into a subtle smile that sent an unexpected flutter through your chest.

You nodded, catching on to his plan immediately, your own smile mirroring his. “We just need to find a way to leave him alone. Got any ideas?” you asked, your voice playful yet filled with anticipation.

Hotch’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous gleam, and you could practically see the wheels turning in his head. He had that look—the one that told you he was already five steps ahead, crafting a plan with the precision of a seasoned strategist. “Follow my lead,” he said, amusement lacing his tone. Hotch stood up, stretching casually, his movements drawing subtle glances from the surrounding tables. He made it look effortless, but you knew it was all part of the act.

“I’m going to grab us another round,” he announced, loud enough for Peter to hear but casual enough to keep up the ruse. He glanced back at you, a hint of challenge in his eyes. “You want anything, Y/N?”

You caught on without missing a beat, slipping into character with practiced ease. “Yeah, I’ll come with you,” you said, shooting Peter a quick, reassuring smile. “Keep our spot warm, okay? We’ll be right back.”

Peter, engrossed in his latest story about a wild case from the past, barely glanced up as he waved you off, too wrapped up in his own world to notice the unfolding setup. As you and Hotch made your way toward the bar, you risked a glance over your shoulder, just in time to see the woman take her chance.

She moved quickly, sliding into the seat next to Peter with a confident smile, striking up a conversation as though she’d been waiting all night for this moment. Peter’s expression shifted from surprise to a genuine, pleased smile, his posture straightening as he turned his attention fully to her.

Hotch watched the scene unfold, his smile turning smug with satisfaction. “Another mission accomplished, partner” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet pride that mirrored your own. It wasn’t often you got to play matchmaker, but seeing Peter’s face light up made it all worthwhile.

You stifled a laugh, feeling the thrill of a plan executed perfectly. “I think he’ll thank us later,” you quipped, sharing a quick look with Hotch that was filled with conspiratorial delight. It was a simple moment, but one that cemented the bond between you.

Hotch returned with two glasses of whiskey in hand, the amber liquid catching the dim light as he handed one to you. He raised his glass, a playful glint in his eyes. “For love at first sight,” he toasted with a grin, the humor in his voice unmistakable.

You couldn’t resist adding your own cheeky touch. “And maybe to something a little more… physical happening tonight.” You clinked your glass against his, the sound crisp and satisfying, and took a sip, savoring both the taste and the success of your little scheme.

Just as you settled back, the familiar, haunting opening notes of “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” began to play over the speakers, the dramatic chords filling the room with a nostalgic charge. The coincidence was surreal, almost eerie, and you both froze, exchanging a look of incredulous surprise, as if the universe was nudging you with a playful elbow.

“What are the odds?” you laughed, barely able to contain the mix of surprise and amusement bubbling up inside you. Hotch shook his head, smirking as he read your thoughts with ease.

“No,” he said firmly, though the smile playing at his lips betrayed his resolve. “I don’t think we’re going to do another show tonight.”

You leaned in closer, teasing him with a sparkle in your eyes. “Oh, come on, Hotch. Can you imagine the looks we’d get? It would be priceless. Plus, I bet drinks would be on me for the rest of the night.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his expression a blend of challenge and barely restrained laughter. “You don’t even have to ask me twice, then” he said, his voice low, filled with that familiar warmth and a hint of mischief that made your heart skip a beat.

Without another word, he set down his drink and extended his hand to you, his eyes gleaming with a mix of playfulness and something deeper, something that had been simmering between you for longer than either of you cared to admit. You hesitated for just a second, your gaze locked with his, before taking his hand, the contact sending a rush of exhilaration through you.

Hotch led you onto the dance floor, his grip firm but gentle, guiding you into position with a confidence that made it easy to fall into step. The music swelled, and suddenly it was just the two of you, surrounded by the soft glow of the lights and the muted conversations of the crowd. There was no case to focus on, no killers to catch, just you and Hotch, moving in sync to a song that seemed to echo every unspoken feeling between you.

His hand settled on your waist, his touch warm and steady, and you couldn’t help but lean into it, your body responding instinctively to his. Every spin, every step felt like a conversation without words, a silent dance of emotions that had been building between you for longer than you cared to admit. When he pulled you closer, his breath mingling with yours, the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

As the final note of the song hung in the air and the applause continued, you found yourself still standing impossibly close to Hotch, your breaths mingling, his hand still warm against yours. There was something thrilling about the moment, something unspoken passing between the two of you as the crowd around you slowly came back into focus.

Hotch smirked, his gaze flicking briefly to the bar. “Well, I believe someone owes me at least two rounds of whiskey,” he said, his voice teasing yet still carrying that low, rough edge that made your heart skip a beat.

You chuckled, your chest still heaving slightly from the dance. “A deal’s a deal,” you replied, your own grin widening. “And I’m nothing if not a woman of my word.”

He let go of your hand reluctantly, the absence of his touch leaving a small void that you couldn’t quite ignore. But there was warmth in his eyes, that familiar sense of playfulness that had surprised you earlier in the night, and it softened the space between you. As the two of you made your way back to the bar, you glanced around, catching sight of Peter and the woman still deep in conversation. A small part of you felt a sense of satisfaction, your matchmaking mission had been a success.

Rossi, ever observant, caught your eye from across the room and raised his glass in a mock toast. You couldn't help but laugh under your breath, giving him a subtle nod in return. He’d undoubtedly have something to say about the impromptu performance on the dance floor.

As you approached the bar, Hotch leaned casually against it, his presence commanding even in the relaxed setting. He waved the bartender over and ordered two whiskeys, his expression calm but his eyes still gleaming with the aftereffects of your shared moment. You had seen him in so many different roles - coworker, partner, friend - but this side of him, lighter and more playful, felt like a rare gift you hadn’t quite expected.

“So,” Hotch began, turning toward you as the bartender placed the glasses in front of you both, “think the unsubs would’ve been impressed with that performance?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you lifted your glass. “They would’ve been running for their lives,” you quipped, taking a sip of the smooth whiskey. The warmth of it spread through you, mixing with the buzz of the evening. “You should see the way you move out there. If profiling doesn’t work out, I’m sure Broadway could use you.”

Hotch let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he lifted his own glass. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied, his voice still low, but there was an unmistakable amusement in his eyes. “But I think we should leave the dancing to the professionals.”

You clinked your glass against his, grinning. “Agreed.”

Before you could say anything more, Rossi sauntered over, his trademark smirk firmly in place. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, swirling his drink in his hand as he looked between you and Hotch. “I never thought I’d see the day. You two make quite the pair on the dance floor. I’m starting to think we missed our chance to send you undercover at a ballroom competition.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get an invite.”

“Jealous?” Rossi feigned offense, his hand over his chest. “I’m just glad I got a front-row seat to the show.” He winked, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“Don’t worry, Rossi,” Hotch chimed in smoothly, his voice dry but full of that subtle humor you’d been seeing all night. “I’m sure there’ll be another opportunity. We’ll make sure you’re prepared next time.”

Rossi chuckled, clearly entertained. “I’ll hold you to that, Hotch. But next time, I expect a full routine, choreography and all.”

As Rossi took a swig of his drink, Peter wandered over, his face flushed with a combination of excitement and, likely, a couple of drinks. “Hey,” he said, slightly breathless, his eyes darting between you and Hotch. “That was… something. I didn’t know you two could move like that.”

You exchanged a quick glance with Hotch, both of you trying to suppress smiles. “Just trying to keep things interesting,” you said lightly, noticing how Peter kept glancing back toward the woman he’d been talking to earlier.

Hotch, always perceptive, raised an eyebrow. “Seems like you’ve had a good night yourself.”

Peter’s grin widened, and he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly pleased with how things were going. “Yeah, actually. I’m kind of surprised, but… she’s great. I think we’re going to grab dinner next week.”

You felt a surge of satisfaction at that, knowing that your little matchmaking effort had paid off. “That’s great, Peter,” you said genuinely. “She seems like a good match for you.”

Peter beamed, clearly grateful, before excusing himself to rejoin her. As he left, you turned back to Hotch, the playful energy between you simmering just below the surface.

“Well, look at us,” you mused, swirling the remaining whiskey in your glass. “We’ve played matchmaker, stolen the show, and now I owe you drinks. I’d say tonight’s been a success.”

Hotch tilted his head, that familiar smirk making an appearance again. “Not to mention you’ve proven I can dance without stepping on your toes,” he teased.

You laughed, the sound genuine and light. “I’ll admit, you exceeded expectations. Though, if I remember correctly, you said something about ‘no promises.’”

He raised his glass in mock defeat. “Guilty.”

As the night began to wind down, the bar’s atmosphere softened around you, the conversations fading into a gentle hum beneath the dim glow of the hanging lights. You found yourself more at ease than you had been in a long time, just sitting here with Hotch, sharing drinks and easy laughter, without the shadow of a case looming overhead. And in those quiet minutes, you felt the undeniable bond that went beyond your roles as agents, reaching into something more personal, more real.

Hotch seemed to sense your thoughts, and he turned toward you, his expression softening in a way that was so rare for him—vulnerable, unguarded. “Thanks for tonight,” he said quietly, his voice low and filled with sincerity. “For playing along… and for everything else.” The weight of his words lingered, filled with unspoken appreciation for the comfort of your presence, both on and off the field.

The simple, heartfelt acknowledgment made your chest tighten with warmth, a feeling of closeness that was hard to describe. “Anytime, Hotch,” you replied softly, meeting his gaze and feeling that familiar rush of something deeper between you. “A philosopher I know once said, ‘partners on the job, partners on the dancefloor, and partners in crime.’”

Hotch laughed, the sound rich and genuine, his dimples making a rare appearance that you couldn’t help but adore. “I wonder who that wise man might be,” he mused, his tone playful and self-deprecating.

You grinned, leaning back in your chair, savoring the moment. “Oh, just the real advocate of the ‘Hegel for Dummies’ philosophical current,” you teased, your voice dripping with mock seriousness. “The man who’s mastered the art of the unholy trinity.”

Hotch chuckled, rolling his eyes but playing along effortlessly. “Ah, yes. The esteemed ‘Hegel for Dummies’ dialectics—a groundbreaking philosophy,” he said, putting on an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression that made you laugh. “It’s all about the triad, right? The unholy trinity: partners on the job, partners on the dancefloor, and partners in crime. A revolutionary approach to teamwork.”

You couldn’t contain your laughter, enjoying the easy back-and-forth. It was moments like these that made you feel like you and Hotch were more than just friends, you were partners in every sense of the word, sharing in the lighter side of life that was often overshadowed by the darkness of your work.

As you sipped the last of your whiskey, a mischievous thought struck you, and you leaned closer to Hotch, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What do you say we sign Rossi up for the karaoke list? A little payback for all his teasing.”

Hotch’s eyes gleamed with delight, his smile widening at the suggestion. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, his voice filled with that familiar blend of amusement and quiet mischief that you loved. “I’m sure he’s got a rendition of ‘My Way’ just waiting to be unleashed.”

The two of you moved with quiet stealth, slipping over to the karaoke sign-up sheet while Rossi was engrossed in conversation with a couple of admirers at the bar. You exchanged a quick, mischievous glance as Hotch scribbled Rossi’s name onto the list with a flourish, choosing the most dramatic ballad you could think of, something that would make Rossi’s grand, showman personality shine, but also give you and Hotch a much-needed laugh.

Rossi’s name was called moments later, and the surprised look on his face as he stepped up to the microphone was priceless. Hotch leaned in close, his arm brushing yours as you both watched Rossi take the stage. “This might be the best decision we’ve made all night,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear.

You nodded, unable to keep the grin off your face as Rossi launched into a hilariously over-the-top performance, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and dramatic pauses that had the entire bar captivated, and you and Hotch doubled over in laughter.

It was the perfect end to an unexpected evening, a night that reminded you of the simple joy of being around people who knew you deeply and cared without question. And as you stood there beside Hotch, sharing in the moment, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for the twists of fate that had brought you here, partners on the job, partners in crime, even if you always hoped for something even more.

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart - chapter 24.

The Champion.

“My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine.”

― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein: The 1818 Text

Words; 20,144.

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You’re no stranger to rude awakenings.

You seem to have suffered a plethora of them in the week following your unexpected departure from Earth.

But this morning in particular, the event that pulls you from your healing slumber amongst Draven’s moth-eaten sheets is not so much rude as it is downright malicious.

The world around you – once so peaceful and quiet and dark enough to keep you in unconscious bliss – is suddenly shaken up by a deafening crash that sends you lurching upright with a yelp, scrabbling for purchase on the bed as a veritable earthquake rocks through the Eternal Throne.

“Wha-th’ hell!?” you slur blearily, wrenched from sleep so swiftly that your brain has to take a moment to catch up with your body. Somewhere overhead, an indignant squawk answers your rhetorical question.

For several, disorienting seconds, your eyes rattle around inside their sockets, and you frantically try to work out whether it’s just you vibrating or the entire room.

And then, as if the world has hit its collective brakes, everything pitches sideways – yourself included – causing the bed to skid a few inches away from the wall, and the hanging lantern overhead to swing wildly up and slam into the ceiling with an almighty racket, raining dust and woodchips down on your head.

Sadly, you aren’t spared a blow. The jarring halt tosses you right off the mattress and onto the floor, your teeth bouncing against each other with an audible ‘clack’ when you collide with the wooden boards.

“Oof!” you exclaim, landing on your spine violently enough that the air is punched out of your lungs.

Blinking stupidly, you gape up at the juddering ceiling whilst the lantern continues to ricochet from side to side, threatening to pull itself free of its iron fixtures.

At last, just as your stomach clenches like it’s about to purge the meal Draven had so thoughtfully provided, the walls around you start to stabilise, the quakes peter out, and the world grows still once more, save for a squawking, ebony barrage of feathers zooming about over your head.

Once your vision steadies enough to see straight again, you realise that it’s merely Dust flapping in mad circles around the confines of Draven’s quarters.

Paralysed on the floor in a state of shock, you can manage little else but to gawk up at the crow as your chest rises and falls in quick succession until finally, you manage to swallow the heart wedged in your throat and wheeze out an anxious, reedy, “What the Hell was that?”

It’s a question that, for the most part, was meant to go unanswered, a by-product of sleepiness and a befuddled mind attempting to comprehend a reality it has just freshly awoken to, but regardless, you don’t have long to wait before receiving a tangible answer.

A pitch-dark shadow suddenly looms above your head, blotting out the lantern’s sickly glow with a curtain of thick, black hair that frames a contrarily pale mask.

“That-“ comes the gravelly voice of its wearer “- was our scheduled arrival.”

The shape moves, and through the gloom, you can make out a large hand reaching down towards you.

For a moment, your body goes tense, only to fall slack again once the comfortingly familiar sensation of cool, calloused fingers slips around your bicep, hauling you effortlessly to your unsteady feet.

It’s only Death.

… A few weeks ago, saying ‘it’s only Death’ might have garnered you some concerned looks from your peers.

Now, however, you’ve had time to come to terms with the fact that there are far worse things to wake up to than an ornery Horseman with a daunting name.

The soles of your boots have barely touched the ground before his hands are pivoting you by the shoulders until you’re facing the door, where he removes his appendages from your arms in favour of nudging his bony knuckles into the small of your back, prodding you forwards.

“A-arrived?” you stammer, parting your jaws to let out a wide, obnoxious yawn, “Where?”

“The Arena, no doubt” he offers, as concise an explanation as you’re liable to get this early in the morning. Then, raising his voice, he snaps, “Dust! Will you calm down.”

The volume sends a little jolt through your heart.

Somewhere above you, a thoroughly offended crow lets out a caw that sounds more like a huff, but after a moment, he swoops down to land on Death’s shoulder, his feathers ruffled and unkempt.

Again, you blink hard, clearing away some of the sleepy residue gathered at the corners of your eyes. As soon as the Horseman’s prior words register, the events of yesterday swing around to hit you like a punch to the gut.

“Oh, god,” you groan, lifting an arm and scrubbing the back of it across your weary eyes, “S’morning already?”

“Mm, at least the Chancellor is punctual,” Death grumbles as he guides you to a halt near the door.

Reaching past you, he lays his palm against the withered wood and shoves it open with a mere flex of his wrist.

Dimly, it starts to dawn on you just how urgently you’re being bundled from the room.

“Hey… Woah, hey!” Giving a sudden start, you dig your heels into the floorboards to try and slow the Horseman’s pace as he bullies you through the open door. Of course, your efforts are for naught.

You’re pushing back against the raw strength of a Nephilim, which isn’t unlike blowing bubbles at a hurricane and expecting the winds to change directions.

“Death, just – wait a moment,” you complain, exasperated, “What’s the rush?”

In response, the Horsemen only gives your spine a more direct push until you’re forced to stop dragging your feet and take a step forwards into the dingy corridor outside Draven’s quarters.

It’s only after the door behind you slams shut with a creak of rusty hinges that Death lowers his arm.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get a move on,” he tells you gruffly.

Clicking your tongue, you raise your brows at him as he stalks past you down the hall, a disgruntled crow still perched on his shoulder.

“I can see that,” you quip, falling lazily into step behind him, “Didn’t think you were this excited to fight the Champion.”  

“Excited’ is not the word I’d use,” he retorts smartly.

His tone, clipped and sharp like the blade of his scythe, is a stark contrast to the manner he’d graced you with last night.

And that’s when you’re struck by an unpleasant pinch of guilt. Perhaps Death wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get moving if he hadn’t been guarding you all night. He might have used the time productively, training for whatever he’s to face in the Arena.

The guilt, however, doesn’t weigh you down for long, given that Death immediately follows up with, “I’m keen to leave the vicinity lest your little devotee come sniffing about.”

“Devotee?” you echo, scrunching your face up distastefully at his tone, “You mean Draven?”

The Horseman’s hair bounces as he given an affirming nod, prompting you to tip your head towards the ceiling and heave out an exaggerated groan.

You might have guessed.

“Okay. What is your problem with him?” you huff, dropping your head again to aim a scolding look at the back of his skull, “He let us have his room? He brought me food!”

You don’t receive a response for several paces as Death veers to the right and leads you into yet another corridor, this one lined with many rickety, wooden doors. “No doubt sowing the seeds to call in a future favour,” he mutters darkly, eyeing one of the doors as it starts to creak open.

The scrape of wood goes unnoticed by his yawning tagalong.

“Why’s that such a bad thing?” you sigh, digging a pinkie finger into the corner of your eye and flicking out a kernel of sleep dust, “He helps us, we help him if he needs it. That’s how a lot of people make friends, you know.”

Death’s shoulders rise and fall with a disgruntled harrumph. “I’m not sure friendship is what the Blademaster has in mind.”

Ouch. Pulling a face, you open your mouth to ask him why - if Draven doesn’t want to be friends with you - would he have been so unequivocally accommodating to you? If Death knew how badly you'd missed the point, he might have tried to shake some sense into your clueless skull.

But at that moment, your attention is snatched away by movement in the corridor up ahead.

Swinging your gaze forwards, you suddenly falter, feet clumsily fumbling underneath you in some feeble attempt to trip each other up, and it’s only the fact that Death is still walking that you manage to keep yourself moving after him, the fear of being left behind outweighing your trepidation of the path in front of you. 

Two rows of doors stretching up and down the corridor have started to pivot open, filling the narrow space with creaks of wood that are accompanied another, less definable sound, something that reminds you of bones squeaking under too-tight sinew.

Chilly fingers dance across your spine when, from the gloom, several, emaciated figures prowl out into the corridor.

Far more awake now than you were seconds ago, you clutch at your elbows, bruising fingertips tightening on your bare arms as an unnatural cold envelopes you and raises all the hairs covering your body.

Undead – a startling number of them – begin to emerge from the open doors, shuffling out into the hallway ahead of you in a manner that reminds you all too starkly of a scene from some plotless horror movie. The difference here, of course, is that these aren’t actors wearing prosthetic makeup and fake blood. These are the real deal. Real people – perhaps not human – but people all the same who just so happen to have passed their expiry date.

Muttering to one another in deep, rasping tones, they seem to be in the throes of getting ready for the day ahead, fastening the clasps on their worn and rusted hauberks or stooping to pull boots over their exposed shinbones.

“Didn’t think we had a stop scheduled,” one of them grunts, too preoccupied with peeling a flap of loose skin from his shoulders to notice you slink past in Death’s all-encompassing shadow.

The undead beside him is equally distracted, using withered fingers to grasp his own jaw and tug it this way and that as if he’s trying to realign the bones.

A gruesome ‘crunch’ flips your stomach on its side.

The wheezing sigh that whistles out of him doesn’t quite make it to the undead’s mouth, but rather slips through a gaping hole torn out of his throat, exposing a rotten oesophagus, and when he speaks, his words are airy, like the wind given voice.

“Didn’t you hear?” he rasps, “Another Arena fight. Some fool wants to challenge Gnashor to gain audience with…. with…“

You’ve been staring hard at Death’s boots, sticking to the grim Horseman like glue, unwilling to lift your eyes and meet the hollow gaze of an unfamiliar undead. But as the soldier you pass fumbles over his words and trails off into silence, you can’t help but dart your eyes sideways towards him, catching a brief glimpse of his sunken sockets and the unhinged jaw that hangs open to an alarming degree. You’re amazed the strands of flesh connecting it to his skull are strong enough to keep it from falling to the dusty floorboards beneath your feet.

With his sudden silence – and the obvious, bug-eyed stare he’s caught you in – the other undead finally take notice.

Over a dozen heads, each in various stages of decay, creak around on disjointed necks to lock you in their sights. There’s an oppressive hush that falls over the corridor then, only disturbed by the shuffling of your footsteps.

You’d much prefer to think that Death is the cause for the impromptu silence.

Alas, despite a lack of any visible pupils, it isn’t difficult to tell whose movements the undead are tracking.

Swallowing audibly, you offer them the most feeble, fleeting smile as you debate saying 'good morning,' before thinking better of it and kicking up your heels to close the meagre distance between you and the Horsemen even more until you’re practically treading on the backs of his boots.

You remain entirely ignorant of the dark glares that Death is shooting at each soldier he passes, his hunched shoulders and luminous eyes all but broadcasting a wordless challenge.

He can understand the surprise of seeing a human in their midst, especially if word hasn’t yet spread around the whole ship. He’ll allow them a few, curious stares. But anything further…

Well… If a murderous glare from the Reaper doesn’t deter them, the scythes hanging from his hips might prove a more effective deterrent.

Unfortunately, he can do little to guard you from the whispers that have started to creep after you as you pass.

“Is that…?”

“That’s a human!”

“A maiden? In the Eternal Throne?”

Disgust, amazement, and contempt are prevalent among the tones he picks up on. The former and lattermost culprits receive a fierce eyeballing from Dust.

You’re only too pleased when you traipse around another corner and have the end of the corridor loom into view, with pale, green daylight spilling through the opening like a beacon calling you forth.

Casting a wary glance over your shoulder, you allow yourself a breath of relief when you don’t spot any of the undead trailing after you, though their murmuring voices still drift down the narrow corridor in your wake, jumbled together and indiscernible from one another now. The topic of conversation isn’t hard to guess at though.

“You’re causing quite the stir,” Death remarks, setting foot on the old, rickety staircase that winds down into the courtyard from the upper balustrade.

Mumbling something under your breath, you busy yourself with rubbing at your chilly arms in an effort to disperse the goosebumps from your flesh. “Yeah well, believe me, I’d much rather I wasn’t… Some of them looked like they wanted to mount my head on a wall.”

“I doubt they’d resort to that,” the Horseman returns conversationally, leaning sideways towards you and adding, “Your head wouldn’t make much of a trophy.”

“Oh, hardy-har.”

Jumping down the last step to land with a thud at the bottom, you hesitate for just a second, casting your surreptitious eye over an empty courtyard. Sadly, your search yields neither hide nor hair of your new, cadaverous friend, and you can’t help but purse your lips and slouch as Death herds you straight towards the door laying in wait at the foot of the main staircase.

Tipping your head back and stretching your jaw open into another yawn, you follow the Horseman down each step, your footfalls heavy and sluggish in comparison to his.

The morning air whistles through the fortress, cooling your brow and sweeping away the vestiges of exhaustion. Halfway down, the dishevelled blob of ebony feathers sitting on Death’s shoulder suddenly flicks his long, black beak up to the sky, spreads his enormous wingspan and takes off with a few, hearty flaps, buffeting the Horseman’s ear as he goes.

“Where’s he off to?” you muse aloud, tracing Dust’s erratic, vertical take-off until he catches an air current and straightens up, gliding elegantly over the top of the towers and out of sight.

The Horseman only grumbles something inaudible under his breath, though you’re almost certain you pick up on the word ‘mischief.’

At last, you reach the bottom of the stairs, and the large, looming doors set snugly into the wooden wall just up ahead. Absently, you note that this is the same entrance you’d come through yesterday. You’re so busy trying to suppress a second yawn that you don’t realise Death has come to an abrupt halt just a few feet from the doorway, and in your obliviousness, you waltz right past him, stretching out your arm to reach for the handles.

You’re promptly stopped in your tracks, however, by a large, pale hand flattening itself against your stomach and shoving you gracelessly to a standstill, pushing a strangled wheeze out of your lungs.

And not a moment too soon, it seems.

Without warning, the doors you’d been reaching for are unceremoniously flung open by a force from the other side.

You yelp as the rotten wood whizzes past your nose and barely misses by a few, scant inches.

Blinking widely – suddenly feeling much more alert – you swallow back the retort you were about to throw at the Horseman, instead offering him a grateful tilt of your lips before returning your attention to the figure emerging from the gloom of the dark hallway beyond.

A faded, green cloak is the first thing to catch your eye, and for a moment, you perk up, lifting your lips even further to aim a smile at –

… Oh.

“Hmph. Still here, are you…? Joy.”

With a shuffle of long, elegant robes, the shrouded silhouette steps over the threshold and out into the light, revealing a taller, slenderer figure than the one you’d been… expecting to see.

Embarrassed heat rushes up the back of your neck, chasing the wake of your eagerness as you shrink away from the Chancellor’s looming frame and blurt out a hasty, instinctive, “Oh-! uhm, good morning.”

As expected, Death offers no such greeting. Nor does the Chancellor for that matter, beyond making a derisive sound at the back of his decayed throat and slowing to a stop in the doorway, the ridge above one eye quirked down at you expectantly.

It takes you a second before you realise that you and the Horseman are standing side by side, taking up the entire width of the path at the base of the stairs.

“Whoops!” Giving a start, you sidle quickly behind Death, “Sorry. After you.”

You pretend you don’t hear the Horseman tut under his breath.

Sniffing haughtily, the Chancellor merely sticks his hollow nasal cavity into the air and saunters past Death, ignoring him entirely, but pausing long enough to sneer down at you with all the disgusted intrigue of a child poking at a dead bird.

“Do give my regards to the Champion, won’t you?” he says, curling his lips disparagingly, “It’s been so long since I’ve sent him a half decent meal.”

The strained, albeit polite smile that had been on your face recedes at once, shrivelling up at the implied threat, and the badly concealed insult.

Not exactly words of encouragement…

Audibly, you gulp, sending a troubled frown at the undead as his cruel grin stretches the hollows of his cheeks.

Standing as close as you are to the Horseman, you notice that the ever-present chill rolling off his skin suddenly grows colder. Moments later, just before you can think of a retort to the undead’s undeserved hostility, Death twists one of his arms behind you and lays a palm on the small of your back, ushering you around to his front and giving you a nudge through the open doors. All the while, he strains his neck over a shoulder to shoot a cool, unimpressed glare at the Chancellor.

Not another word is exchanged between any of you as Death steps through the doorway on your heels, making sure to turn his back on the undead with a dismissive scoff that earns him several, indignant splutters in return.

Then, using the heel of his boot, he kicks the stone door shut in the Chancellor’s scowling face.

As effective a snubbing as you’ve ever seen.

“Weaselly little sycophant,” Death grumbles, loudly enough that you’re sure he’s been heard even through the thick wood of the door.

“Death.” Admonishment is always more effective when you mean it. In this instance, your tone doesn’t carry nearly enough weight for the Horseman to believe you actually care about his affront on the Chancellor.

Shoulders twitching with a quiet scoff, he simply turns to lead the way through the long, murky corridor, his towering figure disappearing quickly into the gloom.

Casting a last, pensive look at the closed doors behind you, you heave a sigh and start after the Horseman, scrubbing a hand tiredly down the length of your face.

“Wait. Isn’t this the way we got in?” you ask, traipsing along in the wake of his loping strides.

In response, Death gives a noncommittal hum, likely reluctant to dredge up any relevance to the events of yesterday and his… less than dignified actions as the Reaper.

After several more seconds spent trailing through the corridor in silence, he comes to another stop, and you’re just a bit too slow to glance up from his boots to see the wall of pale flesh in front of you.

‘Thud!’

Funnily enough, it isn’t unlike walking into a wall either.

While you bounce straight off the Horseman’s back, you’re not surprised to find that he doesn’t budge an inch beyond sending you a mildly exasperated look over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” you offer, rubbing your nose with a grimace.

Now it’s his turn to heave a weary sigh.

Swivelling forwards once more, Death tilts the chin of his mask down and nods at something near his feet. “Mind the hole.”

Raising a brow, you start to edge around him, trying to get a glimpse of what’s ahead. “Mind the -? Ah.”

Stepping up to his flank, you follow the Horseman’s downturned gaze and immediately feel your stomach swoop.

The floor ahead of you has completely caved in under its own weight, leaving an enormous, yawning hole to span the width of the corridor. It’s round and bottomless, the wooden boards splintered around its circumference like a great maw filled with too many teeth.

Bravely shuffling your feet closer to the drop, you stretch your neck out and peer down over the jagged, dusty floorboards into the gaping chasm, gulping back a nervous hum. What meagre light exists in this corridor isn’t anywhere near strong enough to disturb the ink-black darkness that begins just a foot or so from the top of the hole.

“Is this… how we got in?” you ask, voice little more than a whisper.

Warm air rises gently out of the abyss from somewhere far, far below you, playing with the finer hairs on the side of your head.

Beside you, Death simply replies, “It is.”

You draw out a long, slow whistle. “Wow…” Then, “Glad we came up that yesterday, and didn’t fall down it… Wait.” Grimacing, you send the Horseman a lopsided frown, face screwed up apprehensively. “It’s not… We’re not going down there now, are we?”

Beneath his mask, Death’s lips twitch. “No,” he replies, watching your shoulders slump, palpably relieved, “There’s a door on the other side.” 

With that, he gestures for you to look by bobbing his chin at something on the other side of the sizeable gap.

Sure enough, as you raise your head and squint through the dim lighting, your gaze lands upon a nondescript pair of doors standing in wait at the far end of the corridor.

“Oh, good,” you sigh as Death moves towards the wall, “So… We’re jumping, then?”

“Again, no. Do you ever watch where you’re going?” he teases, his eyes crinkling at the edges of his dark sockets and betraying that he’s more amused than annoyed, “Here… There’s a way across on this side. The wood is still intact.”

“Intact,” you parrot dubiously, “Right.”

Regardless, traipsing up behind him, you follow his line of sight and glance down to find that, yes, at the edge of the hole, there’s a narrow stretch of mostly intact floorboards that hug the wall, spanning from your side of the gap to the other. The problem, however, is the remaining boards that have managed to cling to their fittings in the wall barely appear strong or wide enough to admit even one person at a time. Their splintered edges extend out over the hole, evoking the awful comparison of a wooden plank extending from the port side of a pirate ship. One misplaced foot, and you’ll tumble straight down into the depths of that hungry void.

“Looks…. sturdy,” you comment aloud, pulling your mouth into a thin, sceptical line.

“If it’ll carry the Chancellor, it’ll carry you,” Death reasons, stepping aside and sweeping his hand out to gesture at the start of the ‘path.’ “Ladies first,” he offers.

You can’t help but snort, flashing him a begrudgingly amused smile and quipping, “Age before beauty, Death.”

Luminous eyes narrow in the sockets of his mask, but with the softest exhale that he’ll insist is not a laugh, he simply turns from you and steps out onto the narrow strip of flooring, beckoning for you to follow.

“Just stay close,” he says gruffly.

In spite of the dismissive intonation, you don’t miss the unspoken consideration that lays hidden between the lines of his command.

‘If the floor breaks, I need to be close enough to catch you.’

“Read you loud and clear,” you mutter, treading gingerly onto the floorboards and wincing at the way they creak and bow under your weight where they definitely hadn’t when Death trod on them.

With one hand braced against the rough-hewn wall, you stick to your companion like glue, making your way slowly but steadily across the broken path, cringing visibly with every uneven step.

It isn’t far. Only a dozen feet or so to the other side. Admittedly, you’re a little envious of the way Death hardly seems to dip the boards he stands on, unlike you, who can feel every one buckle and groan underneath your boots.

You just chalk it up to another one of those mind-boggling things you’ll never truly fathom about the Grim Reaper, like how he can walk on top of ash or sand without sinking up to his knees in it.

‘Show off…’ you muse fondly.

Something else that dawns on you is that he’s moving at a deliberately gradual pace, sending several backwards glances over his shoulder at you.

Despite the tight ball of nerves rolling around in your stomach, an ember of appreciation spreads its warmth out across your chest.

Then again, perhaps he’s just keeping an eye on you because he thinks you’re clumsy and are bound to-

‘SNAP!’

The ember extinguishes in the blink of an eye, and the strangled curse that you choke out gets stuck in your throat as the surface below you suddenly and unexpectedly disappears.

For one, gut-wrenching second, you’re falling sideways, arms pinwheeling to try and reorient yourself on a floorboard that’s already plummeting down into the hole ahead of you, as if it just can’t wait to beat you to the bottom of a deadly fall.

And then, just as abruptly as it had begun, your impromptu tumble is cut short by the strong arm that darts around your waist and goes taut, jerking your body to a painful halt and hauling you back up through the air instead. Within another second, you’re sent crashing into a sturdy, cadaverous torso, grunting in shock as your cheekbone knocks against the bottom of Death’s sternum.

Breathing hard, you shakily pry your eyelids apart, increasingly aware that there’s wood underneath your feet again, and an enormous hand splayed out across the width of your back, keeping you pinned in place and sending tingling chills up and down your spine.

Letting out a wobbly breath, you crane your neck back to see the underside of Death’s strong chin, then rove your gaze up further to find the Horseman peering back down at you with eyes as wide as your own, as if even he can’t believe he just caught you.

With your heart thudding loudly in your ears, you manage to swallow through a bone-dry throat and gush, “Ho-lee~ shit. Thanks, Death.”

Even now, it still puzzles the Horseman every time you give him a word of thanks.

Blinking once, he’s quick to lower his brows and school his expression into a flat, stony glare. Though most of it remains hidden from view behind his mask, he has no doubt that his eyes say everything they need to say.

"Are all humans as hapless as you?” Death grouses, sliding both of his sizeable hands to your waist and effortlessly lifting you into the air with the same ease he’d pull his brother’s gun from its holster, “Or were you jinxed as an infant?”

Thrown off balance without a solid surface under your feet, you hurriedly clasp your hands on top of Death’s wide wrists, bracing yourself against them as he swings you carefully around to his front. From there, he resolves to simply carry you the remaining distance to the other side.

A small part of you is mortified at being manhandled so easily, but there’s a far larger part that’s more grateful than it is embarrassed.

Once he’s well clear of the ledge, Death lowers you until your boots hit the floor, and he retrieves his hands from your waist.

“Thanks,” you tell him again, slipping your own hands from his wrists to dust yourself off.

And again, Death’s mind does a funny little skip.

Giving his head a minute shake, he silently gripes to himself as he pivots on a heel and marches with purpose to the doors, throwing them open and allowing an intrusion of daylight to flood its way into the corridor.

“Ah!” you complain softly, throwing an arm up to shield your eyes against the sudden onslaught.

Death just squints, his golden stare aglow as he turns it to the desert beyond the doors.

Together, you step out into the sickly, green light of an ethereal sunrise.

A wide, wooden gangplank of questionable stability extends from your doorway down to an ash-strewn courtyard on the other side.

It seems you’ve reached the exit.

Heaving a sigh, you tilt your head back, seeking to feel the warmth of a foreign sun on your face. No sooner have you lifted your eyes to the horizon though than every muscle in your body seizes up all at once, and your brain screeches to a sudden, jarring halt.

You try to make sense of what you’re seeing…

It’s the sheer scale that flummoxes you for a second, rooting your feet to the ground through shock at first, but steadily, the all-too familiar curdle of fear starts to claw its way up your throat.

You blink hard. Then once again, as if your own vision is to blame for conjuring up a mirage of two, mountain-sized serpents coiled around a pair of crumbling towers in the distance.

It’s like gaping up at writhing skyscrapers. The titans that had been towing the Eternal Throne have found a temporary eyrie, coiled around the spires that stand on either side of a vast structure, their rotting, serpentine heads breaching the sky itself.

Massive chains stretch from fixtures on the Eternal Throne’s bow and are still secured to the anchors that have been thrust straight through the beasts’ skulls, keeping them tied to the fortress.

Your jaw hangs ajar, awed by their majesty but horrified of their size. Even with half of their bodies disappearing over the edge of a sandy plateau, you can tell that they would have absolutely dwarfed the Guardian.

The monumental scales on their underbellies clench and constrict around their chosen towers, scraping centuries’ worth of stone off the outer walls and sending the residue cascading down in chunks to the courtyard below.

Vast, uneven cracks mar the corners of each spire, telltale signs that this is a perch the serpents frequent.

“Oh my god,” you whisper reverently, taking two, small steps into Death’s shadow, never daring to take your eyes off the monstrous snakes.

“I wouldn’t worry about them,” comes the Horseman’s easy retort as he casually steps out onto the gangplank, “I doubt you’d make much of a meal.”

He doesn’t need to see to know that you’re shooting a look of abject horror at the back of his skull.

“Calm yourself,” he adds mercifully, a smirk threatening to warp his mouth to its own whims, “The dead don’t eat.”

Wringing your hands, you start after Death, planting your steps carefully as you descend the gangplank behind him, keeping your eyes fixed on the serpents high above you. “It isn’t so much being eaten that worries me,” you retort, “They could breathe at us and send us flying.”

“… The dead don’t breathe either.”

As if to contend his claim, a sudden, earth-shattering hiss slithers up the length of an exposed throat as the serpent on the Eastern tower parts its jaws, filling the very world around you with a tremulous screech that has you slapping your palms over your ears, teeth buzzing in your skull.

Stretching its colossal neck towards the opposite tower, the first serpent hisses, then with the power and volume of a thunderclap, it snaps its jaws together near the throat of its twin, barely scraping the softer scales underneath its chin.

Like a planet moving out of alignment, the other beast simply raises itself higher up the tower, part of its ribcage visibly quivering through gaps you can see in its flesh as it issues a loud, sonorous growl and lunges forwards to ‘nip’ at the anchor sticking out from its companion’s head.

“Are they…?” you begin, pausing on the gangplank as the titanic snakes draw away from one another again and shake out their great, scaled necks, causing the chains to rattle loudly over your head.

“Are they playing?”

You can only imagine the damage these things could do to one another if they really wanted to, but here, you’re reminded of a pair of cats batting at one another before retreating again, tolerant of the other’s presence, but still prone to antagonise as they see fit.

A breath rushes out of you in a wheezing laugh.

They could level a city with barely any effort. All they’d have to do is fly a little too close to the ground. And here they are.

Play fighting.

Giving your head a shake, you pick up your jaw and start after Death again, wondering who the maniac was that managed to shackle those titans to a floating fortress in the first place, let alone trained them to tow it across an endless, desert sky.

Hopping off the bottom of the gangplank, you have a brief moment to appreciate solid ground under your feet once again before you’re suddenly alerted to movement up ahead. Your head snaps up, and from the corner of an eye, you notice that Death has already stopped in his tracks, his own stare adhered to a figure shuffling towards you from the massive structure ahead.

Tall, broad, draped in robes and sporting a distinct, ovine head-…

All at once, you perk up, face brightening in recognition.

Ostegoth trundles towards you, his head angled down at the pipe that seems to be constantly at hand. He’s too busy tapping his gnarled fingers against its bowl to notice that you and Death have appeared several dozen yards in front of him.

“Ostegoth!” you call out, your wariness of the serpents dissipating in your delight of seeing the old capracus again, “Hey! Over here!”

Startling to a complete standstill, Ostegoth almost drops his pipe before he manages to fumble it back into his grasp and throws his woolly head up to squint along the length of the courtyard. When he spots you waving at him, his features open up in pleasant surprise, and his muzzle stretches wide with a smile.

“Ah! Salutations, little Lamb!” he replies, tipping the pipe towards you in greeting, “I see you made it to the Eternal Throne after all!”

“Thanks to your advice,” you remind him, breezing past the Horseman, who seems content to let you stray ahead, for the time being.

With a rustle of his rich, brown robes, Ostegoth traipses to a halt as you bound up to meet him, skidding to your own stop at his hooves and tilting your head back to give him a smile that warms his lonely chest.

“God, it’s nice to see a friendly face,” you beam, earning a sheepish chuckle from the old one.

“Is it…? Hmm. Likewise,” he returns jovially, his gnarled hand twitching towards you for a moment before he seems to reconsider and returns it to his side.

Old habits die hard, he reflects… It’s been some time since he was in the presence of a youngling. Longer still since he’s affectionately ruffled the wool on a Capracus lamb’s head.

Shaking off bitter-sweet memories, he matches your smile and asks, “Ah but tell me; How goes your search for the Well?”

“Poorly,” Death’s rough voice grunts behind you, closer than you thought it would be.

Drawing to a halt at your side, he eases his head back and leers up at the Capracus, his eyes narrowed guardedly.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, “And more to the point, how did you get here? We were travelling all night.”

There’s an underlying accusation barely hidden between his words. ‘You’d better not have followed us.’

With a slow incline his head, Ostegoth remains patient and sage in his response. “I heard whispers that the Throne was heading South-west for the first time in decades, and the only thing out here of note is the Gilded arena. And besides,” he adds, offering Death a cryptic smile, “A merchant knows many roads. Not all of them are shared with Horsemen… As for why I’m here…” Trailing off, he raises the pipe and wraps his lips around the end of its long, slender stem, his furred cheeks hollowing as he takes a few puffs, savouring the smoke’s taste on his palette.

Humming contentedly, he draws the pipe back and lets out a long, gentle exhale, neck craned sideways to blow the smoke well away from you. “Well, I am a merchant,” he deadpans, clearing his throat and aiming a rather flat look at the Horseman, “And this ship is the only civilised locality within a thousand miles. Where else do you suggest I go to trade?”

Death doesn’t bother to conceal a derisive scoff and folds his arms curtly over his chest. “The dead have use of your wares?”

“Everyone has needs, Horseman,” Ostegoth replies, “Even the dead… Perhaps they most of all. That Blademaster is always particularly interested in my inventory.”

“Blademaster?” You perk up at once. “You know Draven?”

Unseen, Death’s scowl darkens.

Dipping his horned head, Ostegoth appraises you curiously as he runs a long, dark fingernail through his ivory beard. “Indeed, I do, Lamb. A fine lad, that one. Very fine.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure he’s quite the paragon,” Death gripes, raising his voice and clapping his palms together impatiently, “Now, I’m afraid we haven’t got time to stay and chat. We’re supposed to be on an errand.” This he says while casting a rather pointed glare at the side of your head.

“An errand?” Ostegoth’s small, floppy ears prick forward attentively, giving the Horseman an up and down glance as if he finds the prospect of Death completing errands completely absurd.

“I’d hardly call it an errand,” you interject with a wry smile, “Apparently Death can’t get in to see the King without proving himself in a fight, or something.”

And just like that, the Capracus blinks, drawing his head back and furrowing the skin above his browbone.

“… Fight….” Quietly, he swivels around to peer up at the towering stone wall of the amphitheatre laying in wait behind him. Then, breathing a sigh that causes the crystals on his robe to clink softly as his chest rises and falls, Ostegoth’s jaundiced, sunken eyes slip shut, and in a whisper, he utters, “Ah… Gnashor… I might have known.”

“Gnashor?” you echo bemusedly, while at the same time, Death asks, “Might have known what?”

Rather than answer however, Ostegoth simply stands there, staring up at the structure in silence for several, long moments, and all you can hear are the serpents high above you hissing through immense, decomposed lungs as they resettle themselves around their perches.

“Ostegoth?” you prod again, “Who’s Gnashor?”

… Nothing.

Shifting your weight onto your other foot, you spare a quick, searching look up at Death, only to find that he’s regarding the capracus with a glare that could only be described as dubious.

At last, after a long stretch of further, uncomfortable quiet that Ostegoth seems too lost in thought to break, the Horseman tuts, uncrossing his arms as he meets your questioning gaze with a roll of his eyes. “Come on,” he tells you, “We’ve dawdled here long enough.”

Stalking past your new, enigmatic acquaintance, Death heads for the arched doorway, shooting a glance over his shoulder when your footsteps don’t immediately follow.

“Y/n!” he barks.

Startled, you drop the hand you’d been stretching towards Ostegoth’s arm.

“Oh – er, coming!”

Chewing on your lip, you reluctantly sidle past the Capracus, stealing a glance back at him as you go. He’s moved his gaze to the ground, the ridge between his brows turning deep and contemplative.

“Well… Bye, Ostegoth,” you call out to him hesitantly, lifting your hand in a half-hearted wave.

At the sound of his name, he suddenly blinks, his long pupils expanding with surprise. Lifting his head, he meets your troubled look and pulls a face, tapping his pipe’s bowl in a palm.

Just as you turn around and see Death pushing open the doors, the strained atmosphere is cut by Ostegoth’s voice.

“Horseman!”

Death’s massive silhouette pauses in the doorway, long enough for you to catch up.

The pair of you turn to regard the old Capracus; you with anticipation, Death with impatience.

Long, furred fingers curl tightly around the stem of his pipe. “Are you certain this the only way?”

Frowning, you hear Death give off a tiny, irritated exhale before he retorts, “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Then, a little more waspishly, he adds, “Why? Do you doubt my imminent victory?”

But Ostegoth has already withdrawn his focus from the Horseman and given it to you instead.

Strange, yellow eyes meet yours across the courtyard, softening considerably when they do. He gives you a funny look, one you can’t decipher, not least because it still seems so bizarre to see an ovine man pull any expression at all, but you almost get the inkling that he’s studying you, turning something over in his mind.

What is he-…?

“Tell me, little Lamb,” he says abruptly, cutting off your train of thought, “Will you fight the Champion?”

Taken aback, you exchange a glance with Death and open your mouth to reply, but your companion beats you to it with his own, curt response.

“Don’t be foolish,” he scoffs at Ostegoth, “Of course she won’t.”

Once again, the Capracus blithely ignores Death’s input, keeping his eyes fixed on you instead.

Suddenly uneasy, you open your mouth and halfway manage to ask, “Why?” before Ostegoth interrupts.

“You must not raise a weapon against the Champion,” he stresses, tone uncharacteristically urgent, “Do you understand?”

Letting out a bewildered little laugh, you can only think to offer him an awkward smile and a nod. “Yeah, I mean - don’t worry. For once, I’m actually planning to stay out of it.”

“Hmph. I’ll believe that when I see it,” Death grumbles, turning to the stairwell beyond the doors and disappearing into it.

Shooting a faux-offended glare at his retreating back, you start to follow only to hesitate once you reach the doorway.

Planting a hand on the cool, stone frame, you turn to the Capracus one last time, finding that he’s still peering after you, his forehead wrinkled deeply with an expression you’ve-… you’ve seen before….

The moment you place it, your smile drops, and the air is almost knocked out of your lungs.

It’s the same look you used to catch Eideard sending your way.

Gentle worry on a pensive, ancient face…

The heart in your chest murmurs sadly, and your eyes threaten to mist over.

Giving a hard sniff, you raise your hand again in farewell and croak, “We’ll see you on the ship, yeah?”

Ostegoth opens his muzzle to respond.

“Are you coming!?” Death’s voice drowns out whatever the old one might have said.

So, with an apologetic shrug, you slip through the doors and hurry after your impatient friend, failing to spot the hand that Ostegoth has lain tenderly over his old, ragged heart.

The words he utters are lifted from his muzzle, drifting away on the breeze before they can follow you through the doorway.

“Be safe…”

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

“Well,” you break the silence that has been lingering between you and Death for the last few minutes as you both climb yet another staircase within the ancient, evidently abandoned arena, “That was… interesting.”

“Hmph… Interesting,” the Horseman echoes derisively, “Try ‘suspicious.”

“You’re wondering if he knows who the Champion is.” You have to admit, you’ve been thinking the same thing.

There’s no way Ostegoth fought the Champion… Is there? You know nothing of the Capracus, save for the fact that he’s the last of his kind.

Thoughtful, you find yourself staring blankly at the mouldy, wooden walls all around you. Much like everything else you’ve seen in the realm, this place seems two heavy stomps away from collapsing in on itself. Everything here, the architecture, the people, they all seem to hang suspended in a space between death and complete and utter decay.

It reminds you of the Horseman, in a way.  Alive, but not. Half dead, with a working body and mind, but a heart that’s long since ceased to beat.

He’s… liminal, you realise mutely, much like the Land of the Dead.

It makes you curious.

“Hey, Death? Can I ask you something?”

The Nephilim's sigh almost feels traditional at this point. “I imagine you’ll ask regardless of whether I say yes or no.”

Undeterred, you blurt, “Do you live here?”

“Do I-… Excuse me?”

“I mean in this world,” you clarify, skipping a step that’s a little more worn than the others, “In the Dead Lands?”

“Why would you assume I-…" Trailing off, he hums, mulling it over. "Hmm… Actually, I suppose I can see why you’d assume that…”

“So, this isn’t your home?”

“I don’t have-…” Pushing another long-suffering sigh through his nostrils, he amends, “No. I do not live in the Land of the Dead.”

“Huh.”

“… Huh?” he echoes waspishly.

Sensing his rising impatience, you quickly elaborate. “No, I mean… It just… seems so you.”

Well… Death can’t decide if he should take that as an insult or a compliment.

“Why are you asking me this?” he accuses you suddenly, his voice a touch cooler than it was before. Not defensive, per se, but definitely guarded.

“Gee, Death. Not sure,” you chuckle, unperturbed or perhaps unaware of the shift in tone, “Maybe I just want to get to know you better?”

All at once, the Horseman’s shoulders prickle with warning and he snaps his head forwards, eyes burning a hole through the steps below his boots. He doesn’t reply. Unbidden, age-old instincts raise their sleepy heads, no matter how he tries to rationalise the point of your question.

For some time, the only response you get is the soft padding of his boots on the stone steps, accompanied by your far louder, more hurried footfalls that send echoes back up the stairwell. After a long and admittedly awkward pause, you let out a quick sound of bemusement, cocking a brow and asking the back of Death’s head, “What? Is it taboo for Horsemen to ask each other about where they live?”

His retort is immediate, loud and barbed, cutting off the end of your sentence. “It’s suspicious.”

“I’m sorry? It’s suspicious to ask where you live?”

“Knowledge is power," he snaps, "Even the most insignificant details can be used against you if discovered by the wrong person. It’s never wise to freely give that knowledge away.” After a pause, he adds, “Not even my brothers and sister know where I live.

Again, you blurt out a quick, incredulous scoff. “You’re kidding.”

But when Death remains entirely silent, your humour evaporates like rain on a hot tin roof. “Oh my god… You’re serious…. I wasn’t trying to -… Look, you know I wasn’t asking because I want to use it against you, right?”

For the sake of his pride, Death pretends to consider your words carefully, though deep down, he’s already sure of his answer. He does know. But it’s hard to shake the manacles of an eternity’s worth of suspicion.

“For humans,” you continue cautiously, “It’s totally normal to ask our friends about themselves.”

When all he does is bristle in response, you realise it’s probably best to change the subject.

“Right... Anyway, um... You reckon they fought?” you muse aloud.

“Who?”

“Ostegoth and the Champion," you clarify, "Is that why he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be fighting, uh, what was his name? Gnasher?”

“Gnashor,” Death corrects you, his feathers gradually unruffling themselves, “And I highly doubt the old goat has fought much of anything, let alone the Dead King’s Champion.”

Pulling your lips into a tight line, you softly retort, “You don’t know that.”

The Horseman doesn’t respond.

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

After several more minutes, you finally reach the top of the stairs and find yourselves standing at the head of a colossal amphitheatre, open to the sky and surrounded on every side by towering, stone walls. Vast spires of stone loom in the distance, well beyond this place, and you start to imagine a vast, dead city laying just past its boundaries.

“Welcome to the Gilded Arena,” Death remarks, unimpressed.

“Wow.” Laying your hands on your hips, you pivot around to survey the immediate vicinity. “Quite the turnout.”

Save for you and the Horseman, there doesn’t appear to be another soul in sight.

“Well,” Death shrugs one bulbous shoulder, “I never was one for crowds.”  

Venturing forward, your feet move off wood and onto stone slabs, and as you amble out of the shadow of the hall behind you, you feel the sun warming the top of your head again.

Stretched out to either side of you is a walkway, wide and entirely paved with mossy stone. It angles sharply around a corner on both sides, and as you cast your gaze over the area, you realise it loops in a massive square. Surrounding the centre of that square, is a barricade made from black, iron spokes.

Unable to fight against the nervous curiosity building in your stomach, you allow your feet to carry you forwards, right across the wide walkway until you reach the metal barrier, where you slip your fingers around the rusted bars and peer down through the gaps.

All at once, an ice-cold dread bubbles up from the pit of your stomach, blooming into something unignorable.

“Oh, my god.” You gulp thickly, nausea churning in your guts.

Materialising beside you, Death’s eye sweeps over the gladiatorial pit below.

And it is a pit, you decide with a grimace, akin to the ones you’d find in the Colosseums of Earth, with high walls on all four sides and a flat, ashy ground. Eight, ominous pillars of wood are spaced evenly around the arena. And set into the furthest wall, you spot the dark but definable grid of a portcullis.

Thick chains have been hammered into the sides of each pillar, and from them, dangling by manacles worn shut forever by rust, are…

“Skeletons?!” you gasp aloud, your body turning stiff.

Indeed, from at least half the pillars, several skeletons of various size and shape have been strung up, their sun-bleached bones browning in the daylight.

You half expect them to raise their skulls to glare up at you, but as the seconds tick by without any movement, you deduce that these skeletons must really be dead. In the traditional sense.

At least, you hope they are.

An eternity spent dangling by their wrists in this lonely place would be a cruel, awful fate.

“That’s a little morbid,” you comment, pulling a face at one skeleton whose arms, horned skull and torso are all that’s left of it. Everything below the spine has rotted off and fallen in a heap to the ground below, joining hundreds of other calcified bones that are scattered across the arena.

Hundreds…

‘Shit,’ you think to yourself, tugging worriedly at the hem of your skirt, ‘How many people died here?’

“Mm. What remains of those that failed,” comes Death’s voice, quiet and thoughtful as he scans the pit.

You don’t even bother to suppress a visceral shudder at that.

Tearing your eyes off the pillars, you shoot him a thin-lipped smile, wondering how much it must resemble a grimace. “Just... do me a favour? Promise I’m not gonna see your body strung up there when this is over?”

Death twists his mask towards you, taking in the tense pinch of your brow. “Hah,” he snorts, “And give Dust the satisfaction of pecking out my innards?”

“Death.”

“Do you really have so little faith in me?” he quips.

Aiming a swat at his arm that you miss on purpose, you turn away from him to lean against the fence and mutter, “Well, it’s hard to know who to bet on if I haven’t seen your opponent yet.”

After a moment of hesitation, you almost add, ‘just kidding,’ but a fleeting glance up at the Horseman’s profile reveals a glimmer of humour squeezing his eyes at their edges. He knows.

So, you close your mouth and instead return your gaze to the sprawling arena below.

From the safety of the elevated walkway, you squint down into the pit, casting a careful eye over every shadowy corner, and trying to peek behind the pillars.

“… Huh,” you say, furrowing your brow, “Um… Where do you think this Champion is?”

“I doubt he just waits around down here for some fool to come along and challenge him,” Death replies, placing a hand on the metal railing and bracing himself to vault right over it.

Before he can though, your fingers suddenly curl around what they’re able to of his immense bicep, delicately clutching at the cold skin as if you could prevent a force of nature from moving.

Perhaps it says something about Death that it actually works.

Rather than snatch his arm away as he might have done several days ago, the Horseman merely twists his mask around to appraise you coolly, only for his expression to waver when he sees you peering back up at him with an imploring frown.

“Please, be careful,” you say, neither demanding not demeaning, just a statement of concern expressed to a Nephilim for whom concern is (and always will be) an alien concept.

A thousand responses flit through his skull. Some prompt him to give you a sarcastic remark. Others, a harsh rebuttal of your well-meaning sentiment. ‘What sort of advice is that for one of the Four?’ he might say.

But there’s a sincerity to you, as always, that douses indignation and soothes his reflex to brush your worry aside like it’s a silly, frivolous thing. He can even see the tiny, yellow pinpricks of his own eyes reflected in your watery gaze.

‘Humans,’ he sighs internally.

Again, you’re throwing him off kilter. Something that’s been happening with startling frequency of late.

Resolving to address that at a later date, Death doesn’t say a word, instead offering you the tiniest of nods as he pulls quietly from your grasp and lays both of his hands on the metal barrier in front of him.

You let your fingers slip off his arm, stepping back to give him the space to swing his leg over the bars.

Shooting you a brief look over his shoulder, he only issues one, stark order. “Stay. Here.”

And all you do is nod in return, offering him a thin smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

With a grunt, Death hoists himself up, effortlessly vaulting over the barricade and plummeting ten feet to the ashen ground below. He hits it lightly, nearly soundless save for the clink of his boot buckles, sending a plume of ash blossoming out around the spot where he lands.

Rising to his full height, he strains his sensitive ears to try and catch any sounds above the moaning desert winds and your anxiously shuffling feet up on the stands.

“It’s quiet,” he remarks to himself, though even he won’t venture to add the typical follow-on to that remark. No, he isn’t superstitious, but eons of experience have taught him that the Universe is full of patterns, and it does so love to try and catch him out…

Venturing further from the wall, Death continues to send searching glares at the pillars, his eyes lingering on a skull that’s turned to face the other end of the arena, staring blankly and eternally at the walls that entomb it.

On a whim, he follows its gaze, and finds himself look straight at the portcullis. Down here, it seems so much larger than it had from the stands.

Rusted, metal bars as thick as his wrists conceal nothing but a pitch-black darkness beyond the grid.

Senses primed to a hair-trigger, Death continues marching forwards, his steps light, his eyes unblinking and affixed to the looming, black gate.

The moaning wind picks up, blowing through the pillars and sending the skeletons swaying gently to and fro, bones knocking hollowly against one another.

All of a sudden, Death stops in his tracks.

Tiny particles of grit roll and tumble over the ground towards the Horseman’s boots, drawing his eyes down to watch them skitter past for a second before he jolts, snatching his head back up, hands flying down to the hilts of his scythes.

Without warning, the whole arena is sent shaking under the force of an almighty, ear-splitting roar.

The bellow reverberates throughout the amphitheatre, petering out on an echo carried off by the winds.

For the breadth of a second, everything falls silent once more.

It isn’t to last.

Somewhere inside the structure, a hidden winch starts to turn of its own preternatural accord. Metal chains jangle and clatter, and with a squeal of rusty hinges, the portcullis begins to rise, disappearing into the vertical grooves that had been carved into the wall thousands of years ago.

And from behind that dark, iron grid, twin balls of radiant green light spark to life.

Every hair on your body stands to attention as a guttural, hissing growl slides beneath the ever-widening gap.

Then, with a final screech, the portcullis clanks to a stop, the spikes jutting down from the roof of the hypogeum’s exit, like a vault yawning open to unleash a terrible monster.

Something innate bids you to call Death back to the safety of the stands, as if to warn him. But of what? He already knows.

An awful hole opens up under your feet, sucking any and all optimism down into it.

Ostegoth’s perturbed expression flits in front of your mind’s eye, and you wish you’d pressed him for more information. In fact, it occurs to you far too late that neither you nor Death had asked anyone what lays in wait in this arena.

‘But hindsight is a wonderful thing,’ you remind yourself firmly, curling anxious fingers around the bars of the fence, ‘Besides, if Death can take down the Guardian, he can certainly beat the Dead King’s Champion….’

Right?

Before you can stop it, a cold, empty doubt worms its way under your ribcage and sinks its teeth into your heart.

Down in the pit, Death’s mask dips threateningly, and in one, lighting-quick motion, he rips his scythes free, their blades catching the sunlight and glinting with deadly serration.

It’s as if their very appearance serves as the strike of a match because whatever had been lurking behind that gate comes exploding violently through it.

Death’s ears prick at the sound of your yelp as a ghastly beast slithers beneath the portcullis and emerges into the light.

He won’t begrudge you for your alarm. It is a nightmare given form.

At first glance, it looks like a snake. Fitting, he supposes, given that this realm seems so full of them.

The twin sky serpents, the Chancellor, and now this monstrosity…

“Gnashor, I presume?”

A golden, hominin skull sits at the head of a serpentine body, jaws parted wide to issue an animalistic hiss down at the Horseman.

Longer than the carriage of a train, Gnashor looks to be made entirely of solid, sun-bleached bone segments not unlike the spinal column of some long-dead sauropod, and around its skull, there hangs a cumbersome, black band of solid metal, fastened like a bear-trap above and below its head.

Clenching his jaw, Death muses that it’s presence might make removing this thing’s skull a little trickier.

A burning, green gem is stamped squarely at the centre of its cranium and flares with furious light, just like the sparks inside its empty sockets do as the beast hurtles towards Death, twisting its way over the ash with alarming speed.

Planting his right foot on the ground, the Horseman braces himself, waiting until it’s almost upon him before he suddenly kicks off, launching himself sideways and letting it careen right over the spot he’d just been standing.

Several tonnes of living bone barrels past, and as it does, Death twists himself about in mid-air and gives a testing swipe of his scythe. It glances harmlessly off the creature’s tail with a muted ‘shink.’

‘Solid as rock,’ Death notes irritably.        

The force of its passing whips up a maelstrom of ash into Death’s mask, but he merely turns his back to the gale and readies his stance for another pass.

The almighty skull starts to turn, and its body follows suit, arching a graceful curve around the pit before it circles completely back to Death.

Eyes narrowed to thin slits of amber, the Horseman stands his ground, assessing, waiting for it to make the next move…

So, when it suddenly screeches to a stop with its massive jaw raising off the ground like a rearing cobra, he’s caught wildly off guard.

With barely a dozen paces between them, Gnashor poises for several, quavering seconds, its hateful glare boring into the Horseman with such contempt, he can nearly feel the malice rolling off its undulating body in waves and pushing against his own magics.

Hate is potent. This thing seems to have it in spades.

But something else occurs to him then. Whilst he’s been busy casting analytic glances at every part of the beast, studying it for signs of weakness, Gnashor, in turn, appears to be doing the same right back.

A mark of intelligence, he realises.

What is it humans say? ‘Know thy enemy?’

Death’s wrappings creak as he tightens his grip on the scythes. “What are you waiting for…?” he murmurs under his breath.

When Gnashor only shakes its segments like a rattlesnake warding off a larger predator, Death takes a testing step towards his quarry.

The reaction, as predicted, is visceral.

Gnashor’s skull recoils, and it lifts itself higher off the ground, jaws spread to roar threateningly at the Horseman’s advance, and without warning, it lunges….

…Straight. Down.

Death even leans back, preparing to dodge what he assumed would turn into a frontal attack. He’s almost thrown off his feet when Gnashor slams its colossal, bear-trap visor into the ash, and starts pushing in.

The power at the back of the Champion must be immense, for the ground gives way in a flash as if to readily accept those ancient bones back into its depths.

Spinal segments undulate, rippling with unbelievable strength as the backend of the creature’s entire body tips upwards. Within seconds, Gnashor has forced itself determinedly under the ground, and with a lash of its tail tip, it vanishes completely, leaving a burrowing hole in its wake that quickly begins to fill once again with sand and ash.

Somewhere above the arena, Death hears you give an indignant shout. “What the-!? That’s not fair!”

And while he appreciates the sentiment and your naïve expectations, battles are rarely won by playing fair. He has to commend the Champion. This might be harder than he anticipated…

The ground under his feet trembles like there’s an earthquake rolling through the amphitheatre. Spinning slowly in place, he tries to follow the vibrations, feeling for their intensity and spitting a very human curse off his tongue – one he must have picked up from you, somehow.

Sharp, discerning eyes scan the ground, but in the end-

“Death!” You’re the one who spots it first. “Behind you!”

Your shrill voice cuts above the rumble of Gnashor’s tunnelling, and as Death whirls around, he finally zeroes in on what you’d alerted him to.

At the other end of the arena - but quickly eating up the distance – a long lump of churning ash is careening across the ground in his direction. Gnashor lays just below the surface, burrowing along without hinderance.

The lump is rising up under his boots before he can heave a weary sigh.

In a split-second decision, he dives forwards and hits the dirt just as the ground behind him splits apart.

Gnashor erupts from the ash in a vertical lunge, his roaring skull aimed like a missile towards the sky.

Quick as a flash, Death rolls onto his back and drops one scythe to raise his free hand towards the beast’s spine.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls.

His gauntlet flashes with a familiar, purple light, and the phantom copy of his appendage launches from the ether, translucent, disjointed fingers reaching for their target.

Bullseye.

They hit one of Gnashor’s jutting spinal segments behind its neck, instantly clamping down around the vertebrae with a vengeance. Then, taking up both scythes in one hand and giving his opposite arm a vicious wrench, Death uses the ethereal tether to haul himself off the ground, through the air, and straight onto the Champion’s back.

The ensuing howl of rage is loud enough to shake the ramparts above you.

With its job done, the phantom hand dissolves into wisps of indigo smoke as Death digs his natural fingers into the grooves around Gnashor’s neck, adhering himself to the writhing beast with one hand while the other swings his scythes down and hooks the curved blades underneath its body, pulling the metal up to cut into its ‘throat.’

He might have succeeded in severing its head after all, if Gnashor hadn’t wised up and chosen that precise moment to buck.

A sudden, violent lurch to the side dislodges Death’s weapons from its neck as the Champion vaults up and down, its serpentine body dancing erratically like a ribbon swept up in a maelstrom. Stubborn as a burr, the Horseman’s grip turns crushing, and he hooks his ankles over each other beneath Gnashor’s body, determined not to be thrown.

He’s a Rider, no beast could unsaddle him.

In awe, you watch from the stands, your eyes blown wide, shining with astonishment as Gnashor thrashes around the arena. Not once does Death slip. He’s leaning backwards, sitting himself heavily against one of the spinal vertebrae and letting his body roll with every, erratic motion.

You’ve seen him on Despair, but the horse and his rider are so in sync, they make it look effortless. This though… This takes real mastery. This is the Horseman in him, you realise with a growing swell of amazement and - oddly enough - pride, prompting you to pump your fist in the air and cheer, “Yeah! Woo! Ride ‘em, Cowboy!”

If Death hears your encouragement – and there’s no doubt that he does – he doesn’t respond. Can’t in fact. Because without warning, which isn’t so surprising, Gnashor suddenly changes tactics.

If it can’t throw him off, then it will try to knock him off.

Indignant, it sets its sights on one of the pillars, and a desperate gleam flashes across its sockets.

In a move neither you nor Death would have anticipated, Gnashor coils its bones together like a spring and, in one, quick jerk, it unfurls itself, launching towards the structure.  

The Horseman realises its intent barely a second before impact.

Thinking on his feet, he hunkers down against the beast’s spine and throws himself to the opposite side, putting as much weight behind his lurch as possible.

Gnashor’s flank hits the column with an almighty crash, sending chunks of wood flying in every direction. Splinters pepper like hailstones down against Death’s shoulders and into his hair, and while he escapes being crushed entirely, there’s still a sickening crunch, followed by an unusual, uninvited stab of discomfort that goes shooting up his leg, so unfamiliar to him that he doesn’t register it for what it is at first.

His boot, it seems, the one slung around Gnashor’s serpentine neck to adhere him in place, had not been spared from the impact.

Metal and leather dig into his calf as his unorthodox mount slides down the pillar and hits the ground, shaking off its own daze, yet the only utterance Death makes is a small, muted grunt that he keeps locked behind his gritted teeth.

By contrast, your reaction borders on deafening.

“DEATH!” you yelp shrilly, all traces of enthusiasm gone.

Throwing yourself against the fence, you watch in horror as the Champion shakes the impact off and begins to rise, its armoured skull twisting around on itself to glare at the Horseman still clinging to its back.

The sound of your voice, harrowed and fraught with worry, steals a portion of Death’s focus from the battle. Snapping his gaze up to the top of the pit, his eyes dart left and right, seeking you out, and when he finds you, he’s quick to forget about the ache in his leg.

You’re leaning precariously over the barricade, your hands braced on top of the bars to lift yourself onto your tiptoes as if you’re moments away from vaulting over the fence entirely, driven by the same foolish, dogged loyalty that had urged you to follow him to this dead realm.

A bullet of alarm slugs the Horseman in his chest, just underneath the remnants of the Crowfather’s lantern.

“STAY THERE!” he bellows, his grasp on Gnashor slipping as it thrusts its skull into a forward charge, aiming for one of the intact pillars.

Up above, you’re almost chewing a hole through your cheek, one leg twitching as though you mean to sling it over the fence and leap down into the arena to help. Is it cheating to help? Does that really matter in a battle of life and death?

You’re so focused on the fight, you don’t even hear the steady tread of boots stalking up behind you.

How could you hear when Gnashor’s skull splits open to roar and the whole amphitheatre rumbles in response?

It’s why your heart almost leaps out of your throat when a giant, clammy hand fists itself into your hair and wrenches you viciously backwards, ripping your hands off the fence.

You can’t even catch a breath to cry out. Your head snaps back violently, scalp burning like it’s been set on fire as you’re flung to the ground, landing with a sickening thud on your spine and biting your tongue so hard, the taste of iron is quick to spread across its spongey surface.

There’s a ‘smack!’ when your skull follows your body’s momentum and hits the stone underneath it.

At last, you let out a wheezing cry, mouth hanging open in shock as pain and light explode behind your eye sockets. “Wha-!” Voice slurring, you give a dumb blink, your brain sluggish and hazy.

Keeping your eyelids apart is a feat, but you try to focus on what just happened, how you went from standing to laying on your back within a matter of seconds. Colourful sparks dance in front of your retinas, and your ears ring with a high-pitched whine.

‘What the Hell happened!?’

Suddenly, a shadow falls over your eyes, blotting out the sunlight overhead.

Heaving a miserable groan, you lift an arm up weakly to shield your vision and squint up at a towering shape that looms over you, a pair of horns sweeping out on either side of their head.

“Vuh-Ugh… Vulgrim?” you croak blearily.

Your brain feels three times as heavy, thick with fog and confusion, but there are alarm bells blaring somewhere far away as the figure bends down and fills your vision with the sight of a huge, rotting hand, crooked fingers splayed menacingly above you… Reaching for you…

At the back of your mind, a tiny voice whispers through the tinnitus, ‘That’s not Vulgrim.’

Kicking feebly at the ground with your heels, you try to scoot backwards, but you don’t manage to budge more than an inch or two before those same, putrid fingers slither around your neck.

And then, they go taut.

At once, your eyes bulge out of your head, rolling with fright as you’re dragged unceremoniously off the ground by your throat, gasping for breath around an obstructed windpipe.

Flailing your legs, you attempt to strike out with a foot, though your boot only glances off sturdy, unyielding armour. With your vision reclaiming ground, you peer down at the rusty, iron gauntlet below your nose, attached to the arm of the hand that’s strangling you.

Shivering, you tear your eyes off the gauntlet and lift them up to find a vaguely familiar face glaring back down at you.

“B-B-!” you choke out, silenced when the hand gives a squeeze.

A lipless mouth peels apart to reveal crooked, serrated teeth, sneering at you with all the hate of a man watching a bug squirm in his palm.

One of Draven’s recruits holds you aloft, the undead who wielded an axe and had seemed only too eager to separate your head from your body when you first arrived.

“You…” Brumox oozes venom when he spits out the word. “You filthy, little primate!”

His fingers are cold against your neck, but not cold like Death’s crisp, gentle touch. Theirs is the cold of a blade at your throat, or ice pricking your delicate skin, so cold it might burn.

Trembling, and aware that you’re in real danger of suffocating if the abject hatred in his glare is anything to go by, you suck a tight, unpleasant wheeze in through your teeth and kick your brain into gear.

Floppily, you reach a hand down to the sword at your hip, fingers smacking painfully against its pommel as you try to tug it from the leather scabbard.

A curl of fear, more potent than usual, swoops your stomach out from underneath you when Brumox’s eyelights flick down towards your hand. You suppose it would be too much to hope that he didn’t notice.

A cruel sneer creeps across his skeletal face, cheeks worn through to show you the sinew beneath flaps of skin. “You have some nerve,” he hisses, spewing a jet of stale, rancid air into your face.

Just as you grasp the hilt of Karn’s sword, a far larger, far stronger hand clamps down around your wrist and tears it away, gripping so hard, you could swear you feel your bones grind against each other beneath your skin.

“A-arghh!” you manage to exclaim, screwing your face up in agony as Brumox tosses your arm aside and grabs the leather strap of the scabbard, giving a vicious tug and continuing to pull sharply until the strap starts cutting into your side. Then, with a final tug, the leather gives out and splits apart at a worn seam, and the undead tosses the whole thing aside.

Through bleary eyes, you watch it clatter to the ground several yards away, stretching a hand out after it and choking, “K-Kaar-“

You’re cut off by a terrible snarl, and the arm keeping you aloft gives a rough, harried shake, jostling you wildly. “You come into our realm,” Brumox spits, “You flaunt yourself in front of us, with your beating heart and your warm blood…!”

What the Hell is he talking about?

You try to voice your thought, but the air in your lungs is growing staler by the second, and your head is becoming too light to think straight.

Dimly, you’re aware of the sounds of Death and Gnashor battling it out in the arena below you. Can the Horseman even see you from down there? If you could just get enough air in to shout…

“The arrogance-!” he continues, “-of humans. You are not worthy of the souls you host!”

“Brmx!” you sputter through pursed lips, spittle dribbling from the corner of your mouth.

He’d come out of nowhere. Sure, Death said the undead don’t like the living but surely he doesn’t mean to-!

Dark spots circle the outskirts of your vision like insects crawling across your retinas, fast and fleeting.

Brumox, his sockets deep and cold, illuminated by the colour of envy, flexes what muscles haven’t withered away in his bulbous arm and hoists you higher into the air, swinging you clear above the metal barrier and letting you dangle by your neck above the ten-foot drop below.

“You want an audience with the King of the Dead?” he posits in a deep, throaty growl, the translucent glow of his skin going fuzzy at the edges as you try to keep your eyes fixed on his. Is it possible for lungs to catch on fire?

His bones creak when he leans towards you over the fence, his skeletal grin bordering on maniacal as his arm draws you back in, close enough that when he speaks, you can look right between his teeth and see the gaping hole at the back of his throat that lets daylight seep into the dry, hollow mouth from behind him. “Then die.”

And-

“Y/N!”

Death’s call sounds far away in your ringing ears, too far.

The deadly pressure around your neck vanishes with a rip and tear of nails through your skin, and you’re tossed, as dismissively as a piece of lint, down into the pit below.

For one, terrifying and confusing moment, you’re suspended in freefall, wide eyes staring blankly up at the face that sneers down at you over the railings.

You’re granted no more than a second to really comprehend what happened, but by the time that second turns into two, the arena has already risen up to meet you.

‘WHUMPH!’

A shuddersome howl of pain is punched right out of your screaming lungs when you land boots-first in the pit, and the only blessing that flits distantly through the back of your mind is, ‘at least the ash is deep.’

You might have considered it luck, if you didn’t feel so damnably unlucky after being dropped in the first place. Somehow though, you’re immediately swallowed up to your ankles by the soft, giving surface, cushioning an impact which might have otherwise snapped a femur. It still hurts though.

Badly.

You topple backwards, landing with a horrific jolt on your spine for the second time in as many minutes. Any breath you might have sucked back in when Brummox released you is expelled all over again in a pitiful, wretched gasp that empties your chest until it feels hollow and concave.

“Fu-uck!” you groan brokenly, too afraid to move lest you discover that it isn’t just your voice that’s shattered.

Above you, the sky is bright, entirely too bright, causing you to screw your eyes shut with a miserable whine, blocking out the ghostly, green blob hovering on the other side of the metal barrier.

If Brumox still had working salivary glands, he’d send a globule of spit down after you. The nerve of you. As if his perpetual existence spent in servitude isn’t punishment enough, he had to just stand there and stay his blade whilst a living, breathing human sauntered into their midst, rubbing that valuable lifeforce in all of their faces as if to say, ‘Look here. See what you can never have back.’

Curling the rotten side of his mouth into his best approximation of a smirk, the undead allows himself to bask in another moment of your suffering, only too pleased to see you laying stiffly on your back, afraid and bewildered, surrounded by the ashes of all those who came here before you.

With any luck, yours will join theirs soon enough.

Gasping like a fish on land, you blink up at Brumox’s hazy silhouette, watching him turn about as if in slow motion and stalk off, vanishing from the stands.

“No!”

….

…. Oh right, Death!

Piece by piece, your head stops spinning and stitches its scattered fragments back together. The ringing in your ears fades out until you can hear metal clanging and a beast roaring somewhere nearby, and that’s without even mentioning the tremors passing below you like you’ve come to rest right at the epicentre of a veritable earthquake.

Throat burning, aching as if it’s been squashed in a clamp, you muscle down a painful breath and grit your teeth, flexing your fingers and finding, to your immense relief, that you can still feel and move them.

The same goes for your toes. You could almost weep at the pain engulfing your ankles. It means your spine must still be intact.

Screwing your face up in apprehension, you arduously roll yourself over onto your side, blurting out a little cry of shock as the movement sends a jolt running from the base of your skull to the back of your calves. But at least you can move.

Craning your neck back, you blink away tears, clearing your vision enough to make out the blurry shapes in the arena with you.

One of those shapes, smaller and harder to make out, has broken away from the larger, who currently appears to be busy picking itself from the rubble of another, toppled pillar.

One more blink, and at long last, your vision returns to some semblance of normalcy.

You almost wish it hadn’t.

The hazy but discernible blob snaps into focus with a roil of your guts, and suddenly Death is charging towards you, his ebony hair whipping off his mask, eyes wide and explosive like two stars teetering on the brink of a supernova.

Jesus… He isn’t even limping despite the leg half-crushed inside his boot.

In the next instant, the heat of the desert is swiftly and aggressively blasted away by a shockwave of cold, icy air. It suffocates you like a blanket of snow, shocking the breath out of your lungs as if you’ve just dunked yourself in a mountain lake.

Death’s glare might be afire, but his magic has rarely felt colder.

However, that supernatural power, that raw, unparallelled sharpness permeating the air around you pales in comparison to the ice that seeps through your veins when you look beyond Death, to the gigantic mass of bone raising itself from the ash and giving its skull a shake before it twists itself around to glare after the Horseman, locking him in those wicked, green eye-lights.

A horrifying realisation strikes you then, stark and jarring as a slap to the face.

Death has taken his eyes off Gnashor…

He’s shifted priorities.

He… he can’t do that here! Even if it’s only for one, tiny moment, even if he realigns his focus in three seconds flat, you know it’ll already be too late.

This beast, this… Champion must hold its title for a reason.

Death might have gotten away with some lapses in concentration when he was fighting a construct or an over-sized bug, but the bones and skeletal remains piled up around the Gilded Arena are testament to how dangerous this creature is. How it isn’t to be underestimated.

As you feared, Gnashor seizes upon the distraction with a ferocious tenacity.

And it all happens in the blink of an eye.

The Champion’s streamlined body ploughs through the ash like a runaway drill, that shining, golden skull held low as it careens past Death until its tail runs parallel to the Horseman’s loping strides.

Your eyes are fixed on Gnashor, on the undulating motion that starts at its head and winds down the length of its bones as the beast prepares to swerve across Death’s path, one segment after the other snapping sideways.

You can see precisely where the momentum is going to culminate.

But Death?

The stupid bastard’s gaze is locked on you.

It burns your throat to snap up even the tiniest breath, but you hastily draw one in, just enough to open your mouth wide and shout one word.

“TAIL!”

As if coming out of a trance, Death blinks, his tunnel vision expanding outwards from the centre point. From you.

He hadn’t seen what lead up to your fall, not really. If he had, he might have reached you in time. All he’d seen when he picked himself off the ground and caught movement from the corner of his eye, was your small, vulnerable body dangling from the arm of that undead who’d almost gotten a bullet through his foot when he raised his axe against you yesterday.

No sooner has Death placed Brumox’s decaying face than the hand around your throat sprang open.

After that, he didn’t see much more than a red mist of rage that descended over his vision. Even now, he can feel the Reaper bucking against its restraints, but he’s been relying on it too heavily of late. The excessive toll it takes on his magics every time it bursts from him has left his natural reserves dwindling dangerously close to empty. It needs power to break loose. Power he hasn’t re-accumulated. It’s why Death is always so keen to take back control after an outburst. The longer the Reaper is free, feeding off Death’s mystical forces, the longer it takes to rebuild those reserves. And it had been out for quite some time yesterday.

When the Council granted he and his siblings the power to defeat the Nephilim species, they made sure to shackle the Four. Death wasn’t ignorant to their ploy. A failsafe, he supposed, was only understandable. Why build a weapon that doesn’t have an ‘off’ switch? But he’s never cursed them more for their caution than he does now. Limitless access to the primal Reaper would certainly come in handy here.

The Horseman’s legs are pumping before he can register having told them to do so, your name tumbling from his lips of its own accord. Not even the dull throbbing in his calf nor the tiny splinters of wood digging into his scalp could slow him down.

How is it that even when you’re doing the right thing and staying out of harm’s way, you still manage to wind up in danger?

Your shout of ‘Tail!’ tears him from his thoughts and thrusts him back to the present with a vengeance.

It’s just a shame the warning came too late.

Death barely has the wherewithal to glance sideways and spot the enormous, bony tail whipping towards him.

Without slowing his stride, his gives a pre-emptive wince and utters a quick, quiet, “Ah-.”

‘W H A M!’

Death has taken blows before. From makers, and constructs, demons, angels and Nephilim, and even his own siblings.

Over the eons, he’s trained himself to become very good at avoiding even a glancing strike. Which is why he’s always surprised when one does land.

Well. Not only does Gnashor’s wallop land, but it also launches Death completely off his feet.

Barely a few dozen yards away, laying on your belly now, you’re helpless except to let out a pathetic cry as the Champion’s impermeable tail lashes out and slams into your Horseman’s ribs.

Time seems to crawl on its hands and knees as you watch his eyes burst open wide, shocked. For just a heartbeat, Death’s gaze remains locked on your horrified expression, soaking up the fear and anguish and pain pouring off your face. Then, in the next breath, his whole body is suddenly sent flying sideways through the air, careening into one of the stone walls of the arena with a stomach-turning ‘slam!’ that has you flinching your head back instinctively and trying to scream, “Death!” though his name catches in your throat and comes out broken and weak.

Tipping its head back, Gnashor lets out a triumphant bellow whilst Death can only muster a faint groan, sliding down the wall until his knees hit the ash and he collapses onto his palms, shoulders heaving. His mask is tilted down, the dark curtain of hair obscuring his eyes from view, and it’s then that you realise with an awful stab of dread that the Horseman – your powerful, terrifying, nigh-invulnerable friend – might actually be very, very hurt.

Your jaws snap together with an audible ‘click.’

Lowering its massive skull, Gnashor begins slithering towards the slumped Nephilim.

There’s an ache in your body that’s gradually starting to fade, growing even more ignorable as you grit your teeth until they’re bared, curl your hands into quivering fists and push yourself off your stomach, gathering your knees underneath you to sit up. A deep, whistling breath threatens to turn into a cough before it reaches your lungs, but you force it down anyway, hardly caring when the threat to Death is so much greater than your bruised throat.

Zeroing in on the Champion, you open your mouth, heedless of the consequences, forgetting what you are and all of your sense as you bark out a sharp, sudden, “HEY!”

For just one moment, everything in the arena goes eerily silent. Gnashor stills its approach, the segments of its body jerking to a stop in the ash.

Then, sharp as a whipcrack, its skull tears away from the Horseman, and those terrible sockets lock onto you instead.

It’s funny how quickly you can be made to regret a decision. Only, it isn’t really that funny at all when several tonnes of bone wheels itself towards you and makes an unexpectedly mad dash in your direction, responding to your challenge like a bull charging a matador.

It happens to fast and so suddenly, all of your bravado vanishes in a snap and you shriek, toppling over onto your rear and scrabbling backwards at a pitiful pace.

Gnashor cuts a path towards you, throwing bones and ash up like tidal waves to its left and right as its tail whips from side to side.

Your boots kick uselessly at ash, only succeeding in digging grooves into the arena floor as the beast bears down on top of you, careening to a violent stop just inches before it can crush you beneath the weight of a skull that’s as large than you are tall.

Golden bone shimmers in the sunlight as Gnashor rears itself up into a striking position, the metal clamp around its neck creaking with the movement.

Yelping, you tumble onto your back, throwing both arms up and holding your palms out towards the hissing monster, as if you could hold a creature so gargantuan at bay even for a sniff of a second.

The massive jaw that could engulf your entire body hangs open, but all at once, the bone-chilling hiss emanating from somewhere deep inside that cavernous hole cuts out, falling immediately and alarmingly silent.

Eyes screwed shut, your ears continue to ring noisily even in the ensuing quiet.

… Seconds fall away from you like dead things, lost to the desert wind, and when the awful anticipation of waiting for a blow becomes too much to bear, you crack an eyelid open, peeking reluctantly through your shaking fingers to focus on the enormous skull looming over you.

Gnashor cuts a gruesome silhouette against the sky above you. The green of its eyes is wild and vivid, yet as you continue to peep up at them, waiting for the strike to bring it crashing down on top of your head, you can’t help but notice that little by little, the lights inside its sockets are starting to dim.

It’s crooked jaw - filled with formidable, golden fangs as long as your forearm - inches shut as it drags its haunting gaze from your face down to your waist, then slowly slides a glance first to your left hip, then over to your right.

Chest bursting with anticipation, you swallow heavily and feel it catch on the heart lodged at the top of your sternum.

What the Hell is it doing?

You visibly jump in your place on the ground as Gnashor swings its skull from side to side, sweeping its searching gaze over the ash surrounding you, as if it’s looking for something…

With every poignant second that races past like your thundering heart, you’re brought closer and closer to an untimely and painful demise. Gnashor won’t poise like this forever, you remind yourself.

Is this really how it’s all going to come to an end? Crushed by the jaws of a skeletal serpent in some dusty arena far from your home on Earth? And all because you just had to buy Death some time by getting the attention of an adversary you never had a hope in Hell’s chance of escaping or besting…

… Each day is starting to feel more and more like you’re dancing on the edge of a broken record, barely skipping over the same perils and landing right back at where you started, stuck waiting until the next danger swings around to meet you.

A tear rolls off your cheek and buries itself in the ash beside you, lending moisture to a land that barely remembers the cooling flow of water.

Your eyes sparkle with the gathering liquid, and the tracks running down your cheeks glisten like jewels in the sunlight.

Yet still, still Gnashor doesn’t make a move. Its skull hangs above you, its fangs sealed together in a sharp, jagged line as its eye-lights roam from the ground near your hips to your face.

… Your hips though… Why in the world would it be-?

Narrowing your eyes, you risk throwing a rapid glance down at your side before returning your attention to Gnashor’s skull, only partially relieved to find that it hasn’t moved during your lapse in focus.

But that one glance reminds you of something… Something important. Something that only leaves you feeling more vulnerable than you were before, if that were even possible.

Karn’s sword.

It’s gone. It’s still up on the stands, where Brumox had tossed it so carelessly, rendering you unarmed and unable to fight back even if you wanted to…

… If you wanted to?

Fight?

Suddenly, something Ostegoth had said tickles at the back of your mind. What was it…? You give up chasing the train of thought when you realise you don’t really have the luxury of time here.

Wetting your lips with a dry tongue, you keep your eyes affixed to the Champion’s bear-trap jaws and hesitantly croak out, “Gnashor?”

You don’t rightly know what possessed you to speak its name.

At the sound of your voice, the creature’s eye-lights flare like bursting bulbs, and every segment that makes up its vertebrae suddenly tenses, cracking together audibly from the base of its skull all the way to the tip of its tail.

In response, you recoil, curling in on yourself with a gasp that irritates your sore neck.

And just as you’re starting to think you’ve gone and signed your own death warrant, Gnashor’s body abruptly jerks backwards.

The sound you make shouldn’t register in a normal human’s vocal range, but then again, you’re no linguist.

Even Gnashor utters a startled grunt as it whips its skull around at an angle that should have snapped its neck, jaw falling open to unleash an ear-splitting bellow.

Clutching handfuls of ash between your fingers, you drop your eyes to movement behind the beast and promptly let your own jaw go slack.

Death has appeared out of nowhere, apparently having recovered from his brush with the arena wall, shrugging off damage that would have utterly eviscerated a human being. His hands are clamped around the end of Gnashor’s tail, his fingertips curled into claws and buried deep between two segmented bones, anchoring him to the Champion like a briar with murderous intent.

And oh, there is murder, swirling in those wild, amber eyes.

You forget… How soon you forget that Death is a force of nature, arguably more than he is a person.

Even with a mask of bone covering his features, you know there’s a snarl on his face. You can tell in the rumbling growl that’s being forced through his clenched teeth.

All of a sudden, his muscles bulge and ripple beneath corpse-grey skin as he violently heaves his arms backwards, boots digging holes into the ash around his legs when the weight of Gnashor’s body contends with the Horseman’s strength.

You should have grown used to the laws of physics being broken by now. Floating fortresses, flying serpents and the living dead ought to have conditioned you to accept things that should be impossible.

And yet, you can’t keep yourself from gasping aloud as Death lets out a furious shout and swings an equally astonished Gnashor up into the air by its tail, spins on his heels… and slams its skeletal body into the ground behind him.

The tail hits first. Followed quickly by the rest of its body one segment at a time, until finally, with a deafening ‘clang!’ the Champion’s jaw makes landfall, and a sizeable tremor ripples through the arena, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

Dazed, Gnashor simply lays there, stunned into a stupor, pushing a moan of musty air out through the gaps in its fangs whilst Death straightens up and yanks his hands off its tail, curling them into crushing fists that cause his forearms to bunch up until their wrappings strain visibly over protruding muscles.

It would have been nice to get a moment to process what just happened. But alas, the shockwaves have barely stopped rolling by underneath you before the Horseman is rounding on you with a frenzied mania that sends you flinching back onto your elbows in alarm.

He wouldn’t hurt you… you know he wouldn’t… But in that one, split second - with the wind whipping his pitch-black hair about his mask, and the infernos raging behind those carved, bottomless sockets – something small and primitive at the back of your mind wonders if it’s only Gnashor you need to be afraid of…

He must have noticed something, the hitch of your chest or the pupils shrinking to pinpricks in your eyes, but whatever he sees when his feral glare lands on your face, he seems to pause. The oppressive cold billows off the Horseman in sheets. It seeps into your skin and pushes your hairs up from their follicles, obliterating any trace of heat until you forget you’re in a desert at all.

Clouds of crisp, white air start to billow through your teeth with each uneven heave of your chest.

Reluctant to meet his gaze, you lower your eyes to the ground in front of you.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out through a sob, “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to-“

“Shut. Up,” Death grinds out, his voice pitched hazardously low.

He’s livid. No surprise there. But as your wobbling lips press together into a tight, bunched line, you listen to the Horseman move closer, dropping to his knee at your side and muttering vehemently under his breath, “The only one who should be sorry is Brumox…. When I get my hands on that coward…”

So, he did see what happened… at least enough to know you didn’t get yourself into this mess. Sniffling, you allow your gaze to venture around the Nephilim until your bleary vision lands on the long, expansive body laying stretched out behind him.

“It… it didn’t attack me,” you whisper aloud, “Death? Why didn’t it attack me?”

Distracted, the Horseman keeps his hands hovering mere inches above you as he moves them up and down your body, like he’s trying to feel out a source of injury. After a second, he belatedly grunts, “You’re not exactly a threat…” Then- “Damn this place! I thought you’d be-! … I should have left you with Draven…”

You might have taken in what Death is saying, but at that moment, something near the base of the crumbled pillar opposite Gnashor’s body starts to stir.

The Horseman’s words fade to background chatter as you squint your eyes halfway shut, scrunching up one side of your face to utter, “Um… Death?”

A calloused palm suddenly slips underneath your back.

You have to bite down hard on your tongue to resist the urge to lunge away from the sensation of ice on your spine, battling against instinct as you allow Death to manoeuvre you upright gingerly with one hand, the other hovering above your chest.

“You can’t be down here,” he manages to bite out through the ire broiling under his ribcage.

It’s probably a good thing you’re too distracted to make a comment about understatements and the like.

Movement beneath and atop the ash strewn all over the pit has caught your eye. Strange, oblong shapes bulge up from underground in certain places like so many crustaceans clawing their way to the surface of a sandy beach. Those shapes that weren’t buried have been bleached white under the sun, discolouring hardened tissue and causing them to stand out starkly against the grey ash…

‘Bones…’ is all your gobsmacked mind can supply, ‘That’s a lot of bones.’

As Death continues to gently lever you off the ground, your eyes stay firmly affixed to the skeletal remains that have begun to roll and bounce across the arena unhindered. Hundreds of bones are on the move, coming in all shapes and sizes.

All of them are congregating towards a central point.

Gnashor.

Femurs, ribcages, sternums and scapulas… There are some so small you can only see their vague whiteness wriggling like bugs over the ash, and some are so large, they look as though they were stripped right out of an elephant’s carcass.

Blinking dumbly, you find yourself gaping open-mouthed at one of the skulls that had been attached to a skeleton hanging off the pillar Gnashor destroyed. It… almost looks comical now, bounding along the ground, tugged by some dark, invisible call, guiding it towards the Champion.

“… Deeeaath…?” you draw out urgently, lifting your hand to point at the gargantuan fossil stirring back to life, its skull rising slowly from the ground and sending great swathes of ash cascading out of its jaw.

The first of the marching bones have finally reached it.

All you receive in response is a gruff, nonsensical complaint and a hand curling over the top of yours, gently but insistently coaxing it back down towards your side. “Be. Still,” Death commands, shooting you a glare loaded with stark warning, “I’m getting you out of-!”

Without waiting for him to finish his sentence, you wrench your limb out from under his and heave an exasperated groan. Then, quite thoughtlessly disregarding your own sense of self-preservation, you bend forwards and place your hands firmly on either side of his face, your fingertips pressed to the cool, calloused skin of his jawline and your palms cupped around the cheekbones of his mask.

At your unexpected touch, Death’s body locks up tight, shocked beyond comprehension, but he’s stunned enough that he doesn’t think to resist as you simply twist his head sideways over one of his shoulders until you’re more or less facing him in Gnashor’s direction, letting him go once his eyes lock onto what you’ve been trying to alert him to.

Inwardly, Death notes that you didn’t try to remove his mask. He notes the warm tingle left in the path your fingers traced. Then, he notes the path the bones are making towards his adversary’s body.

“Ah,” he says shortly, still hunched over you like a bristling shroud, “Well. That’s hardly sporting.”

Like a long-buried fossil trapped beneath the dirt, Gnashor raises itself up onto its stomach, tilts its skull back and unleashes one of its earth-shaking roars. As if on command, the bones that had been moving steadily towards the Champion are swept up in a sudden maelstrom of ash.

A vicious gust of wind whips across the arena as if out of nowhere, hauling the remains violently up into the air, and right before your eyes, the bones shoot towards Gnashor’s serpentine body.

Sinuous strips of leathery skin still clinging to some of the osseus matter latch onto the Champion, pulling the bones into place like a grotesque puzzle, stitching a hulking body together out of dozens of corpses.

In one blink, a bulging ribcage has surrounded Gnashor’s spine. In another, two arms are formed with crushing fists made up of thicker bones sprouting at the end of each wrist. Shoulders protrude outwards around its skull, jagged and enormous. Then clavicles and a sternum, a pelvis… It all fuses together, a body built over the top of what used to be Gnashor.

The gruesome marriage of corpses finally ends when the Champion slams its newly-formed hands into the ground and pushes itself upright, and you watch horror-stricken as a pair of limbs are cobbled together underneath its bulk.

Clawed feet find purchase on the ground as Gnashor, now almost thrice its original size, stands on two colossal legs, the end of its prehensile tail jutting out from behind the bones and extending down to the ground below, lashing from side to side through the ash.

At last, it turns, heaving its bulky, crooked body around to face you and Death.

Its golden skull sits between two, mountainous shoulders, still attached to the spinal columns below it.

And then you realise… Gnashor is the spine, wearing this new, skeletal body like a suit of armour.

You’ve seen magic before. Death’s, Eideard’s, even the Warden’s when he constructed a bridge out of broken stone using nothing but his voice.

You haven’t seen this type of magic before though.

A body built from others, stolen from the ground.

On a blood-deep level, you know in your very cells that this is wrong.

A body should rest.

Is this what will happen to you and Death if Gnashor is victorious? Will you become part of this Champion, helping it defend its title, however unwittingly. Will your bones remember you?

The idea opens up a blackhole at the base of your throat, and all the air you try to draw in seems to go into the pit instead of your lungs.

All of a sudden, your view of Gnashor is partially blocked by long, agile legs.

Tearing your gaze off the brute, you find Death swelling to his full height between you, his scythes already in hand.

Gnashor lifts it foot off the ground, aiming to take a step forwards, but this time, the Horseman doesn’t intend to let it make the first move.

Silently, but explosively, Death lunges into a break-neck sprint, wrenching his arm forwards as he moves and hurling his scythe into a boomerang throw. Metal spins in a whirlwind, curving around Gnashor and clanging against its shoulders on both the toss and the return, sending the monster reeling away from you.

The weapon flies straight back into Death’s raised palm with a resounding ‘smack,’ but he doesn’t let the momentum waver, driving forwards with another swing aimed at the Champion’s leg.

Stomping its foot back down, Gnashor sends tremors through the ground with its weight alone. Verdant, flaring eye-lights flit down to the scythe that has just nicked a chip out of its leg, then up to the Horseman, and the other scythe clutched in his vice-like grip.

Something strange happens then, so briefly that you can’t be sure you caught it at all.

Perhaps it’s just your mind playing tricks on you – it’s hard to know where Gnashor is looking – but you think you see its skull tilt ever so slightly to one side as if it’s peering around Death, and then the eerie sensation of being watched creeps up the back of your neck.

The moment is over before the hairs have even fully risen on your nape.

In front of you, Death draws a scythe back, ready to strike out with it once more.

It’s as though he’s just waved a red flag.

Gnashor’s eyes are upon him in the next second, shrinking to small, green pinpricks in their sockets. Opening its jaw wide, it bellows down at him, pawing one, massive foot at the ash like a bull on the cusp of charging.

So, Death charges first.

Launching himself off his backfoot, the Horseman slips fox-like around Gnashor’s arm as it whips out in front of him, intending to smack him right out of his boots.

Thus, their dance begins anew.

Death drives, bullies and strafes Gnashor across the arena, and it doesn’t escape your notice that he’s deliberately leading the giant away from where you sit, gawping like a dead-eyed fish as their brutal waltz ploughs on.

What the Champion lacks in weaponry, it makes up for in the force and power behind its brawny fists, swinging them at Death with wild and reckless abandon, faster than the Horseman had anticipated. He continues trying to chip away at it, working out the weak spots, darting in rapidly to try and get his scythe around its neck only to be forced away again when it reels back and attempts to grab him with its savage fists.

The two of them seem so evenly matched. Death is giving Gnashor a run for its money, but the Champion doesn’t seem so willing to give up its title either. You suppose that’s fair, given the implications. Having to lose one’s head seems like a decent incentive to fight your corner, after all.

It takes another minute of letting the thunderous roars and clashing of steel rumble through your chest like cannon-fire before you come back into yourself with a start.

“The Hell am I doing?” you shakily whisper to yourself, twisting your sore neck around to look frantically at the high walls surrounding the pit.

You need to get out of here. Just because Death can’t help you right now doesn’t mean you can’t. If you can get to a higher vantage point again, maybe you can be his eyes.

Oh, where’s Dust when you need him?

It hurts to push yourself onto your feet, though thankfully far less so than you feared it would. Hesitant, you place a testing boot down, feeling it twinge as it bears your weight, but not nearly enough to whine about.

Setting your jaw, you amble around to face away from the fight raging behind you and start to drag yourself arduously across the arena, aiming for the closest wall and passing beneath the shadow of one of the last, standing pillars.

Behind you, Death’s attacks continue, relentless.

Even with its newfound mobility, Gnashor is exceptionally quick on its feet. But Death’s own agility has never been something to sniff at.

Through skills honed over countless millennia, he’s always boasted the best reflexes of his siblings, seconded only by Strife’s quick tongue and quicker trigger-finger.

The Champion has its back to you now, just as Death intended. Out of sight, hopefully out of mind until you get yourself out of danger. He’s starting to think he must have missed the sign taped to your back that reads ‘Sitting duck.’

In any event, he’s growing bored of this whole challenge.

The Dead King had better be worth all the hassle…

Folding himself over backwards to duck beneath one of Gnashor’s swinging fists, Death lets the air rush by overhead, then lurches upright again, and uses the sudden proximity to aim a particularly aggressive swipe at the underside of his adversary’s neck, where metal has been fused with bone.

In a flurry of sparks, Harvester scrapes a sharp gouge across the bear-trap around Gnashor’s throat.

The startling savagery of Death’s blow forces the Champion to falter and lean into a clumsy retreat to take itself out of range.

Snapping its teeth down at the Horseman to ward him off, it stumbles away from his malicious scythes, backing up too quickly in a frantic bid to regain ground. It doesn’t look behind itself. Shouldn’t need to when its only threat is advancing on it from the front. As such, it doesn’t see one of the few remaining pillars that still stands proudly at its back.

The arena is quite suddenly filled with the hollow thunk of bone colliding against wood with the pendulum force of a wrecking ball.

The huge notches on Gnashor’s spine strike the pillar hard, buckling the structure behind it.

Its gaze flits backwards, taking in the obstruction keeping it from retreating any further, and with nowhere else to go, it promptly leans its full weight against the wood and uses it as a springboard to launch itself back towards Death, its eye-lights a blistering inferno of sick, poisonous green.

But just as it wrenches its vertebrae free of the structure’s surface…

‘CRACK!’

Wood splits apart, a tiny yelp of alarm rings out across the amphitheatre, and Gnashor skids to a halt and spins around in a flurry of ash just in time to see the pillar snapping apart at its base.

Bright, luminous eye-lights zip down and lock onto the little figure standing directly underneath the toppling tower…

You know full well that you’re too slow to get yourself out from below it, yet still you try to scramble through the ankle-deep ash as the entire pillar comes falling towards you like a great, groaning tree, the chains trailing behind it with the speed of its descent.

At the very last second, you let out a shrill wail and throw your arms up to cover your head, only too aware that such a meagre defence will do you no good, in the end.

Above the sound of splintering wood and air rushing towards you, you think you hear the drumming of heavy footfalls as they thud over the ground, but you’re too busy wondering if Death will ever forgive you for this to pay attention.

All of a sudden, a spray of ash is kicked up against your arms, whipping at your bare skin, and in the next instant, the jarring yet familiar sensation of a vast, bony hand is enveloping your torso, palm to your backside and skeletal fingers caging you in from the front.

Without being granted time to adjust, you’re hauled sideways through the air and shoved up against a broad, impervious chest, smothering the yelp that jumps off your lips.

And not a moment too soon.

The impact of the pillar making landfall sends a boom through your body so fierce, it threatens to rattle the teeth right out of your gums. The force alone catapults a billowing cloud of ash into the sky, and if it weren’t for the hand cupping you face-first to a solid surface of bone, you’d no doubt catch a mouthful of corpse dust.

Even with the impromptu barrier, you still cough and splutter as grit coats your tongue after taking a breath.

“Fu-uck!” you hack, feeling the bones twitch at your spine in response, “Ugh… Death!?”

Only when the clamour around you starts to fall silent are you eased away from the expansive chest and tilted backwards until you’re sprawled out on the palm below you, head tipped towards the sky above.

Blinking through the haze of drifting ash, you squint up at the huge shape looming overhead, eclipsing the late morning sun.

“Death?” you repeat.

A skull… large and dark… You’d so easily recognise the shape of one by now.

The murk starts to settle, and you blink again, giving the Reaper a wobbly smile. “Th-thanks, buddy,” you whisper breathlessly, so sure the figure holding you must be the one you’ve become well acquainted with.

It’d be ludicrous to assume otherwise.

Which is why it comes as such a shock when a gentle breeze whisks away the floating particles of ash and exposes the skull above you.

Gold….

Not the safe, off-white cheekbones and cranium you know, nor the soft eyes that sit like spotlights inside ebony sockets.

These eyes waver, slowly flaring brighter as they take you in, casting you in their encompassing, emerald glow.

Your stomach promptly drops.

Peeling the dry tongue off the roof of your mouth, you draw in a trembling breath, feeling your throat squeeze around the air flowing into it.

Confused, bewildered – afraid – the only word you can think to utter is, “Gnashor?”

The Champion of the Gilded Arena… The beast whose head Death had been tasked to collect has just pulled you out of the path of the falling pillar…

“But… Why? I-… What?”

As you sputter through a string of nonsensical words, a dark silhouette seems to materialise in the air above Gnashor’s shoulder, soaring towards its skull with two, curved streaks of silver arched out on either side like a pair of wings.

Your eyes burst open, and the confusion steps dutifully aside to make way for urgent alarm and desperation.

“DEATH!” you cry, helplessly flinging a hand out as if you could keep his weapons from completing their arc through sheer will alone, “WAIT! STOP-!”

It always seems so unfair how time will slow down or speed up of its own accord. You need more of it. Now more than ever. Just to have a few extra seconds to catch Death’s eye.

But seconds don’t last as long as they used to, you think.

Because it’s all over before you can finish your sentence.

The infuriated Horseman’s flight ends with his boots landing on the juncture where Gnashor’s spine meets its skull. With one hand, he reaches forwards to grasp its cranium, his other arm curled back above his head, hand secured brutally around Harvester’s grip.

Before Gnashor can even register the presence on its spine, Death swings the blade out and down with one almighty heave, carving a silver crescent through the air…

You don’t know which is worse.

Seeing it or hearing it.

The dreadful ‘shwip!’ of razor-sharp metal slicing through bone makes you feel as though your ears are trying to shrink in on themselves.

Gnashor’s whole body jolts, locking up rigidly and hunching in around you, eye-lights receding to tiny dots in its skull.

 The hand you’d stretched out towards Death ventures back to cup over your mouth in muted horror as you meet its dwindling stare.

Below you, the giant quakes, and then it suddenly pitches forwards.

The knuckles on its hand collide with the ground, jostling your aching body painfully against its bony palm.

For just a moment, you continue to peer tearfully into the Champion’s flickering gaze, and then with a final, thrumming groan, its jaw falls slack, and the lights swirling prettily within the sockets of its skull flutter once…

… and die…

All around you, Gnashor’s fingers go limp and start to fall apart. The individual bones that had once formed the appendage as a whole slip out of whatever magic shackles bonded them together and clatter on the ground below, forming a pile of skeletal remains all around you.

A second later, the Champion’s severed skull falls off its spine, revealing a neat, perfect slice where the bones had once been fused.

It crashes solidly to the ash just in front of your legs, dead-eyed and lifeless, glittering gold in the sun, and its body comes tumbling down afterwards like a house of cards, inevitably doomed from the beginning.

As the dust settles, you tremulously raise your head to see the Horseman standing tall and triumphant on what remains of the Champion’s back, his elbows held out widely from his torso, chest thrust forwards as if he’s posturing.

You came into the Gilded arena with the hope that Death would be victorious.

Now though, in the aftermath of battle, you find yourself wishing he wasn’t.

"Death," you croak, brows pinched achingly above your crumbling expression, "What have you done?" 

[lavender-butterfly-cookie]

Hey if you could can you write for the Ancients comforting a fellow ancient reader who got kidnapped by their beast and chat with them? (I don't know how else to work this I'm not good at explaining things)

Plot suggestion: basically it's kind of just the scene from Sam Remy Spider-Man from Peter Parker getting kidnap to Green Goblin giving them a proposition then flying away saying "THINK ABOUT IT "HERO"" but with some alterations

Here's the scene that I'm talking about

https://youtu.be/sAfxBXAQCZM?si=LfuEqW_z1cqA9uqp

Brother, I had to go watch that scene- I will gladly do it. Side note, most likely going with the light of patience Y/N cookie because that's currently the only Y/N ancient cookie I've created.

Comfort after the chaos

After a long lasting series of VERY unfortunate events, you were back in your kingdom and exhausted. You just endured what seemed to be a forever lasting trip to and from Beast-Yeast and you had a lot on your mind. Especially after your encounter with the beasts. You have no idea how, but you had to travel there 5 times. And in all those five times you found yourself held captive. You were doing this to help your fellow ancients, NOT BE KIDNAPPED 5 TIMES IN THE TIME SPAN OF FIVE WEEKS!

Speaking of the ancients, they were all worried about you. You didn't have a previous holder of the light of patience, so there was no particular beast who was after your soul jam. But that was more of a reason to help your companions in defeating their beasts. However, you seemed to be targeted more than your allies, and no matter how hard you tried you found yourself in the same situation. In the clutches of the beasts.

The Beasts didn't harm you physically, but the mental trauma was far from ceasing anytime soon. Everything each of them said correlated to the conclusion that you'd be better off joining them and giving in to the corruption. Because there's nothing more the people love more than to watch a hero fall. In the end they'd all grow to be bitter to you, grow to hate you despite how much you've done for them. They'd hurt you and part of you knew it was true. "So why not hurt them fiirst?" That was always the question. All those interactions ended with them leaving you to think about it and you had never quite recovered from the experience

Your discomfort and unease did not go unnoticed by the other ancients, oh not at all. Every time you returned from beast yeast you seemed more shaken up and all of them felt guilty for having you tag along only to return traumatized. With this in mind, they all tried to comfort you as best they could. Though you never actually told them what had happened during your time being a hostage, they were determined to soothe any discomfort.

"Do not allow Shadow Milk cookies words to get to you, Y/N cookie. Anything from that Beast can not be trusted." Pure Vanilla cookie stated as he pulled a placed a tea cup on the table in front of you. He walks behind you and pulls a blanket over your shoulders as a means to make you feel at ease. And it's working. "I promise you that he will never be given the chance to disturb you so much. I will always be here to stir you in the right direction if he ever tries to get in your head again"

"I apologize once again that you had to be dragged through that issue, Y/N cookie." Dark Cacao said, he had grown a bit soft after he saw how being kidnapped had effected you. Despite you reassuring him that it wasn't his fault, he couldn't just leave it be. Though he wasn't exactly... best with comfort, you could see he was trying. Caramel Arrow Cookie and Crunchy Chip cookie were doing more of the direct comforting for him, CA occasionally hugging you and making sure you were ok whilst CC had his cream wolves huddle around you to comfort you. Both methods worked quite well. They did this because Dark Cacao himself genuinely wasn't sure of how the best way to console you would be after encountering Mystic Flour cookie. But you did appreciate the effort.

"Go on Y/N cookie! I insist. Anything you want shall be yours" Golden Cheese said. She had a plan, and that plan was to spoil you filthy! Anything you had taken an interest in was immediately yours. And even if you didn't want anything she'd still buy you things she knew you liked or gave you comfort. She would take you on flights around the kingdom too. She had also grown a habit of hugging you and wrapping her wings around you as though to protect you. And she was protecting you. Protecting you from Burning Spice cookie, as she should've done when you were still in Beast-Yeast. She's got you, and she ain't letting NOBODY try taking you away from her. They'd have to catch these hands first! And that gave you a sense of security

"How are you feeling, Y/N cookie? You doing better?" Hollyberry cookie asked as she prepared another cup of juice. You were both outside and she had been more of an energetic comforter than the previous three. A bit of fresh air and exercise should be a good distraction from whatever the heck Eternal Sugar cookie had said to you. She had also gotten you a lot of juice. Like- A LOT. You weren't sure if she was trying to get you drunk or something but fortunately none of them seemed to have alcohol. At least not the ones she had given you. She was also quite insistent on a bit more training so you could better prevent such situations, which was something you expected more from Dark Cacao but for some reason it didn't happen. Regardless, she's wants you to be protected, even if it's not by her.

"Please don't stray too far away, Y/N cookie. I still have yet to fully adjust to the forest myself." White Lily cookie requested as you both took a stroll under the night sky. She had been a lot more cautious with you after having lost you to Silent Salt cookie. She tried everything that usually made her feel better with you. Taking you to flower gardens, having a cup of tea whilst reading a good book, cuddles, any and everything. She also had the faeries take care of your needs when she couldn't be near, which they did gladly since they were aware of your contribution to their queens victory. White Lily will make sure you are as comfortable as possible and having her around is comforting in itself.

[luciaintheskyainthi]

Hi!!! I LOVE ECM!! I'm completely down this rabbit hole now, (spider web?) And I'm reading jason/peter fics 🫠 I'm not really a fan of DC so this is a 1st for me to love 🫠 I initially went through a peter/danny phantom thing then peter/harley mostly because tom's been my person for spidey now, you can imagine those pairings wouldn't necessarily deal with the morality debate like it does with jason/peter so this really made me think how they'd work

But then, in my personal thing, for the DC, it's not really a question of who's right or who's wrong or who deserves the privelage to live or how to solve the question of who's morally superior but who can endure and live with the decisions they make you know?

One thing i see in like my general knowledge of DC and what you've opened my eyes to regarding Jason and Peter, is that they're the type of people who mingles with the community. They want to save or help people because these are THEIR people u know? They grew up in these streets, mingled with what would constitute as background characters and npcs at most to the dc world, just statistics as u say, but they're people to them even the villains

Jason in my head in these case, will understand that while the 'bad guys' can be redeemed, he's not willing to take a chance that it will cost other people's lives. Innocent people that don't deserve to be just part of a redemption arc of a criminal and he can endure killing, what that does to him and other's views of him but he's someone who survives and can do this as long as it saves those future victims

Peter on the other hand wants to help everyone because he believes and has seen those that can be saved from 'villainy'. He can endure continuing to try and continuing to save possible victims but that's because to me, he's kind of op in his possible abilities and smarts u kno, he has the option to think of a way to help both 'villain' and victim and keep standing up after he's hit. In a way that Jason, as a relative normie can't. I think peter's experiences and what he witnesses in marvel verse shows the type of power and ability that allows them to help what other's would call iredeemable, like how he did in nwh.

It's a matter of how well they'll be able to endure either killing someone who could've been redeemed or allowing someone to live who continues to kill.

They're both stubborn tho, so I imagine in these scenario they'll just be each other's support 😃 in a happy place, that's what I want to think anyway.

How would you happen to see them in this context? 'Cause honestly, in bruce and tony's case as people who don't technically mingle with the community the way the other 2 do, they kind of come off as sanctimonious pricks who has a privelaged view of how to handle their criminals.

Considering they think that the people they fight with will target them and everything they may or may not do is associated with them, they certaimly don't think about the 'background' people affected in their actions the way I imagine peter and jason do. Sorry I rambled too much I'm not even sure I explained mythoughts properly 😃

Still ur an amazing writer 🥹 thank you for your generosity in sharing your worls with us

Finally getting to this ask! 🫣 I loved it very much and have been waiting for the right bandwidth to respond because I knew I'd end up writing a damn essay ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 (and would you look at that? I HAVE)

Let me start by saying I LOVE how you've put the moral debate that lies at the heart of Jason (and of course the Jason/Peter pairing!):

it's not really a question of who's right or who's wrong or who deserves the privelage to live or how to solve the question of who's morally superior but who can endure and live with the decisions they make you know?

I DO know and it's something that I've had Jason touch upon a few times previously (but also more in later chapters). He's long since accepted that burden - in some respects, because of his training with the All Caste I think he sees it in part as a responsibility, too (the All Caste kind of exists to fight against the Untitled, who are meant to embody evil, so there's a bit of that going on with Jason, too).

At this point, I think Jason understands that Bruce isn't someone who should take on that burden like Jason has. And he understands too, that the world is better without a Batman that's willing to kill. But at the same time, he also sees Bruce's 'inaction' as hypocritical and harmful because he DOES prioritise the lives of mass murderers over the lives of their inevitable future victims. Unlike Bruce, who is an optimist, Jason is a realist and a utilitarian. The greatest good and all that.

(Of course, I don't think that was entirely his motivation throughout the events of Under the Red Hood, but I'd like to think he's matured in the 4 years since then... Of interest: the Batman: Urban Legends issue covers pretty well the reasons why comics!Jason would stop using guns, after he lets his temper get the better of himself and he kills an admittedly shitty guy, but someone he knows shouldn't have been killed. While I still have Jason use guns here so that event's non-ECM canon, I do think it made a good argument.)

I do see Peter as a hero who should be very firmly community-minded (certainly far more than he was set up as in the first few showings of MCU Spider-Man), which does bring him into alignment with Jason, despite their differing views on killing villains. The thing is though, and I said this in an earlier ask, Peter's recent villains have been men who have been changed/altered, and its primarily this alteration that led to their villainy (with the exception of Beck and Toomes). Likewise, Peter is stronger, and that's meant he's not been made a victim in the same way that Jason has. So the way he views villains has been tarred by the belief that they can change.

But the thing is... while, sure, there are Gotham villains who are like that, there are also some who are just... irredeemable assholes. There's no 'fixing them' because there was nothing 'broken' about them. Or not broken in the way Peter's used to....

I think you also bring up a great point about the fact that Peter and Jason, living in the heart of Crime Alley, and community-centred heroes, would see Bruce's POV as sanctimonious because those future victims aren't just faceless victims, they're their neighbours. They're friends. They're the petty passive-aggressive arch-enemy whom Jason's in a constant battle with for the final parking space on the street.

There's no ivory tower for Peter or Jason. And that means something. To both of them.

I would also note, that while Peter's against killing and certainly would never bear the knife himself, he's capable of nuance. Because LBR, both MCU and comics Peter has associated with characters who've killed. MCU Tony killed Thanos, yet Peter never decries that decision. He still hero-worships the man after death. Same goes with all the Avengers, which there's no doubt Peter was aware of, yet he still wanted to join the roster in Homecoming.

Likewise, comics Peter still associates with killers like Deadpool, and though I've not read the comics, from what I'm aware it's not so much that he's antipathetic towards Deadpool because he kills but because he's a mercenary.

(Of course, one could make comparisons between Jason and the Punisher, who Peter canonically hates, and thinking of the Jason from UTRH, there's no way Peter would associate himself with the Red Hood then. Because like the Punisher, the Red Hood was indiscriminate when it came to killing 'bad guys'. But the Jason of now is a very different beast from the Jason of UTRH.)

To me, that says that the motivations behind having to kill someone matters to Peter. As of course, do the circumstances. Though you never saw that conversation from Peter's POV, he was immensely relieved when Jason confirmed that he wasn't interested in just breaking into Arkham and killing the villains inside executioner-style, even if that would still prevent them from creating any more victims.

Anywho, all of this to say, that while Jason thinks himself capable of taking on the burden, he doesn't think that should be the case for every hero. Likewise, while Peter would never allow himself to kill someone, even in the heat of a battle, that doesn't mean he's going to immediately condemn someone else for being forced to do the same.

[alvfr]

you asked for it! im forcing you!

how about a scenario on that particular AU you have cooking around? between nightwing and a spiderperson that is marooned in the black and white gotham city

we love to see it

posting this like you haven't already read all of it >.< a/n: the funniest jokes are princess-marida's and she is a blessed saint that endures my long ramblings about wips, including this one. i know it says a scenario, but this turned into a longer project (shocker) so here's the first part of chapter 1 (eventual) paring: dick grayson/reader rating: m (swearing)/sfw cw: spider-woman!reader who never stops talking, no use of y/n, superhero violence summary: for years, you have been the one and only Spider-Woman of your world. However, after being recruited to the multiversal Spider-Society, you learn that there's a version of you in every other universe too.At least that's what you thought until something goes wrong and you end up in a world with plenty of superheroes, but no Spider-Man. You're stranded, alone and glitching. You need to find this world's Spider-Man and restore your link to the Spider-Verse before you disintegrate completely - easier said than done with both a local detective and a hot vigilante on your tail.

Out of the Spider-Verse (and into Gotham)

All right, guys. Let’s start at the beginning one last time. 

Your name is definitely not Peter Parker, but you were bitten by a radioactive spider, and for the last few years, you’ve been the one and only Spider-Woman. At least, you thought you were until another Spider-Woman showed up to recruit you to the multiversal Spider-Society and you realized you were one of many, many, many Spider-things from all kinds of universes. It was a sweet gig, getting you out and about some, meeting new people, doing team-ups and group work, and your leader was a decent enough guy. A little intense. Borderline scary. Easy on the eyes though. Really easy on the eyes.

And one day, you’re hanging out at the headquarters minding your own business, totally not gossipping about boss-man, when the order comes to capture one of your fellow Spider-Men. Next thing you know, you’re caught up in the whirlwind of Spider-Beings chasing after someone called Miles Morales, and somehow, in the chaos, you slip.

A fluke, really. You never slip. You’re Spider-Woman! You literally stick to walls and ceilings, and somehow, you lost your footing and took a tumble into darkness. 

Real darkness. Where bright flashing lights and psychedelic colors had accompanied you all the other times you hopped through dimensions, this time, you fell into a black pit of nothing. Reflexes had you shooting out webs, desperate to get an anchor point. They disappeared into the void with an embarrassing swish, and you did not even have time to scream before you smacked into something undeniably solid.

Concrete, probably, based on the cloud of debris and dust that rained over you as your body dug several feet into it, knocking every cubic inch of air from your lungs with an oof. Yup, you determined as you lifted your now gray arms to study them. Definitely concrete. You dropped your head back into the rubble and made a face under your mask. Concrete dust was a real bitch to get out of the suit, and you would be forced to cosplay as whitewashed Noir Spider-Man until you could get it dry-cleaned. 

Read more on AO3

[promptthebear]

Could you do a 🐰 Drabble with Peter for 27?? Or anyone really, I just think that it needs to get out in something thank youu

Below the Belt

Tormund Giantsbane x Fem!Stark!Reader

Summary: Tormund is in love with you. It isn’t reciprocated, and a little wager goes horribly wrong.

CW: Swearing. Tormund behaving like a little boy with a crush, think pulling pigtails for attention. Kind of enemies to lovers dynamics but not quite. Mild implications that the reader has been abused. 2nd person, reader is referred to as "you"

A/N: I’m baaaaaaaccckk! This is my first time writing for Tormund so pls be nice.

Tormund was bored, which meant he had gone from being a tolerable pest to the biggest, loudest nuisance in all the Seven Kingdoms. Even worse, he had somehow used the ale soaked lump he called a brain to convince himself that he was besotted with you. And so, since Brienne had found you wandering through the ass end of the North and started bringing you back to your half brother on the Wall you hadn’t known a moment’s peace.

“Can’t you make him shut up?” you begged the lady knight one evening, not even bothering to hide your desperation. You’d been through a lot these last few months, far too much to have stupid stories about she-bears and giant’s tits be the thing that finally broke you.

“Trust me, my Lady,” Brienne replied, not even glancing up from where her whetstone slid across the edge of her blade “If I knew how, I would’ve done so the moment I met him.”

You glanced over your shoulder to shoot Tormund a withering look. As though he knew he was being discussed, the giant Wildling met your glare with a broad smile and a wink. You scoffed, tugged your cloak tighter around your shoulders and stared into the meagre flames of your small campfire. Perhaps if you looked at it long enough and wished hard enough, it would suddenly blossom into a full hearth complete with a pot of mulled wine and aurocs on a spit. And perhaps, dragons would live again and every last one of the Lannisters would drop dead by morning.

“Y’cold, beauty?”

The first time you’d heard Tormund address someone as such, it had been Brienne. However, when she’d shoved the tip of her sword against the hollow of his throat and told him she’d forsake her honor without hesitation should he even think about calling her that again, he’d awarded the title to you. You’d also threatened his life in increasingly creative ways whenever he did so, but unfortunately your words didn’t have the same impact as Brienne’s. Instead, they only seemed to spur the stupid man on and multiply his interest in you tenfold.

“No,” you shot back, your tone just as icy as your frozen toes. “Not in the least.”

“Then why are you shivering?” Tormund asked, eyes gleaming “A delicate little southron blossom like you isn’t meant to sit in the snow.”

“I’m from the bloody North, Tormund. How many times need I tell you?!”

The giant made a rude noise in response, blowing air between his lips and shaking his head.

“No, girl. I’m from the North. The Real North. You Winterfell lot and your ilk are nothing more than a lot of Southern twats who wandered too far up the coast and were too busy freezing your arses off to bother going back.”

“Lady-” this came from Podrick, who usually was too shy to say much to you but even he could recognize that Tormund had taken things a step too far. You were on your feet and bearing down on the Wilding before you even really understood what was happening.

“How dare you?! How dare YOU?! I am a Stark. My ancestors were the Kings of Winter. My father, his grandfather and his great grandfather were all Wardens of the North. We are descended from the First of Men, we drove the Andals out of Westeros and brought Kings to their knees. We have endured for hundreds of years, and thrived where lesser men have withered. Our crypts go as far back as-”

As quickly as your tirade began, it stopped with the faint sound of your teeth clicking as your jaw snapped shut. Echoes of your enraged speech bounced around the clearing, your righteous anger drifting up into the bare branches of the skeleton trees and into the black night sky beyond. Your cheeks still burned hot with ire and your chest heaved, your breaths coming in shaky huffs while your hands fisted and tangled around handfuls of your skirts. Were it not for the love you bore your late mother, you would have reached out and shook Tormund’s neck until it snapped. Because even after the earful he’d just gotten, the fucking fool was laughing at you.

Not just a little chuckle, either. Tormund’s head was tossed back against his shoulders, his mouth open wide while tears streamed from his eyes, laughing as though he would never stop. The flush on your cheeks quickly turned from one of anger to one of embarrassment. Of course. You had fallen right in to his trap. Tormund had wanted you to become angry with him, he had poked and prodded at you the same way a bear might be baited at a feast. The intent was the same too. He was looking for amusement. Gods, how you wanted to kill him.

Eventually, the Widling man managed to quiet himself down to the point where he could speak in between a few sparse chortles though it took several deep breaths and even then, his shoulders still shook with lingering mirth.

“Well,” he said, dabbing at his eyes with the edge of his cloak “You certainly sound like a Northerner, and you’ve shown me that pretty hair of yours is for more than just good looks. But, I’m afraid you’ll always be a little Southern princess to me. Unless…”

While you sported your father’s grey eyes and your mother’s red curls, you hadn’t inherited their stoicism or their tact. You were far too often entirely bound to the whims of your temper, especially when someone waved a challenge so obviously right beneath your nose. The clever thing would have been to walk away and leave Tormund stewing for the night, but the temptation to put him in his place was far too strong.

“Unless what, you blithering idiot?”

Tormund grinned, his blue eyes turning soft as though you were cooing sweet nothings rather than barking insults. He then rose to his feet and strode over to you, his long legs closing the distance in a matter of seconds. You’d expected him to at least have enough sense to stand at arm’s length from you, but that was far too much to demand of his simple intellect. No, Tormund didn’t stop until he was practically standing on top of you, so close you could feel his breath ghosting across the crown of your head and smell the dampness on his cloak.

The sound of a sword unsheathing made you glance quickly over your shoulder, where you saw Brienne now standing with her weapon drawn. You gave a subtle shake of your head, to which she responded with an equally short nod though you noticed she didn’t remove her hand from her hilt either. You stole a brief look at Podrick as well, though the young squire had little more to offer you than a half hearted shrug.

Grumbling under your breath, you turned back to face Tormund. The sudden closeness now meant that you could no longer look the man in the eye without craning your neck upwards or taking a few steps back. Not wanting to seem intimidated by his nonsense, you chose the former and fixed the Wildling with a searing gaze. Tormund chuckled in response, the sound as rich and dark as Dornish wine. A unwanted, tingling warmth began to grow in your belly but you quickly squashed it with a hard bite to the inside of your cheek.

“Alright little one,” the giant said so softly he was nearly whispering “You want to be a real Northerner? Then show me. Show me you’re more than just talk, and I’ll believe you.”

You wrinkled your nose, but didn’t break from his stare. It felt as though his deep, ocean blue eyes were boring right in to the depths of your soul.

“How?”

Movement at Tormund’s hip made you flinch involuntarily, which caused his brow to crease in concern. However, when you didn’t react further he pushed aside his cloak and pulled out a stone knife with a bone handle. You stared at the flint blade, watching the way glinted in the faint firelight.

“If you can take this from me in the next minute or so, then I’ll believe you’re truly a Northerner…” he paused and drew in a sharp breath “And, I’ll be yours. Mind, body and soul, from now until my dying breath.”

You let out a derisive snort.

“Is that it? Truly? You’re betting your freedom on whether or not I can take your poxy knife? Tell me Tormund, are all Wildlings this stupid or are you the exception?”

You couldn’t help but relish the way the ever present grin fell from the giant man’s face. Clearly, his little proposition hadn’t garnered the reaction he’d been hoping for.

“I’m exceptional in more ways then you know, beauty.” He replied, quickly regaining his composure and leering openly at you “Though perhaps it isn’t quite fair to pit such a sweet little thing against a mighty warrior such as-”

Whatever Tormund was going to say next would forever remain a mystery. Instead, all that could be heard was a faint, guttural sort of choking sound. Tormund quite looked like he was choking too. His pale skin had turned almost as red as his hair, while his mouth hung open in a silent gasp and his wide eyes stared blindly down at the snowy ground.

“How?” he sputtered, bent double with his hands clutched over his loins.

“Easy,” you replied, tossing his knife from your right hand to your left “I have two older brothers. Three, if you count that traitorous Greyjoy fucker. When needs must, I know where to hit.”

Tormund drew in another deep breath, which was followed by a series of coughs and a few strangled laughs. For some reason, this made you grin all the wider. Even after taking a full on strike to the bollocks, Tormund could still find a reason to laugh.

“Clearly, I underestimated you girl.”

“Clearly.”

You gently placed the tip of the knife beneath Tormund’s chin, slowly tilting his face upwards so he was looking you in the eye. He looked at you as though he had just discovered his own personal goddess, and he was about to become your most devoted worshiper. The tingling warmth erupted in your gut again, though this time you didn’t try to stop it.

“Do you yield?” you asked, keeping your voice low so only Tormund could hear you. He nodded as much as the knife would allow, and swallowed hard before answering.

“Yes.” came the reply.

“And do you promise not to call me a southerner anymore?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” you said, giving Tormund’s cheek a rough pat before straightening and turning round to face Podrick and Brienne. The young squire was gawping at you with renewed fear in his eyes, while Brienne was grinning at you from ear to ear. It was the happiest you’d seen her in months.

“Will one of you please see to him?” you asked, your voice practically dripping honey “It would be a shame if our journey was delayed because Tormund was too sore to sit a saddle.”

As you began to walk away, snow faintly crunching under your boots, you saw Podrick dart past from the corner of your eye. He immediately went to Tormund, bending at the waist so he could better assess the Wilding for damage.

“Are you alright…Sir?” you heard him say hesitantly

“Oh look,” came Tormund’s reply, sounding far too pleased for someone in his condition “My will to live. It’s gone.”

[lovelettersforthedamned]

Pleading Through The Bathroom Door

--genre + trope: hurt/comfort, college!au, angst, slight fluff.

--pairing: college!tasm!peter parker x college!f!reader

--word count: 1.9k

--summary: after ignoring Peter's suggestion not to go out tonight, you run into a situation that makes you wish you heard him out.

--warnings: alcohol, language, throwing up, violence, creepy drunk guy, descriptions of a minor injury, reader wears makeup, angst, a little bit of fluff at the end, peter just wants to help:((.

--gif credits: @marlosrph

As you make your way back home through the brisk air of New York City in the fall, you pray to whoever was up there that Peter won’t be home when you get there. You loved him so much, but the thought of him seeing you in this ruffled state made you want to turn around and head back to the dinghy club you came from. Even though that was the last place you wanted to be, coming face-to-face with your boyfriend seemed worse. 

He begged you not to go out tonight, and you ignored him. One of your friends, Mariah, was having a hard time with her now ex-boyfriend, and what kind of friend would you be if you didn’t help her take her mind off of things? 

The night started well, after a few tears shed by your friend, she was ready to party. It was her night to call the shots, you were just the moral support in the background. Because it was just the two of you, she never left your sight, especially in the state she was in. Her body was moving so carelessly. With her messy dancing and a drink in her hand, the last thing on her mind was the shitty breakup she endured. You were happy for her, for letting go and enjoying herself. 

As the night progressed, her body language was clearly betraying her words. She told you over and over again that she was fine, and that she swore she was okay. Just a few moments after those slurring sentences, she was pushing her way through the crowd to hunch over and empty her stomach into the nearest trash can. Making your way next to her, you bunch her hair into a ponytail and rub her back as she continues to hurl. She turns her face to look at you, tears spilling out of her eyes, “I’m so sor-sorry, (Y/N).”

“Hey babe,” slowly lifting her back up, “It’s okay, it happens to the best of us. C’mon, let’s go home.” 

Her apartment was not even three blocks away, so you decided to walk there. She seemed to have sobered up quite a bit after she threw up, and the water from the corner market you stopped by helped as well. The walk home was uneventful, you two were mostly silent but picked up conversation when you were getting closer to her apartment. As you make it to the front steps, you watch her walk in and close the door behind her. A sigh of relief leaves your mouth, knowing that she made it home safe was enough to lift a slight weight off your shoulders.

That moment of peace is quickly stolen from you when you realize you have to get yourself home safe too. It’s only a few blocks away, so it should be fine. Moving your feet towards the direction of your apartment, you suddenly feel a presence behind you. Picking up the pace and turning a corner, you realize that there is someone behind you. A taller man, definitely bigger than you, makes direct eye contact with you as you look over your shoulder, an ugly grin rising to his face. Your entire body went rigid as you picked up the pace. Reaching a hand towards your purse, you pull out your phone, hoping to call Peter. What you’re met with is a black screen, it’s completely dead. Placing your phone back into your purse, you start to make unnecessary turns, hoping that the man tailing behind you was just some sick coincidence, you hoped that he was just headed home as well. 

The footsteps behind you become louder, and before you can comprehend the distance between you and him, a calloused hand grabs your arm and pulls you to the ground. Stalking his way towards you, you quickly get back on your feet and walk backward as quickly as you can. “C’mon sugar,” his words slurring, “come with me back to my place…you’ll have a good time, I promise.” He’s evidently wasted, so wasted to the point where he’s swaying where he stands. He reaches out to you again, trying to grab you by the arm again to drag you to God knows where. This was all you needed for you to reach for the pepper spray Peter got you a few months ago. At the moment, it seemed silly. Your boyfriend, Spider-Man, was giving you an obnoxious-colored can of pepper spray to defend yourself. Now standing in front of a drunken idiot about to lunge at you, it didn’t seem silly anymore. 

He was more than close enough for you to spray the liquid at him, and as soon as you did, he hunched over, doubling in pain as he shouted profanities towards you. You took this as your opportunity to run as fast as you could, and you did. The overwhelming fear of being handled again coursing through your veins remained as a motivation to keep moving.

 You’re still a little drunk as the feeling of paranoia heightens every time you look back behind you. One more glance over your shoulder was all it took when a piece of uneven pavement caught your toe, and you came face to face with the concrete once again. There’s a burning pain on the palms of your hands, along with a pulsing feeling spreading its way from the open wound on your knee. 

Trying to recollect how you got into this situation in the first place plagues your mind and keeps you occupied until you’re met with the front door of your apartment. As you make your way up the stairs, the possibility of Peter being home ignites a wave of anxiety through your bones. There’s a slight hesitation when you come face to face with your front door, you take a deep breath in before you grab your keys and unlock the door. 

Peering in, there are no signs of Peter, a breath of relief and a wave of sadness overcome you. A part of you wishes he was here to help you, his mere presence was always enough to make the worries of the day leave your system. 

Turning on the harsh light of the bathroom, your eyes strain at the sudden burst of cool light. You try not to make eye contact with yourself in the mirror as you reach down for the medical supplies box under the sink. After you have placed everything on the small bathroom counter, you set yourself down on the lid of the toilet. With shaky hands, you open the container and pick out some things you need to fix yourself. As you reach for the box, you notice a discoloration on your arm, roughly the same size as the man’s hand. 

As if right on cue, you hear the god-awful sound of the creaky window open, followed by a soft thud of Peter hopping down to the floor. “Fuck,” you curse to yourself as you run to the door and lock it quickly. 

Walking towards the kitchen, Peter can see the light in the bathroom is on, signifying that you made it home before him. “Hey baby, you’re back early,” he reaches for the handle to find that it’s locked. His brows furrowed in confusion.

You clear your throat, “Ye-yeah, Mariah wasn’t feeling too good, so we left early.” You shake your head in defeat, even after clearing your throat, your voice still shaking. 

Peter’s senses picked up on your unease and he reached for the handle for the second time, twisting it this time, “You alright, (Y/N)?”

A spark of panic, he knows something’s up. You ditch patching yourself up, messily putting the supplies back into the box. There’s no grace while you put everything away, you just need to clean up as fast as possible. While reaching for the gauze, you knock over the bottle of rubbing alcohol, “Shit, no I-I’m good. I’ll be out in a second!”

After hearing more clatter, Peter starts to worry, “Bug? Open the door.”

You’re overwhelmed, understandably, after everything that happened tonight along with the pressure to come outside, you break down in tears. “Peter, I swear I’m fine,” a broken sob escaping your shaking form, “I got it.”

“Please open the door, baby,” he pleads, in the softest voice imaginable. 

Finally giving in, you unlock the door and pull it open. The first thing Peter sees is the state you’re in. You’re hunched over on the floor on all fours, trying to clean up the mess you made. The makeup he watched you apply, is now smeared across your face as fat tears run down your cheeks. The second thing he notices is the bruise forming on your arm, a silent worry lost in his throat. He very slowly makes his way to you, not wanting to panic you any further, and gently lifts you from the floor, grabbing the supplies as well. Guiding you to sit on the bed, he places himself crouched in front of you, still in his suit. Not saying a word. 

Your breath is labored, and your shoulders are slumped. Not daring to make eye contact with him. Taking a look at your knees first, he grabs a cloth to start cleaning the angry raw skin. What scares you the most is that Peter is not speaking. Breaking the silence, you mumble, “I’m sorry.” 

Peter’s head snaps up to look at your face, still looking down at your hands, “Hey…What are you apologizing for?”

“You told me not to go out,” you take a wavering inhale, “and then I ignored you. Then this happened!” Your voice raises, and you’re getting upset with yourself. 

“I don’t know what happened, and you don’t have to tell me right now, but whatever happened tonight was not your fault. I only told you not to go because it’s way too cold outside to go out, bug. And never ever am I going to play the ‘I told you so game’ with you.”

You didn’t know what else to say, or even if you were able to say anything. What you knew was that you needed to be around Peter. Before another second passes, you lunge into Peter’s arms, wrapping your own around his neck. The sheer force of your hug would have sent both of you to the ground, but Peter balanced himself before you ever touched the ground. 

You both stay there for a while, eventually, Peter’s hand reaches up to rub up and down on your back, calming you into a relaxed state. “Can we go shower,” you ask, “I have that gross club smell on me.”

A relieved laugh leaves Peter, “Of course we can, smelly.”

You playfully hit his shoulder, as he lifts the both of you off the ground. As you make your way to the same bathroom you were crying in just a few minutes prior, you know that everything’s going to be alright, as long as Peter is by your side.  

You fell asleep that night to the warm comforter surrounding your figure, along with Peter’s heartbeat fluttering in your ears. The thoughts surrounding tonight could wait, at least until morning. 

--author's note: hi guys!! needed a little hurt/comfort because the weather is getting chilly, and it's getting darker outside:I...im currently working on the asks you guys have been sending me, and they're smutty as hell. you guys are horny asf, DAMN. don't forget to support your writers by liking, commenting, and reblogging!! my asks/inobx is open, so send me anything!!! ok, bye ily<33.

[embodiedsexualitytarot]

Pick an image: allow your intuition to guide you.

This reading was inspired by the United States holiday, Memorial Day. Memorial Day is a day that honors military personnel who have passed away in service. It occurs on the last Monday of the month of May. Although, this is the inspiration for the reading, I have not limited anyone who wants to share. The images below are of potential offerings one can provide for a loved one to honor their memory.

Please be open to receiving your message(s) with love.

🌸| FLOWERS

Description: Left home/traveler, could have come from another country, followed moral compass/stood by beliefs— these values come first, followed their calling/purpose, mostly active at night, possible day dreamer

Potential names: Ralph, Ralphie, Reinard, Steward, Philip, Phil, Mary, Make, Dianna, Dee

Message: Do what feels right in your heart. Sometimes doing the right thing has consequences that we don’t want to face, but it eventually brings peace instead of regret. Prioritize fairness and honesty. We as people are not above or below each other. Don’t allow people to treat you less than, just because you are afraid to lose them. Staying will hurt more.

Note: They feel your pain and cry with you.

—————————————————————

🕯️| CANDLES

Description: Experienced heartbreak and loss (could have been a spouse, close friend, or animal companion), brave, leader, compassionate, could have loved animals (dogs), introverted

Potential names: Reggie, Lorie, Drake, Ella, Ellia, Patrick, Clarence, Clover, Ruth

Message: You’re living in memories instead of the present. They are burdening you with pain, grief, and betrayal. You’ve endured long enough. It’s hard, I know. But strength, in this case, does not come from how long you can endure, it comes from letting go.

Fight for your happiness. Inviting in love, kindness, and playfulness will help the situation. They do exist.

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🍛| FOOD

Description: left home/family (spouse and children), had to act undercover (spy, lie, or switch sides)— lived a double life, loved “nature’s fruit”, felt that life had a lot to offer

Potential names: Albert, Stan, Charles, Monty, Mathew, Matt, Mark, Peter, Abraham, Periwinkle, Sans, Traygen/Treygan (or a D instead of T)

Message: Manifest exactly what you desire. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. You’re going to have to make a sacrifice in order to pursue something. Don’t let the fear of letting go stop you from branching out from the norm or seeking something that feels aligned with your dreams. You may lose friendships or family in your pursuit, but what was lost can be gained again— it’ll just look different.

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🚨| Readings are for entertainment purposes only.

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[anxiousnerdwritings]

If you want marauders ideas I kinda have one. Black! Reader who writes to her older brother telling him their mother has arranged a marriage for her as soon as she graduates. Basically the marauders protecting reader from whoever tries to claim her hand. Could be platonic or romantic, it's completely up to you and your pretty brain. <3

Sirius is already so absolutely extremely overprotective over his sister so this would put him into overdrive. Like this man is pulling out all the stops to save his sister from enduring a life she doesn’t want.

I kind of imagine this taking place after Sirius ran away to the Potter’s. He’s not right there in person anymore back home but he’s still around at school and he for sure is gonna be on a warpath when it comes to all the other purebloods. He and the other Marauders aren’t going to give any of the Reader’s possible suitors any peace whatsoever while he’s still around. Sirius will make it his life’s goal to make all the possible suitors’ lives absolute hell while he still can. Even after school, this man would still be on a warpath to ruin them all.

First things first though, I could Sirius very much trying to get his sister away from their mother and out of Grimmauld Place altogether. He’d try to get them to come to the Potter’s too or maybe they even show up on their own at some point (probably when it gets closer to their arranged marriage). If that were the case then he for sure is going to do everything in his power to protect the Reader.

The other Marauders would for sure help Sirius whether he asked them too or not, especially seeing how much of an issue the whole situation is, particularly for Sirius given he can’t fathom his precious sister being in such an overall terrible situation that they have absolutely no autonomy in whatsoever and could most likely be treated horribly in.

If James, Remus, or Peter had a thing for his sister, I think Sirius would be perfectly fine with it so long as it could get his sister out of this situation. He’d especially prefer James or Remus over Peter cause he at least knows that they can keep his sister safe and protected in his stead then he believes Peter ever really could. Either way, I could see them devising a plan to get his sister and take her far away to elope with the respective Marauder, whether it’s before or right after she graduates it’s happening fast. If they wait until the Reader graduates then the second her feet hit the platform Sirius and the boys got her in their grasp and they’re gone.

I could also very well see Sirius desperately looking to James to marry his sister, like a marriage of convenience. Whether James is romantic or platonic in the situation. Like, Sirius would be on his fucking knees begging James to save his sister. He couldn’t care less if James still wanted to be with Lily that is if that’s still what he wants after marrying the Reader but he just needs to stay married to the Reader in the process. Like, the two can go their separate ways and be with whoever they want but they need to keep the marriage to ensure the Black family doesn’t try to take the Reader back into their web. But I could see James going through with it but being conflicted. Sure he still has his love for Lily but he also feels the need to do right by the Reader and be a husband to them, even if they’re more than okay with the situation just being merely out of convenience. Maybe James started out yandere platonic for the Reader but after marrying and playing house with them for a time he starts to grow romantic towards them.

In the case of the Reader marrying Remus, I could see him being conflicted too but it’s more from the fact of marrying his best friend’s sister, not to mention his being a werewolf. Not only does he feel awkward about the situation (whether he was romantic for the Reader already or not) but he also feels like he’s damned them to a life of being with a monster even if they agreed that either of them could be with whoever they wanted to be or that they didn’t need to treat this like an actual marriage. Even though there is that agreement, Remus would still very much take his vows very seriously. He never thought he’d be married to anyone, let alone his best friend’s sister, so he wants to do right by them and act like a husband. He wants to give them a good experience even if it isn’t exactly a complete marriage between the two. But eventually Remus does start to really fall into the role of being a husband and he quite enjoys it, overall he enjoys being with the Reader most. So, it would be really hard for him if they weren’t treating the marriage as it was, like he was, even just pretending and playing their part the smallest bit.

Imagine if the Reader viewed their ‘marriage’ to James or Remus as just being solely a way out of their family and the unwanted betrothal they were thrown into and eventually getting into a relationship of their own outside of the marriage, meanwhile James/Remus have become romantic!yandere for them. They would feel so betrayed, having taken their vows seriously and wanting to do right by the Reader in the beginning only to genuinely fall for them in the end and they’re just out ‘cheating’ on them so openly and unapologetically.

Also, imagine if the person the Reader was supposed to marry was actually yandere for them too. Like, maybe it was Barty Crouch Jr, or Evan Rosier, or (Merlin forbid) Rabastan Lestrange. And they were actively trying to get their darling back 👀. Not to mention yan!bro!Regulus who is on the other side of things. Especially regarding Barty and Evan, maybe Regulus was the one who brought it up to Walburga about the arranged marriage to begin with cause he knew how his best friend(s) felt about his sister and he trusted them enough to be with her. Plus, if their parents were going to marry the Reader off anyway, particularly for blood purity reasons, then he’d rather it be to someone he could trust with his beloved sister than anyone else.