#under the split wood and splinters is a single arm of his reaching out and a pool of blood starting to fan out over the wreckage

[dirt-str1der]

Wanna kill kiryu and it wont be any sort of romance or poetry i just want him dead. Its a sex thing

[thesightstoshowyou]

I love your work so much! Would you consider writing number 28 for the man from Hush? I was so excited to see you talking about him haha, it's such an underrated movie! xxx

Thank you so much!!! Heck yes I will write for him! I’m also working on week 4 of bloodfest and it features this asshole 😁

I have a few other The Man stories on my Masterlist if you haven’t read those! ❤️

~~

28. "This is not what I expected."

Warnings: Predator/prey, blood, wrist trauma, heavy gore. Dead dove do not eat.

Blood drips into your eye and you hiss, thick crimson stinging and clouding your vision. You close it on instinct, your vision now halved as you sprint through gloomy forest. You don’t think to wipe it away; flight is the only thing on your panicky animal brain.

A loud twang echoes around the darkness, followed almost immediately by a startling crack as the bolt collides with a tree trunk inches from your head. Wood splinters, chunks scraping your cheek and clinging to your hair.

You shriek and duck, staggering to your left, your burning leg muscles barely managing to make the turn. Grunting, huffing, panting like a dog, you will yourself to keep moving, keep running!

Gripping a nearby oak, you use it as leverage and push, hurtling yourself forward into the brush. Twigs crack underfoot, foliage rustles, lungs gasp, blood leaks. You don’t risk a look behind you, but you must be putting some distance between you and your pursuer, how could you not be—

Your foot, your god damned foot catches on a root protruding from the earth. A shocked cry catches in your throat as you crash to the ground. Palms and knees split open and bleed when you attempt to catch yourself, your wrist crunching horribly under your weight. You roll once, twice, three times before you skid to a stop in a flurry of dead leaves and pine needles.

You fell! How could you fall? You need to get up, get away, this man is trying to kill you! Anger at your own stupidity forces you off the ground. Nauseating pain shoots up your arm and you whimper, cradling your wrist to your chest, reaching for a branch with your working hand. Get up, get—

TWANG

THUNK

All the air is knocked from your lungs. You’re tossed sideways when the crossbow bolt hits you in the waist, tunnels through your guts, and explodes out the other side just below your rib cage. It comes to a stop in the trunk of an alder, your viscera pinned to the tree by the dripping projectile. The end wobbles a few times before falling still.

Shock.

You feel nothing at first. The bolt went through you at such great speed your body has yet to realize the trauma it has sustained. All you can do is stare, wide eyed, mouth hanging open, lungs frozen and refusing to draw in air.

You may not be able to feel just yet, but you can hear. Boots crunch on undergrowth as your assailant approaches, plain white mask the only thing visible in the darkness.

“Oh no, this is not what I expected.” His words drip with sarcasm, his hands exaggerating his mocking body language. “All you animals fucking trip. Every single one.”

Air returns to your lungs and with it comes agony. Stabbing, wretched pain envelops your torso, but all you can do is gurgle, wet iron bubbling in your throat. Your shaking hands clutch uselessly at your abdomen, entry and exit wounds gushing blood until the dirt beneath you turns to mud

Crouching next to your twitching form, the man studies your injuries, then traces the path of the bolt until his gaze falls on the tree.

“Damn, what a shot, huh?” he exclaims. He makes a whooshing noise and a swooping motion with his arm. “Just straight through!” Pointing to the alder, he adds, “I think that’s your liver.”

Your vision blurs, the woods around you getting darker by the second. You’re thankful for it as the man pulls his knife from its sheath. Though, instead of using it on you, he lays the crossbow across his knees and begins carving something into the foregrip.

He shrugs, “Might be a bit premature, but I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna last much longer. Agreed?”

[lackadaisydreamer]

Midnight City pt4

He rummaged through the ash tray to find a cigarette, the end of a cigar, anything. Luck as always was on his side, and Jackpot found himself a cigar he had left earlier hardly even half done. He must have been in a rush when he put it out. His face was illuminated by a very ornate silver lighter, the glow of the embers on the end of the pungent cigar was the only light in the room before he leaned over and turned on a single small desk lamp. “ Who the hell were they?” He hissed. Only a single other person sat in the room, a woman in a tight trench coat with a tall collar. The very night sky seemed to have been woven into the fabric, her face hidden under a wide hat.  “If you don’t know you really are a fool Biggs.” Snow lifted her face, offering only a smile of pearly white teeth framed in glossy black lips. “You’ve been throwing the Midnight Crew to the dogs to throw them off your scent and you didn’t think that would bite you in the ass eventually?.” She crooned. Biggs growled, only to have her suddenly appear behind him, leaning against his chair. “I told you, if you took this path you would regret it...” He slammed his fist on the table, making wood splinter against the walls. A pistol aimed at her head with a snarling warthog hovering his finger over the trigger. 

“You really do think you’re invincible...I would love to find out.” He mused. “I wonder if the world would split like this bullet against your skull, or if it would simply go with a pop like a bubble...” She didn’t even give him the luxury of turning her head to look at him when suddenly his cigar was in her hand. 

“I’m surprised you smoke such a cheap brand...” She flicked it away then walked towards the door. He threw down the gun and sunk back into his chair. He was starting to wonder if she was his prisoner, or if this was the other way around. 

They all sat in silence, Slick driving and gripping the wheel tight. He had so many questions, what had Biggs wanted with Ms. Paint? Why were the Felt working for someone? He was getting confused, and angrier by the second. He looked in the backseat, Hearts was lifting a finger out of curiosity. Poking Ms. Paint’s cheek. “Don’t do that you moron!!” He barked, then quickly froze. Watching as Paint turned over slowly. Slick lowered his voice, wondering why his heart was beating so fast. “ Don’t wake her up, and dammit you stupid ape you can’t just poke people in the face!” Boxcars tapped his hands together sheepishly. 

“She’s just...so squishy looking.” Slick facepalmed. 

“Fucking hell Box...You don’t call women squishy!” Slick allowed himself one look, just one look. He felt his chest flutter as he quickly looked away. “She does look squishy...” He thought, driving once more in silence until they reached a manor that was white and pink with beautiful fountains and rose bushes everywhere. Slick hopped out as Deuce struggled to undo his seatbelt, kicking Droog to wake him up and help Clubs. Hearts gently tapped Ms. Paint’s shoulder, quickly backing up as if she were a bomb as she slowly sat up. 

“O-oh!” She called out startled, looking around at the four men as the events of the night quickly slid back into her memory. Slick pushed his way past Hearts. “Hello, thank you...” She stuttered, hesitantly taking Slick’s arm as he offered it to her. Droog smirked, holding a very tired Clubs in front of him as he hiccupped and mumbled something about his stomach hurting. Hearts gave Slick a thumbs up as soon as he was out of Ms. Paint’s line of sight as Droog lowered his hat over his face to cover his laughter. Slick felt his face burn as he glared at all three of them. Ms. Paint took a deep breath. 

“I would be happy to give you all a place to sleep tonight...I assure you that this is as safe as you can get, it’s very private, and has a state of the art security system.” Before she even reached the steps the large doors were thrown open and they were greeted by an elderly prospitian in a very well made suit running down the steps frantically. 

“Mistress! Madame, heavens to Betsy!” He composed himself, straightening his back and offering a polite bow before addressing Ms. Paint again. “It’s all over the news! A gas leak at the casino...Mr. Biggs hasn’t made any statements, and you were nowhere to be seen- GOOD HEAVENS!” He suddenly noticed the four standing there, looking at them with surprise. “My sincerest apologies. I was unaware that...we had company.” He looked at Ms. Paint with confusion. She sighed, feeling a massive migraine coming on. 

“Clyde a moment please do forgive me...” She let go of Slick’s hand, making her way up the steps and motioning for them all to follow. “It has been a very long night, and I am sure that ALL of you have many many questions and honestly so do I but that can wait until morning...please.” Clyde bowed, leading the gentlemen inside. 

It was well lit, with marble and rich velvet as far as the eye could see. It was decorated in a very flattering dusty pink. Ms. Paint took off her gloves, Clyde seeing her in the light froze. She had bruises everywhere, her silk dress was torn and her hat was missing. “What on earth...Ms. Paint?” He was flabbergasted. “Did Biggs even see to you when the explosion happened?” Ms. Paint straightened her back. 

“I will say this dear Clyde, I don’t want to to worry you.” Her voice was warm, but when turned her sweet face was cold and even made shivers run down Slick’s spine. “That fat bastard, as well as his brainless accomplices are not to be let anywhere near this place or so help me I will tear his stupid moustache from his gaunt face myself; and shove it so far up his ass? He will cough it up, and spit it out!” Her voice slowly built as she spoke, ending of with a sharp shout that made Slick raise is brows. What was this feeling? He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Boxcars leaned down. 

“She’s good with words, you should take pointers.” He narrowed his eyes, cause...he was right of course. Clyde stood stiffly, his own face twitching. 

“You mean to tell me Ms. Paint that he is the cause for all this?” Ms. Paint took a deep breath. 

“yes Clyde, but really I will not be discussing this further...” She rubbed her face. “I have a splitting headache as it is so if you don’t mind, please give this wonderful gentlemen anything they need.” She gave them all a kind smile, taking Slick’s hand and looking into his eyes. “I truly can’t thank you all enough...goodnight.” Slick watched her walk up a staircase, as if hypnotised as the rest of the crew followed Clyde down a hallway. Droog looked down at his ankle, cursing. His white pants were bright red and his leg was aching. The bullet wound, he had almost forgotten. The alcohol had masked the pain but it was wearing off. His entire leg groaned in protest, he leaned against the wall as the pain shot up his body and he slid to the floor. 

[autolovecraft]

Why did you do it, Birch?

The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door.

Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. God, what a rage! The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb.

The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor.

Armington helped Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Armington helped Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. He could not walk, it appeared, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was wise in so doing. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. That he was not an evil man. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications.

It may have been encouraging and to others may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. An eye for an eye! Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live.

Great heavens, Birch, just as I thought! He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude.

As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking.

On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved. He could not walk, it appeared, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer.

In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness.

[dcviated]

@thebreakfastmuses sent: A round of beer, a crowd of drunk patrons egging them on, and the classic test of strength known as 'arm wrestling.' That about describes the situation Baldwin and Dogi are currently in. Over the garbled roars of the spectators, the sound of wood starting to splint under his elbow failed to reach Baldwin's ears, though in his peripheral vision he could spot much the same happening to Dogi. One last exertion of might... Aaaaand the table splits in half and crashes to the floor under their combined strength. Oooh, the bartender isn't going to be happy that one. "I... Hm. You are powerful indeed, Sir Dogi. I suppose we must also split the bill to replace this table."

It started with a single story. A tale of 'humble' bravado where a feat of strength led to wrangling a beast several times their own size. Attempts to call bluffs led to other experiences being shared until eventually, the other patrons had settled on two who needed to prove themselves. Who was the stronger between them?

Well. Dogi is already one to enjoy his drink. And several shots in to a lively evening he was plenty enthusiastic to indulge the audience. Just for fun. Where's the harm?

As the contest continued, it would become soon apparent (to those actually paying attention) that if a man is able to slug a dragon into submission. Or if they could split a beast in half with nary half a blade. Maybe the two of them going head to head wouldn't spell well for the surroundings? Imagine if they'd been going all out. There's focus and effort to be sure. However-

Crck.

"Not done yet."

Crack!

Unfortunately even if Dogi wasn't, the table was. It crashes in one sudden split. And both competitors go soon after with it as the ale-stained wood gives out its last breath. A momentary daze as realization hits him, then there's laughter as he sits up along with the masked swordsman.

"Oh man! Guess that one's a draw!" Yet, while that doesn't seem to bother the brawler, all the onlookers (who were also knocked away in the shockwave of collapse) seem rather disappointed. Bets had been hedged and now that money was in limbo. Not their problem. The table however...

"Yikes. That's... not something you can just put back together now is it? Huh." He picks up the pieces, holding them up as if there'd be any hope in nailing it together. Too many splinters. There's a grimace that precedes another chuckle as he looks back the other. "...can't cost that much can it?"

The owner would have the last words on that.

And that was if they didn't just dip out and avoid the situation altogether.

[itllsetyoufree]

“Does this help?” + kara being injured

All things considered, Lena’s Saturday has been startlingly unremarkable so far. The sun is shining, she’d had her usual cup of yogurt with sliced bananas for breakfast, she hasn’t gotten a single off-hours weekend call from work, and she’d even had time to read the Cooking section in the National City Tribune. The biggest thing on her calendar for the day is her weekly movie night with Kara, which she’d been quietly looking forward to since Kara had left her apartment after their movie night the week before.

There was a time in Lena’s life where the easy, almost leisurely flow of her day would have been alarmingly, disarmingly suspect. But with no attempts on her life and L-Corp running smoothly for the last year or so, Lena’s life has settled into something more… quiet. 

And on any other day, it might have continued that way. 

Because noxious gas-breathing, nine-legged alien dragons aren’t typically her problem.

She gets the notification on her phone, of course:

Emergency Alert: Rogue Alien Attacking National City Waterfront— alien is violent and unrestrained, exhales unidentified purple gas. Residents urged to remain indoors and to close all windows.

Lena sighs, rolling her neck to the side and grabbing her phone as she lifts herself off her couch to close her balcony door. Despite having a near-panoramic view of the water, Lena’s apartment is on the other side of town from the docks, but she winds her way around her apartment anyway and closes all of her windows just in case. She’s just shutting the last one when she fires off a text to Kara, telling her to stay inside and to not come over until the alien is taken care of, and don’t even think about going down to the docks to report on it, Kara, I know CatCo doesn’t have gas masks on hand.

She gets a single thumbs up in response, an unusually terse reply from Kara, who never sends one text message when three will do, but Lena doesn’t think much of it and just settles back down on the couch to flip on the news. 

She watches live as the alien positively obliterates several of National City’s piers with three of its arms. The video feed shows people diving out of the way as wet, splintered wood flies in every direction. The esplanade is littered with debris as the alien rears up again, swinging its tail against the surface of the bay and spraying rolling waves of water onto the shore. 

Lena blows out a heavy breath as she watches the destruction unfold before reaching out for her phone again. She’s just hitting send on an email to Jess, telling her to donate funds to the city to rebuild the docks, when the unmitigated panic on screen abruptly stops. 

She sits up straight on the couch as she watches the dragon puff out a billowing cloud of purple smoke. It unfurls along the embankment and the remaining parts of the boardwalk, and slowly engulfs the small crowd of people fleeing the waterfront and the remaining stragglers on the shoreline.

Lena watches, mouth parting in shock, as they all stop running en masse and slow to a halt. The newsfeed goes silent as the crowd stops screaming, even the newscaster losing his breath as everyone stands still, lolling around on their feet as if held up by rubber and not muscle, before they all calmly sink down to the ground and lay down. 

The sweeping shot of everyone resting on the ground seems to spur the news anchor back to life, and he resumes narrating wildly, jabbering and speculating like an auctioneer calling the Superbowl. 

The dragon stops destroying more of the docks to huff out another cloud of smoke at a helicopter nearby. Lena sucks in a breath as the helicopter wobbles in the air over the people on the ground, but it just floats softly down, landing gentle as a feather on the nearest open patch of grass. Lena pinches her eyebrows together, bewildered, but before she can think too much on it, there’s a red and blue streak zooming into the frame. 

Supergirl pulls up behind the dragon, and Lena only has a second to admire the sun glinting off her hair before Supergirl grabs the alien by one of its legs and flings it out toward the sea. 

From there it’s a whirlwind. Supergirl and the alien lunge and splash and swing at each other at a dizzying speed, spinning in the air and dragging each other under the water. The camera holds steady on them for several minutes until one final breathtaking moment. Both Supergirl and the alien breach out of the water and whirl to face one another. Supergirl’s eyes glow for a split second before her heat vision activates and scorches across the dragon’s abdomen. It crashes back to the water with a roar, but just before it sinks beneath the surface, it huffs out one final breath of smoke. 

It catches Supergirl visibly off-guard as she recovers from the fight, gasping for air just as it engulfs her. The newscaster goes silent once more, watching as Supergirl seems to go loose mid-air. She sways a little, drifting in the wind, a glassy, confused look on her face. Lena’s reaching for her phone, ready to call Alex to see if she can help, when Supergirl shakes her head and starts to fly, slowly and unsteadily, away from the scene. 

The newscaster and Lena heave a simultaneous sigh of relief, and Lena lets her phone drop back down to the couch. The news switches back to coverage of the dazed, lethargic people on the shore who seem confused but otherwise unharmed. Lena’s just relaxing back into the cushions, half a mind to open her windows back up to let in the breeze, when she catches movement out of the corner of her eye. 

She turns, watching as Supergirl floats shakily toward her balcony. 

When Supergirl lands, it’s with none of the elegance or athleticism Lena’s come to associate with her. There’s no graceful descent, no landing delicately on one pointed foot or shooting down from the sky to stop on a dime just before she hits the ground. Supergirl drifts closer and closer to her building, one foot outstretched as she reaches Lena’s balcony, but her foot catches on the top of the railing, and she topples over it, hands splayed out to catch herself. She spills over the banister and lands on her chest, legs arching up behind her and feet still hooked over the railing. She looks up at Lena through the glass window, eyes half glazed over and unfocused as her cape slides up the slope of her back to pool at the back of her neck. 

The sight of her, glassy and dazed and draped over her railing like a wet towel spurs Lena into action. She throws the balcony door open and rushes over, dropping to her knees and reaching out to run her hands down the length of Supergirl’s arms, cupping her cheeks and tilting her head to either side to look for bruises. 

“Supergirl! Are you hurt? Can you stand? Come, let’s get you to the DEO.” 

“Hi.” 

Lena stills, pausing her frantic checking of Supergirl’s pulse to actually take stock of the situation. 

Supergirl, seemingly unconcerned by her chin pressing into the concrete or being curled backwards over herself, blinks up at Lena. She looks untroubled, calm, her hair and suit still damp from the water but otherwise right as rain, but the expression on her face is… vacant. Her eyes are glossy, just slightly unfocused, mouth parted as she looks up at Lena. She looks open, unguarded, and completely unaware, and Lena recalibrates. 

“Supergirl, do you know where you are?”

“Your balcony.”

“And do you know who I am?”

“Lena.”

“Does anything hurt?”

“No.” 

“Can you untangle your feet so we can get you up?”

“Oh,” Supergirl remarks, like she hadn’t noticed her feet weren’t under her. She tries to twist around to look over her back at her feet, and she shuffles a little, unhooking the toes of her boots and falling fully onto the stone floor. 

Lena tsks and instinctually reaches out again, grabbing hold of Supergirl’s shoulders and helping her move until she’s sitting upright, propped against the balcony railing. Supergirl leans back against it, blinking slowly and looking blankly around, and Lena finds herself itching for the phone she left in the living room but unwilling to leave the woman in front of her while she’s so vulnerable. 

It isn’t like she hasn’t dealt with an incapacitated Supergirl before. Lena’s saved Supergirl from more than a handful of scrapes in the past couple years, but never like this, never while she was conscious, never while she seemed loopy and almost childlike. It’s easier to maintain her focus, Lena realizes, easier to put the worry aside and work on a fix when Supergirl is in grave danger, in desperate need of help. 

This, with her awake and seemingly fine but so disoriented is throwing Lena off guard. Normal citizens shouldn’t see their city’s hero downed and unconscious, but they shouldn’t see her like this either, unfocused and confused, almost as if she’d been drugged. It’s unsettling, deeply uncomfortable in a way Lena can’t put her finger on, and she can’t help but feel both protective and out of her element at the same time.

“Okay,” Lena says, keeping her voice soft and caring. “How about we get you over to the DEO so they can check you out?”

“No, thanks,” comes the quiet reply. “I’ll stay here.”

It’s Lena’s turn to blink confusedly back at Supergirl, but the woman is looking elsewhere. The soft breeze that’s been blowing all day blows an errant leaf off of one of Lena’s plants and into Supergirl’s lap, and Lena watches, latent sense of panic beginning to grow in her stomach, as Supergirl picks up the leaf and twirls it between her fingers.

“I really think we should get you over to the DEO. You seem a little… off,” Lena says, careful to phrase it as gently as she can to not cause any alarm. “What if I just have Director Danvers come here by herself?” Lena asks, half unsure why she’s humoring Supergirl before she realizes that Supergirl has probably never gone anywhere she didn’t want to go— on account of being strong enough to lift a space station. 

“No,” Supergirl responds again, simply, not rudely, “she’s not invited.”

Lena narrows her eyes at that, trying to sort out what kind of laughing gas this dragon has breathed out. 

“I think I’m in charge of that,” Lena retorts, but she sighs, because Supergirl just looks up at her and smiles dopily. 

“Okay,” Lena tries again. “Will you at least stand up and come inside? I can do some research on how to get these side effects to go away.” 

Supergirl acquiesces this time, or at least Lena thinks she does until Supergirl turns away from the open door to her living room. 

“I’ll stay out here,” she says, words slurring a little as she points to one of Lena’s deck chairs. “Need a little sun.” 

She sways on the spot, as if momentarily suspended by the breeze, before stumbling over to Lena’s deck chair and collapsing onto it. She trips on one of the legs and the chair breaks under her weight, but she doesn’t seem to notice, letting her eyes drift shut and tilting her chin up toward the sun. A small smile crosses her face as the sun warms her, and Lena finds herself unable to hold back a small smile of her own. 

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” Lena says, already planning out her research on alien dragons and a call to Alex in her head. “Then I’m making the call.” 

“Uh uh,” Supergirl hums, eyes still closed, and Lena raises both eyebrows. “Is’fine, Lena. Don’t call. Wanted to come here.”

The longer sentences are starting to ease Lena’s mind, but Supergirl’s response rattles around in her brain and she can’t help but ask.

“Supergirl?”

Supergirl just hums back at her again.

“Why’d you come here instead of going to the DEO?”

“Didn’t want to miss movie night,” she says, calmly while she exhales, like Lena had asked her what day it is and she’d said, ‘Saturday.’

Lena freezes. The pit of panic in her stomach drops out and her whole body clenches at the loss. She stands frozen, staring at the figure laying prone, sprawled out on her deck chair. Lena’s heart pounds. She feels the rapid thudding in her chest, hears it reverberate in her ears. She takes it in, the red boots and skirt, the blue suit, the cape, the blonde hair. 

Her eyes map the features on Supergirl’s face, and she realizes with some modicum of horror how familiar those features are. The point of her chin, the slope of her cheekbones, the nick of the scar above her eyebrow, the slightly upturned, charming pull of her mouth. It’s all— 

“Lena?” those eyebrows scrunch together and it comes out as a whine, and Lena is overcome. 

The panic disappears, instantly replaced by a tidal wave of worry, of affection, of bewilderment, confusion, and a little hurt.

“I’m here,” is what she blurts out in response, dropping onto the adjacent chair and wrapping her hand around Supergirl’s— Kara’s?— wrist, gentle, caring. “Hey, hey, I’m here. Are you okay?”

“Mhmm” Supergirl hums again, twisting her wrist to take hold of Lena’s hand. “Better already. Just need a nap and then we can watch a movie, okay?” Her voice is light and airy, and the smile droops off her face as she begins to fall asleep, but Lena can’t let her go, can’t be left alone with her racing mind. She needs to know, needs to be sure, and with a pounding heart, she presses on.

“Have—” Lena starts. Her voice cracks and she clears her throat and tries again, wiping the hand not enclosed in Supergirl’s tiredly across her brow. “Have you thought about what movie you want to see?”

“Which Star Wars are we up to?” Supergirl mumbles, half-asleep, and Lena feels her whole body clench with the confirmation as she sweeps her eyes up and down the figure in front of her with renewed worry, checking for injuries she knows aren’t there, because it’s Kara, it’s Kara, it’s Kara.

“Episode Six,” she whispers, tightening her hand around Kara’s. 

“That one. ‘S a good one.” Kara breathes back. 

Kara shifts on the chair a little bit, and small as the movement is, Lena thinks it looks the tiniest more purposeful, the tiniest bit less loose and floppy, and Lena feels her shoulders relax with it. It shifts something in her, the worry beginning to melt into a tender form of annoyance and she decides to push a little more. 

“Are you hungry?”

“Mm,” Kara hums, smiling again. Lena narrows her eyes at her. 

“Do you want Big Belly Burger for dinner like last time?”

“Mhmm yeah,” Kara murmurs, “and those fries that I like.”

Lena smirks, raising an eyebrow, but Kara is completely unaware. Lena squeezes her hand and stands. “I’ll order the food, and you can nap until it gets here, okay?”

“Mhmm thanks, Lena.”

“You’re welcome, Kara,” she says pointedly, but Kara doesn’t notice. Lena watches her smile in her half-asleep doze, her hand twitching a little until the smile droops off her face and she falls asleep just like that. Lena stands there, gaping at her for a moment, then makes her way inside.

Twenty minutes later, after a text to Alex and enough time spent slowing her racing heart, enough time spent with the news to know that the gas wears off on its own, eventually, she hears a sigh and a creak from outside. Supergirl— Kara, god, it’s Kara— is stretching on the deck chair, which appears to be hanging on for dear life, and Lena lifts herself off the couch, grabbing the bag next to her and making her way back outside.

She sets a glass of water down on the drinks table next to Kara’s head, watching as she shifts in the sun but doesn’t open her eyes. 

“How are you feeling, Supergirl?”

“Mhmm, good, sleepy,” Kara yawns.

“They pulled that dragon out of the bay,” Lena says casually, crossing her arms. “You did a great job. No one’s hurt. The effects of the gas seem to subside on their own.”

“Good,” Kara murmurs, tilting her head up into the sun again. “That’s good.” 

“The food’s here too,” Lena informs her, unable to hold back a smirk. “I got us a couple shakes as well.”

“Thanks,” Kara sighs happily. You’re the best.”

“But Kara?”

“Mmph?”

“You have to change out of your suit first. Wouldn’t want to get any residual alien goop on my couch.”

It’s exactly as satisfying as she thought it would be. Kara’s loose, floppy posture stiffens as her spine snaps straight, her eyes flying open as the chair finally gives out from under her. Lena watches the wheels turn once Kara hits the ground, sees Kara’s eyes bug out when they make eye contact. Kara’s flick down to look at her suit, then back up to Lena. 

Lena twists her wrist, letting the paper bag swing out toward Kara. 

“Your fries?”

[hercleverboy]

taunted

spencer reid x reader 

summary ↠ hours after his release from prison, spencer’s girlfriend is kidnapped. can he pull it together long enough to save her?

category ↠ angst/fluff

warnings/includes ↠ swearing, reference to sexual assault, blood, kidnapping

word count ↠ 5.7k

“People go, but how they left always stays.” — Rupi Kaur

Spencer felt overwhelmed to say the least. 

In the last 24 hours, he’d undergone more stress than any human should ever have to endure. Between his release from prison and racing against the clock to save his mother, he was grateful to finally able to take a moment to stop and breathe. 

In between the chaos, he hadn’t been able to see one of the people he’d missed the most during his imprisonment; his beloved fiancee, Y/N. 

He knew that the team had contacted her to inform her of his release, but there’d been no time for heartfelt reunions when he was released, the safety of his mother being the only thing on his mind. As much as he’d missed his girl, it would have to wait. 

As he stood walked through the lobby of his apartment complex, he couldn’t help the small smile on his lips at the anticipation of seeing her. She’d been to visit frequently while he was incarcerated, giving him just that little push to fight, to fight like hell, to come home to her. And now he was there. 

As he walked up the flights of stairs, he remembered all the times he’d wished he could reach out to grab her hand when she was sat across from him, with the glass separating them and preventing him from touching her. He remembered the sleepless nights in his cell, on a bed that was cold and hard with a single uncomfortable pillow. He recalled how badly he yearned for her on those nights, craved the warmth of her arms, their bed.  He was so eager to finally hold her in his arms, remind her how much he loved her, thank her for sticking with him, for being his lifeline during the hardest months of his life. 

Any excitement that he held was diminished as soon as he climbed the final few steps to their floor, his eyes landing on their apartment door. 

Their open apartment door. 

Spencer’s eyes blew wide, part of him trying to calm himself down, she just forgot to close it behind her, and the other part knowing Y/N was too cautious to make such a silly mistake. 

He wasn’t armed, after all he wasn’t planning on having to deal with shit like this for at least a few weeks following his release. 

He cautiously made his way into the apartment and was immediately greeted with the obvious signs of a struggle in his living room. The coffee table’s contents had been scattered across the floor, the little table they normally placed cups of tea or snacks on had toppled over. The pretty white vase that Y/N’s mother had bought the couple a few years back was shattered on the floor, the yellow daffodils that had been inside the vase laying there limply. By the fireplace was a small pool of blood, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who it belonged to. 

Seeing the blood sent Spencer into a panic, his breathing increasing as he anxiously called out for her, opening up the doors to their bedroom and the bathroom, finding all the rooms empty. 

He ran a hand through his hair and down his face as he tried to steady his breathing, so that he could think. 

“She’s not here, She’s not here, She’s not-” Three whispered words were all that left his lips, a broken mantra filled with worry and despair. 

*

“Okay, let’s start from the beginning, how did the unsub even gain entry to the apartment?” Rossi asked, grimacing at the state of the room around them. 

After coming to the realisation that his fiancee was missing and had indeed been taken, Spencer had called Emily, who’d assembled the team together to help the distraught genius. Emily sent Garcia, Luke and Matt to the BAU headquarters to work from there, while the rest of the team met up with Spencer at his apartment. 

Once they’d arrived, they found Spencer outside, anxiously pacing the hallway outside the door as he mumbled to himself, desperately trying to fight off the raging headache he had. JJ was quick to attempt to console him, but to no avail. His brain was essentially mush. As if the stress of everything he’d been through wasn’t enough- the love of his life was missing, potentially dead, and he couldn’t even string together a coherent sentence. How was he supposed to help? 

Emily had nodded to the rest of the team, silently telling them to head inside the apartment to check things out while she came to stand in front of Spencer. 

“Reid? Reid. I know this is a lot but I need you to listen to me. You can’t be here. You’re not in the right headspace for this. You’re better off back at the BAU with Garcia, Luke and Matt.” Emily tried. She didn’t want to upset him further but it was the best thing for him. There was no chance of him thinking clearly at the scene, so sending him back to HQ was the best option. 

Spencer knew that. However it didn’t stop him from looking at Emily with anger flaring in his eyes. “You’re not seriously kicking me off the case? My fiancee is missing-” His voice raised but Emily cut him off. 

“I’m not kicking you off the case. Y/N is a part of this family and we won’t rest until she’s home, but you’re not gonna be able to think here, Spencer. I’m just trying to do what’s best for you.” She promised and he nodded, forcing him self not to grunt in pain as his splitting headache worsened. 

*

As he stepped off of the elevator, his legs carried him quickly through the glass doors into the bullpen. He b-lined for the conference room, where Garcia, Luke Matt were sat at the roundtable. Garcia was typing away furiously at her laptop, Matt looking over her shoulder whilst Luke reviewed pictures from the crime scene. When Spencer entered the room Garcia looked up, her fingers faltering. 

“Reid..” Garcia started, but quickly realised she didn’t know what to say. 

Spencer said nothing, stalking toward her and leaning his hands on the table. “Emily told me you’re looking at security footage from outside our apartment complex? Did you see anything?” 

Garcia exchanged a look of sadness with Matt before clearing her throat. “Uh, the cameras outside the lobby caught the kidnappers vehicle as it left, a blue Sedan, but it’s too dark for us to make out the plates.” 

“Did the camera’s catch her being taken?” His voice was quiet but sturdy. The coldness of his tone almost made Garcia shiver. 

“Yes.” She squeaked out. 

“Show me.” He demanded, walking to her other side so he could lean over her shoulder to watch. 

Matt shifted, standing up straight. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Reid.”

“Did I ask?” He spat, not bothering to spare Matt a glance as he looked at Garcia’s laptop screen. “ I said show me.” 

“O-Okay.” She murmured, clicking a few buttons before the video started up. 

The four of them watched intently as a man in a dark hoodie carried an unconscious Y/N out the front doors of the complex. Spencer noted the splotch of red on her forehead, likely from where the bastard had hit her to knock her out.  The man forcefully shoved her in the back of the car that waited by the front of the building, before moving to get into the drivers seat and taking off. 

Spencer was gripping the edge of the roundtable with such force that his knuckles were white, and it seemed a miracle that the wood hadn’t splintered under his force. 

Luke spoke first. “Did we get a good enough look at his face?” 

Garcia shook her head. “Not really. His back was to the camera’s a lot.” 

Matt sighed. “It means he knew where they were, and how to avoid them. This kidnapping was planned, likely weeks in advance.” 

Spencer slammed his hands down on the table, and Garcia let out a yelp at the sudden movement. “So we have nothing then?” He yelled, starting to pace the end of the conference room, his hands gripping handful’s of his hair. 

“I’ll call Emily and see if they found anything at the scene.” Matt mumbled, quickly leaving the room. 

Spencer rubbed as his eyes frustratedly, before turning toward Luke and Garcia. “You guys need to get out.” 

“What?”

“Get out, you need to get out. I’m sorry but I need to think, I need to focus and I can’t do that with you here.” He ushered the two out of the conference room, slamming the door shut behind them as he looked around frantically. He grabbed the photos that were on the table that Luke was previously looking at. He stared at them, willing his brain to work, hoping he’d figure out what he was missing. He quickly grew frustrated with his lack of progress, picking up one of the books from the table and throwing it at the wall in his angry haste. 

Garcia gasped, a loud bang sounding from the conference room where Reid was working tirelessly to find Y/N. She shared a look with Luke, who shrugged. The pair quickly moved toward the room, gently opening the door, to find Spencer pacing the room anxiously, running his hands through his hair as he tried to control his breathing. 

Spencer didn’t know what to do. He’d exhausted the few leads they had, he was mentally and physically exhausted and he wasn’t sure when the last time he ate was. All he knew, all he could think about, was that his girl was out there somewhere, waiting for him to save her. And he wasn’t even close to finding her.

“Reid, I know a lot is going on but you’ve got to try and clear your head-“ Luke started but Spencer interrupted him, his tone cold and unforgiving.

“My fiancée is missing, and I can’t get it together long enough to figure out where she is!” He yelled, and Garcia flinched at his words. He saw the looks on their faces and frowned. “What?”

“You threw a book at the wall..” Garcia mumbled, still cautious of her words.

“If Y/N dies because I was too slow I’ll be throwing a lot more than books.” He seethed, before brushing past the stunned pair.

*

The cold water felt refreshing on his boiling skin as he splashed it against his face in an attempt to calm himself down a little. He gripped the sink tightly in his hands and forced himself to look in the mirror. He wasn’t shocked by what he saw staring back at him. A shell of the man he was before prison. Cold and harsh and unkind, a man who would kill another and still sleep easy. His breaths were heavy and he felt the familiar feeling crawling up his throat, the feeling that he wanted to cry, to sob and plead for everything to just end. Hadn’t he been through enough? 

He choked the feeling down. Crying and pleading weren’t going to bring Y/N back home to him. 

He could feel the panic bubbling within him, and so he forced himself to think of happier times, times where the weight of the world wasn’t on his aching shoulders. He screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to go somewhere better, somewhere happier, even if just for a minute. 

“Spence?”

It was her voice. Oh thank god. 

He blinked his eyes open, his gaze landing on her sat next to him. He immediately knew which memory he was recalling. It was one of the happiest days of his life. 

He’d taken her out that night for dinner and then up a mountain of sorts so they could get to a high enough point where they’d have a perfect view of the stars. He’d explained the constellations to her as she sat next to him, cross-legged with her head resting on his shoulder and his arms around her. 

He looked at her as she stared up at the night sky in awe. He took in every detail of her face, letting it really sink in that she was his, a woman so kind and compassionate and beautiful was all his. She raised her hand to point up toward the sky, an amused smile on her lips. 

“What about that one, what’s it called?”

He was more than happy to tell her.

As they sat in a blissful silence, Spencer noted how this was the happiest he’d felt in a long time. With her, he was sure there could never be a bad day again. 

He broke the silence by clearing his throat, unwrapping his arm from her as she turned to face him, her brow furrowed. 

“Spence? You okay?”

“Yeah- I- Um, I didn’t just bring you out here to watch the stars.” He started, his palms quickly becoming sweaty and his voice dying in his rapidly drying throat. He kept trying to speak, to say the words he’d practiced a thousand times over in his head, but he simply couldn’t form the words. 

She reached out to grab his hand, taking in gently in hers as an act of reassurance. “It’s okay, It’s only me. Take your time.” 

He squeezed her hand in thanks before taking a deep breath and moving up from his seated position, manoeuvering so he was now down on one knee in front of her. He kept the grip on her hand, his other hand reaching into his pocket for the small red box that he’d carried with him for months prior to this moment. 

Y/N gasped when he opened up the box, showcasing the beautiful silver ring sat inside. Her eyes grew wide and filled with tears. 

“Y/N.” He started. “Over the two years, two-hundred-and-seventeen days, six hours and fifteen minutes we’ve been together, there’s not been one moment where I’ve not loved you. Even through petty arguments and silly fights, I have never and will never stop loving you. I don’t think I could if I tried. You’re always there for me when I need you. When a case has been rough, you’re at home waiting to hold me and make everything better. You’ve never failed me, and if you accept this ring, I promise I’ll never fail you. You’re my whole life, Y/N. There is nothing I wouldn’t do if it ensured your safety, if it meant coming home to you. You’re everything I’m ever going to want, you’re everything I need. So Y/N Y/L/N, would you do me the extraordinary honour of marrying me?” 

Words failed her in that moment so all she could do was nod her head as tears cascaded down her cheeks. She launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around him as she cried happily into his neck, and he chuckled to himself, arms wrapping around her securely. 

She pulled back a moment later, swiping her fingers under her eyes to wipe her tears away as she flashed him a breath-taking smile. “Yes.” She answered quietly, watching as he carefully slipped the ring on her finger. she gazed down at it in awe. “It’s beautiful, Spence.” She grinned back up at him, her hands coming to cup his cheeks. 

“You’re beautiful.” He murmured, before moving forward to connect his lips to hers.  

He wished he could cling onto the warmth that bubbled in his chest forever. 

A voice came from behind him, causing his eyes to snap open. He looked behind him, to where Luke stood by the door. 

“Reid, You gotta come. Garcia found something.” 

*

“What have you got Garcia?” Luke called as soon as he entered the conference room, Reid rushing in behind him. 

“I managed to get the footage from the cameras that are outside the shop opposite the apartment complex.” She started, and Reid came to stand next to her, watching the footage play on her laptop. “If I zoom in close enough I should be able to get an ID on our unsub. We can see his face, but it’s still a tad blurry. Not to worry, I’ll work some magic and get it as clear as I can. Hopefully then we can run it through facial recognition and pray it turns up something.” She sounded hopeful, and Reid was grateful for her optimism. 

It wasn’t much, but it was a lead. And honestly that was all he could ask for at that moment. 

*

Garcia skilfully managed to unblur the video they had of the unsub, but facial recognition didn’t turn up any matches or any new leads. The team were at a loss. It had been seventy-two hours since Y/N went missing, and with every hour, the possibility of her coming home alive decreased. Spencer knew the statistics, he knew the chances. it was the curse of an eidetic memory, he supposed.

With every hour, Reid lost more and more of himself, any hope he had being chipped away with the annoying tick of the clock as seconds passed by. He had barely slept, even when being ‘ordered’ to by Emily. The only time he’d slept was when he got so drained and exhausted that he actually passed out for a few hours. He refused to eat, drinking as much caffeine as he could in order to force himself to stay awake. How could he sleep at a time like this? Whenever someone on the team tried to encourage him to eat, if only a few bites of a cereal bar, he’d snap at them. 

Eventually, JJ had had enough. She watched Spencer snap at Luke, who was just trying to encourage him to put something other than coffee in his system. She stood up from her seat, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with her. He attempted to protest but she gave him a look that made him decide that it was best he keep his mouth shut. She pulled them into an empty office, closing the door behind them for privacy.

“You gotta listen to me, Spence.” She spoke calmly. “I know this is killing you. I know how badly you want to find her and bring her home. Everyone out there is trying so hard to do that for you.” She pointed to the doorway to emphasise her point. She dropped her arm back down to her side as she watched him run his hands over his face exhaustedly. “Talk to me.” 

“I just I can’t think straight-” He whimpered out, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “I need her to come home, I can’t live without her.” He got a little choked up, his hands trembling slightly as he desperately tried to keep his emotions in check. 

JJ gently placed her hand on his shoulder, still cautious of touching him since his release from prison, not wanting to alarm or startle him. 

“There’s not a doubt in my mind that we’ll find her. Y/N is tough, she won’t let him break her.”

Spencer nodded, wiping his eyes on the cuffs of his blazer. He was about to thank JJ for her comfort when a knock sounded through the room. Tara came in, a morbid look on her face. “You guys need to come see this.”

When they reach the conference room again, all of the team is gathered around the table, their gazes all trained on the phone in the middle of the table that was ringing.  

Emily looked to Garcia. “Are you ready to trace the call?” 

Garcia nodded. Spencer was about to ask what was happening when Emily reached over, answering the phone and putting it on loud speaker. “This is Agent Emily Prentiss with the FBI, who am I speaking to?” 

“I want to speak with Dr Reid.” The unsub’s voice boomed through the speaker, and Emily exchanged a look with Spencer as she shook her head, placing a finger over her lips. 

“We want proof of life before we negotiate anything with you.” She stated. 

“She’s listening, perfectly alive. I want to speak to Dr Reid.” 

Emily nodded toward Spencer, signalling for him to speak. 

“I’m here.” He spoke, keeping his voice strong despite how he wanted to cry. It was a skill he’d learned in prison- tears equated to weakness, and weakness got you killed. 

“I’d like you to know, I’m feeling generous today.” The unsub sounded like he was smirking on the other end of the line, almost proud. 

“You are? What does that mean?” Spencer continued the conversation on, keeping the unsub on the line long enough for Garcia to get a location. 

“I’ve spent a fair bit of time with Y/N. She’s fierce. Hard one to break, this one.” He was mocking Spencer, taunting him, and he had to try ridiculously hard to keep his building anger in check. “She begs for you, you know? When my punches make pretty bruises bloom across her skin she pleads for you to save her. But she’s tough, always hitting me back with insults. You know earlier, she actually spat at me, the bitch.” He chuckled, and Spencer breathed in deeply, gripping the edges of the table in a death-grip. 

Rossi shot him a look from across the table that said ‘Keep it together’. 

“No worry, I’m sure I can break her. If you give me some more time with her, maybe I can try some.. alternative methods.” 

That was the line for Spencer, who spat through clenched his teeth and stood to hover over the phone. “You listen to me, you son of a bitch, if you touch her I swear to god-“

“I’d be careful about threatening me, or I might not be so generous.” The unsub tutted. 

“What do you want? Tell me what you want in return for Y/N’s safety.”

“This isn’t a bargain, Doctor. This is a kindness. I’m going to let pretty young Y/N speak with you before I kill her. I’m not so much of a monster that I would stand in the way of young love. You have five minutes to talk. You’re welcome.” 

There was more rustling on the phone, and then silence. 

And then finally-

“Spence?” 

Her voice was croaky, likely from the lack of water and her screaming. It sounded so broken, and Spencer’s heart ached because he could tell she was using all of her strength to try and sound okay for him. 

Spencer sighed out of relief. despite how it sounded, proof that she was alive was enough to lift the slightest bit of weight from his shoulders. “It’s me, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

“I think some of my ribs are broken, my wrist definitely is. I’m trying to be strong Spence but I don’t know if I can-“ She choked and tears filled his eyes as he willed them to keep at bay. 

“Y/N, listen to me. I will find you. Do you understand me? You will not die there. You’re gonna come home to me, I promise you that.” The tears he tried to hide away slowly trembled down his cheeks as he made promises that he wasn’t 100% sure he could keep. 

“Spencer. I’m so sorry-“ She started but he interrupted her. 

“Please don’t apologise, It’s not your fault, baby.” He pleaded, the feeling of dread filling him the longer they spoke. 

Around the table, each team stood watching in shock, tears swimming in their own eyes. 

“Two minutes.” The unsub shouted through the phone. 

“I need to tell you something.” Y/N whimpered. 

Spencer shook his head although she couldn’t see it. “No, I know where you’re going with this, stop it.”

She ignored his plead. “Spencer Reid, I’ve loved you ever since we met, when you spilled your coffee all over me. I remember it like it was yesterday. Your coffee ruined my outfit, and you were an apologising mess, so you gave me your jacket, even though it meant you’d get cold. I’ve loved you ever since that moment, Spencer.” Her voice broke at the end and she cleared her throat, determined to finish what she wanted to say. “You have to promise me you will move on, Spencer. You’ve got to let yourself be happy. You deserve it, so much.”

Spencer whined, his own voice croaky. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say goodbye to me, Y/N.”

The booming voice of the unsub came through the speaker again. “Times up.” 

“Spencer I love yo-” The end of her sentence was cut off by the unsub ending the call, the dial tone ringing out when the line went dead. 

Spencer’s hands were shaking in anger as he closed his eyes, bowing his head, hopelessly trying to keep himself calm. 

Emily was the first to speak. “Did you get it, Garcia?” 

Garcia continued to click away from a few moments before gasping. “Yes! Yes! I got it!” 

The exclamation made Spencer’s head shoot up. 

“Send us the address.” Emily ordered, as the team headed out toward the cars, with no time left to waste. 

*

The team pulled up to the location Garcia had given them, splitting off into two groups to cover the front and back entrances. 

Spencer, JJ, Luke, and Emily were all cautiously walking down one of the warehouse’s winding corridors, before turning the corner, guns in hand. They’d entered a large room, and Spencer’s eyes immediately landed on the limp figure hunched over in a chair in the centre of the room. 

Whilst the other members made sure there were no other possible threats in the room, Spencer rushed forward, the only thing he could think of was getting to her. 

Oh god please be alive, please. 

As he got closer, he took note of the wounds she has sustained. There was blood pooling from a wound on her thigh, and a few other cuts and bruises. 

Why was she so still? 

As soon as he reached her his hands cupped her cheeks, her head lolled towards him, as she struggled to hold it up. He pressed two of his fingers to her neck and had never been so thankful to feel a shallow pulse beneath her skin. 

“Y/N? Y/N, wake up, come on sweetheart.” He pleaded, swiping his thumbs over her cheeks. 

She blinked her eyes open, groaning in pain as she came to. She hissed at the pain in her thigh, her eyes focusing on the man in front of her.  “Spencer?”

“It’s me, I’m here. We’re gonna get you out of here alright, just stay with me.”

“He left a few minutes before you got here-“ She coughed mid-sentence, nodding her head weakly toward the back entrance of the room. “He went that way.”

Luke and Emily moved towards the back entrance in pursuit of the unsub, while JJ stayed back to untie Y/N’s wrists from behind her whilst speaking into her radio requesting medical attention. 

Y/N groaned again as she felt Spencer’s hands on her thigh, desperately trying it slow the bleeding. She blinked, despairingly trying to stay awake. Spencer could see her fighting and scrambled to find something to distract her with. “Hey, hey. you remember when we met? Like you said on the phone? That I completely ruined your blouse with my coffee because I’m an idiot.” He gave her a small forced smile that he hoped would reassure her as she wailed out again in pain.

He looked at JJ, who looked back at him with tears in her own eyes. “I don’t think we can wait much longer for the medics, we’re gonna have to bring her to them.” 

“Are you sure we should move her?” JJ asked. 

Spencer simply nodded. “She might die if we don’t move her now, she’s losing too much blood.” He pulled his belt from his waist, tying it tightly just above Y/N’s leg wound. She let out a shrill cry of pain, sobs escaping her lips. 

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I know it hurts. We’re gonna get you up and outside okay.” He cooed as he hoisted her up bridal style, holding her as gently as he could so as not to agitate her wound. With JJ beside them, he began to walk back towards the entrance. “It’ll be okay. I promise. You’ll be okay.” He pressed a kiss to Y/N’s forehead as a promise. 

Her head dropped against his shoulder and he looked down at her, his tone pleading as he spoke. “I know you’re tired baby but you gotta keep those beautiful eyes open for me, okay?” They were just stepping through the front door when she spoke.

“Spence..” She whispered, her eyes fluttering as she defeatedly attempted to stop the darkness from consuming her.

“Yeah?”

She didn’t answer. 

Everything was a blur after that. 

* 

The hospital waiting room was one of Spencer’s least favourite places, he’d decided. 

The strong smell of disinfectant along with the bright lights and white walls irritated his eyes, making his headaches even worse. He didn’t dare try to sleep though, not until he knew if she was okay. His head was in his hands and his leg bounced anxiously as he sat in the waiting room, his team surrounding him, all aching for any news. 

Finally, after what felt like hours had dragged on, a nurse entered the room calling for Y/N’s family. 

Spencer stood so quickly he nearly toppled over. He moved toward the nurse nodding his head frantically. “I’m her fiancee, is she okay?”

The nurse gave him a smile and nodded. “She’s absolutely fine, sir. The wound on her thigh bled quite heavily, but we were able to stabilise her. She has a few bruised ribs and a broken wrist, but she will make a full recovery. She’s awake if you’d like to see her?” 

He nodded again, sparing a thankful glance at his team before following the nurse down the hallway. 

He’d never felt such a sweet relief as he did when he saw her sat up in her hospital bed, a small smile on her lips as she drank from her water cup. Her smile brightened at the sight of him and she gave him a little wave, setting her cup down on the tiny side table.  

“Thank god you’re okay.” He murmured once he reached her bedside, leaning down to engulf her in a light hug, so as not to cause her any pain. 

She grinned, reaching her good hand up to hold him to her. 

When he pulled back he placed a gentle kiss on her lips, one that just further assured him that she was okay. Once they pulled away, he moved his hands to cup her cheeks. 

“Hi.” He grinned, the tears pricking at his eyes. 

“Hi.” She gave a light chuckle, immediately regretting it when a sharp pain seared through her chest, making her wince. 

He pressed his forehead to hers in a sweet gesture, closing his eyes as he basked in her warmth. He tuned his ears into the rhythm of her soft breathing, focusing on them and trying to keep his in time with hers. 

She gently brushed her hand up and down his forearm in a comforting manner. “It’s okay, Spence. I’m okay.”

“I nearly lost you.” His throat caught on the words, and she noticed the stray tears that quivered down his cheeks. 

She smiled sadly as he opened his eyes, hazel orbs meeting hers. “But you didn’t. I’m here. I’m alive, you’re alive, and it’s all gonna be just fine.”

He nodded before pulling away from her. he reached for the chair that was up against the wall of the room, pulling it so he could sit at her bedside. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you.” He frowned, placing his hands in his lap. “I should’ve protected you. It’s my job to protect you. How can even think I’ll be a good husband, even a good father someday if I can’t keep you safe?”

She reached over and gripped his hand tightly. “You will be a phenomenal husband Spencer Reid, and an even better father. In less than five months I’ll be your wife, and I’ll be the happiest woman alive.” She ran her thumb over the back of his hand in a soothing manner and he smiled a little at her compliment. “And when we have a baby, they’ll be the luckiest kid on earth to have you as their father.”

“Yes ma’am.” He teased and she smiled, happy she’d been able to quash his worries, for the moment at least. 

His fingers hovered over the engagement ring on her finger, bringing her hand to his lips to place a kiss on it. “Why wait?” He murmured. 

“What?”

“Why should we wait five months? The nurse said they’re gonna discharge you on Thursday morning. So as soon as you’re up to it why don’t we go down to the courthouse and elope?” He queried, a smile on his lips. 

“Spence.. the weddings all planned. Five months isn’t a long time.” She countered, a small smile on her lips. 

“It is, it’s too long. I don’t want to waste another minute of my life not being married to you. I want you to be Mrs Reid and I want us to start living our lives together. We can still have the wedding, we’ll just get married twice.” He shrugged, and Y/N couldn’t believe she was really considering the idea. 

“Spence, I don’t know..” She trailed off, still needing a little convincing to get on board. 

He released her hand and stood from the chair, moving it over slightly before lowering himself down onto one knee, taking her hand again. “Y/N Y/L/N, will you marry me-“

“You know you’ve already asked me this? Like a year ago.” She teased, and he chuckled shaking his head at her. 

“Hush, let me finish. Will you marry me, on Thursday?”

“Yes.” She answered with a grin, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. 

He beamed, surging forward and wrapping her in his arms.

“You know, Garcia will kill us for getting married without her there.” She smirked as they pulled back, and Spencer nodded in agreement. 

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“You think she won’t find out? I’ll leave you to deal with her when she gets angry, Dr. Reid.” She joked, and he laughed with her. 

“I think I can handle it, Mrs Reid.”

She grinned at the premature use of the name. “You can’t call me that until Thursday, you know.”

“Technically I can’t. But as soon as I can, I’ll never stop.” He promised, leaning down to kiss her once more. 

[ikeromantic]

To The Last Breath

For @ivyroseartspace who bravely chose Motonari, Last Kiss, and let me surprise her. Approx. 1900 words. Angsty.

Motonari looked across the hellscape that had been his ship. Fires burned in the sails and across the deck, men fought in bloody clusters. Screams rang in the air, and the groan of splitting wood. Bohiya rained down on ally and enemy alike in flaming bursts of gunpowder and shrapnel. He wasn’t sure he was going to make it through this party. Once, he wouldn’t have cared. But now . . .

He turned to look behind him. His Ivy Rose stood resolute in the prow, her hands clasped around a tanegashima. The gun was too big for her, too heavy, but she held it in a white-knuckled grasp.

Her eyes met his and for a brief heartbeat, she smiled. Even now, in this place of death and fire, she could find a little joy to give him.

Motonari returned it with his own, wild grin. “Keep yer powder dry! Ya might need to fire a shot or two!” Which was an understatement. They needed to hold out here in this ocean pass until the Murakami arrived, but their allies were already late. And his forces were flagging under the assault of three raiding ships.

The raiders had western cannons, archers, and swordsmen. They were more formidable than Motonari expected, and he found himself with limited options. No clever, simple solutions presented themselves as he studied the battle. Then it struck him. The problem was being outgunned. A three to one that left him inherently disadvantaged. But guns were like any other prize. They could trade hands so quickly.

He checked his powder case and holstered his single-shot pistol.

“What are you doing,” Ivy Rose shouted, straining to be heard.

Motonari crossed the space between them and pulled her close for a kiss. Her lips tasted like flowers and ash, a promise and a warning. He held her tight for a breath, taking strength from the feel of her in his arms. Then he stepped back and smirked. “I’m gonna win this fight for us. Ya gotta keep yerself safe for a little while. Can ya manage?”

She nodded. “If anybody gets close, I’ll shoot them. And if that doesn’t work . . .” she patted the knife at her hip.

“That’s my woman. Now wish me luck.” He laughed, feeling a surge of savage strength.

“Luck,” she called, “and I’m not your woman!” She smiled as she said it though.

He turned and bolted across the deck. Motonari flung himself across the gap between ships. For one heart stopping moment, he hung in the air above turbulent water, the waves red as blood in the reflected fires above. Then he caught the railing of the enemy ship. His body slammed against the wood, knocking the air from his lungs. He nearly lost his grip, but caught himself.

A man in strange clothing met Motonari as he hauled himself aboard. He didn’t wait for introductions. Motonari cut the man down without a second glance, and began his bloody path to the row of cannons.

The pirates were surprised but the sudden attack on their own deck. His rash charge was well timed to create chaos onboard. Motonari spared none as he moved toward his goal. When he reached the guns, there was only a token force against him. The gunners ran. Probably for reinforcements.

Motonari knew that help would come late. He grinned as he pried open their powder boxes and dumped the lot onto the deck. Then he took out his lit fuse and tossed it onto the lot. He was running as the first line of white smoke curled into the air. He threw himself back toward his boat, praying to whatever gods might be listening that he would make it across.

The explosion behind him sent shockwaves of heat through the air. One entire side of the enemy ship was nothing but splinters now. It was already beginning to list. Motonari was able to enjoy his success from his own deck, but only for a moment. There were still two enemy ships, and this brief, shocked silence would not last long.

Motonari spared a glance for Ivy Rose. She stood in the prow, her expression all sharp lines and angles. He couldn’t tell if she’d had to use the gun yet, or the blade. As much as he wanted to go to her, there was only one way to keep her safe. He had to defeat these raiders.

He lifted a fist in the air and whooped. Around him, his men howled too, a bloodthirsty sound akin to wolves and wild beasts. Then he took off for the opposite side of the deck. This time, he used a rope to climb hand-over-hand to the enemy ship. Fast as he was, the raiders noticed him coming and fired. It was only luck that kept him whole. Some of the shots passed close enough to singe his hair and leave holes in his clothes.

Motonari leapt onto the enemy deck, pulling his sword as he landed. He was barely fast enough to turn aside an oncoming blade. The fight was five to one, bad odds even for a warrior of his skill. He dropped one with a cut to his thigh. Another he lost the fight and his hand as he got to close.

The third combatant was a big man with a long reach. The scars on his arms told a story of his experience. And despite his size, he was quick too.

It was challenging to parry and dodge his skilled strikes, while watching out for the less-proficient but equally deadly attacks of his two friends. Motonari knew he was beginning to tire. And worse, while he was occupied, the cannons were still blasting away at his boat. He didn’t have time to play.

The next time the big man lunged, Motonari took the hit, feeling the sharp edge slide along his ribs. The cut burned hot. He ignored it, using the moment to slash at the man’s exposed throat. The raider went down with a gurgling cry.

Despite the pain of his wound, and the spray of blood down his side, Motonari had no problem dispatching the remaining two men. They should have run, he thought, as he sped past their cooling bodies.

This time, he’d landed closer to the cannons at least. His arms felt heavy as he cut his way past the guards and what brave cannoneers stayed to protect their charges. As with the previous ship, Motonari dumped the powder boxes and every thing flammable and explosive he could find and tossed another lit fuse at it.

But he wasn’t fast enough to fully escape the force of the blast. Tired and wounded, he was mid-rope when the ship shook and shuddered. Waves as tall as fortress walls crested in the space between the two ships. They nearly pulled Motonari from the rope.

All he could think was that he had to live, to see Ivy Rose again. To hold her. That last kiss wasn’t enough, not nearly. He clung to it for his life as the cold water sucked the strength from his arms. The rope snapped as the enemy ship lurched and tilted. Once again Motonari was slammed into the hull of a ship, his own this time.

His crew hoisted him up. Exhausted, bleeding, and soaked, he crouched on the deck beside the railing and got his wind back.

Ivy Rose rushed to his side, heedless of the fighting still raging across the deck. “Motonari!” She knelt beside him, touching his face, his hands. He was alright. “Are you crazy? You - you -”

“I think the word yer lookin’ for is hero? I took out two ships. Got one ta go.” He grinned. “Ya gonna give me another kiss fer luck?”

She put her hands on her hips. “I will not! You aren’t going anywhere. You’re hurt.”

“Most o’ this blood ain’t mine, princess.” He stood, trying to hide a grimace of pain. “Want to lay a wager?”

“A bet? For what?” She straightened to stand beside him. Her expression one of worry.

“I’ll bet ya I can take out that last ship before the Murakami fleet is sighted.”

Ivy Rose shook her head. “That’s a stupid bet. They’ll know you’re coming. And there’s at least twice as many men on the last ship.”

One of the crew nodded. “The survivors are gettin’ picked up by the last boat, captain. It’ll be full to the brim with those that’r hungry for your blood.”

Motonari laughed. “That just keeps it interesting. So if I win the bet, princess, you’ll owe me a kiss and a cuddle.”

“What? I don’t know what you think I’ll -”

“Look, princess. If I win, ya win too ‘cause our enemies will be dead and we can sail on to port. If I lose, well . . . another pirate will get your ransom from the Oda. It’s all square to you, savvy?”

Ivy Rose swallowed, her hands balling into tight little fists. “It’s not all the same.”

Motonari laughed again. “Well, all the more reason to take the bet. And hey! How about, if I lose, this guy -” he pointed to the crewmate beside him, “will take ya back to the Oda, come hell or high water. Good?”

She didn’t know how to respond. How to explain to Motonari that she didn’t want to go back anymore, not really. Not if it meant he wasn’t with her. Not if it meant he was dead. She grabbed his collar and stood up on her tiptoes. Her lips crushed his with a sudden passion, one that burned hotter than the fires of battle. It scorched her heart and left it raw, but she held on anyway.

Motonari was surprised by the sudden kiss. His body reacted without thought, pulling her close. She felt so warm, so alive in his arms. He could feel her racing heart, and the galloping rhythm of his own. They were joined, in that breathless moment. Her lips made him ache, a pain in his chest he couldn’t explain away. A desire that he could only now, in this desperate moment acknowledge. He returned her fervor with his own savage passion, taking her mouth hostage with his tongue, capturing her breath, and the sound of her pleased moan.

When they finally broke the kiss, he felt renewed. Reborn. “When I come back, Ivy Rose, I’m taking more than that kiss from ya.” He touched her cheek lightly.

“You better,” she breathed.

Motonari grinned. He launched himself once again toward the rear of the ship. The last of their enemies was waiting. He needed to take them out and fast. The deck under his feet listed dangerously, and it was entirely possible this last desperate attack wouldn’t be enough. Despite that, he felt sure they would live. He had made a bet, afterall, and he wasn’t going to lose.

He could still feel the sweetness of her as he flung himself across the gap. The jump was shorter than the first, the enemy ship closer. He didn’t fear making the landing. In this moment, he didn’t fear anything.

Then he saw the curl of white smoke in his periphery. Heard the dull crack of the matchlock. He felt the shot tear into his abdomen. White hot pain lanced through him. His body folded forward midair and landed on the enemy deck in a scarlet spray.

Motonari felt a weight on his chest. His breath would not come. Dark spots danced in his vision. His thoughts came slow and heavy, like a fog rolling in with the dusk. He understood he would die here, now. A death he’d earned. He should feel no regret. And yet. I never said I love you, he thought.

Ivy Rose. His last thought before the darkness took him.

[beetlegoose01]

Frostbite (Casetello)

AN: do these two have a ship name? Caseytello? eh whatever it’s casey x donnie and they’re gay

special thanks to cal for reading this for me and saying i should post it <3

There were quite a lot of things Casey Jones loved. Hockey, pizza, riding his motorcycle, video games, beating the crap out of his opponents. Normal teenage stuff. Lately he had been doing the latter, ever since he and April officially joined the 'Unofficial Turtles Team' , helping alongside the teen mutants on patrol. Goofing off with Mikey and Raph were the highlights, but he couldn't deny spending extra time with April was also a benefit. Even if they barely got a single word out- too busy fighting off random mutants scattering the city, it was still nice.

But what wasn't nice, downright unpleasant about patrol...was Donatello. There was an unspoken, mutual loathing that the pair shared that even quick glances at each other led to glaring and arguing. Leaving them together in the same room was never a good idea. Casey hasn't understood why the purple genius was so hostile towards him at first. But the reasons became obvious the first time he caught him staring helplessly at April, fumbling his words and blushing profusely. Not that Casey didn't feel similarly, heck, that was the problem. Both were attracted to April. Obviously Casey had the upper hand, being human. A turtle and a human girl in a relationship was built for disaster.

But their hatred didn't stop there. It wasn't just about April.  Eventually, everything about Donatello annoyed him. His whiny voice, his love for using complicated words to sound superior, soon every little thing bugged him.

Things were easier if the two stayed as far apart as possible.

Of course, fate seemed to work in mysterious ways.

It was starting to get late, the moonlight illuminating the sky. The group stopped on a rooftop, perched by the edge. Leo halted them silently, then turned around.

"Why'd you stop, Fearless?" Raph asked.

"I think we should split up. We'll cover more ground. If you see any sign of trouble, use your T-Phones." said Leo.

"No way dudes!" Mikey squeaked. "I saw this scary movie last night where the team split up! And then..." He paused for dramatic effect. "They all got taken out one by one. Starting with the cute funny one!" He trembled, hiding behind Donnie, who rolled his eyes.

Raph smirked, always prepared for a sassy remark. "Which means, you'll be just fine since you're neither of those."

"Hey!"

"And you'll be in pairs." Leo crossed his arms. "I've got it all planned out. Raph and April. Mikey and me."

"Mikey and I." Donnie corrected under his breath. Casey fought the urge to whack the smart aleck turtle with his hockey stick.

Leo ignored him. "Donnie and Casey-"

Casey involuntary let out a loud groan. Just his luck.

Leo narrowed his blue eyes, unamused. "Something wrong, Jones?"

"Er..." His eyes darted to Donatello, who seemed stoic, but equally frustrated with this predicament. On one hand, he wanted to argue and beg to be with literally anyone else. On the other, he didn't want to deal with the leader in blue getting annoyed with him.  "Nah Leo, that's fine by me. Right, D?"

Donnie huffed. "Yeah, that's alright."

"I think this will be good for you both." April grinned.

"Of course, April." Donnie agreed.

"No problem at all." Casey smiled through gritted teeth. When she turned away, they both shared an equally menacing glare.

"I knew I could count on you two." April smiled softly, though even she didn't look entirely convinced.

This was going to be a long night.

~•~

Turns out, Casey had underestimated the scrawny (ugh, svelte) turtle. In what Donnie lacked in muscle, he gained with his speed, mobility and of course, his mind. It was practically impossible to keep up once Donatello had leaped from the first building, tumbling and landing with ease, while Casey was coughing his lungs out as he ran desperately after the brainy terrapin.

"Okay, now you're just showing off." He panted irritably, nearly collapsing once he finally caught up with him.

"Are you coming or not?" Donnie gave his trademark gap tooth grin as he turned, slowing down.

"I am! You're just moving too fast!" Casey complained. "I thought turtles were supposed to be slow! I didn't even have time to get my grappling hook."

Donnie shrugged, ending the conversation with one simple movement.

They walked side by side, neither wanting to say anything. They both knew it would only end in arguing.

"Can I just say-" Casey started.

"No, you can't."

"I didn't say anything!"

"Exactly."

"Listen, Gap Tooth, I don't like this either!" He flicked a stone off the roof with his shoe. "But we have to ..." He swallowed. "work together, right?"

Donnie said nothing. He looked deep in thought.

"Is it because of April? Because it's not my fault she...y'know likes me more."

At the mention of April, Donnie turned away, eyes flashed with hurt, which only filled Casey with that annoying feeling of guilt.

"It isn't about her."

"Alright." Silence. "Sorry, let's just-" He cleared his throat. "Let's just work together, we don't need to be friends. Just get through the mission. After that, we can go back to hating each other."

"That was...surprisingly mature, Jones. Glad we can agree on something." Donnie quipped. "And for once, you're right. This mission is more important than our petty squabbles. No matter how insufferable you may be."

"Now you're just making up words."

Donnie fought the urge to roll his eyes. "So, that's two more hours of this."

Casey scoffed, but couldn't help but chuckle. Quietly of course. Last thing he wanted was for Donnie to think he was actually amusing.

"So...deal?"

"Deal." Donnie said, then added: "Cave Mouth." Which made Casey shove him lightly.

For a brief moment, they seemed to share a mutual understanding. The silence that followed wasn't awkward or forced, it was comfortable. Well, as comfortable as they could possibly be.

Donnie paused, startled by something. Lifting his bō carefully, he tried to follow whatever the sound was.

"What the-" Casey raised an eyebrow.

"Shh!" He hissed. "Do you hear that?"

"No?" Casey scrunched his nose, listening closely. It sounded like a...buzzing noise? Like a fly or mosquito. Irritating, but not dangerous. "Chill Don, it's just a bug or something."

"No, listen!" The turtle looked frantic and alert.

The buzzing became louder. Then, it was followed by the sound of snapping wood. Deliberate and exact. Casey gulped, taking his own weapon.

A massive shadow flew over their heads and landed in front of them. Donnie yelped in surprise, stumbling forward.

"Ah, shell." He swore, lifting his head to face the hideous insectoid mutant with acid green eyes. Scumbug spread his deformed wings, antenayes raised, prepared to strike.

"Well, I was right. That definitely is a bug. Scumbug! Wicked! This'll be fun!" Casey sneered.

"Which makes no sense, considering stag beetles aren't even bugs! They're insects!" Donnie spun his staff like a propeller, hitting the mutant face on.

"Not the time!" Casey tackled Scumbug, who roared, jostling him aside like a ragdoll. He smacked the floor with a sickening thud, directly on his arm. He fought back a scream of agony.  "Do you- gah- seriously have to be such a know it all, all the time?" He looked at his arm, which currently looked seriously messed up.

Donnie looked affronted. "I am not a know it all!"

"Yes you are!" Another whack of his trusty hockey stick, followed by a knock to the ground, face first. He wiped his mouth from the metallic taste of blood.

"No I'm not!"

"Yes you- Donnie, look out!" Casey shrieked, sounding less manly than he intended.

Scumbug, now furious, had efficiently used his enemies' bickering to his advantage. Before he could turn around, a spider web twirled from its appendages binding Donatello to the ground, who kicked and struggled furiously.

The mutant now crouched over the captured turtle, prepared to strike with his signature acid spit.

"Hang on, D! Casey Jones is here to save the day! GOONGALA!" He bellowed, racing towards Scumbug and latching onto him like a demented parasite. It was hardly the most graceful of moves, but it distracted him briefly.

He raised his hockey stick, poking him hard in the eye in an attempt to gouge them. Eyes were sensitive- he remembered Splinter telling him that.

With the extra time, Donnie reached for his bō, ripping the web apart with the extended naginata blade.

Scumbug, now looking more disheveled and horrifically disfigured than normal, retreated blindly into the misty air.

"I didn't need your help." Donnie said bitterly.

"Aw, is that any way to say thank you?" Casey retorted. "I just saved your shell." He poked his plastron roughly. "I think I deserve a little appreciation for my heroism."

"I had it handled."

"Did you? Because you looked just about ready to be eaten by Scumbug."

Donatello scowled, moving closer. "And he got away. So your heroism didn't exactly work, did it?"

"Would you rather have acid stuck to your face?" Casey growled. "You'd look even freakier than you do now. Next time you're a little 'turtle in distress' don't expect me to come save your-"

"I didn't need saving." Their foreheads pressed together, any moment ready to face each other on.

Casey gritted his teeth. "Sure, whatever you say. I didn't help because I actually cared about you or anything."

"Then why did you?" Donnie snapped, pulling away. "You could have left me."

"Because I- you- argh!" Casey felt his temper rising. "Because I'm not a monster, alright? We're a team, and we help each other. That's the deal." He wiped his chapped lips again, the disgusting taste of blood still lingering. He winced, clutching his arm.

"I can patch you up at the lair." Donnie said softly. "It just looks sprained."

"Mm." Casey grumbled, still pissed. Stubbornness was taking over any injury he had. He'd rather have his arm stay at this awkward angle than admit he was hurt in front of his rival. "I'll just wrap it up at home. I'll be fine."

Donnie sighed, raising his palm to his face. "Don't be so stubborn, I can help you."

Casey didn't look convinced.

"To repay the favor?" His warm brown eyes looked surprisingly sincere. "You did help me, after all. I'd probably be toast if you didn't."

Casey snorted. "You got that right."

A beat. Donnie looked unsure, as if he wanted to say something else. But whatever it was, it was holding him back.

"So...we should go back to the lair then?" Casey suggested, easing the awkwardness.

"Huh? Yes, of course. Totally. " Donnie nodded. "Naturally."

"Alright then."

"Jones?"

Casey turned, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say...thanks."

"Hey, no problem. But don't tell anyone I saved your ass."

"Deal."

~•~

Casey never expected to be sitting in Donnie's lab table, in between Timothy the blob-organ filled mutant and several bunsen burners, but life tended to be weird that way. He also didn’t expect to be pouting on said table like he was at some freaky doctor’s office. The rest of the team returned shortly after them, and seemed surprised that Donnie was actually willing to fix Casey's arm- and not begrudgingly.

Donnie returned with a first aid kit, setting it on the table. He hummed a familiar tune to himself, as if to fill the empty air of any more awkwardness.

"I've seen these before." Casey said, poking the bunsen burner tap, immediately then swatted away by Donatello. "At my school's science lab."

Donnie nodded, rolling up Casey's sleeve to examine his bare arm. Casey flinched, not comfortable with the random act of touching. "Hey don't!"

"Do you want your arm fixed or not?"

"...yeah."

"Then let me work my magic."

Casey frowned, staring at the bottle the turtle was holding. "Your magic looks like antibiotics and advil."

Donnie's lip twitched.

After his arm was treated somewhat, Donnie wrapped him up gently with a clean bandage. The slow movement made his heart race increase every time Donnie's fingertips brushed his arm, but he ignored it.

Don't be weird, Jones.

"That should be good. Don't put any pressure on it." said Donnie, passing him the advil. "And take this, it'll soothe the pain."

Casey pretended to look offended. "Here I thought you were gonna kiss it better."

Donnie rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "Don't push it, Jones. We aren't there yet."

Casey laughed. "Yet. Thanks for fixin' my arm, D. You...aren't so bad, I guess. But let's go back to hating each other, alright?"

Donnie smirked. "Whatever you say."

[r0b0tb0y]

@ismenejane @r0b0tb0y​ i’m sorry, what’d you just say????#are you writing this??

Separate post so as not to clutter the artist's, but yeah! I'm noodling slowly on a postcanon fic where Edward becomes a lighthouse keeper, and eventually that's where Stede finds him, but neither of them can ignore the parts of Blackbeard that lurk below the surface. Have a chapter:

The first and second night of the storm he stayed awake, tending the light as the lighthouse trembled. It was the third day, just as dark beyond the dawn, that it all went to hell.

Lightning sketched a triptych framed by the windows. Funnels of water reached out of the sea as thick as the devil’s fingers, spouting toward the sky and sending the rain every which way. The tower was too high for the waves to be slamming the glass, but rain hammered thick enough that it might as well have been the ocean. Edward braced his hands against the sills, the wood tender and whimpering in his grip. He had a feel for the clockwork underfoot, the ratcheting uncertainty as the stone trunk begged to shake itself apart. Iron teeth ground through another cycle, out of step with the tempo of the waves. The storm shouted like an animal and he shouted right back at it.

But he hadn’t slept in forty hours. The windowpane beside him shattered. A thick shard of glass split the crosses on his arm and the salt stung it clean in moments. The argand lamp wailed pitifully before the wind snatched it up. He’d barely thought to reach for it, stunned by the slash of blood and so sure that the light was too great a thing, its impression still burned into his eyes. But it was gone, the parabolic reflector dutifully circling in a partnerless waltz. Edward lashed his wound with a sodden neckerchief while the rain harried him, and hot glass sloshed around his feet to scatter down the shaft and ruin his boots tomorrow.

No light to tend. It was day, after all. He’d long since learned to match the foghorn’s snores. There was a spot on the stairs where the wet wasn’t so bad, and more importantly, wasn’t a step further than his knee could manage.

He woke in the gloom, when the squalls settled in to a drizzle. The sun was creeping through, cooking up a stench inside the tower. He crunched over glass the whole trek down, and before he’d shouldered the door from its bent hinges he knew what would be waiting outside.

The shipwreck was a barque, the hull impaled on the spit of rock revealed by the tide. Its keel was in splinters, some of it lurking around the shore and the rest probably halfway to Halifax.

He stopped to free a gull tangled in a snarl of sodden rigging. Other times, she might have made a good supper, but he’d sated himself already. Sure enough, beneath the lost feathers and fear-shit left in her wake, lightning had struck the beach. He scooped away the wet sand until he’d found the roots of the fulgurite. It formed a clear and hollow tube, a passable approximation of an argand lamp. The fluid coral branches that wended through it would bring flares and flickers to the signal, but it saved him sending word for a glassblower.

With the tide low, it wasn’t difficult to wade out. The sand pulled away under his feet and weeds writhed knots around his ankles. Below the outcrop were divots like stairs in the rock, little molluscs crushed as he shoved his toes in to clamber up. Foam bounced and fluttered in his face as he wriggled through a porthole. Barques had generous holds. There was a chest of tea still dry, and spices worth a thousand pounds—or another year of decent-tasting stews for him. He roped up the fresh water stores and hauled them back, and took what little remained of the kitchen worth looting. Tar from the deck and a pouch of gunpowder for a laugh. A batik kerchief patterned with white flowers.

There wasn’t a single survivor. There weren’t even bodies. The way the deck warped inwards before the wood cracked, no storm had wrought this: the barque had been squeezed by something very, very large.

The other wrecks were like this too, washing up when stores were low and foul moods beset him. The sea claimed the ghosts, and he was welcome to all that remained.

[to-star-lake]

Mars [ I ]

pairing | kth x reader genre | ahistorical au, military au, yandere!taehyung word count | 5.5k

The first time you saw him you were alone. 

It was dark. Pitch black behind the counter of an abandoned cafe where you were hiding. You were split up from the group you’d been traveling with during the raid. You heard the whoosh of an incoming bomb somewhere in the distance, then the thundering boom when it hit. The building shook. Dust and soot fell from the ceiling. You clasped your hands together over your head, hiding your face between your knees.

Outside you could hear screams from all directions. The sound of rapid gunfire. The crunch of wooden beams and bricks being crushed under the weight of the enemy tanks that rolled over them in the streets. 

You were scared, but you didn’t cry. Actually, you couldn’t remember when the last time was that you did cry. How long had it been since you were displaced from your home and your family because of the war? How long had it been since you were in the company of anyone you knew? The last you saw of your hometown, a small quiet village by the sea - it was burning, lost to a cloud of flames and ash. You’d long since stopped crying. Long since stopped wishing for the war to end, wishing for better days, for safety, for any kind of comfort. You came to accept the hunger, the cold, the stench of burning bodies in the streets, being on the run. 

You heard the sound of glass shattering. Where was it? The building across the road? But the sound was too close. You lifted your head from under your arms and before you, as a reflection in the glass of the cabinet once meant to hold pastries, you saw the shadow of a man entering the cafe. He was alone, you noted. You had a chance. 

Sliding further down under the counter, you held close to your chest the small pastry knife you found on the counter when you first entered the building when the raid warning horns blasted across the town. You became conscious of every breath you took, breathing in and out slowly and with purpose - to slow down your heart rate, and in hopes of concealing your presence. 

Glass crunched under his boots as he walked into the building. You gripped the knife tighter in your hand. He stopped moving. You inched yourself just ever so slightly to your left, so you could find his reflection in the glass again but it was too much. 

The glass shattered in an instant as a bullet hit it. You quickly ducked your face behind your forearms, you could feel the sting on your skin as stray shards streaked across it. You shouldn’t have looked. He saw you. 

He fired thrice more, breaking the glass of the counter above you. Broken glass fell all around you and you pulled your limbs in even closer, hearing your own shallow breaths like an echo in your ears, ringing from the sound of the gun firing so close. You waited until it was quiet again. And you ran. 

You stood, and forced your legs to pick up as much momentum and speed in a few seconds as your weak body could muster. Just to the door. Just to the exit out the back of the building. But as fast as you tried to move, he was faster. 

Wood splinters broke off from the door frame where he fired another shot as you tried to run through it. You heard his steps behind you, wondering just how it was possible he was able to catch up to you so quickly. You swung around, lashing the knife in your hand but he ducked back, the blade missing the skin of his cheek by centimeters. His hand gripped around your arm, squeezing your wrist in a painful clutch. Your hand fell open, the knife dropped to the floor, clattering as it hit the broken glass under your feet. 

You writhed, trying to break free of his grasp but failed. The darkness made it difficult to see, but he towered above you, a vice grip on your wrist, and his eyes were hidden behind a veil of dark hair. But even in the dark you could tell the uniform he wore - a black coat with gold trimming, the patch over his chest, an emblem of the enemy. 

“Please..let me go..” the words you uttered would sound like a desperate plea, but the tone of your voice showed him that you were resigned to whatever fate will bring. You knew you were done for. You’d been captured. There was no way he would just let you go. 

Thoughts of what will befall you ran through your mind. Would you be sent to the labor camps in the north - to work, to freeze, to starve, to die a slow, painful, diseased death? Would he claim you as a spoil of war - make you serve him, a slave girl, to use you in any way he pleased? Or would he be merciful - and put a bullet in your head here and now? You prayed for this last. 

Past him you could see a tank turning onto the road, the flash of light from the high beam flew past your face, and you felt him run a hand behind your head, lacing his fingers into your hair, pulling your face back into the light. This pain barely registered, lost between the deafening ringing in your ears and the blood that trickled down your arms from splintered wood and crushed glass, your nerves were frayed after years of being on the run. 

He stepped closer, so close you could feel his breath on your skin. You could see the splatters of blood across his face. The overwhelming metallic smell of blood on his clothes made you nauseous. You held your breath, and from behind the long strands of his hair, dripping droplets of blood onto his cheeks, he examined your face. 

It was only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Finally, he let go of your hair, but kept his hand around your wrist and pulled you out from behind the counter. He brought you out onto the street, tugging you while you screamed in protest, though you knew no one was there to answer your pleas for help. Your bare feet dragged and pulled against him on the gravel and broken glass in the street. He brought you to an armored vehicle outside the building. 

You screamed in protest, pushing against the metal frame of the door, writhing and wriggling your body in any way you could but it was useless against the force and strength of his arms. He pushed you onto the passenger seat and held both your wrists up to the handle above the door. He looped a zip tie around your wrists and tied you up to the handle, so tight you swore the plastic material cut into your skin. He then tied your ankles. 

All around you was fire, ash and smoke. Bodies dropping to the ground under a cloud of red dust. He moved swiftly around the vehicle, jumping into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, and you fell back against the seat, swaying with the force of the car as he turned and sped down the road through the burning town. 

You must’ve been in the car for hours when he pulled up to a set of black iron gates, guarded by six men armed with machine guns that hung around their torsos. They seemed to recognize him immediately, saluting and greeting him. They exchanged glances and shot you looks, but no one made mention of you, only opening the gate immediately to let him drive through. 

He stopped in front of a large stone estate. You recognized it. It had once been the home of the governor of this land. Now it housed the enemy combatants. You wondered what happened to the family that lived here before the war. 

He walked around to the passenger side and pulled a knife from his belt. You flinched but he reached up to untie you from the handle above the door. He cut through the ties that bound your feet. You grimaced as he pulled you from the vehicle, the cut-up soles of your feet stung against the rough gravel. 

“Captain!” 

You turned at the voice. A young man, tall and thin, donned in the same uniform as the man that captured you, appeared from within the estate. Only now in the brightly lit lot of the compound you could see his young man had far less pins and medals than the man that brought you here. 

He hurried down the steps of the building and saluted the man beside you. 

“The town’s taken.”

Hearing his voice for the first time shocked you. Partly because it was at a much lower register than the young man saluting him, and partly because you did not expect him, the enemy, a dog of war, to have such a sophisticated tone. 

“Sir, that’s excellent, the General will be glad to hear of it-”

Before he could finish, the man beside you pushed you forward, causing you to momentarily lose your balance, and you would’ve fallen to the ground had the young man not caught you in his arms and steadied you back onto your feet. 

“Take her to Inah.” 

“Um..sure, uh, I mean, yes sir!” the young man called out. 

The man he called Captain swung the heavy machine gun he carried around his torso off, and slid off his overcoat. Even though the shirt he wore underneath was black, you could tell from the way the material was dampened and stuck to his skin that it was drenched in blood. 

“And Soobin,” he turned to address the young man as he walked up the steps. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“No one touches her.” 

The young man made a face. “Sir?”

The Captain turned and continued up the steps. “Have Inah tend to her wounds and get her some fresh clothing and food. Then bring her to my quarters.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Once the Captain had gone, the young man turned and looked down at your face, speckled with dried blood and ash and dust, your hair clumped together from not having been washed in what felt like ages. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of you. 

“Come on,” he grabbed onto your arm and pulled you roughly up the steps of the building. 

Inside there were many guards, roaming the halls in pairs. The rooms were dimly lit by wood-burning fires, or candles on chandeliers overhead. It was surprisingly quiet inside. So quiet it brought a ghastly unease, a stark contrast to the shell-shocked war zones you’d fled. 

He led you up a marble stairwell, down several hallways, until you reached the end of a narrow hall and he knocked on a single door at the end. The door creaked open and you saw a woman emerge from behind it. 

“The Captain wishes her to be cleaned and given fresh clothing,” Soobin pronounced, and you watched as an almost indetectable flicker went across her eyes, but she quickly regained her composure. 

“...the Captain?” she asked in a small, squeaky voice. 

“Yes, and once that’s done, the Captain wishes she be brought to his quarters. And instruct the servants to bring his supper as well.” He shoved you forward through the open door. 

“Yes, sir,” the woman said, bowing. The young man turned swiftly and left down the hall. 

She closed the door behind him, and looking around, you found yourself in the drawing room of what looked to be the servants’ quarters. There was no decor, sparse furniture, and the room felt cold compared to the rest of the house. 

“Lira,” the woman sighed. 

“Yes, Lady Inah?” you turned and saw a girl who could not be older than you emerge from an adjacent room. 

“Please go down to the kitchen and instruct the servants to bring supper to the Captain, he’s returned.” 

The girl gave a small bow before turning and leaving. As she left, two other girls came into the room. You stood, arms clasped in front of your chest, cold and unsure what to do. 

“Bring water and a washcloth,” the woman instructed. One of the girls nodded, bowing and leaving to her task. “And a fresh gown.” The other girl followed suit. 

The woman looked at you up and down, walking a circle around you like an appraiser assessing an item. The girls returned and they assisted the woman in stripping you of all your clothing against your yells of protest. They cleaned your face and body with washcloths and warm water that smelled of berries and mint. They poured water over your head, and ran a brush through your hair, and cleaned it with rose fragranced water. They cleaned the scrapes and cuts on your arms and your feet, and bandaged them lightly with linens. Then they pulled a white gown over your head. It hung loosely around your chest and torso, the straps were adjusted to keep from falling off your shoulders.

“Follow me,” the woman said. 

She led you out into the hall, through a labyrinth of turns and stairs to the uppermost level of the house, to a set of large double doors in a glossy, veneered oak. One of the doors was slightly ajar, and you could see the orange glow of a fire from within. 

“You will not speak unless first spoken to,” the woman instructed, coming to a halt before the doors. “You will obey the Captain’s wishes, all the Captain’s wishes.” She knocked quietly on the doors. “The Captain has never brought back a servant, and he has never wished to take any of the girls here at the compound,” she lowered her voice. “Consider yourself lucky. If the Captain fancies you, you may be allowed more freedoms and be given more rewards than any of the other servant girls here. The General holds him in the highest favor because of his wrath and cruelty in war. He is an esteemed soldier.” 

“Come in,” you heard his voice from within the room. 

You felt your chest tighten.

“Just keep your head down, and do as you’re told,” were her last words before she adjusted her posture, and cautiously, pushed the door open a bit more, and entered. 

“Sir, I have brought you the girl,” she pushed your forward. 

The room was expansive, and there were doorways you saw that led to adjacent rooms. At the far end, there were  large windows, reaching from the ceiling to the floor, they must’ve been eight meters tall. Two of them were doors, with large bronze handles that led out to a marble balcony. The room was lit by a billowing fire from a stone hearth. Against the wall there was a large bed under a velvet canopy. Occupying the rest of the room was a round table with two chairs beside it, on top of which held dishes, steam rising from them, a basket of assorted breads and pastries, and a tea set. And beside that, close to the fire, you saw a cot, low to the ground, covered with a wool military-issue blanket and a small, square pillow. 

“You may leave,” he said, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. 

The woman took a deep bow, and turned to leave the room. She closed the door behind her and all there was was you, standing in the middle of the floor of his room. And him, unfastening the buttons of his shirt, and sliding it from his body, and all he had was a dark t-shirt, tucked into the black military slacks. 

He sighed, tossing the shirt aside onto the floor before looking up at you. 

He’d pushed his hair back, revealing his eyes and in the orange glow of the fire, and in his dark irises you could see only what you’d always seen in the enemy - brutality, savagery, violence. 

He stood, and you listened to the thump of his boots against the marble floor as he made his way over to the table beside the fire. He pulled out a seat and stood behind it. 

“Sit.” 

You moved cautiously toward the table, your legs buckling from pain of overuse in all your running and hiding. You sat slowly, and he took a seat across the table from you. 

“Eat,” he moved an empty porcelain plate toward you, and began putting morsels of food onto it - a piece of bread, a bowl of soup, some kind of vegetable and meat dish you hardly recognized because it’d been so long since the last time you tasted anything other than stale and moldy bread. He began plating food onto his own dish as well, and you watched, listening with disgust as he held a piece of bread to his lips, ripping off a piece with his teeth. The sound of him chewing made you nauseous, you wanted to throw up. 

He stopped, noticing your obvious discomfort - you’d pushed yourself against the back of the seat, your body rigid. He set down the fork in his hand, sighing. 

“Eat, you must be starving,” he reached across the table, pushing your plate closer to you. 

You didn’t move. 

He brought the napkin that laid on his lap to his lips, then dropped it onto the table. “What’s your name?” 

You didn’t answer. 

He sighed, standing up and moving his chair beside you. You flinched. He sat down, too close to you for comfort, and took the utensils that lay beside your plate and began cutting the food into bite-sized pieces. He took the piece of bread and broke that up too, dropping pieces of it into the soup to soften. 

Your eyes caught the balcony door behind him, not five feet away - it was slightly ajar. He noticed this. 

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” his voice lowered, setting the utensils back down on the table. “I can’t do anything for you if you leave this room, if you attempt to flee. My men will shoot you immediately.” He sat back in his seat, resting his hands on his legs. “What’s your name?” he asked again. 

You still did not answer. 

“Even the people of this godforsaken country have names,” he sighed. 

This woke an anger in you. 

You grabbed the dinner knife from beside your plate and lunged toward him, but just as before, he was faster. He grabbed your arm, squeezing it and the knife fell from your hand. He pulled you onto the floor beneath him and he closed his other hand around your throat with enough force that you felt your larynx would be crushed if he closed his hand just the slightest bit more. He could kill you like this, and it would be easy for him. 

Your eyes began watering. You weren’t crying, the warm droplets that fell were due to you the pain of the hand closed around your throat, your eyes stung from the salt of your tears as you gasped for air. 

“You’re nothing but a killer..” you choked out. Something seemed to flash across his eyes, and he dropped you to the floor. You coughed hacking breaths, fighting for air. You had only the strength to hold yourself on your forearms. “This was a beautiful country, a peaceful country of farmers and horsemen. Why did you come..you destroyed everything..you know nothing of this land, of its people, you kill and torture indiscriminately..” you rasped. 

Through the hair that’s fallen over your face you could see him lean onto his elbows on his legs, sighing. After a moment he stood, bending over to pick you up in his arms, but you screamed and yelled, hitting him with ineffective fists and he walked you over to the cot in the corner, dropping you on it. 

You tried to stand, but your legs failed you, and his hand fell on your shoulder, and with just the smallest amount of force he was able to push you back down. 

He crouched in front of you, and reached a hand up to brush a few strands of hair from your shoulder, to examine your neck. You flinched at the contact, and he retracted his hand quickly. 

“I’ll have them keep the food here, but it’ll become cold if you don’t eat it soon. You’ll sleep here. I apologize this was all I could manage for tonight, I will arrange for better accommodations tomorrow. The adjacent room is my office, I’ll be taking meetings tonight and working, I hope that will not disturb you too much. Servants will also be coming in and out to bring tea, help yourself to whatever you’d like. There is a bathroom through that door on the other side.” He stood. “Do not attempt to escape. I say this for your own sake.” 

---

For as long as he could remember, he’d been a soldier. When he was young, in the dusty streets of his hometown, impoverished, homeless, without family, living off of what he could beg for, what he could find, what he could steal. 

All around him was uproar, anger and fury, unrest amongst the people. Disease ran rampant in this poor country, there was not enough food and water, the people suffered. He heard tell of a nation to the west - a thriving nation, of lush green fields that rose on high white towers of rock above a pale blue ocean. Of abundant food, of smiles and laughter, without worries of whether one would live to see the sunrise the next day. 

He lingered on that thought - the thought of sunrise. How long had it been since he’d seen the sun, shining clear and bright in the sky? When it didn’t seem so far away in the distance, hidden behind the billowing clouds of brown dust that plagued this nation? When was the last time he didn’t feel the hunger? The thirst, his skin and lips cracked and bleeding in the dry heat. 

War lords had risen across this sickened nation, amassing followers to their various causes, committing atrocities, pillaging towns and stealing what little was there in the first place. Until a man rose above it all, preaching that he would bring prosperity and hope to the people - that he would seek to bring the riches of the nation beside it to the people who were in real need of it. He tended the small, flickering flames that were people’s anger and discontent and grew it into an army, built on fury and malice, with a singular goal of bringing down the nation beside, and to share and revel in the riches that it would bring.

The boy was nineteen when he first saw a piece of dusty war propaganda on the street. He brushed the layer of dust away, and his eyes opened wide at the image it held - a drawing of young man in a peaked cap, facing a bright orange and red setting sun beyond the ocean, he stood on a cliff beside a pony, in grass so tall and lush it rose to his chest. 

He wondered what that would feel like. The grass that tickled at your skin, how soft it must be. The smell of the ocean. Rays of a warm sun hitting his bare skin. 

He’d kept the same spirit, the will to survive, and it served him well in the army. He rose through the ranks quickly. He fought well, better than anyone. He was ruthless. 

Soon, he’d gained the favor of the General, who named him Captain to an entire legion, which he led to devastating effect across the plains of the west to the ocean. 

He’d never wanted to kill anyone. He’d never wanted to burn down entire villages. He wanted to feel the sun, to dip his feet into the ocean, to know what sand would feel like beneath his feet. It began as a simple wish to do just that, but that wish became darkened by the deeds he piled up over the years, afflicted by an endless war, for the General did not stop at simply conquering this nation - his ambition and greed grew to an invasion of the entire continent. 

And as the years passed, he grew tired. Tired of the fire, of the burning smell of bodies in the streets, the wanton death and destruction. When he finally reached the ocean, the warmth of the sun on his face was not a welcoming sensation - the heat burned against his raw and scratched skin like a punishment for his sins. The waves of the ocean crashed against his body, cold as ice, and seemed to forsake him, pushing him back ashore. 

That night was not unlike any other he’d seen in the past six years. The general had instructions to burn down the three villages nearest to the compound they’d taken up, the former governor’s residence. His battalion was efficient, they had done this hundreds of times before. The homes and buildings in this small town burned down like butter close to a fire, this had become so easy for him he’d become numb to it. Numb to the destruction. 

A bomb dropped nearby and the row of buildings across the road from where he stood shook, cracks ran through the glass storefronts. Inside the buildings appeared dark and empty, he walked closer and broke through the glass of one of these storefronts. He detected movement, and on instinct, fired his weapon into the glass when he saw a figure stand from behind the counters, making a run for the rear exit. He fired again, but stopped immediately when he saw the long strands of dark hair. 

When he grasped onto your wrist and turned you to face him, he wondered how one could be so small, how one could be so fragile - he could break your wrist in his hand with just the slightest effort. When he looked into your eyes he was shaken by something familiar, something he recognized, a painful nostalgia. It was the look in your eyes - your spirit, that once held a will to fight, a will to survive, like he had as a child. But he could see that that spirit had been whittled down over the years, broken by a hopelessness so vast and heavy one could not escape it - you’d given up hope. 

“You’re nothing but a killer.” 

Your words echoed in his mind as he walked into his office in the adjacent room and took a seat behind a large mahogany desk. He felt goosebumps rise on his skin at the sight of your eyes, looking directly into his, without a single shred of fear - that they were cold, distant, detached, as the ocean had been when he’d finally touched it. They held no sympathy, though he did not expect they would. They were empty. 

“Sir, the General is here to see you.” 

He was brought out of his thoughts by a gentle knock on the door, and Soobin appeared through the frame, bowing. 

He nodded, “Soobin, please make arrangements to have furniture brought into this room first thing tomorrow. A bed, an armchair, and a nightstand to start. Have Inah bring the best linens she can find.” 

“Sir?” Soobin asked, a perplexed expression on his face. “What about your desk and chairs and books?”

“Have them moved into my room.” 

“Yes, sir,” he bowed again, and the Captain waved him off. As he left, the loud thumping of boots came into the room. 

“Taehyung.”

“General,” the Captain stood from his chair, taking a bow and saluting his commanding officer. 

“Oh please, there’s no need to stand on ceremony, it is only you and I here,” the General walked around to his side of the desk, his hands closing around the Captain’s arms, giving him a pat of approval on the shoulder. The Captain stepped aside, offering his chair to the General, who took a seat immediately. 

“The three towns northeast of here have been taken, tomorrow we will have scouts return to assess-”

“Oh Tae, there’s no need for that, I can get the details from one of the Lieutenants,” the General furrowed his brows, impatiently waving a hand in the air. 

“As you wish.” 

“Now tell me,” the General swung in his chair to face the Captain directly, his hands clasping together across his stomach. “I’ve just arrived here with my men, and what’s all this hubbub I’m hearing about a beautiful servant girl you’ve brought back?”

His jaw tightened. 

“Now, if I know you well, and I’d like to think I do after six years,” the General tilted his head quizzically to the side to look at the Captain’s face. “You are not the type to take a girl. Sure, all the men have taken girls for themselves, they have needs you know, I do not fault them for that.”

He looked down. 

“But you have seemed, over the years, to be quite, how shall I put it, well you look at the men with a bit of disdain? Though that would be a bit hypocritical, would it not, I know you’ve visited brothels here and there, I do understand that even you, the most stoic and controlled of soldiers must also give into your basest needs at some point..” 

He said nothing. 

“Oh now, surely I do not judge you, you are the best after all, you’re my favorite, you’ve won countless battles for me!” the General let out a nervous chuckle. “So it makes me wonder, who is this girl that you’ve suddenly decided to claim? Where did you find her? Where is she, may I see her?”

No, he answered definitively in his head. 

“She is being looked after by Inah,” he answered carefully after a moment. “She will be a serving girl in the compound, she will work in the kitchen and clean.” 

The General pondered this silently, much to the Captain’s dismay - he’d hoped he would not be questioned further on this. 

“So you mean to say..” the General began slowly, raising an eyebrow. “That this girl is free to serve whomever here?” 

The Captain stood abruptly. “Sir, as you said, I have done much for your,” he caught himself. “Our cause. I don’t yet have plans for this girl, but I do intend for her to earn her keep. As to whom she serves, I would greatly appreciate it if you and the other captains would remember that she belongs to me.” 

The General stared in incredulity at the Captain for a few moments, but the corners of his mouth soon lifted and he broke into boisterous laughter. “Oh Taehyung, my boy, look how serious you’ve suddenly become!” he stood, laughing and making his way over to the Captain. He put his hands around his shoulders once again, “Of course, she belongs to you, you found her, who else should we have her serve? Oh come now, you must be exhausted after this week, get some good rest. Though, if what I hear of this girl is true, you may yet have more physical exertion ahead of you tonight,” he chuckled. 

The Captain felt his hand close into the fist. It took all of his concentration and effort not to hit the General’s face, puffy and red from years of overindulging in liquor and food and tobacco. He composed himself, giving a low bow to the General as he turned and walked out into the hall. The Captain quickly closed the door behind him and took a deep breath in to calm himself. 

Slowly, he moved to the door on the opposite end of the room, peering quietly over the opening. Past the small dining table, he could see you, huddled back against the wall beside the cot. You sat on the floor, your knees pulled in tightly to your body, your head leaned to the side against the stone wall. The light emanating from the fire allowed him to see your face, your expression - that it had not changed since he left you a few moments ago. Your eyes held resignation, a numbing coldness. 

The Captain moved slowly back to his desk and took a seat in the leather armchair beside it. He reached out for the map that laid on the top of his desk and looked at the large red circles and arrows on it. In the far bottom-most corner of the map he brushed his fingertips past a small town by the ocean. It’d been untouched by the war, thousands of miles away from the fire and famine. He thought about what he would do next. 

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (8) || atz

“Shit.”

It takes you a few seconds to register the words leaving Seonghwa’s mouth, but before you can even think about what you should do, the pair spring into action.

Yeosang downs his captain’s noodles in a single gulp, tosses the bowl aside and grabs you by the forearm, hauling you up the stairs the main deck, Seonghwa’s footsteps thundering behind you.

The god awful sound of the bell is still ringing in your ears, but it’s nothing compared to the chaos of the main deck. Pirates sprint back and forth, powder monkeys dashing to and fro carrying bags of gunpowder. You watch as the pirates at the gunwales move like the cogs of a well oiled machine, cleaning the long barrels of the cannons with a dry rammer, before charging them with bags of gunpowder. Other pirates start arming themselves with weapons and donning armour, putting out the torches on the main deck and plunging the entire ship into darkness.

But you already see it.

It must have slipped here, under the cover of night, a massive three masted frigate that almost towers above the Treasure. With snowy white sails and the royal emblem of the Crown, a single red rose, painted on its main sail, there is no doubt to you what this is.

A Royal Navy ship.

You turn to Seonghwa in horror, but you can barely make out his face in the pitch darkness, the only light coming from the half moon in the sky. Yeosang’s hand is still gripping yours tight, but otherwise from that, he is merely a dark shape silhouetted against the night.

Terror almost consumes you whole.

“Hyung, what do I-” You try to ask Yeosang, but the navigator shushes you urgently, pressing his lips against your ear. You can feel his heart pounding against your arm as he whispers to you in sharp, calm tone.

“Don’t make a sound. When it starts, I want you to run for the sickbay. San won’t be there, but don’t worry about him, he’s just getting to the wounded. Bolt the door and don’t open it till San comes back for you. If the enemy breaks down the door, don’t fight back. You don’t have the experience yet.”

You nod, your breaths coming out in near hysterical pants. The Royal Navy is here. They’re armed with cannons. They’re going to kill you, and probably destroy the whole ship too. They’ve already hit the ship. By now, water must be pouring into the bilge and in a matter of minutes the ship is going to sink-

Seonghwa envelops you in a tight hug.

“Don’t worry.” His voice is comforting, soft and gentle in contrast to the way your mind is screaming at you to escape somehow, to bolt before the Navy can fire the next cannon. You want to ask him how on earth he wants you to not worry, but then he strokes you on the head like he does after your cooking lessons for a job well done and the screaming in your mind fades to white noise. “We have Hongjoong’s blessing on our side. Trust us.”

You try to say something, but it comes out as a choked whimper. Your hands are trembling, but Yeosang squeezes them gently. You clear your throat and try again.

“What about the two of you?” You manage against the dry sobs. “What are you going to-”

“Fire!” Mingi’s voice rings out across the silence of the night.

This time, you almost forget to clap your hands over your ears again and all at once, a series of cracks threaten to split your eardrums and from the right the sound of wood splintering like twigs rings across the sea, acrid smoke filling your lungs. Coughing furiously, you barely hear Yeosang shouting for you to run over the screams of agony from the enemy ship which you realize is already a looming shape in front of you, his hand ripping apart from yours.

You try to reach for him, but he’s gone.

You’re completely alone.

“Starboard battery, fire!”

The entire ship rocks to one side as the iron projectiles smash into the side of the Treasure. There’s the sound of wood smashing, the cries of the wounded filling the air, and the smell of gunpowder forcing violent coughs from your lungs and your eyes to water. You stumble forward almost blindly with your hands in front of you, feeling the deck of the ship pitching and rolling violently beneath your feet as you rush to the sickbay.

You’re almost there when disaster strikes.

All of a sudden, the ship heels to the left and your fingers slip from the latch, you’re thrown violently across the deck only to smash into the barrels kept at the port side of the ship.

Something whistles above your head and by some form of sheer dumb luck you dive to the ground, rolling to the side as the barrels you have been crouching behind burst into splinters. Your hands instinctively fly up to protect your face, but the flying wood chips tear into the material of your shirt and graze your skin.

You can’t help yourself from looking back at the wreckage. There are two iron balls, connected by a thick chain lying amidst destroyed barrels and some shredded rope. Your heart pounds like you’ve just run thousands of miles. You can only gulp at what would have happened if you had been a fraction too slow.

“Hold tight, they’re about to hit us!” You hear Mingi scream over the chaos and you turn to stare at the rapidly approaching ship in horror. Then the quartermaster’s words finally register in your head and you’re diving for one of ropes of the mizzen mast’s rigging before you can even think about what you’re doing.

And not a second too late, because the moment your hands clamp around the rope in a vice grip, there is a grating sound of wood against wood that makes your very bones shudder, the entire ship groaning as the Royal Navy ship pulls up along the starboard. You’re thrown literally head over heels by the insane force, rolling over the ground of the main deck. For a moment, you’re straining against the rope as your fingers desperately try to hold on.

There’s screaming all around you, and then the ship tilts back the same way it came from, back towards the starboard, and you’re sent tumbling back across the deck once more like a limp rag doll. Every inch of your body shrieks in protest at the repeated battering and bruising, but then the rope lengthens and you find yourself very nearly thrown over the gunwales of the ship.

Then you scream. Very loudly. Because the upper half of your body is dangling over the bulwarks and your grip on the rope is slipping.

Beneath you is the inky black, bottomless expanse of the ocean. Once you fall in, it will consume you like it has so many others, slowly depriving you of the air you breathe until you finally give up, sinking to the bottom of the seabed where crabs climb over your dead and bloated corpse and pick at your lifeless eyes.

Then you see the crew of the Royal Navy ship on small skiffs and boats, armed to the teeth with muskets and sabers and grappling hooks.

One of them spots you and raises his gun.

Your heart drops in your chest as he prepares to fire.

Someone’s hand grabs you by the back of your collar and roughly yanks you back onto the deck as the wooden railing in front of you splinters from the musket ball, right where your head had been.

You turn to stare at your savior in wide eyed horror, your breaths coming out in ragged pants as you desperately try to recover from your near death experience. To your shock, it’s the younger battlemaster from earlier this day, Jongho, primed musket in hand. He gives you a questioning look and raises the firearm to point right in your face.

“Wait-” You panic but then he shoots to the left of your head, and you whip around to see a Navy officer who had been climbing over the bulwarks fall backwards with a bullet in his head. The maknae curses and draws his cutlass, shearing through the grappling hook and you hear the scream of another officer who had been climbing the rope as he plunges into the sea, never to be seen again.

“What are you doing here?” He snaps at you, as he primes his musket again, eyes locked on the enemy ship looming behind you. There’s another round of booming cannon fire and you almost shriek in alarm once more, getting ready to dive to the ground, but then you hear the screams of agony from the crew on the deck of the enemy ship.

“Grapeshot.” Jongho mutters under his breath as he holsters his musket in his belt, eyes scanning the complete mayhem around you. You don’t know what the word means. “Good job, Wooyoung-ssi.” Then he turns back to you, a hard glare on his face.

“Shouldn’t you be in the sickbay or something? How did you end up at the main mast?”

Main mast?

You glance around in shock. In the confusion and pandemonium, you’ve somehow ended up further from the sickbay than where you started. You open your mouth to reply, but your words are cut off by screaming from the stern area.

“They’ve boarded us!”

Jongho spits out another curse, grabbing a knife from his belt and sending it flying at an officer that had been aiming his rifle at you in one smooth motion. Your hands fly to your mouth and you watch with wide eyes as blood spurts from his neck, his knees buckling beneath him and his body falling to the ground with a soft thump.

You force the bile in your throat down at the sight.

The young battlemaster glances between you and the stern, where the fighting is taking place. More and more Navy soldiers have started to board and they’ve organised themselves into a wedge formation, defending the grappling hooks so more of their fellows can join them.

Grinding his teeth, he turns to the bow, only to watch the fabric of the top mainsail get shredded by a bar shot and the resulting splinters fly everywhere, showering the deck in a deadly hail. Nowhere is safe, especially not for a tiny slip of a thing like you.

Then he makes up his mind and shoves a musket into your hands. “Here.” Drawing the dagger that Yunho had given you that morning from your belt and thrusting it at you, he grabs you by the hand and yanks you forward by the wrist towards the stern. “Stay behind me and don’t get in the way.”

You open your mouth to question what exactly he intends for you to do with the musket, since you have no idea how to use it, but then the two of you are in the thick of fighting and you don’t have the brain capacity to form words anymore.

Jongho keeps one hand around your wrist as he pulls you forward through pandemonium of the main deck. Swords flash from every direction and the air is sour with smoke from the gunpowder. For a moment, you wonder if you’re going deaf from the repeated pounding of cannon shot.

Suddenly, a Navy soldier looms out of the darkness in front of you, blade drawn. You barely have time to scream and duck before Jongho jerks you to the side by the arm, his own cutlass curving down in a deadly arc, splitting the man from shoulder to hip. Your eyes and mouth close on reflex as still warm blood splatters across your face and front, but you have no time to panic as Jongho continues moving aft once more. The coppery tang of blood fills your mouth and you wipe the blood from your face, only to nearly gouge your own eyes out with the dagger you’re holding as the Treasure suddenly heels, the bow turning away from the enemy ship.

You spit the blood from your mouth.

“What’s going on-”

“Hongjoong-hyung’s trying to move away from the enemy ship so we can fire explosives instead of resorting to hand to hand combat.” Jongho grunts, flicking the blood from his sword. “I need to get you to the sickbay before I help the crew out, so get moving.”

The threatening tone in his voice kind of terrifies you.

The two of you continue your mad dash, ducking beneath swinging axes and gunfire. It reminds you of your run from the harbor, except this time the ground is rocking back and forth under your feet. And if you thought Jongho was talented, you had obviously never seen talent before, because the young battlemaster fights like an actual demon.

Somehow, with one arm on you, he still mows through the soldiers like a battering ram, scattering enemy left and right. His cutlass dances a deadly tango, flickering like a snake’s tongue, darting in and striking through his opponent’s guard. You’re left in awe of his skill, but he doesn’t really give you much time to appreciate it

.After what seems like an eternity later, you finally reach the stern. Huffing from the exertion, your fingers fumble with doorknob and to your immense relief, the door swings open. For a moment, you panic when you see that San isn’t there, but then the ship suddenly lurches to the side once more and you’re thrown against the door frame violently.

Your fingers slip over the trigger and the deafening sound of a musket shot echoes in your ears.

Your head whips backwards in horror, only to find the lead shot embedded in the chest of a Navy soldier who’d been engaged in a fight with Jongho. The man crumples to the ground, a pool of red spreading beneath his body, but then you see the blood seeping from Jongho’s shoulder where your bullet has grazed him.

The maknae turns to give you a deadly stare.

“I’m so sorry.” You gulp, honestly starting to fear for your life.

“You troublesome-” Jongho begins, but you never get to hear what he was saying as Mingi’s shout tears through the bedlam on board. “We’re pulling away! Clear the deck! Starboard battery, switch to explosives!”

When you glance back at the starboard, the Royal Navy ship has indeed gotten further, much to the relief sagging in your chest. Captain must have managed to outrun the enemy.

You see Yunho rally a team of pirates and they bear down on the soldiers in a pincer formation, forcing them overboard. Other officers, seeing their advantage rapidly being lost, throw themselves over the side rather than face the tall warrior in a berserker’s rage.

“Starboard battery, fire!”

The deck of the Royal Navy ship is bombarded with shot that burst into flames the moment they make contact with the wood. But a single cannon ball slams into the hull right above the waterline, punching a hole in the side of the ship.

Your mouth falls open. That’s where the storage hold of the ship is, where the stocks of gunpowder are kept.

Then the ship is engulfed in flame, a mass of burning wreckage in the distance as the Treasure pulls away, leaving the sinking ship and its dying crew in its wake.

[autolovecraft]

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch.

His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. The tower at length finished, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age.

Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not care to imagine. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform.

The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. I live.

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Armington helped Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door.

Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

Birch? What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb.

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he vaguely wished it would stop. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. I live. I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. Being without superstition, he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar.

[aitarose]

A HUNDRED LIVES (H. IWAIZUMI) pairing: iwaizumi hajime x fem!reader

synopsis: only real relationships stand the test of time, some fair better than others—but in the end, all that truly matters is telling them you love them. all that mattered was how hajime would finally confess.

word count: 2.2k

genre: childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, slight angst, mutual pining

warnings: mentions of death

notes: i hated the way this was and i’ve had it finished for like a week and a half but now it’s in second person because i rewrote the whole thing ok aha enjoy! reblogs are very much appreciated like pls tell me what you think about this i kind of love it?? or do i? idk

↳ DIRECTORY

You knew that congratulations were in order, one for not only you, but the entire third year class of Aoba Johsai. The third year class that you’d grown up with, the people that’d graduated together from their high school duties. The very people that you’d grown up with, known for years on years, were moving on from Miyagi and saying their goodbyes.

It was saddening, knowing that you’d all have to leave your past behind, grow up and move on as an individual. You, yourself, hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that you’d be moving to Tokyo—the city of stars and big dreams. There was something solemn about the thought—beginning a life on your own, away from the friends and family you’d grown used to seeing every day.

Which was why today was all the more important, why it mattered so much in the hole of your mind. It was one final hurrah, one final farewell to all of the fleeting people you’d come to love. All of the classmates from first period, advisors who’d suggested career paths, family friends and relatives that’d seen you grow up—and him.

Iwaizumi Hajime.

As children, you and Iwa had been as close as you could possibly be—spending nearly every day with one another as you were next-door neighbors, only separated by a thin wooden fence. One that was commonly crossed, as it was impossible to stay away from his energy—he’d been your first friend, first crush, the very first boy you’d ever daydreamed about while the sun was awake. 

Perhaps it’d been his smile, the joy on his face as he’d swing you back and forth on the playground. How he’d try his best to teach you how to set and spike, lecturing Oikawa as he’d complain about how you were never going to be good at the sport, and ignoring his best friend’s claims of a secret little crush on his favorite girl.

And though those times had been fun and all, the moments in which you’d meet each other between the dividing fences of your backyards during the evening hours, Oikawa long gone—and run off to the countryside to play in the old and sturdy tree house that your father had built the two of you, had always been amongst your favorite memories.

They were the memories that were always on the back of your mind, itching to be recalled, reenacted—the longing you had for him never truly going away even as you grew apart as time went on. That part of your brain, the part that might’ve loved him only taunted you—taunted you with the brokenness of the bond you thought would always last.

Your greatest wish was that you would’ve been able to keep in close contact throughout the late middle and high school years—but life had come in the way, life had ruptured your attachment to him—the responsibility of upholding your family after the death of your father had surpassed your need for Iwa, creating an abyss with no bridge to cross.

No bridge except a tiny, frail wooden beam that would only be stepped on in the times where Iwaizumi and his boasting best friend would stop at his house to hang out when after-school practice had ended. While it was rare that his path would cross yours, there were some sparing moments in which you’d miraculously be outside to greet them. 

It wasn’t like you and Iwa weren’t friends anymore, it was just that you’d each let the void amass for so long that there was nothing you really had in common—nothing except the bright pink flush on the both of your faces as Oikawa would poke fun at his ace’s face, causing Iwa to drag him into his house with a stoney and angered expression. 

And that was it. That was the only interaction you’d ever have, the only time you’d speak to the boy you thought you loved.

Which was why you weren’t all that surprised when he hadn’t decided to show up to your graduation party despite the handwritten letter you’d dropped off on his doorstep. His absence was deafening, making it all the more difficult to say your goodbyes as the person you wanted to see most, didn’t care enough to bid a farewell.

So, you’d decided to take matters into your own hands and somehow move on from the lost dreams that you’d once shared with Iwaizumi. The only reasonable way being to let go of that broken connection, the connection that had started with your little hideaway—the hideaway amongst the trees that you’d found yourself climbing up now. 

The calloused wood of the ladder splintered beneath your hands, scratching the taut skin, sanding its softness—no doubt blistering it to oblivion. You winced, curses flowing under your breath as you hesitantly reached the top, not exactly knowing what to expect as the treehouse had seemingly been abandoned for years.

Pushing your nerves aside, you crawled into the tiny space, forgetting how much younger and smaller you’d been the last time you’d sat in the little alcove. Looking up, your eyes grazed over the clean walls of the hideout, free from overgrown plants and cobwebs and dusted to near perfection—there wasn’t a single thing out of place.

It was surprising, the sight of your childhood playhouse having been taken care of after you’d assumed it had been forgotten—after you’d forgotten. Someone had to have been maintaining its structure, keeping it tidy and homey—that someone being the boy sitting directly across from you, scaring you half to death as his irises grew wide in shock.

“What the—” You started, tripping over your own feet as you fell backwards towards the opening of the doorway. A small scream grew on your lips as you began to free fall, nearly out into the open air before Iwaizumi reached out—catching your wrist in his, reminding you of the times when this was a common occurrence—when he’d never fail to keep you on your feet.

“You alright?” He breathed out, large hand gripping your wrist, continuing to hold on even though you were standing between his arms. It was comforting, the feeling of being so close to him, back in the presence of the boy who’d you’d lost oh-so-long ago—the boy you’d been hoping to see at some point before you had to leave for university. “I see you’re still a bit clumsy.”

Rolling your eyes and stepping away from his familiarity, you crossed your arms, one resting over the other, clear confusion in your eyes. “And I see that you’re still attached to this little shack.” There was a hint of humor in your tone, laughter being vocalized, but pain within its context. “It looks amazing, though—for how long it’s been.”

Iwa scoffed, shaking his head as he bit his lip—mouth itching to say something, then refusing to do so. Perhaps it’d been a snarky remark, or maybe one of sadness, whatever it’d been was lost, now a mystery to your ears. Instead, he patted the stray couch cushion next to him, offering you a seat—the seat that had used to be yours.

You sat in silence, together yet apart as the sun was setting over the far away fields. With every second, every sun ray splitting off and being reborn in moonlight, you could feel your adolescence slipping away—the thought of being dependent and a child losing meaning, losing importance, losing validity and need.

Thoughts running wild, chaos in your mind, the only constant being fear and anxiety in retrospect to the unknown that was your future—your future miles and miles away from everything that you’d come to love. Noticing the stress in your stature, Iwaizumi took a deep breath—wanting to hold your hand, but stopping himself before he could try.

“It hasn’t been that long, you know.” He said softly, glancing over at you. A little smile grew on his face at the furrow in your eyebrows, the slight upturn of your lips, and scrunched nose. If there was any beauty in the world, any beauty at all—Iwa believed that you were gifted with all of it. “I used to come here every night.”

“Yeah, Hajime—I know.” You responded, scoffing as you called him by his first name, the only name you’d ever known him by. “We both did, I was here too—” In the midst of your smart-assed response, he shook his head. There was something about his posture, energy, that made you stop in your tracks—it was one of his little ticks, one of the things that you’d never failed to remember. 

“But that’s just the thing—you weren’t here.” He mumbled, tapping the top of his knee with a finger as he leant back against the wooden walls, a reminiscent look in his eyes. “I’ve always been here, Y/N—always kept this place perfect for you, on the off chance that you’d come back. On the off chance that we’d keep our promises and not forget about each other.”

There was a sense of solemnness to the words spouting from his mouth, the truth that she had in fact left him behind—all with reason that he undoubtedly understood—but that didn’t make up for the lost years and memories that they could’ve had had she not been so distracted with the troubles of life and reliability.

“This is going to sound ridiculous since you’re leaving soon—” Iwa mumbled under his breath, internally cursing at himself at the horrible placement of his timing. “—but I’m not going to lie, Y/N. I really did think we’d end up together, somehow. When I proposed to you in that corner over there with that grass ring, I meant it. I meant every word.”

“Even if that ring had fallen apart two seconds after I tried to slip it on you.” A laugh bubbled from your throat, recalling the memory from when you were children—how he’d given you a kiss on the cheek along with getting down on one knee. The two of you had had a makeshift wedding after that, gathering all of your stuffed animals and placing plastic chairs beneath the tree—saying your vows with your parents in attendance, watching fondly at the pure sight.

Biting your lip, you turned to face him and his gaze that had already been intent on seeing you. There was a ghost of a grin on his features, wistful wonder in his irises, his hair messy and sticking in every direction due to the static—yet he was still the most handsome boy you’d ever seen. “I’m sorry.” You placed a hand on his, stopping the fidgeting nerves in his lap, and calming the rushing blood in his veins. 

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting for so long.” Wincing at the thought of your carelessness, the complete disregard you’d kept for his feelings along with your own. You’d had no intent on leaving Iwa behind, you’d just been so caught up with your own problems that he’d gotten lost in the mix of it all. “I must be a pretty shitty wife.”

Iwa laughed loudly, head dropping back at your remark. The moment was filled with deja vu, reigniting all of the feelings and love you’d buried under the hauntings of your mind. He always seemed to manage to make that broken part of you feel whole again, with his directed remarks and little jokes. “You’re not wrong, left me all alone after the altar—that doesn’t exactly scream ‘perfect wife’ material.”

Those words seemed to trigger something in him, a feeling that he hadn’t yet overcome as his expression turned stoney. Placing his empty palm above yours, hands stacked atop one another in a tower, Iwa grimaced, choosing his next set of sentences very wisely—knowing full well that they could make or break whatever chances he had with you.

“It’s alright though.” He whispered, his warmth heating the radiating coldness that was you. “Since I’d rather live a hundred lives of loneliness, then see you suffer even a minute of sadness.”

With his emotions bare, confessions out on the table, the things he said were more meaningful than those three little words themselves—you couldn’t help but feel your heart grow. The love you held for him overcompensating for every mistake and pain that you must’ve caused him—the only goal listed in your head being to make the rest of your time count, make the rest of your lives worth something together.

Leaning forward, ignoring the look of surprise on Iwa’s face as your nose touched his, you smiled through the outflowing sentences—outflowing thoughts that were spouting out like raindrops in a thunderstorm. “Sounds like you might be living a pretty lonely life, then.” 

He chuckled, calloused hands cupping your cheeks as he pulled you in, pressing a soft and long-overdue kiss to your awaiting lips. It was euphoria, the absolute bliss that was being with him, the boy of your dreams. It was a kiss that you’d spent countless nights thinking over, countless fleeting wishes of him holding you exactly as he was now. 

While your future had always been uncertain, there was at least one constant—a constant that would hopefully always be right within your grasp, right within your arms to hold on to, listen to, love wholeheartedly. Iwaizumi Hajime was it for you, he was the endgame that you’d always been searching for.

© aitarose.tumblr 2021. do not copy or claim my writing, works, themes, copy and paste my words, or headers as your own

[kaekiro]

The Taste of Rainwater

Pairing: Eren/Mikasa II Rating: T II Words: 2654 II [AO3] Warnings: none A/N: Because ngl I was disappointed with the short story about EM taking shelter from the rain and also because I like writing first kisses/eren looking out for mikasa 😊

At first, she mistook the droplet that slid from her bangs to her cheek as her own sweat. She felt it run down to her jawline and watched it seep into the clearing of dirt at her boots, thinking nothing of it as she adjusted her grip on the wooden ax and swung it with precision. A slight sting at her palm made her pause to look at it, and she sighed, the red and irritated skin of her upper palm tender as she flexed her hand. Blisters would form if she didn’t stop soon. After setting the newly split logs onto the sizable pile she had going, she lifted a forearm and wiped away remnants of the droplet. As she stood to her full height to relax her arms and back, the pent up tension released and dissipated like steam, leaving behind the beginnings of sore muscles. It was relieving to feel the breeze in her hair, how it rustled the looser parts of her clothing and cooled her skin. But it suddenly got colder, stronger, carrying thicker droplets that splashed directly on the tip of her nose and exposed forearms. The tree branches swayed sporadically, warning her of the kind of storm that was coming but the distinct scent and sounds of thunder rumbling in the air were confirmation enough. She tried to move fast to gather a good amount of logs to keep dry for later, yet it was of little avail. Before she knew it, she was running through the rain with the ax in one hand and a pitiful number of logs clutched at her side. Though it would’ve been ideal to go inside the cabin where the wood was needed, the icy water that was beginning to soak her hair and seep through her clothes forced her to temporarily shelter in the stables housing the few horses they had. 

She had huffed out an irritable breath the moment she stepped beneath the old roof of the stables, both at her small dilemma and at the mix of dirt and rain that left a burning sensation in her eye. She promptly dropped the wood on the ground, trying to blink away the feeling when his voice nearly made her jump. 

She looked over her shoulder, relaxing as she recognized him and said his name in greeting. He stepped forward and pulled down the cloth covering the bottom half of his face, abandoning his broom alongside the pitchfork leaning against a splintered stud. Eren eyed the ax in her hand, then the logs at her feet as he removed his gloves and haphazardly pocketed them, meeting her gaze again when he was an arm’s length away and she turned to face him properly. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I just… got caught in the heavy rain. I meant to go inside but…” 

She falters as the burning sensation at her eye persists, making her close it tight in a feeble attempt to get rid of it. She raises a hand, intending on using the back of her bandaged wrist to rub at it but he stops her before she can, using his grip to lower her wrist back at her side. 

“Your bandages and hands have dirt, don’t rub at your eye.”

“But—”

“Here, I’ll help you.” His clothes rustle, and he produces what looks like a handkerchief. 

“Try to keep still,” he quietly instructs, and though his voice is low, would have otherwise been inaudible beneath the sound of the pouring rain, she seizes up in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else. He curls his fingers over her shoulder as a way to keep her steady, and through the thin cloth pressing against her face, she feels the paralyzing heat of his hand. Reflexively, she tenses as the cotton carefully swipes over the inner corner and just beneath her lash line, drying her watering eye as gently as possible until it finally soothed. She blinks a few times, relieved until she realizes how close he has leaned in, his bright eyes focused on hers. Involuntarily, her gaze flickers between his eyes and mouth.

“Better?” 

She swallows around the dryness in her throat, opting to stare down at the laces of his shirt and simply nod against the hand at her face, murmuring her thanks.  Seemingly unaware of the effect his proximity has on her, she feels him give a nod of his own. As Eren takes a step back, the bit of warmth she felt moves away with him and leaves her unable to help the slight shiver that goes through her body. 

“Are you also working alone today?” she asks as casually as she can manage, walking towards a stream of rainwater leaking through the roof to clean some of the dirt from her hands. The cold temperature of it hurts, but she bears with it, eventually moving back to her original spot near Eren when she’s done. Her arms cross and she loosely grips her biceps, rubbing them to try and keep warm. Both of them watch the rain come down. 

“I had Connie here with me. But he left a little while ago to grab other tools we needed to take care of the horses… he’s probably waiting out this downpour somewhere nearby.” 

“Oh,” is all she says, half distracted by the messy pile of logs. A lone log sits at her side and she nudges it back towards the rest with the tip of her boot. His snort startles her a bit, and he nods towards the wood when she gives him a questioning look. 

“I’m surprised. Is that all you were able to chop today?” 

She sighs. “No, I had more. But I couldn’t grab enough of them before it started pouring.” 

He does it again, breathing out a small laugh that she hasn’t heard in some time. He seems to be in a better mood for some reason, and she nearly points it out but quickly decides not to.  She didn’t want to make it seem like it was a strange thing to smile and laugh, or make him self-conscious about it. It felt better to just simply witness him act a bit more like he used to.

“I’m not trying to make fun of you, I just can’t believe that Mikasa Ackerman, one of humanity's strongest soldiers, lost a battle to some rain and logs.” 

She hums, amused. “Yeah… I barely made it out alive.” There’s a sense of accomplishment as her remark makes his grin broaden, but it falters completely when a flash of lightning draws their attention back to the storm outside. A gust of wind blows through the stables, causing the old structure to creak at its weakest points. Her eyes screw shut and she hugs herself tighter, fighting off the chill that worsens with her wet clothes. She breathes out shakily once it passes, focusing so much of her attention on trying to still her shivering hands that she doesn’t notice him taking off his hooded sweater. The long black material is wrapped securely around her shoulders and she touches it, looking up at him curiously. He scratches the back of his head. 

“I didn’t realize that you were cold until just now, sorry.” 

She smiles softly, choosing not to pose a question at the kind gesture. Instead, she shakes her head, pushing her arms through the sleeves and tugging the ends of his sweater tighter around her. “Thank you.” 

They lean on opposite sides of a post supporting the aged structure, one that stands just before the opening of the stables, and they talk. They share a few stories of things that happened while the other wasn’t present, talk of upcoming plans for the scouts, stuff they and Armin should do on their days off, make mentions of little unimportant things in between, and to her pleasant surprise, Eren cracks another small joke. They chuckle, and she decides that the sudden storm wasn’t a misfortune after all. She steps over to his side to respond once they quiet down, yet the sight of him struck something within her. This time, there’s nothing to keep him from smiling, and she knows it's completely genuine in the way it softens and lifts his features. The mere fact of it has her own smile widening. She stares at his smile adoringly, stares and wishes she could see it more often until she closes her eyes and notes how sweet it feels against her own lips. The sensation lasts for half a second though, because his initial reaction quickly alerts her of her mistake. His breath stutters and his body goes stiff at her sudden romantic gesture, causing her to drop the hand gripping the front of his shirt. She doesn’t even remember reaching for it. Their lips part and she blushes intensely at the sound. 

They look at one another with wide eyes, her fingers partially covering her mouth in shock. 

“U-um,” she begins clumsily, unsure of what exactly she intends to say or how to explain herself. Should she apologize? Why did she even do that? While she did feel more at ease and comfortable with him at that moment… that’s how she usually was when they spent time together. What was different this time that made it feel so natural to kiss him the way she did? And what was he thinking? Could it be that he was upset at her? 

“I don’t…” she says slowly, shrinking under his gaze. “I don’t know why I did that…” 

His lack of response is anything but reassuring, gives her all the more reason to leave with her pitiful pile of logs. Ashamed, she averts her eyes and takes a step backward, thinking it best to give him space and talk about it later, if he even wanted to see her later after what she just did. But he is quick to stop her by hooking his fingers into the hood just before she moves out of his reach, coaxing her to look at him by tugging on the crook of her elbow when she keeps her back to him. Hyper aware of the single touch between them, the firmness of his grip, she lifts her eyes from the ground and looks over her shoulder. 

“Did you mean it?” 

They do not react to the clap of thunder that begins to agitate the horses, or to the chilled gust of wind that threatens the old structure of the stables once more. She is uncomfortably warm as they simply stare at one another, and her heart beats louder in her ears when she finds that she cannot decipher his expression. He begins to pull, guiding her closer and, being as flighty as she is, she resists. He recoils slightly, hurt glinting in his eyes as he releases her arm. Through her addled thoughts, she realizes that she accidentally conveyed the wrong message. She mentally curses, feeling guiltier and looking even more helpless. His question echoes in her ears again. Yes, she thinks, yes I did mean it. But there is a disconnect between what she wants to say and what she actually does, which has her panicking a bit because she senses that something is beginning to slip away the longer she stays quiet. It’s enough to make her momentarily cast aside any reservations and the need for words, to boldly step out of her comfort zone and back into his personal space. Balancing on her toes, she pushes her lips against his, unmindful of her fierceness in her state of desperation and panic. She gives him a hard and rather quick kiss, immediately pulling back to gauge his reaction and perhaps apologize, but she doesn’t get the chance because his hands are suddenly hot on her face and bringing her back to back to him. 

Bit by bit, the tension within her unravels and she starts to relax, consciously leaning more into his touch and body. Eren thumbs away the trail of rainwater that dripped from her bangs to her face, pausing to comment how cold her nose and hands are before muffling her apology with his lips. He holds each kiss for a long second like he’s savoring them, eventually moving to trail his hands down the column of her neck and across her back. He clutches the dark material of his sweater and breathes shakily against her mouth when she fills the last bit of space between them. As they strike a rhythm, the intensity of their kiss increases as does her sensitivity to his touch, an airy sigh of his name escaping from her mindlessly. He grips her harder at the sound and she’s gasping, both in surprise and for breath. It’s almost too much, and yet she can’t help but reciprocate by slipping her fingers beneath the neckline of his shirt and wrapping an arm tight around his shoulders— 

A loud curse cuts through the air, followed by the noise of items falling into one another in equal volume. She and Eren jump apart, breathing heavily as a lone metal bucket that has fallen on its side rolls into the stables, coming to a stop between the two of them. An irritated Connie trudges in soon after with his arms full of miscellaneous tools and one side of his body completely coated in mud, the other drenched with rainwater. 

“Sorry I took so long, Eren, I was going to wait out the worst of the storm but the Captain noticed and —” he yelps and wobbles, nearly tripping over the logs she abandoned on the ground. He wonders aloud where they came from, kicking them in further agitation until his eyes land on her. All three of them freeze. 

“Mikasa?” 

She jolts slightly when he calls her name, mentally scrambling to find something to do or say to take his attention off of her. 

“Connie…” she starts, looking pointedly at his clothes and evening out her breath as subtly as she can. “What happened to you?” 

To her temporary relief, Connie remembers why he was upset and bitterly explains that he was running through the rain trying to come back, but slipped and fell into the puddle of mud just a few feet away. 

“Are you alright?” she responds, briefly wondering why Eren hasn’t spoken up yet. 

“Yeah, I’ll live. I just don’t know why the Captain is in such...” Connie’s grimace from pulling at his own clothes fades as he looks at her, finishing his sentence a bit absently, “a rush...”

She remembers that she’s wearing Eren’s sweater as Connie stares at it directly, and it takes everything to keep her expression neutral as she awkwardly slips it off her shoulders. She holds it out for Eren to take, and her composure nearly breaks at the sight of him. The tips of his ears are burning red, his mind clearly somewhere other than in the present and she has to push the sweater into his chest for him to finally snap out of it. 

“It’s uh, it’s probably because it’s getting late in the afternoon, Connie,” Eren manages after clearing his throat. “He… probably has other plans for us tomorrow, or something.”

Her heart races as their friend doesn’t reply and instead looks between the two of them with a weird expression. 

“I should probably get those logs inside,” she says aloud, more to herself and as an excuse to escape. It’s so uncomfortably silent between the three of them as she prepares to leave, and she struggles to ignore the weight of Eren’s and Connie’s eyes on her when she uncharacteristically fumbles with the logs and ax. Careful to avoid the puddle Connie slipped in, she eventually makes it back to the cabin, well aware that the speed of her breath and pulse has nothing to do with her running through the rain.

[bittykimmy13]

Reward (GT Horror)

This is a Shot in the Dark AU known at the “Dark Future AU”.

Fairies have been exposed to the world. Bounties have been placed on their captures. They’re not going down without a fight.

Shot in the Dark / Dark Future AU belongs to me and the lovely @marydublin5 / @little-miss-maggie (creator of the rad header image) <3

Warning: Blood, violence

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“Haven’t you heard those new reports?” Simon asked, anxiously glancing at the dark trees. “We shouldn’t go after them ourselves. We can just call the number about a sighting. I mean… if you’re really sure you saw one out here.”

“Bullshit,” said Kyle, his older cousin. The two of them took a careful path along the rocky shores of the creek, armed with flashlights and iron cages. “The only way to get paid is if we catch them ourselves. And I know I saw one.”

“But… they’re dangerous. The news says so. With our luck, you spotted a damn fire fairy.”

Kyle scoffed, throwing an unbothered look back at Simon. “They’re like, doll size. Besides, we got iron. They can’t do their magic shit when they’re around iron.”

Simon’s answering silence was not an agreement. Kyle knew him well enough to pick up on that, wheeling around to face him. Simon cringed as the flashlight beam was aimed at his face.

“If we pull this off, you can pay your first semester—” Kyle snapped his fingers. “—just like that. And I’ll be able to put off me and my mom’s eviction long enough to figure something out. Hell, maybe we’ll hit the fucking lotto like that guy in Oregon.”

The guy in question had made nearly 100 grand when he tracked down an entire village of fairies at the bottom of a canyon. $2,000 per fairy. $5,000 if it was a healer.

Still, Simon wasn’t convinced. Their crummy little town and the dolce woodland surrounding it were too boring for anything as exciting as fairies. But Kyle had never been easy to say no to. Especially not now. It’d be like saying that his looming eviction was not worth a night of stumbling around by the creek.

“Fine. We’ll just—” Simon cut off in a choke, squinting past the beam of Kyle’s flashlight. There was another light. A faint purple glow in the trees up ahead. It moved, jerking back as if it knew it had been spotted. “There!” Simon uttered, pointing.

As Kyle turned, the tiny purple glow darted into the trees. Simon was too stunned to move, flinching when Kyle whooped and took off at a sprint for the light.

“Let’s go!”

Snapping into action, Simon followed. It was shockingly easy to get the glow back into view again. He’d heard fairies were supposed to be wickedly fast, but that didn’t seem to be the case. This one didn’t appear to be particularly elusive either, not even attempting to fly very high out of reach. But it seemed to realize its glow was betraying it; the light flickered off.

Kyle shined his flashlight in its direction, and Simon caught sight of a little winged form. It was every tinier than he expected a fairy to be in person. The beam clearly startled it. Flight faltering, it ran into a thick clump of leaves and dropped to the ground faster than Kyle could follow with the light. There was a faint thump on the bed of dead leaves.

Both cousins stopped in their tracks.

“Shit, I didn’t see where it fell,” Kyle huffed, though his eyes already glittered with victory. “I’ll check this side, and you check there. And you watch your fucking step.”

Heart pounding, Simon carefully picked his way closer to the trees. Stooping, he searched the dry leaves with his flashlight. The beam passed over a spot of sky blue that was entirely out of place. He darted the light back to it, and his heart felt like it stopped altogether.

The little figure was shivering, curled up on its side with its face buried in its arms. Its blue hair was in two long braids. The longer he stared, the more he was certain that it was a kid—a little girl who couldn’t be older than seven or eight.

Unable to utter a word, Simon was suddenly concerned about the height of her fall, wondering if she had broken anything. He set aside the iron cage and forgot it entirely, reaching out slowly to the minuscule form cowering among the leaves.

His fingertip brushed her elbow, and he flinched back immediately, feeling like he’d break her from a single touch. She peeked up from her arms with wide eyes. Tears stained her tiny face. He felt like he was trembling as badly as she was. Her gaze lifted higher and higher until she could spot his face. Her jaw dropped in horror as though she was looking at a monster—and he definitely felt like one at the moment.

“U-um,” he said under his breath. “A-are you hurt? No, wait—don’t—” He dropped his hand behind her to stop her from skittering under the cover of the roots.

Her wings bumped against his palm, and she curled into a ball. She shrieked—a sound that sliced through the quiet woods despite her size.

Kyle gasped and was at Simon’s side in an instant, kneeling down.

“Yes!” Kyle crowed.

Simon was too frozen to react as Kyle swept the tiny fairy into one hand, abandoning his iron cage as well. The little girl cried and pleading incoherently, pushing at his fingers with life-or-death desperation. Simon finally snapped out of it when he saw the elated look on Kyle’s face—they couldn’t possibly be looking at the same thing.

“Wait.” Simon clutched Kyle’s shoulder, shaking his head slowly. “We… we can’t. Not her. This—this is wrong.” He could barely force the words out while the little girl’s wails tore at his heart.

“What, you’re gonna puss out on me now, man? I heard bringing in kids is a higher reward. They’re easier to manage.”

Simon gaped, wondering when the guy he had looked up to all his life had become such a vile stranger. “We can’t do this!” he insisted.

“Fine, forget about splitting the cash, then. Just don’t come fucking crawling to me whe—” There was a sharp crackle of splintering wood, and Kyle’s words cut off with a croak.

At first, Simon couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. The nearby roots had… had jumped up like spikes. The tips were not visible because they were buried in between Kyle’s ribs. He stayed knelt there in shock, held up by the roots that punctured him.

A glowing green figure swept in close and snatched the little girl from Kyle’s grasp. She was a full-grown fairy woman. She hugged the child and shushed her while she wept herself. “We t-told you not to wander—we told you!”

Simon’s gaze drifted further until he saw the blue glow of a third fairy—a man holding his hands out in Kyle’s direction. The man closed his fists and jerked his hands back. The roots shot back out of Kyle and receded back into the earth.

“NO!” Simon yelled, dropping to Kyle’s side, clutching his arm desperately. Kyle’s eyes were still wide, glazing over as a growing pool of darkness stained his t-shirt. His mouth moved with unintelligible words. Blood gurgled from his mouth and dripped down his cheeks.

A choked sob rattled through Simon. He looked to the fairies, who were still hovering a short distance away. He was next. He had to be. Without thinking, he lunged for one of the cages. The woman, holding her weeping daughter with one arm, shot her hand out. A sharp gust of wind came from nowhere and thwarted Simon’s attempt to grab his defense. He huddled against Kyle, watching the little figures with cold fear.

A part of him still thought he could get Kyle to a hospital and forget any of this ever happened. If he could convince the fairies to let them go.

“I-I’m sorry,” Simon whimpered, looking between the two adult fairies. “Please… we… we won’t tell anyone. P-please.”

The man, stone-faced, looked at the woman.

The woman laid her cheek on the top of her daughter’s head. The little girl would not stop crying, holding desperately to her mother. The woman’s lips pulled back in a snarl, hatred brimming in her eyes as she regarded Simon.

“I don’t believe you,” she said simply.

She shouted something in a language Simon didn’t understand, throwing her hand out. His next breath never came.

It was as if the air had been scooped from his lungs. He tried to inhale, but his body wouldn’t allow it. He croaked, staying on his knees as his back arched. The edges of his vision began to darken. He clawed at his throat, looking up at the faint starlight glimmering through the branches and leaves. His lungs were on fire, and he couldn’t even scream from the agony.

The darkness spread, crawling closer to the center of his vision until the smallest pinprick of light vanished.