#Silence Equals Violence | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dolcettamagica · 1 month

Text

𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞

gangleader!sukuna x reader, modern au

tags: possessive & obsessive sukuna, choking, lowkey stalking translations: piccola - little one/baby notes: listen to "salvatore" by lana del rey wc: 1.7k

In the dimly lit underbelly of the city, where shadows whispered secrets and alleys told tales of violence, there existed a figure feared and revered in equal measure: Sukuna Ryomen, the enigmatic leader of the most dangerous gang. His name struck terror into the hearts of those who dared oppose him, while his charisma drew countless souls into his fold.

Sukuna was a man who commanded respect without uttering a word. His mere presence exuded power, his icy gaze capable of silencing even the boldest of adversaries. With a network spanning the city's underworld, he held dominion over illicit trades, clandestine operations, and the very pulse of criminal activity.

Yet, amidst the chaos and the conquests, there was one enigma that eluded Sukuna’s grasp: a woman whose allure ignited a fire within him. You, a mysterious beauty with a spirit as untamed as the flames dancing in the night. You moved with a grace that defied the chaos around you, a silent tempest in the midst of the storm.

From the moment Sukuna laid eyes on you, he knew you were unlike any other. You were not bound by the rules of his world, nor swayed by the promises of power and wealth. Instead, you remained an enigmatic force, unyielding and unattainable.

Driven by an insatiable desire, Sukuna sought to possess you, to unravel the mysteries that shrouded your existence. He offered you riches beyond measure, a throne by his side where you could rule the underworld together. Yet, each offer was met with a gentle refusal, as you remained steadfast in your independence.

Frustration festered within Sukuna's heart, a tempest of emotions that threatened to consume him whole. He was a man accustomed to getting what he desired, yet you remained beyond his reach, a tantalizing mirage in the desert of his ambitions.

Despite his best efforts to suppress the yearning that gnawed at his soul, Sukuna found himself inexorably drawn to you, like a moth to the flame. He watched from the shadows as you moved through the city, a silent guardian cloaked in mystery.

In the depths of the night, when the city slumbered and dreams took flight, Sukuna found himself haunted by visions of your captivating gaze. You were the one anomaly in his meticulously crafted world, the one puzzle he could not solve.

And so, amidst the chaos and the conquests, Sukuna Ryomen, a formidable leader, found himself ensnared by the one thing he could not possess: the heart of a woman who danced beyond his reach, a forbidden desire that burned brighter than any flame in the darkness.

In the depths of his lavish office, Sukuna sat with unwavering determination, his gaze fixed on the phone before him. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, a molten rage that threatened to erupt at any moment. With a swift motion, he seized the device, his fingers dancing across the screen with a commanding presence.

"Where are you, piccola?" he typed, each word a declaration of his unwavering dominance. "You cannot hide from me forever. I will find you, and when I do, you will answer to me."

There was no room for hesitation in Sukuna's messages, no trace of the desperation that had once plagued him. Instead, his words dripped with authority, each message a demand for her submission.

"Do not test my patience" he continued, his tone brooking no defiance. "You belong to me, and you will come to me willingly. There is no escape from my grasp."

With each message sent, Sukuna's resolve hardened, his determination driving him forward with unrelenting force. He would not be denied what was rightfully his, not by anyone, especially not by a woman who dared to defy him.

"Tell me where you are," he commanded, "I will not ask again."

But still, there was no response, no sign of surrender. Anger flared within Sukuna's chest, a wildfire of fury that threatened to consume him whole.

"If you think you can hide from me, you are sorely mistaken," his words a warning laced with venom. "I will tear this world apart to find you, and when I do, you will regret ever crossing me, piccola."

With a final message sent, Viktor leaned back in his chair, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. He would not rest until you were in his grasp, until you bowed before him in submission. For in Sukuna Ryomen's world, there was no room for defiance, only dominance and control. And he would have it all, no matter the cost.

As Sukuna's fingers hovered over the screen, poised to send yet another commanding message, the door to his office swung open with a forceful creak. In strode one of his most trusted lieutenants, a figure cloaked in shadows and whispers, bearing news that ignited a spark of hope within Sukuna’s hardened heart.

"Boss," the subordinate – Toji – began, his voice low and deferential, "we've received word. She... she's in Miami."

The words hung heavy in the air, a tantalizing promise of victory amidst the tumultuous storm of Sukuna's emotions. Without a moment's hesitation, he rose from his seat, his movements swift and decisive.

"Prepare the jet," he commanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "We leave immediately."

There was a sense of urgency in Sukuna’s tone, a hunger that burned brighter with each passing second. Miami beckoned like a siren's call, its neon-lit – ruby, blue and green, neon too – streets promising the chance to reclaim what was rightfully his.

As his subordinates scrambled to fulfill his orders, Sukuna's mind raced with thoughts of the woman who had eluded him for far too long. He could almost taste the sweet victory that lay within his grasp, the moment when you would finally bend to his will.

With a steely resolve and a heart set ablaze with determination, Sukuna embarked on his journey to Miami, a man possessed by a singular purpose: to capture the one who dared to defy him and to assert his dominance once and for all.

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting its golden rays upon the pristine sands of the Miami beach. Among the throngs of sun-seekers, Sukuna strode with purpose, his eyes scanning the shoreline with a predatory intensity. And there, amidst the azure waves and the gentle sway of palm trees, he spotted you.

You laid upon the sand, a vision of beauty that stole the breath from Sukuna's lungs. Clad in a bikini that left little to the imagination, you exuded an aura of confidence that only served to fuel his desire. Your bronzed skin glowed beneath the sun's warm embrace, your tousled hair cascading like silk upon the sand.

With measured steps, Sukuna approached, his gaze never wavering from the woman who had haunted his every thought. He stood before you now, a towering figure clad in shadows and sinew, his presence commanding the attention of all who dared to gaze upon him.

"Piccola," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "You cannot hide from me forever."

There was a flicker of defiance in your eyes, a spark that ignited the flames of desire within Sukuna's chest. But he would not be deterred, not by your beauty nor by your resolve. He had come too far, fought too hard, to let you slip through his fingers once again.

"You belong to me," he declared, his words laced with a possessiveness that bordered on obsession. "And now, you will come with me."

But you remained unmoved, your gaze steady as you met his with a defiance that stirred something primal within him. You were a challenge, a tantalizing puzzle that begged to be solved, and Sukuna was more than willing to rise to the occasion.

“I was working on my tan, boss.”

"Working on your tan," he repeated, his voice betraying none of the turmoil raging within him. "In Miami, of all places."

There was a subtle tension in the air, a silent battle of wills as you and Sukuna locked gazes. Your defiance sparked a flicker of admiration within him, even as it fueled the flames of his frustration.

"Indeed," you replied, your tone cool and composed. "Is there a problem with that?"

Sukuna's jaw clenched, a silent testament to the storm of emotions swirling beneath his stoic facade. He had come too far, searched too long, to be met with such casual indifference.

"No problem," he finally replied, his voice a low growl. "But I must insist that you accompany me. We have unfinished business, you and I."

Your lips curved into a sardonic smile, a glimmer of amusement dancing in your eyes. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, boss. I have many businesses, all of them quite finished."

Sukuna's patience wore thin, his frustration bubbling to the surface like molten lava. He had pursued you across oceans and continents, faced down countless adversaries in his quest to claim you as his own. And yet, she remained as elusive as ever, a tantalizing enigma that refused to be solved.

"Enough games, piccola," he snapped, his tone cutting through the air like a knife. "You cannot hide from me forever. Sooner or later, you will bend to my will."

The tension crackled between you like electricity as Sukuna's hand shot out, seizing you by the throat with a force that bordered on violence. His grip was firm, unyielding, a silent declaration of dominance that sent a shiver down your spine.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as you stood locked in a primal embrace, your gazes locked in a fierce battle of wills. But beneath the surface, a different kind of energy simmered—a raw, unbridled desire that pulsed between you like a current of electricity.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as Sukuna's grip tightened, his fingers leaving imprints on your skin like branding marks. And yet, there was no fear in your eyes, only a smoldering heat that mirrored his own.

With a low growl, Sukuna leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear with a tantalizing promise. "You cannot resist me, piccola," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "You were made for me, and you know it."

A shudder ran through your body as you felt the heat of Sukunas breath against your skin, your pulse racing with a heady mixture of fear and excitement. You knew that you were as drawn to him as he was to you—a dangerous truth that sent a thrill coursing through your veins.

“You will always belong to me.”

#𓂃⊹ ִֶָ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna jjk #ryomen sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #jjk sukuna #jujutsu sukuna #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader

872 notes · View notes

libraryofgage · 9 months

Text

Addams Family Steddie AU Part 3

Part One | Part Two

To preface, a bitch is sick rn so if you see any typos, no you didn't lol

"Robin, this is serious."

Steve can perfectly see Robin rolling her eyes through the phone as she says, "Oh, right, I'm so sorry your fiance-to-be is the perfect boyfriend who takes you on wonderful dates and romances you every single second you're together."

"I'm starting to think you're jealous."

"I'd only be jealous if Eddie had tits."

"He'd probably get some if I asked."

In the silence that follows, Steve can imagine Robin's scrunched face: her crinkled nose and curled lips and generally disgusted eyebrow furrow. He counts down from six in his head and then mouths along as Robin says, "I'd hang up if I weren't so invested in your love life."

"For someone so invested, you're not helping."

He hears a put-upon sigh through the speaker and returns it with a sigh of his own. Steve gives up on sitting properly and collapses back onto his bed, staring at the unmoving ceiling fan Hulyet is currently hanging from to nap.

"Fine, fine, what's the actual problem again?" Robin asks, her question followed by the sound of her shutting a book (one of her science textbooks based on the sound it makes when closing) so she can give Steve her full attention.

"Eddie is always planning our dates, and they're always really good, right? So I want to plan a date in return, but I have no clue how to plan something we'll both equally enjoy. In fact, I have no clue how Eddie plans our dates in the first place."

"Just start with something he likes and try to find something you'll like in it."

"Okay, say it again, but pretend I'm five."

Robin sighs again, and Steve hears the creaking of her bed as she collapses onto it. "Okay, the last date he planned, it was a hockey game, right?"

"Yeah."

"So, you like sports. Hockey is an obvious jump from there, but was Eddie also having fun at the game?"

Steve hums, reviewing their date from the week before. He hadn't expected Eddie to pull out hockey tickets, but he'd looked forward to it nonetheless. The game itself was fun, and the rink was cold enough that Steve had been able to scoot closer to Eddie and complain about being chilly.

Of course, Eddie's immediate response was to pull out a lighter, open it, and flick a flame to life while asking, "How big of a fire do you want, Stevie?"

For a brief moment, Steve had considered the question. But then he'd realized a fire would disrupt the hockey game, so they probably shouldn't start one.

After grabbing the lighter and stuffing it into his own pocket, Steve leaned closer and whispered, "Wouldn't you rather put your arm around me?" Eddie had lit up, and his smile was wide enough to make Steve feel blinded as he wrapped an arm around Steve's waist and pulled him closer.

It had been wonderful and romantic, right up until both of them got way too into the game and completely forgot about cuddling in favor of shouting at the players to hit harder and actually draw some blood to get the puck.

Steve smiles a little at the memory. "Yeah, he enjoyed the violence."

"Well, we all enjoy seeing buff people get a little bloody," Robin says, and Steve can see the way she's nodding like a wise man. "Anyway, he probably knew he'd enjoy the whole violence part of the sport. So, follow that formula."

"What formula are you seeing here?"

"Thing fiance-to-be likes plus a small part of it you could probably enjoy equals romance. If that's too hard, just get him a gift and plan the date around that."

Well, it sounds easy when she says it like that. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because I'm the genius here, obviously. Now go plan a date so you can tell me all about it later. And I expect details, Steven. Sordid details. If I'm not quivering in my bodice, what's the fucking point."

"You don't even have a bodice. And my name isn't Steven."

"I'll get one, and your name is whatever's comedically appropriate."

"I found a good website for bodices and corsets, actually. I can send it to you."

"What are you doing on that website, Steve?" Robin asks, her voice light and eager.

Steve smirks, pulling the phone away from his ear and saying, "Wouldn't you like to know," before quickly hanging up. The phone stays silent for three whole seconds before Robin immediately calls back, but Steve is too busy laughing to actually pick up.

Part of why the Munsons moved to Steve's neighborhood is the cemetery within walking distance. The cemetery is at the very back of the neighborhood, hidden from people who don't actually live there. The front of the cemetery is perfectly presentable. The gravestones are clean and new, and flowers decorate most graves while others hold pebbles and stones of various sizes and colors.

The back of the cemetery, however, is a Munson paradise. The grass gives way to brown, under-watered weeds and dirt, the faded gravestones are covered in moss and plants climbing them, and the trees are perpetually leafless and spindly to create the perfect horror movie atmosphere. It was like that even before the Munsons moved to the neighborhood, but Steve doesn't actually know why.

The back of the cemetery is where Steve leads Eddie, occasionally looking back to make sure the blindfold covering Eddie's eyes is still in place. "You know, I was expecting more than walking when you pulled out the blindfold," Eddie says, squeezing Steve's hand.

"We're almost there," Steve promises, looking around them until he spots the picnic blanket and pillows he'd laid down earlier in front of a blank gravestone. There's a small projector on the edge of the blanket, facing the wall of a mausoleum, with a DVD player connected to it.

Steve stops at the edge of the blanket, takes a deep breath, and moves to stand in front of Eddie. "Okay," he says, reaching up and carefully pulling off the blindfold.

When it comes off, Eddie looks straight at Steve, not sparing a glance at the set-up behind him. "Are you the surprise?" he asks, sliding his hands around Steve's hips and pulling him closer.

"I'm not much of a surprise," Steve points out.

"You're the best gift I could ask for," Eddie says, sealing the words with a kiss that would be too easy for Steve to get lost in.

And he almost does, but he pulls away before Eddie's tongue can get too far into his mouth. "No, wait, you haven't seen the actual surprise," he mumbles, putting a few inches between them and gesturing to the picnic blanket.

Eddie's eyes light up, and he pulls Steve to the blanket. He sits against the headstone and tugs Steve down next to him. "Movie date in a graveyard? Very romantic, sweetheart," Eddie says, leaning close and kissing Steve's jaw.

"Well, that's not the whole surprise," Steve replies, leaning his head on Eddie's shoulder. He hears a quiet hum from above him and adds, "This is our spot."

"What? Like a make-out spot? We gonna sneak out in the middle of the night to make out right here twice a week?"

"Only twice?" Steve asks, his voice teasing as he tilts his head back to see Eddie smile. He doesn't give Eddie the chance to answer, though. Instead, he takes Eddie's hand and plays with his engaged-to-be-engaged ring. "I mean, this is our spot. We're leaning on our gravestone."

A few seconds pass before Eddie seems to actually process the words. When he does, he straightens up, tugging Steve away from the gravestone with him so he can see it. "Is this...a couple's plot?" he asks, his eyes wide as he looks from the stone to Steve.

Steve flushes, heat rising in his cheeks as he looks away. He takes a deep breath, deciding to just verbalize his thought process when he'd bought the plot. "I figured, well, we wouldn't want to be apart even in death. So we'll be buried together, you know? Our corpses will be embracing as we rot for eternity, becoming skeletons and dust that will only know each other."

The words are followed by silence, making Steve wonder if he somehow fucked up with his gift. He braces himself and glances up at Eddie to ask if he doesn't like it only to be pushed back on the blanket. Steve blinks, his brain barely catching up as Eddie kisses him. This is, by far, the most desperate kiss Steve has ever received from Eddie. It's a kiss that's practically begging Steve to give Eddie permission to swallow him whole, tuck him securely into the marrow of his bones, and hold him there so they'll never be apart.

Steve is a little confused, but he's far more interested in kissing back, sliding his fingers into Eddie's hair and tugging playfully as he bites Eddie's tongue. A rough growl in response sends shivers down Steve's spine, goosebumps spreading across his arms as Eddie pushes his hands under Steve's shirt.

Surprisingly warm fingers trail across Steve's abdomen before Eddie's hands settle on his hips, his pinkies teasingly pushing past the waistband of his jeans. Steve sighs softly, relaxing at the familiar sensation as he hooks one of his legs over Eddie's waist, pulling him close until their hips and chests are flush against each other.

Eddie grins against Steve's lips, his left hand trailing down Steve's waist to rest on his thigh, holding it in place as he teasingly grinds their hips together. Steve jolts, a surprised, quiet moan escaping him as his hands start to tremble with adrenaline and...well, sheer horniness if he's being honest.

"Please tell me we can fuck on our future grave," Eddie says, his voice low and husky as he speaks against Steve's lips.

Steve groans, fully agreeable to the idea only to realize two very important things. One, he doesn't have any lube, and two, he was actually looking forward to watching movies with Eddie, which wouldn't really happen if they got too distracted. Plus, you know, the whole sex in public thing, but that's not as big of a deal. Who's going to be visiting the cemetery on a Wednesday?

But Steve doesn't want to completely dash Eddie's hopes and the sheer joy in his eyes at the idea, so he presses another kiss to his lips and promises, "Later, Eddie."

Despite his disappointed expression, Eddie doesn't argue. He just sits up, pulling Steve with him so he stays in his lap. "I'll hold you to that, sweetheart," he whispers, kissing down Steve's neck until he reaches the point where it meets his shoulder. He bites down there, causing Steve to inhale sharply as he licks and sucks a hickey onto his skin.

Steve shakily exhales, biting his bottom lip to keep himself grounded. When it feels like Eddie is about to start on another hickey, Steve uses his grip on his hair to pull him back. "Stevie," Eddie breathes, his eyes dark as he looks up at him, "you know what pulling does to me."

Steve snorts, kisses his cheek, and climbs off his lap. "Keep it in your pants for now, babe. I actually want to get to the other part of this date," he says, moving over to the projector.

"And what's that?" Eddie asks.

"Classic monster movies," Steve says, grinning at the excited gasp that comes from Eddie as he turns on the projector. Once it boots up, the mausoleum wall shows the opening menu for a Monster Movie Collection DVD. Steve puts on Frankenstein, making sure the movie actually starts and the opening credits begin rolling before climbing back into Eddie's lap.

"I love you so fucking much," Eddie says, wrapping his arms around Steve's waist and hugging him close as he rests his chin on Steve's shoulder.

Steve grins, leaning back against him and idly playing with one of the rings on Eddie's fingers. "I love you, too. Now shut up and watch the movie. No more making out until at least this one is over."

"Yes, sir."

Steve can't help a soft laugh. He takes Eddie's hand, raises it to his lips, and playfully bites his palm before lacing their fingers together and focusing on the movie.

Tag List: @estrellami-1, @justforthedead89, @starman-jpg, @abstractnaturaldisaster, @sugartin, @ashwagandalf, @xjessicafaithx, If anyone else wants to be tagged in potential future parts, just let me know!

#steddie #steddie fic #addams family steddie #addams! eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #platonic stobin #there's a reference to Addams Family Values in here #whoever notices it please know I love you #also #for anyone who was curious about that lol #this au has consumed me body and soul

1K notes · View notes

urgonnaneedabiggership · 11 months

Text

Host of a Ghost

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara (Spiderman: Across The Spiderverse) x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Language. Spoilers (Miguel's backstory is mentioned). Mild violence. Very, very light mention of a foiled SA (not to reader). Some angst.

Word count: 4.1K

Short A/N: This man has become my hyperfixation since I watched the movie and I'd been wanting to write something with him and today finally the muse came to me do I deliver you this decent-sized thing I wrote. Hope you like it <3

PART II

“Unusual” wasn’t a word you would’ve used to describe your life at all. At least not until about a year ago.

It was unusual to find a spider with such an odd color palette roaming your apartment since you were used to more dull-colored typical critters. It was also unusual that you didn’t panic enough to turn the apartment upside down to look for the thing before it bit you, but there was too much work to do, and a million notes from Dr. Connors to go over. It was equally unusual that you hadn’t rushed to the hospital the minute you noticed the tiny marks on your thigh.

“I mean, if it was really dangerous, it would have hurt more.” Was your reasoning to ignore it and keep scanning the pages before you. Nobody said pursuing a Ph.D. was without sacrifice.

By the time you tried to stand up to make more coffee just to end up collapsing on your kitchen floor, it was much too late.

From then on, “unusual” was pretty much every day’s motto.

Having a nightmare that night about being suffocated and unable to escape just to wake up hanging upside down and wrapped in sticky shit was the first clue. Turns out you were actually able to produce said sticky shit at will in the shape of a thin thread, then you discovered the wall-climbing abilities, and before you knew it you were roaming the city at night trying to get comfortable threading between the tall buildings, running across rooftops and challenging yourself to climb this or that building as fast as you could. You felt indestructible, alive. It was wonderful.

You’d never forget the night of your first save either. For several reasons.

It was an ordinary night, right before returning to your apartment, when a violent shiver abruptly ran up your spine and every cell in your body commanded you to stop. When you did, a scuffle in a nearby alley caught your eye. A young girl was violently shoved against a wall by a man who pressed his hand against her mouth. The same second his hand came dangerously close to the zipper of her jacket, you practically tackled him from above and pinned him against the ground, having no clue of what to do besides throwing punches at his face until you knocked him out. A whimper coming from a dumpster behind made you realize you had an audience.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath, remembering your uncovered face, the only solution at hand is to wrap your scarf around your head to try and hide as much as possible, “Oh god this feels too much like cultural appropriation for my taste,” You kept nervously rambling to yourself as you slowly approached the dumpster.

“Um…hi,” You greeted, “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Being met with nothing but silence, you were about to leave when a soft voice replied.

“No. He didn’t. Thank you so much.”

“Is there…I don’t know; is there somebody you want me to call?”

“I want to call my mom.” She replied, her voice still shaking, “He took my phone.”

“Right. Phone. Okay.” You quickly made your way back to the unconscious man and pawed his clothes looking for it. He let out a groan in protest.

“Yeah it doesn’t feel right, does it asshole?” You muttered as you retrieved it from one of his pockets. Then you shoved him onto his stomach to tie his hands and legs behind his back before returning to the girl.

“Here. It still works,” You just held it over the dumpster, seeing nothing but her pale hand as it reached out to take it before you took a few steps back.

“No, wait,” She immediately pleaded, “Please don’t leave me alone with him.”

“Like hell I am. I’m staying right here.”

So you waited with her until the police arrived. However, the minute you saw the flickering lights and heard the approaching siren, you retreated into the dark part of the alley and climbed onto the nearest building to escape through the rooftops.

It wasn’t until you were back in your apartment that you realized you’d been smiling all the way home. Carefully shutting the window behind you, you let yourself fall onto the couch and screamed joyfully, the pillow muffling the sound.

She was okay. A person was okay because you could intervene and do something about it.

However, a new wave of shivers flooded your veins so abruptly that you sat down immediately.

“Yeah, I know how that feels,” Came a feminine voice from the unlit kitchen, “Being able to help, I mean.”

You scrambled to your feet and started walking backward. However, the voice didn’t remain hidden for too long. A woman emerged from the shadows, dressed in red with a yellow hairband pushing her near-afro hair back. She greeted you with a soft smile.

“Your reflexes need polishing,”

“My…?” You repeated, dumbfounded.

“And you have to learn how to fight properly. Randomly throwing punches isn’t always going to cut it,”

“I’m sorry, who are you? Why are you in my apartment? Were you following me? Do you know about…?”

“Whoa, slow down, kid. I know you have questions, and I might be able to help you with that. But you’re going to have to come with me.”

“Alright, I’ll…let me just get my car keys,”

“Oh, sweetie,” The woman said in between laughs, not malicious but truly amused, “You have so much to learn,”

You were starting to wonder why she had elongated that “o” like that until, after pressing a few buttons on the device around her wrist, something that you would’ve described as a “black hole on LSD” erupted in the middle of your living room.

That night you learned that her name was Jessica Drews and that she was completely right about you having so much to learn. With a four-second-o.

Over the following months, you became capable of things you didn’t think possible. Walls that took you a minute to climb became easy obstacles that didn’t take up more than fifteen seconds of your time, your fighting skills had also improved exponentially under Jess’s tutelage, and of course, going from a life where you could count your friends with less than one hand to being constantly surrounded by amazing (no pun intended) Spider-People who not only understood the changes you were going through but warmly welcomed you into their circle was more than you could’ve asked for.

Well, perhaps some more willingly than others. And by others you meant him.

He, who seemed to be always around, silently watching but never intervening.

He, who despite being allegedly “always locked up in his lab” always seemed to personally oversee your training since day one.

Whom you’d tried to greet as gleefully as you did the others just to receive, if anything, a vague nod of acknowledgment. In your first three months, you had spoken maybe four times. Well, you had. He only hummed, nodded, or answered in monosyllables. You knew better than to waste your energy with people like that, but for some reason you were unwilling to just accept Miguel O’Hara didn’t like you and that was that.

“For some reason” being code for “I’m one second away from fainting every time he as much as looks in my direction,”

You weren’t a child, for crying out loud. You were aware that no matter how cold, distant, and seemingly indifferent the leader of your new team was, he was an insanely attractive man. Even with the fangs…no, especially with the fangs, for some reason. His whole aura that screamed “completely-inaccessible-frighteningly-powerful-twice-my-size-man” had you harboring a huge crush on him within two months of meeting him. So painfully unrequited that it was embarrassing. Just the fact he could ignore your greetings and surely never think twice of it but you would spend the rest of the day wondering what you could’ve possibly said to make him at least say “hello” back made you want to scream into a pillow until your throat burned.

It was right up there with the time he’d muttered ‘much better’ when he saw you land a kick you’d been practicing and those three seconds kept playing on your head for the rest of the week.

The night of your first mission you decided you were going to prove your worth, not to your crush but to your team leader.

“I told him you’re ready,” Jess said with a proud smile, “He’s going to call you in sometime throughout the day to let you know where you’ll be going and with whom, probably me. How do you feel?”

“Excited, I guess,” You replied, pressing your lips together anxiously, “Also nervous. I don’t want to screw this up.”

“With me as your mentor? That’s unlikely,” Jess replied with a wink, giving you an encouraging pat on your shoulder as she walked away.

However, the day continued normally. You did some assigned tasks here and there, which mostly included helping Spider-Byte to keep everything running smoothly given your background in the tech field. You grabbed lunch, then thought it would be a good idea to train some more before going away.

You were beginning to lose all hope when, as you leaned down to fix some wiring, Lyla popped right beside your head and called your name so loudly you hit your head against the metal and hissed. One year and still you hadn’t used to the way she appeared out of nowhere.

“Oops, sorry,” She promptly apologized, “Well you’ll have to walk that off, Miguel wants to see you STAT.”

“How am I supposed to walk a head injury off, Lyla?” You joked, rubbing your forehead as you rushed across the halls with the holographical figure floating after you.

“Not in my code,” She replied using her usual excuse.

When you walked into his working space, Miguel’s back was turned to you as he used a digital pen to do some annotations on what looked like blueprints of new equipment. After he didn’t react to your presence for a few seconds, you hesitantly walked closer and cleared your throat.

“That looks nice. Is it a new suit?” You asked, as always, trying to start a conversation.

“I just received an alert about the…” He stopped and sighed as if saying the silly nickname was physically painful to him, “…the Go-Home-Machine. It said there was a small power overload since we sent back that Vulture from the 192-011 Universe.”

“Yeah, but Byte and I are already working on that and it should be fully functional by tomorrow morning,” You replied, a bit confused as to what that had to do with your mission.

“Good. Let me know as soon as it’s fixed.” Miguel hastily replied, not even turning to face you until a whole minute passed and he realized you were still standing there. Even then, he just barely turned his head.

“That’s all, (Y/N). Thank you.”

That’s all? What do you mean that’s all?

“Was there something else you wanted to do?” He asked. Shit. You’d said that out loud.

“I…Jessica told me that I’m ready to go on a mission and that today you…”

“I said I would think about it, and I have.”

He fell silent again. No matter how attractive he was, you were starting to truly get pissed at his stupid theatrical antics.

“And?”

“And the answer’s no. You’re not ready yet.”

That felt like all the disappointments in your entire life added up and multiplied by ten. Especially because of how easily he dismissed you despite being aware of how hard you’d worked, how many nights you decided to forgo hours of sleep just to train and polish every movement until it was as close to flawless as you could.

“Not ready yet?” You practically hissed in a voice you almost didn’t recognize. Hell, it was enough for him to put down the pen. “Not ready yet? That kid Pavitr has been here for what? A month? And he’s already going off on missions. Alone, I might add!”

Unsurprisingly, he did not answer.

“And he’s very, very good, I’m not saying he isn’t. But I’m just as good. And more experienced, both at being here and at being a Spider-Person. I have completed every training scenario you’ve thrown my way, worked my ass off to understand every bit of information regarding interdimensional traveling, and studied the protocol to control anomalies, what is it that you still need me to prove?”

He took a deep breath. So deep that his shoulders rose, flexing the muscles of his back in such a way that if you hadn’t been so angry, you would’ve been too distracted to keep arguing. Even with your blood boiling, you couldn’t help but stare and feel your stomach tense at the sight.

“Do you like being part of this team, (Y/N)? Do you like training in our headquarters, having access to all our information, and maintaining contact with the other members of this society?”

“Of course I do,” You replied immediately. Slowly, Miguel turned around to face you completely and walked towards you, descending the two small steps that separated you until he stood towering over you. Even if your knees were about to give in to this unexpected closeness, this wasn’t the time to fold. You held his glare defiantly and folded your arms in an attempt to mentally guard yourself against him.

“Then I suggest you get in line and do as you’re told,” He said in a low voice. But it wasn’t threatening, or condescending. It was an odd, flat tone. Tired, perhaps. Almost as if…as if he was reprimanding you against his will.

He was almost unbearably close. You could feel his breath hitting your face. If right then all logic flew out of the window and you stood on your tiptoes you could…

“I’ll do that when you’ve earned my respect, and I have a policy of reciprocity when it comes to respect, Miguel. I’ve been in line for a year, I’ve listened, learned, and improved so much that if you’re still looking down on me, then it’s your problem, not mine. And no self-righteous, big-headed…”

“Just get out,” He cut you off, once again turning his back to you and walking towards the blueprints again.

“Oh no, I’m not finished…” You insisted, trying to follow him. However, as soon as you gave one step forward he turned around so violently that you stumbled backward and stared at him with something you hadn’t felt towards him up until then: fear.

“Yes, you are,” Was his only reply. As dull as the others.

While you could only see his face for a moment before he walked past you and left the room, something about his expression stuck with you even hours later, when you laid on your bed at night and combed through the scene over and over. You thought he would be fuming, maybe even shocked that you’d dared to talk to him like that. The last thing you expected was for him to look…upset. Hurt, even. The mere thought of you being able to hurt Miguel O’Hara was as ridiculous as imagining a goldfish fighting back against a shark. Still, you realized that even if you thought he was in the wrong, you felt bad about how things went down back there. You would never understand what being the leader of hundreds of super-powered people was like. Commanding each and directing their particular abilities as best as he could all while maintaining a vigilant eye on endless strings of causes and effects because he knew firsthand the consequences of being careless with them.

Even if he had made a mistake with you and of course you still wanted to address it later, right then all you wanted was to apologize.

And so, not even an hour later you were roaming the halls of the HQ, your heart beating furiously as you got closer to his quarters, wondering what you could even begin to say.

When the automatic doors slid open, you stepped inside and turned back to look as the doors closed behind you. Well, no turning back now.

“Miguel?” You called, looking around the large room, pondering whether a first-name basis was okay. After everything that had happened, going back to Mr. O’Hara sounded terribly stupid. Then your eyes landed on the row of screens where he spent most of his time. An extremely ill-timed wave of curiosity filled your chest as you approached them, taking another look at the seemingly empty room before stepping onto the platform. Getting bolder, you reached out your hand and brushed your fingertips across one of the screens. It immediately came to life with a blue glow, startling you and making you curse under your breath. You were about to look for a button to switch it off when a video started playing automatically from where he had left off. He was in it, holding a young girl. Miguel wasn’t just smiling. He was laughing. His laugh was exactly as you’d pictured it. Not particularly loud, but hearty and low. He had the kind of laugh that made you unwittingly smile as well as a newfound sympathy filled your chest as tears filled your eyes when you pictured that being taken from him just like that. How could one have a family, and then one day be completely alone and keep going?

With a renewed disposition to make things better between you, your hand reached out for the switch that would turn the screen off until a third voice piqued your interest. It belonged to whoever was holding the camera.

“Would you please stop hoarding her? I deserve some mother-daughter time too! Here, hold this thing and give her to me,” The voice said between laughs. There was something about that voice that made an extremely cold shiver run down your spine.

“Fine, you’re right. Bueno pues, mijita, ve con mamá, ¿quieres ir con mamá?”

The picture became blurry as the camera switched places with a giggling Gabriella, who could be briefly seen stretching her arms toward the third figure.

“Alright,” Came Miguel’s voice again, “But when I turn the camera towards you I want both of you to blow Daddy a kiss, can you do that for me?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned the camera around.

And then you found yourself staring into your own eyes. They weren’t quite the same shade as yours, and “your” hair was styled differently. And “you” had freckles. But otherwise, it was like staring into an interdimensional mirror. Then, your voice spoke.

“Okay sweetie, let’s humor him, shall we? Blow Daddy a kiss. And another one from me because now I have to use both arms to hold you, my big girl!”

Miguel laughed again at the way his daughter’s face lit up at being called a “big girl”.

“¿Saben que las amo a las dos, verdad?”

“And Gabriella loves you too. I think you’re…nice enough.”

“(Y/N), I don’t think you marry somebody for ‘nice enough’, mi amor,”

“I love you too. Against my better judgment.”

With one last interrupted laugh, the video ended, and, in a cruel irony, the once again black screen showed your actual reflection.

Except this time, it wasn’t the only one. With a loud gasp, you turned around. After seeing him in that video, it became much more evident that the Miguel in it was nothing but a memory of the past. And in a matter of seconds, everything shifted into place like a gloomy puzzle. His expression was unreadable, though he wasn’t even looking at you. His eyes were fixed on the empty screen.

“I wasn’t supposed to ever see that, was I?” Was the only thing that came to your mind after a lengthy, tense silence.

“What good would it have done?” He replied, almost numbly.

“So that’s why you’ve always…stared?” You kept pushing. Against your better judgment, you thought.

“It was at first,” Came his only response. Like always, it seemed like you would have to tear the answers off him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked, turning your head to look for his eyes. Even then, something warm filled your chest. Something that made your heart beat so quickly you felt as if it would stop at any moment, and it spread all over you no matter how much you tried to fend it off. Hope.

Surprisingly, this time he caved in and looked at you. Still, the answer never came. For the first time in all the time you’d known him, Miguel O’Hara was at a loss for words. And that said more than anything he could’ve come up with.

“And you expect me to believe that, by sheer chance, you happened to catch feelings for somebody who is practically your wife’s interdimensional twin?”

“It sounds so much worse when you say it like that,” Was that a hint of a smile? An attempt at a joke? One year and the only time he’d bothered to be decent to you was when you were talking about how much you looked like her?

With an annoyed look, you moved away from him and started to make your way to the exit.

“Do you think I wanted this?” He spoke rather loudly, his whispers going out of the window as he started to follow you across the room.

Miguel O’Hara following you to keep you from leaving. Just hours before you would’ve died of happiness at the mere thought of this scenario. Right now, your brain was a flurry of thoughts and emotions that you didn’t know how to handle.

“I was doing an amazing job at keeping my distance. Watching you from afar, seeing you laugh, grow, win everybody over with that awfully big heart of yours, and still I reined myself in,” He continued, “Today’s the perfect example. You thought I didn’t respect you, for fuck’s sake! I respect you so much that every single day I have ignored you and pretended you are nothing but another face in the halls. Damn it, (Y/N), I couldn’t even look you in the eye when for months you’ve been all I’ve wanted. All because I didn’t know if I loved you or what was left of her. And I didn’t want you to get involved in shit that’s mine to figure out.”

Hearing him not only withdraw his previous statement of you not being capable of doing things and accepting the problem was his and not yours made you stop in your tracks.

Fine, the sudden (though odd) love declaration had something to do with it too.

“So you don’t think I’m not ready?” You asked, turning around and even taking some steps towards him.

“Are you serious? I’ve watched you closely all these months. You learn in days what others do in weeks. You push yourself way more than so many of our members and yet I’ve never, ever seen you become overconfident. Today you never said you knew everything. You said you knew enough.”

This time, it was you who remained silent. There was something else you wanted him to elaborate on, and from the look in his eyes, you realized he knew damn well what it was.

“You were right. The problem wasn’t yours. It was mine all along. I could manage to push you away and keep my feelings at bay. But knowing that you were eventually going to go out there and take so many risks...worst case scenario, you could get hurt or not come back at all. That was too much for me to handle, s’all.”

“Were you afraid of losing me…?” You started to ask just for him to interrupt you.

“Yes. Very much.” However, you lifted a hand to stop him. You weren’t finished.

“Were you afraid of losing me, or were you afraid of losing her again, Miguel?”

Three seconds later, when no answer came out of his mouth, you were about to turn around once again when he rushed and stood in front of you. For a second, you thought he was going to grab your shoulders to keep you in place. Not wanting to come off as if he was forcing you to stay, his hands just hovered on both sides of your shoulders without touching you.

“Listen, she wasn’t a picky eater like you are. But I swear that woman never drank enough water and every time I see you there’s either a bottle in your hand or laying around. And she was so, so messy. It took us at least ten minutes to find the keys every single time…and Spider-Byte said you sort your tools by size and color. Color. (Y/N), I don’t think even I…”

“Are you getting somewhere with this?”

“You’re not her, (Y/N). You have never been, and you never will, I know that. I want you to know that I wouldn’t want you to be any other way. I love you.”

After that, he moved out of the way and folded his arms.

“If you want to go back to your dimension and stay there for a while…or for good, I don’t know, I completely…”

“I love you too, you know?” You cut him off, pressing your lips together after blurting out the three words that’d been haunting you for the past months. Words that up until now you were sure would never leave your chest. When you turned to look at him, you saw in his eyes what minutes ago had filled yours. Hope.

God, his face was so hauntingly beautiful when his features softened.

“What do you want from me?” You finally asked him, your voice shaky from the effect you knew his answer would have regardless of what it was.

Miguel moved closer to you almost hesitantly, his eyes never leaving yours. When he was close enough, he reached out with both his hands and slid them up the back of your neck, his thumbs tucked in front of your ears as his warm palms engulfed the back of your head so he could hold you while he brought his face down to press his forehead against yours.

“Mi amor, I’d give you all I am and be happy with whatever you’re willing to give me for now,”

You knew it would take some time for you to get used to hearing him say things like that without wondering if you were the only one in his mind when he did. It would be a while until you felt completely certain that you were made of flesh and bone and not just a ghost in his eyes, but it would happen. You saw his eyes as he drew his face closer to yours and when your lips touched, you knew that it would definitely happen sooner or later. Until then, you thought as you stood on your tiptoes when he almost desperately pressed his lips onto yours, he was very much worth the wait.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x female reader #spiderman across the spiderverse #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #spiderman 2099 #spiderman atsv #across the spiderverse #atsv

1K notes · View notes

mrsnancywheeler · 4 months

Text

the lakes (2) // finnick odair x f. reader

summary: it's supposed to be over, you and Finnick are supposed to spend the rest of your lives helping each other heal. living as peacefully as possible, but the the third quarter quell throws a wrench in your domestic bliss.

previous chapter / next chapter

midnight rain

2.9k words

warnings: ANGST, fluff, mentions and allusions to mental illness, an elopement but not officially, terms of endearment, Finnick being cheesy af and also having a savior complex, reader also having a savior complex, allusions to death and violence, the reaping, sickeningly sweet but also heart wrenching things, cheesy writing, UNEDITED, no use of y/n, mild language

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Suddenly the day had arrived, technically you'd let yourself bleed into it. How could you rest when this could be the last time you lay in your soft sheets with him? When you'd never seen the sunrise and set over the glittering waters of District 4? You needed to indulge yourself with the smell of the salt air in the early morning, touch the cold kitchen counters and rest your feet on equally freezing hardwood floors. So you stared through the window to the glistening stars which shined above the ocean water letting the sparkle ingrain itself into the depths of your soul.

“Can we stop pretending to be asleep now?" His voice whispered, hot on your ear like the arm lazily laying across your side.

“Yeah." You allowed yourself to softly smile as you sat up. All of the things you wanted to enjoy you equally needed to be done with him. To walk hand and hand around the sandy beaches, for him to mindlessly tie knots as you searched through the rocks during low tide for the tiny creatures that would appear. “Should we fish for our breakfast?” You playfully rose your eyebrows.

"You hate fishing.” Finnick had a toothy grin, you were humoring him, his passions and he loved that about you, but what that really meant made him resent it.

“Yeah." You shrugged, kissing him sweetly before unwrapping yourself from the blankets every so slowly. This might be the last time you could comfortably do that. “Let's get ready." So the two of you did so in each other's comforting silence, a routine that was so natural. He always took longer to get dressed, so you began with the very last part before exiting the room. Making the bed.

Carefully laying each blanket in what Finnick had long ago deemed to be the correct order and you could feel his eyes on you. He was so particular that usually he would do it himself, but he just stood in the closet door frame staring.

“Staring is rude, where have your manners gone?” You teased as you continued diligently preparing the bed for whenever it may provide its comforts again. When he didn't shoot back a reply right away you turned to look at him.

“Hard to remember when you look so ethereal in the moonlight, angel." Finnick approached, lightly grazing your chin with fingertips. “That pillow-" He pointed at the one clad in its silk pillowcase. “Is mine.” With such a playful and bossy look in his eyes you couldn't help but throw it at him.

“Fine, I didn't want it anyways, but this one is mine.” You grabbed the softest one in the bunch from his side of the bed and dragged it over to you.

"You little minx.” He scoffed, grabbing your arms as you held the pillow. You wrapped your arms tightly around it and he pulled you onto the bed trying to pry it from you as you erupted into laughter. "You end up lying on me anyways, it's my poor head that needs to be protected.” You tried to tear yourself from his arms wrestling against the tight grips of your arms, thrashing across the bed. “Messing up the bed now too." He clicked his tongue condescendingly at you, "At least I was already going to have to remake it.”

You gasped and let go of the pillow to lightly hit his shoulder which he used to successfully retrieve it. " You dick!” He laughed and stood.

"Just go sit by the window and look pretty, my love. It's not your fault you can't get it right.” You rolled your eyes lovingly as he helped you up.

"You're right, it's your fault for being so picky about it.” He hummed in agreement and gave a peck to your lips before gesturing towards the window adjacent to the chair.

“Let me admire you more as I do the work, angel.” So you sat as he went through the steps of his bed making routine. He did it all with a care that cut into your heart. Tenderly observing the precision he had for each act, it was as if he needed the bed to be such a haven to lay in that no imperfection could taint it. “We should get married." Finnick said abruptly after laying the final pillow down.

You were stunned into a stupor, staring back at him as the glow of the moon glittered on the bronze of his skin. “What?"

“Let's go get married." He knelt down in front of you hands on your knees

A shocked laugh left your lips, “Finnick, that's not how that works."

He grinned, “I don't care." His eyes felt like they were etching themselves into your heart. “We don't need some paper to tell the world, let it just be us, and the sand, and the waves, and the mist. And when this is all over we can go do it officially with the big white wedding or whatever else you could want, but right now let's just be one. Have the ocean bind our souls, angel. I wanna be yours forever.”

Desperation, that's what it was. He wanted to be yours so he could know that if he died the sea could tell the tales of your great love, the tides would echo your sweet nothings. But you couldn't find it in you to care about the deeper motivations, it could help heal his soul, help heal yours so you nodded softly and pressed your lips to his.

“Okay." His smile was as bright as the sunlight and picked you up in his arms. You could have fallen asleep in the warmth of his arms as he diligently carried you to the waters near your home. Passionately kissing you as he laid your bare feet on the wet sand. He looked at you expectantly, for what you couldn't tell so you teased him. “What? I know you're impatient, but don't I at least get a ring?"

You stepped away closer to the waters as you scanned the rocks. Each starfish and sea anemone, you'd miss the bliss they brought whenever you were out early enough.

“Here." You nearly jumped when he reached beside you to pick up a piece of washed up seaweed. “You deserve more, when this is over I'll get you the most gorgeous ring to show everyone what you mean to me."

“This is good enough for me, Finnick. I'm happy with this." You tore some of the seaweed off to fashion one for him as well, you envied how delicately his hands worked to make yours.

“You're happy that it's just past twilight and I've carried you to the beach so we can bind our souls together without even bothering to get a marriage license on the day of the reaping? And I couldn't even bother to bring a real ring?" He teased.

"I'm happy to be with you, to love you when it comes down to it, the other stuff doesn't really matter.” You grinned, “Let's just get married."

"I promise that for all of eternity, past when the sun last rises and when it lasts sets. Far beyond where the last star may shed its light on us or the time when the last leaf falls. With no regard for what is to come that I will be one with you. To have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish so that not even death will part our bond and my love.” He delicately slipped the seaweed ring on your freezing finger, kissing your hand as he parted from your fingers.

“I promise that for every drop of water in the ocean, each grain of sand in the earth, each gust of wind, my love will increase boundlessly for you. That we will be one with each other when all thrives through its decay. No tribulation shall part my heart from beating with yours, my tears from falling with yours, nor my lips from syncing with yours. To have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish so not even the hands of death will crack the strength of us as one, as we are one from dawn to dusk.” The breeze and mist blessing you with its droplets made you feel so light as you lay your ring on his finger as well.

You didn't question Finnick as he began to weave the remainder of the seaweed around your connected arms.

“May we be connected through the lakes, the sea, the rivers, the springs, the cricks, the ponds, the mist, and the fog with each creature within to let us be one in the world, what you feel, so shall I, what we need the other will provide, and let our devotion be smiled upon."

He kissed you, his honey sweet lips tinged with the salt of the ocean air and you consumed each other in every sense.

"I love you Finnick, so much so I'll refrain from telling people how sentimental you are."

“Only for you, Mrs. Odair." He kissed you again.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You'd obtained so many hours through the lost sleep to spend forgetting about what the day would inevitably do that the both of you could lose yourselves in being unbearably in love with one another. Neverending promises for the future, cuddling on the couch, dancing in the sand to fill the hours until the elephant in the room had to be acknowledged.

The two of you had wound down to the cushions of your couch to hold one another. The talking had ceased so you could simply listen to his breathing, his soothing heartbeat. Oh, if you could do this forever, to never move.

“We have to leave soon." The croaky way the sentence left your throat instantly wanted to send you into a frenzy of tears.

“What if we don't?" He asks, stroking your cheek.

“They'll kill us."

“They're already doing that."

No, technically if neither of you were picked you could both go home in peace, but as the time between the announcement and now had begun, whispers of rebellion and some type of plan had strengthened. Something Finnick wouldn't give up in fighting for even if he had to volunteer and you wouldn't be left here without him. Even if you did, that meant some other friend would have to go die in your place which would be a death within itself.

You reluctantly sat up and had no trust in your voices stability to repeat the need to go, maybe a death here would be better.

“Angel, you know my plan. I know you're unhappy with it-"

“I'm not unhappy with it, I understand you want to help because you are so caring and kind-"

“You're not selfish for being unhappy with me going back, your feelings aren't selfish." His hands cradled your face, “And that's not what I was saying. I just, please, tell me what you plan to do."

You sighed, “I don't know Finnick. I have no idea."

“Then stay, Mags will volunteer if it's your name and don't volunteer for anyone else. If I win then I can come back to you and we can really be married, legally as well as with the planet." He said eagerly, searching your eyes for affirmation.

"Your plans don't end with one victor coming home, so I can't say that. I want you to come home to me, but I want to be with you through it all, to fight your fights, to stand where you stand, not be left behind. But I don't know what I'm going to do yet."

He exhaled harshly through his nose, “You're going to stay here for me." Finnick stood up and grabbed you both pairs of shoes taking no further comment, but no matter what he insisted you'd swore to nothing of the sort.

Quietly the two of you walked towards the square of District 4, your head laying on the comfort of his shoulder. Each of your arms tucked within the others and rings keeping you both grounded within each other when you eventually had to part to different sides of the stage.

“I love you."

“Don't say that in a tone like you'll never see me again."

“I might not for a while, unless you go as a mentor."

“You don't get to make either of those decisions." You felt like you were being forced to tear him from what he assumed would happen to remind him of your own will and it broke your heart when you saw fear flash in the depths of his sea-green eyes.

“Angel-"

“I love you, Finnick." Your voice was filled with conviction as you kissed him with fervor before walking the opposite direction, trying not to look back as what you were sure was his worried, loving, angry face. Why couldn't you just be the girl who waited for him to come back? Why did you need to fight with him? But your soul begged you to do it, so you listened to the call.

Soon enough your breath was hitched even if you knew Finnick would force the same outcome to happen no matter which name was called from the male tributes. As if you needed any more surprises this year your escort had decided to swap up the gendered order of pulling the names. Proclaiming how entertaining Quarter Quells should be in every aspect. Which was probably the least entertaining thing you'd ever heard.

“Finnick Odair." The sickly sweet voice rang out in the microphone and your heart dropped even if you'd been prepared for him to get himself in the games regardless. Your throat felt tight and your fingernails dug into your palms as he smiled for the cameras watching intently.

“And now, for the girls. All such entertaining victors!” She beamed for the viewers, it disgusted you how happy she was for this.

You could feel your heartbeat ricocheting through your head as the tapping of her heels walked to the bowl of four paper slips. Your eyes gazed over the women besides you. Mags in her solemn sereneness, she deserved to pass surrounded by those she loved in her home, and then poor, shaking Annie who wasn't as good at hiding what you pushed down, the girl labeled as going ‘crazy’ by the Capitol, and Ondine who seemed like she had clocked out of her own brain. She stared forward so numbly it appeared as if she'd resigned herself to her death, an image that would haunt you every hour if she did die.

“Annie Cresta."

Your head looked at her instantly, she'd let out a quick sob as she began walking forward. Each step is unsteady and slow. You shot your head towards Finnick, you shook his head, eyes screaming at you to do nothing. To try to mentor but do nothing more. But Annie’s sniffles brought you back to her, she deserved so much more, you were certain her psyche would break before she'd even reached the interviews. As she stepped to pass by you you couldn't hold the adrenaline in your body back.

“I volunteer as tribute!" You shouted shakily, stepping in front of her to stop her from going further.

“No-" You heard Finnick accidentally slip as he looked at you so despairingly, but it didn't undo what you'd said which you felt more confident in as Annie began crying. “It's okay, I'm not gonna make you do that." You whispered to her and hugged her shaking frame as you felt your own silent tears escaping, trying to guide her back to the comfort of the other women.

“You didn't have to-"

“It's okay." You assured the best you could. Ondine, who you'd rarely spoken with looked at you and nodded, as if that said everything she thought, and it did. Suddenly it was as if the regrets you may have had were gone, this wasn't just about you and Finnick, there was so much more on the line and you couldn't have stayed home to watch anyone else suffer.

The consciousness that you were on camera hit you so you let go of Annie and turned back towards where Finnick stood, damning your heart for caring, for not listening. He tried to keep us appearances for the cameras, but the looks of rage, woe, and despair were evident if one simply looked into the depths of his eyes and the way his jaw was clenched ever so slightly.

“District 4’s tributes for the third Quarter Quell!" The screeching voice announced and you wrapped your hand into the stiffness of Finnick's and dragged them above your heads. Letting your makeshift rings sit front and center would be sure to draw the attention of the Capitol citizens deeply invested in this all. Allowing the tears to bubble at your eyelids, it was already part of the brand you'd created years ago. Finnick’s nose flared as he forced his smile and without goodbyes you were led off the stage towards the train.

You could feel the intensity of his rage radiating off of his aura, not the calming warmth he usually possessed, but you knew you wouldn't take back your actions regardless of who'd been chosen. So you resigned yourself to the harshness that lay behind the train's metal doors.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. there is so much more I have planned for this series and I'm so excited to share it with y'all. if you liked it, feedback is much appreciated, likes, comments, reblogs any of it I'm so, so grateful for. as always, my inbox is open for any and all things or ideas! thank you again so much!

taglist: @imaegonstargaryenswife0 @avoxrising @artsyaquarium @jennaaaaaaaaaaaa @secretsicanthideanymore

#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x y/n #thg #finnick odair angst #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair x reader angst #finnick odair x reader fluff #finnick odair x you #finnick imagine #thg finnick #finnick odair fanfic #finnick x reader #finnick x you #thg fanfiction

446 notes · View notes

illyrian-dreamer · 6 months

Text

Our girl – Part 6

Azriel x Cassian x fem reader angst

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Violence, character death

<<< Part 5

“Y/N, we are ready for you,” Thesan said with a soft smile.

You swallowed as you entered the decadent marble room, the binder under your arm almost bursting with hundreds of papers of research you collated.

Several powerful sets of eyes fell on you, and you forced your own forward, fighting the instinct to cast them low in respect. You were doing this for Prythian, for all fae – they should feel honoured for the opportunity, not you.

With smiles from Tarquin and Tamlin, you took the seat Thesan withdrew for you – the tall, regal shape foreign as it pressed to your back.

Rhysand and Feyre sat opposite, their eyes warm beneath their gaze. But you were too preoccupied to meet it.

“And since when are we in the business of inviting commoners to these meetings? I won't share my table with court-crossing whores.”

You let out a tired breath, your patience for the male ego completely diminished over the past years.

“I suppose you’ve excused that every time one of your sons has sat for these meetings, Beron?”

The words had left your mouth before you could stop them.

Beron’s eyes widened, his face flushing red, and a few snorts and stifled laughs could be heard across the table.

Fuck – you could kiss Autumn’s allegiance goodbye. You would have to be a lot less impulsive if you were to make it out of this meeting alive.

"I will not–" Beron began, his hands curling into fists.

“Oh calm yourself Beron, you had no right to insult her in the first place.” Tarquin was grinning at you – ever the loyal friend. You gave him a tight smile to say thanks.

“And if you’re wondering who invited her here, you can steer your anger towards me,” Tamlin spoke smoothly, intertwining his fingers as he placed his solid arms on the table, meeting Beron’s glare with confidence.

“I for one, would like to hear what Y/N has to say,” Feyre added, with a confident nod to you.

It seemed you had an alliance at play all along.

With clear of your throat, you opened your binder, rolling out a detailed map of Prythian and with it months of research on each of the courts. You took a breath, and began the proposal you and your team had spent weeks perfecting.

“You may have heard of aid work spreading across Spring in light of the aftermath of the war. My team and I have worked tirelessly to support vulnerable communities across the court, providing food, medicine and shelter for those devastated by Hybern.”

“Spring Court only suffered devastation because of its alliance with Hybern in the first place,” Kallias interrupted, followed by a murmur of agreements.

Tamlin straightened. “I acknowledge my court was left at Hybern's mercy due to my decisions. But Y/N has worked despite of that – and it’s what makes her work so important.”

“In what way?” Thesan asked.

“A courtless ambition,” you affirmed. “A team of volunteers – made from all courts, for all courts. Resources provided from across Prythian, shared equally to help those in need despite what throne they serve.”

There was a moment of silence, before Beron sounded a loud snort.

“Don't trust her for one second,” he scoffed, pointing a finger at you. “She’s been hauled up in Spring Court for over a year now. No doubt this is a ruse to have us open our borders. She’ll be free to rob our people and lands, all the while fucking her handsome High Lord.”

“Watch how you speak of her,” Rhysand growled, night crawling across the table, the purple in his eyes all but gone.

You had to interject before this meeting finished as quickly as it started. “I assure you, this mission has no binding to Spring Court. It is to exist without borders so we may help anyone in need, and travel with ease to provide urgent care.”

Beron ignored Rhysand and instead cold eyes to you, his lips curling with distaste. “And you believe we need your help?” he spat. “The fae of Spring are weak. My subjects are well cared for, and my court is thriving.”

Gods, you could see where Eris got it from.

“According to my research, inflation in your court is a second close to Spring, and displacement is rising with little access to healers after you centralised them during the war.”

Beron’s face flushed an even deeper red than before, his eyes turning to a murderous cold and your stomach twisted with both fear and delight.

“There is not one court here that is in a position to refuse this kind of offer,” Tarquin said with sweeping calm, silencing Beron before he could bubble over. “We would do well to not let our pride stop an ambition of this size.”

“Y/N,” he added, turning to you. “I admire the work you have done in Spring, Tamlin has testified and frankly sung much high praise. If you might show me your plans of what role Summer Court could play in your mission, I would be happy to come to an agreement to provide volunteers and resources.”

You swallowed, your heart swelling. You had no doubt Tarquin would offer his allegiance, but it was a milestone all the same. “Thank you, Tarquin.”

“My mate and I would like to offer the allegiance of the Night Court. We would be honoured for your help,” Feyre’s face strong and stern, but you knew them well enough to feel the waves of pride from both her and Rhys.

“Consider Day Court an ally too,” Hellion beamed, trusting of Feyre’s alliance to now make his own. “We have some of the oldest practicing healers – if you can help spread their knowledge across our lands, it will help us to grow stronger as a continent, and perhaps more resistant should we face another invasion in future.”

“Thank you,” you said, bowing your head gratefully to the High Lords and Lady around you.

“You’re all fools,” Beron spat, pushing up from his chair. “And I won't stand to watch you place the fate of our lands in the hands of a traitor, let alone a woman.”

A series of snarls sounded as claws of all kinds shot out. Tamlin’s hands shook as he gripped the tables edge, Tarquin’s scraped at his chair, and Rhys’s tapped with threatening impatience.

“Your mind betrays you, Beron,” Feyre spoke coldly, a cruel smile at play on her lips. “Because despite countless centuries in this world, you and your seven sons couldn't hope to accomplish as much as this female has in just a few years. You’re embarrassed. You feel she emasculates you.”

You didn't have a moment to gawk before Beron launched at you, his fist in your hair as he ripped you backwards in your chair. Droplets of his disgusting spit landing their mark as he snarled down at you. “You mark my words you sly bitch. You may have everyone wrapped around you finger, but step one foot in my court and I’ll–”

Guards had pulled Beron from you before he could finish his sentence. They hardly had to escort him as he shook their grip, storming from the room and slamming the doors behind him.

With red cheeks and a slight shake of your hands, you took Tarquins offer to help you stand.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

You offered a single nod, too stunned to know truly. Was this how the High Lords settled business?

You straightened your skirts and took your seat once again.

“I do hate it when he gets like that,” Tarquin said more loudly, feigning a bored sigh and hiding a comforting hand on your thigh beneath the table.

“For your knowledge Y/N, there are rules that we must not to lay hands on another High Lord or Lady, not without consequence. I suppose that’s why he launched at you,” Thesan explained, willing a glass of water in front of you and giving you a sorry smile.

You took a shaky sip, barely having a moment to register the silent exchange between Tamlin, Feyre and Rhys. Whatever their stern expressions meant, you knew Beron was in deep, deep shit.

The rest of the meeting went smoothly – you convinced Thesan and Kallias to consider your proposal, and agreed to meet with them in future after they took some time to study your plans in more detail. In total you had four courts agree, two remained uncertain, and one definite no. It was overwhelming result, and you were riddled with both excitement and anxiousness at the thought of expanding your mission to not just one, but three new courts.

As the meeting adjourned, you found yourself thinking of Eris, and couldn't help but feel empathetic. You may have an unwelcome bond binding you to the two males who broke your heart, but at least your future wasn't dictated by someone as hideous as Beron. Eris would never be that free.

You spent your evening writing to the other volunteers and your uncle, and preparing plans and strategies to begin work in Summer. It would be beneficial to start there, to have more experienced healers on board.

There was a soft rap at your door, and Feyre’s blossom-like scent floated through the gaps.

Quill now mid-air, your heart fastened with momentary worry. But you took a breath - it was just a conversation, you could grant her that. After all, there were many more meetings with her and Rhys to come if you hoped to expand to the Nigh Court successfully. You'd also likely need to return to the Night Court yourself…

Stopping your spiral of thoughts, you cleared your throat. “Come in,” you called, placing your quill down and turning in your seat.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No no. Please, come in,” you gestured.

She strode with confidence, dark drapes of her dress flowing behind as they sparkled like the Velarian sky you hadn't realised you longed for. “I won't stay long, I just wanted to tell you that you were incredible today.” Those grey eyes pinned you with sincerity, before fluttering with a sideways glance. “And perhaps I’m also here to see how you’re fairing after the meeting. I’m sorry, I didn't think Beron…"

You huffed humorously, your head cocking down as you let out sound of exasperation. “Gods, he truly is as awful as they say.”

“Yes,” Feyre said with a stifled grin, her head shaking. “He really is.”

“Thank you, for defending me. Your response to him… it was–"

“Too much, probably.”

“Insidiously epic.” You were grinning.

Feyre laughed now, swinging one leg over the other before fingering a nearby trinket. “You know I can't resist the opportunity to toy with a male like that.”

You matched her smile, warmed by the mischievous look. The exchange was genuine and comfortable, fun even – exactly how your friendship had been for so many years.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Feyre.”

Feyre’s eyes softened, a small but sad smile finding her lips. “Of course.”

You looked at your hands then, fidgeting with them in your lap. You had to ask, you just had to.

“How are they?”

Feyre didn't falter. “Well enough. Cassian has been training a new generation of Illyrians to regrow our army, and Azriel has been busy with his work in Hybern.”

Your eyes were distant as you thought about them, separated by work. Azriel was still undertaking missions in Hybern? Was there truly more secrets to unravel there? Gods, the thought alone made you wince in pain, that whole damned continent a waking reminder of Meryl and everything you had lost. You knew Azriel would be tortured by the same cycle of thoughts on those lands.

“They work hard,” you offered with pulled brows, not really knowing what else to say.

“Just like someone else I know.” Feyre’s pained smile soft yet full of suggestion. She might as well have said it – they’re not the only ones burying their pain in work. You supposed she was right, you had set a stellar example at that.

“But they’re doing better, really,” she added, resuming natural movement and surrendering you from her gaze. “They’re healthier, and they look after one another.”

Your lips pulled into a small smile. “I’m glad.” And you meant it.

Feyre had matured over the past year – you could see it in her poise, hear it in her voice. It was a nice thing to see, to watch a fellow immortal grow in such ways.

“I will leave you to your planning.” She stood then, her incredible dress sweeping the floor once more.

Pausing by the doorway, Feyre turned to you. “Rhys and I are so honoured to have your work come to our court, even with the challenges to be faced with the Council. You should be proud, Y/N. We certainly are.”

You nodded, your lips pulling in a smile that twitched, and you swallowed the lump in your throat. “Thank you. I’ll send a letter to meet soon, and we can discuss plans then.”

“We look forward to it.” Feyre’s smile was warm and true.

“As do I.” And so was your own.

————

“Are you sure you wouldn't like to wait a few more days? We could journey back together.”

You rolled your eyes, securing your bag to Podie as Tamlin fussed behind you, tightening the knots.

“I must get back and help the team start the expansion. I don't have a few days to spare.”

“I know, I just… worry for you.”

You snorted then, hauling yourself to your horse. “I journeyed here myself, you know.”

Tamlin sighed, reaching to stroke Podie’s mane. “I know. I just, I’m not sure, I have a feeling–“

“You’re fussing.”

“No, I have a feeling.”

“A feeling of fussing?”

Tamlin pinched his nose then. “I don't know why I try,” he muttered.

You grinned. “I’ll see you in two weeks time, Tam.” With a gentle nudge to Podie’s sides, you started the long journey home.

Never mind that Tamlin had found you shortly after Feyre left your room last night. Never mind that he searched you over for any signs of injury that Beron might have left, or that he distracted you jokes and conversation and stiff drink on your balcony that lead to welcomed sleep. You would certainly not think about the way his deep hushed voice soothed you until your eyes closed, or that he knew exactly how to stroke your hair as he comforted you after the things Beron had said, long after you had stopped responding.

When you had woken he was gone, so this time apart would serve you well to clear your head and re-establish those murky lines of love and friendship, desire and lust.

“Take safe routes,” he called out, waving you off as the castle of Dawn Court disappeared behind the trees.

You forced yourself not to look back.

————

The journey from Dawn to Spring would take six days of travel. With no ability to winnow or fly, it was a pace you were not accustomed to.

But you would bare it with higher spirits than ever, because you got what you came for, what you’d wanted your entire life. You were making the world a better place, and only just getting started.

Forgoing the coastal scenery you had indulged in on your journey up, you chose a route close to the inner border with Autumn, avoiding the congestion of the capital and heading through the most direct route. By your third morning you had already reached Summer, forgoing rest and carving your journey time to start your eager plans once home.

As the sun began to set that evening, Podie began fussing with fatigue.

“I know boy, I know,” you soothed, patting at his neck. “We’re almost there.”

And sure enough, the bustle of the town you had marked on your map sounded in the distance, smoke trails rising above the tree tops as signs of life revealed themselves. You had marked this town for its inn, where both you and Podie could rest properly for the night.

But rest would have to wait, as your ears pricked at a young voice. Turning, you saw wild auburn hair on a thin and ashy body, large eyes pleading to whoever walked past.

“Please, ma’am, sir, someone help!”

But the other fae continued to look past her, offering mumbled apologies and averting their gaze. Disheartened, you tutted under your breath. The child was from Autumn, that much was clear, and you knew the other fae ignored her for it. This was exactly the kind of mentality you were trying to amend.

Having just secured Podie’s reigns at the stables next to the inn, you wiped your hands on your pants, approaching the girl. “What’s wrong youngling?”

The little girl all but crumpled. “Please, my mother, she-she can’t, I don’t-"

Crouching down, you soothed the young girl with a hand on each of her shoulders. “Is she unwell?”

Dirty hands rubbed the tears spilling from her eyes, and a nod was all she could offer.

Your eyes flicked to your satchel still strung on Podie. There were vessels of Geranium in there, samples you had shown to the High Lords.

“Can she walk?”

The little girl trembled, locks bouncing as she shook her head. Gods, those locks, so similar to Meryl's…

A fresh batch of tears poured from her eyes then, as she pointed behind her. “There are no healers in our town. I didn't know where to go!”

“It’ll be alright, I have some medicine in my bag. Can you take me to her?”

She girl’s lip quivered. “But it’s over the border,” she whispered.

You gave her a sorry smile. “I thought as much. Never mind, let me grab my bag, and you lead the way.”

Fuck Beron – fuck his senseless borders and militant court. Someone was in need of healing, so you would help them, plain and simple.

The girl was still thanking you by the time you returned with your satchel. You hoped you had enough Geranium to heal her mother to to a capacity until a trained healer could see to her.

The young thing all but sprinted, and you maintained a steady jog to the Autumn border. Green blended with red here, the breeze already cooler as dried leaves danced with live ones.

“My town is down this trail,” she pointed to a winding path. “It’s not far.”

You nodded, taking your first step in Autumn without a second thought. And when you reached the winding path, where the trees now hid the backs of Summer Court and the life that called there, the girl stopped in her path, turning with an eery slowness.

You jumped back at the white film that now filled her eyes, her mouth downturned and sad. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her head lolling sideways.

You hadn’t a moment to process the horror of it before hands pinned your arms and smothered your mouth.

Fumes swarmed your senses, burning your nose and throat before you were overcome with poisonous haze, your cry swallowed in cloth as the world turned black.

————

Rhysand handed the last of his bags to the door man, giving his guest room at Dawn one final sweep.

Feyre had left a few days earlier to be with Nyx, but many of the High Lords had stayed to use the mutual meeting grounds and have much needed discussions after the war. But his business was done and he would finally return home, his heart aching for Velaris.

Even his brothers would be there this time, having returned from their own missions. He was eager to unwind and be surrounded by the laughter and company of his family together again. Well, almost all of them.

Tamlin’s scent pricked his nose, and Rhys resisted the urge to roll his eyes. With the complicated and bloody history they shared, forcing himself to be civil with Tamlin would always draining, and right now he just wanted to get home.

Night magic flung the doors open, revealing the distraught High Lord, one hand raised to knock, the other clutching a letter.

“Whatever can I do you for, Tamlin?” Rhys mused, before finally turning to face him. With one look at his expression, he flicked his eyes to the letter in Tamlin's hand, his stomach sinking immediately.

“What’s happened?” Rhys asked quickly.

“Y/N – she was due back in Spring three days ago. Her uncle has written to say she hasn't come home.”

Rhys could feel the violet draining from his eyes. “Perhaps she took a few more days to herself?”

“She wouldn't do that.” Tamlin said firmly.

Rhys nodded, his lips pressing into a tight line as worry brewed even further. He was right.

“There’s more.”

Rhys quirked his brow.

“Podie was found stranded at an inn in Summer, east of the capital.”

“Podie? Who-"

“Her horse Rhysand! They found her damned horse, left there for days!”

Rhys swallowed, his mind narrowing to a steely focus – the way it did before battle.

“You said east?”

Tamlin swallowed thickly, a knowing worry pulling at his features as he nodded. “Just shy of the border.”

Black flooded the little violet left in Rhys’s eyes. “Fuck.”

Tamlin stalked towards Rhys, forcing the letter into his hand. “Call for her mates, immediately.”

But Rhys already was, his mind screaming out to his brothers, to Feyre, to anyone who could find her first.

“Is it done?” Tamlin asked, green eyes desperately scanning the lucid male in front of him.

Rhys was quiet for a moment, before sucking in a sharp sudden breath. He faltered then, grasping the bed post with a wince as his magic recoiled within.

Because somewhere in Velaris, across the mountains and seas and stretch of land the separated y/n from her mates, a panic so deep and rage so violent consumed any magic in reach, even the most powerful High Lords.

Rhys wasn't there to witness Cassian and Azriel’s siphons shattering, to see the way red and blue power - now freed from their bounds - instead consumed them, filling their veins and pulsing against muscle.

Rhys nodded once at Tamlin, confirming what they both knew.

There would be a war to retrieve Y/N alive. And Beron was as good as dead.

————

Beron took a leather parcel from the last of his guards, before ushering him from your cell.

You had been here for days – or so you thought. Time was a difficult thing to grasp in your haze, and there was no light here. It was quite too, the only sound of dripping dampness, and the occasional screams and pleas from a women. That voice was so far away, you weren’t certain it was real, or that it wasn't your own.

Beron had visited you the day you were taken, his dark eyes glowing with hideous intent at the sight of you bound in his dungeon. He hadn’t said much, only promising with sickening glee that he’d be back soon.

You half expected him to beat you, to hurt and punish you for humiliating him at the High lords meeting. Gods, you even anticipated death. But the High Lord kept you hydrated and healthy enough, all be it drugged and weak. Which meant a different fate awaited you, perhaps one worse than you could imagine.

You cursed at the sight of the weapon he unfurled from the leather pouch. It was a rapier of kinds – too large to be a knife, too small to be an ordinary sword. But it was the ungodly glow of the thing - the churning ribbons of deadly silver turning in on itself - that terrified you most.

“What is that?” you panted, your eyes wide as Beron’s grin grew.

“You have no idea the lengths I’ve gone to find such a tool, Y/N.” He angled it this way and that, eyes glowing with admiration as silver danced in them. “The terrible things I had to do to have this made, to even hold it in my bare hands.”

It was pointless to press further into the metal slab you were bound to, cuffs digging at your ankles and wrists as you reopened the same wounds you had fought against for days.

Beron was drawing closer, the rest of the room darkening as the rapier glowed so bright, commanding your attention. The air grew colder, as if those lethal ribbons were consuming the warmth for itself.

“I think we’re alike, you and I.” Beron eyed you with a sickly smile before he began to pace, moving his sword with him.

Your chest heaved with panic, your eyes trailing him as you begged for anyone to find you. Your mates, that tether, perhaps they would hear you? But the bond had weakened since left unacknowledged, and as you fished for it within you could feel how it had thinned.

“I don't like having my things taken from me, Y/N. And I’m certain you don't either. That’s why you were alone, wasn’t it? Without your mates, hm? They took something of yours, and you didn't like it one bit.”

Your eyes snapped to Beron the moment he mentioned them. Fuck. Fuck. Eris, that kniving worm, had told him exactly what he needed to know.

“I’ve had something of mine taken from me over and over again for almost a century. The one thing that was promised to me – sworn to me by oath, bound to me by a ring.”

What nonsense was he spitting? Unless… oh gods.

“You see there’s a particular High Lord who seems to think he can help himself to what is mine. And apparently, my whore of a wife agrees.”

The Lady of Autumn. What Feyre had shared with you about Lucien, about his mother and Helion – it was all true. And Beron knew.

You gulped, your stomach churning as you forced your voice past the strain in your throat. “What in gods name does that have to do with me, you twisted senseless fuck.”

Fear seeped from you, and you knew he could scent it.

Beron chuckled, shaking his head before crazed eyes found yours. “Do you know what my wife said to me when I confronted her, Y/N? Do you know what she claimed, what she threw in my face, after centuries of marriage, of sharing my home and my court and six fucking sons?”

You were wise enough not to answer.

Beron shifted, easing back into lethal calm. “She tells me of a bond. Bound by the cauldron, she claims. She says that she’s sorry, to please not hurt her, to please not hurt him. And then she begs me to let her go.”

Bile rose to your throat. “What have you done to her?” you gritted, fighting against your cuffs once more. “Have you- did you-”

“Kill her?” Beron finished, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Of course not. I am no monster.” He paused then, halting his pace. “I love her.”

It was almost convincing.

“But so began my journey, sweet Y/N, to help my dear wife from her delusions. I keep her here, a few cells over. She’s very eager to receive her treatment and rejoin the throne again as my loyal wife.”

You had to blink through your nausea. The begging, those screams – they were real. It was her.

“By no means was it an easy task to find a tool like this – something so magnificent, crafted straight from death itself. But I do it for her.”

Your stomach dropped. He had harnessed death itself? This was beyond insidious - Beron had been driven insane by his jealousy.

Beron’s eyes flicked from the weapon to you, noting the way you stiffened.

“Ah yes, death. Not an easy thing to befriend, certainly not an easy thing to yield. It took a life to harness it’s power, life from my very own family.”

Beron’s words were becoming harder to hear as your heart pounded in your ears. And then it clicked, and you could have sworn that time stood still as his words played in your head. He had mentioned six sons, not seven.

You had not known a fear like the one you felt now, a sickening tremble overtaking as you knew what he would say next.

“Please,” you begged, twisting in your restraints. “Please! Don't say it!”

“Although I suppose Lucien wasn't truly my family, not really.”

A scream ripped from you, your eyes clenched shut as your mind reeled at the horror. Lucien – Tamlin’s friend, Feyre’s friend, your friend too. Killed as a sacrifice for this insidious narcissist he had thought was his father.

“Oh none of that, Y/N. You act as if I enjoyed it. Lucien was my son in many ways. But a power this great,” he said, casting the sword before his eyes. “Well, it demands an equally great sacrifice.”

Anguished sobs escaped you, tear tracks gleaming from the glow of death before you.

“How could you?” you screamed, writhing against your chains. “He trusted you!”

Beron’s eyes darkened. “It’s as I said,” he growled. “I will not have my things taken from me. For decades I was humiliated and lied to while she slinked from MY COURT to have an affair with another High Lord. Years spent playing me a fool, lying to my face and CLAIMING a SON as my OWN!”

You trembled at the hate in Beron’s voice, walls rumbling as he beheld other-worldly power from the weapon in his hand. You knew his words had hit their mark, and faint wails could be heard outside your cell. The Lady of Autumn could hear it all – Beron was punishing her, forcing her to listen.

He was quiet then, watching you fail to stifle your own sobs.

He moved closer, raising a hand to stroke at your hair. “Shh, shh. Now now, dear Y/N. I may hate you, but I’m a man of reason. I don't believe in spilt blood.”

You jerked under his touch, squeezing your eyes shut and begging to the Mother to not let you die at the hands of this deranged murderer.

“I haven't bought you here to kill you. You’re valuable to me, you see.”

You forced your eyes open.

“I merely want to break your bond.”

There was a ringing in your ears as a panic burst through your veins so quickly you felt you would simply combust.

“And I suppose I don't care should you survive this or not.” Beron said with a shrug, before pointing that ungodly sword at your heart, and a bloodcurdling scream ripped from your chest.

--------

Part 7>>>

A/N: Hi. Hiiiii. Are you... are you ok? Hoping Lucien's death didn't hurt too bad. ❤️ Thank you always for your patience on this chapter, I so hope you liked it (or at least made you feel the feels). I cannot wait to explore feral Cass and Az, and probably Rhys and Feyre and Tamlin too lol Drop a comment or an ask any time, I looooooove hearing your thoughts on the fic, it makes my day each and every time <3 Thank you, and I love you. MWA! ❤️

748 notes · View notes

hussyknee · 4 months

Text

Jesus is Under the Rubble

“This Advent, while global Christians prepare to commemorate the arrival of the Prince of Peace, our Palestinian kin in Gaza suffer unthinkable violence. Their cries of deliverance, echoing those of two millennia ago, seem to be falling unheard on the United States.”

youtube

— by Kelly Latimore icons. All proceeds from sales of this digital image will go toward Red Letter Christians trusted partners in Gaza.

Transcript: Christ in the Rubble A Liturgy of Lament Rev. Dr. Munther Isaac Evangelical Lutheran Christmas Church Bethlehem Saturday, December 23rd, 2023 We are angry…

We are broken…

This should have been a time of joy; instead, we are mourning. We are fearful.

Twenty thousand killed. Thousands under the rubble still. Close to 9,000 children killed in the most brutal ways. Day after day after day. 1.9 million displaced! Hundreds of thousands of homes were destroyed. Gaza as we know it no longer exists. This is an annihilation. A genocide.

The world is watching; Churches are watching. Gazans are sending live images of their own execution. Maybe the world cares? But it goes on.

We are asking, could this be our fate in Bethlehem? In Ramallah? In Jenin? Is this our destiny too?

We are tormented by the silence of the world. Leaders of the so-called “free” lined up one after the other to give the green light for this genocide against a captive population. They gave the cover. Not only did they make sure to pay the bill in advance, they veiled the truth and context, providing political cover. And, yet another layer has been added: the theological cover with the Western Church stepping into the spotlight.

The South African Church taught us the concept of “The state theology,” defined as “the theological justification of the status quo with its racism, capitalism and totalitarianism.” It does so by misusing theological concepts and biblical texts for its own political purposes.

Here in Palestine, the Bible is weaponized against our very own sacred text. In our terminology in Palestine, we speak of the Empire. Here we confront the theology of the Empire. A disguise for superiority, supremacy, “chosenness,” and entitlement. It is sometimes given a nice cover using words like mission and evangelism, fulfillment of prophecy, and spreading freedom and liberty. The theology of the Empire becomes a powerful tool to mask oppression under the cloak of divine sanction. It divides people into “us” and “them.” It dehumanizes and demonizes. It speaks of land without people even when they know the land has people – and not just any people. It calls for emptying Gaza, just like it called the ethnic cleansing in 1948 “a divine miracle.” It calls for us Palestinians to go to Egypt, maybe Jordan, or why not just the sea?

“Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” they said of us. This is the theology of Empire.

This war has confirmed to us that the world does not see us as equal. Maybe it is the color of our skin. Maybe it is because we are on the wrong side of the political equation. Even our kinship in Christ did not shield us. As they said, if it takes killing 100 Palestinians to get a single “Hamas militant” then so be it! We are not humans in their eyes. (But in God’s eyes… no one can tell us we are not!)

The hypocrisy and racism of the Western world is transparent and appalling! They always take the words of Palestinians with suspicion and qualification. No, we are not treated equally. Yet, the other side, despite a clear track record of misinformation, is almost always deemed infallible!

To our European friends. I never ever want to hear you lecture us on human rights or international law again. We are not white— it does not apply to us according to your own logic.

In this war, the many Christians in the Western world made sure the Empire has the theology needed. It is self-defense, we were told! (And I ask: how?)

In the shadow of the Empire, they turned the colonizer into the victim, and the colonized into the aggressor. Have we forgotten that the state was built on the ruins of the towns and villages of those very same Gazans?

We are outraged by the complicity of the church. Let it be clear: Silence is complicity, and empty calls for peace without a ceasefire and end to occupation, and the shallow words of empathy without direct action— are all under the banner of complicity. So here is my message: Gaza today has become the moral compass of the world. Gaza was hell on earth before October 7th.

If you are not appalled by what is happening; if you are not shaken to your core— there is something wrong with your humanity. If we, as Christians, are not outraged by this genocide, by the weaponizing of the Bible to justify it, there is something wrong with our Christian witness, and compromising the credibility of the Gospel!

If you fail to call this a genocide. It is on you. It is a sin and a darkness you willingly embrace.

Some have not even called for a ceasefire.

I feel sorry for you. We will be okay. Despite the immense blow we have endured, we will recover. We will rise and stand up again from the midst of destruction, as we have always done as Palestinians, although this is by far the biggest blow we have received in a long time.

But again, for those who are complicit, I feel sorry for you. Will you ever recover from this?

Your charity, your words of shock AFTER the genocide, won’t make a difference. Words of regret will not suffice for you. We will not accept your apology after the genocide. What has been done, has been done. I want you to look at the mirror… and ask: where was I?

To our friends who are here with us: You have left your families and churches to be with us. You embody the term accompaniment— a costly solidarity. “We were in prison and you visited us.” What a stark difference from the silence and complicity of others. Your presence here is the meaning of solidarity. Your visit has already left an impression that will never be taken from us. Through you, God has spoken to us that “we are not forsaken.” As Father Rami of the Catholic Church said this morning, you have come to Bethlehem, and like the Magi, you brought gifts with, but gifts that are more precious than gold, frankincense, and myrrh. You brought the gift of love and solidarity.

We needed this. For this season, maybe more than anything, we were troubled by the silence of God. In these last two months, the Psalms of lament have become a precious companion. We cried out: My God, My God, why have you forsaken Gaza? Why do you hide your face from Gaza?

In our pain, anguish, and lament, we have searched for God, and found him under the rubble in Gaza. Jesus became the victim of the very same violence of the Empire. He was tortured. Crucified. He bled out as others watched. He was killed and cried out in pain— My God, where are you?

In Gaza today, God is under the rubble.

And in this Christmas season, as we search for Jesus, he is to be found not on the side of Rome, but our side of the wall. In a cave, with a simple family. Vulnerable. Barely, and miraculously surviving a massacre. Among a refugee family. This is where Jesus is found.

If Jesus were to be born today, he would be born under the rubble in Gaza. When we glorify pride and richness, Jesus is under the rubble.

When we rely on power, might, and weapons, Jesus is under the rubble.

When we justify, rationalize, and theologize the bombing of children, Jesus is under the rubble.

Jesus is under the rubble. This is his manger. He is at home with the marginalized, the suffering, the oppressed, and displaced. This is his manger.

I have been looking, contemplating on this iconic image….God with us, precisely in this way. THIS is the incarnation. Messy. Bloody. Poverty.

This child is our hope and inspiration. We look and see him in every child killed and pulled from under the rubble. While the world continues to reject the children of Gaza, Jesus says: “just as you did it to one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me.” “You did to ME.” Jesus not only calls them his own, he is them!

We look at the holy family and see them in every family displaced and wandering, now homeless in despair. While the world discusses the fate of the people of Gaza as if they are unwanted boxes in a garage, God in the Christmas narrative shares in their fate; He walks with them and calls them his own.

This manger is about resilience— صمود. The resilience of Jesus is in his meekness; weakness, and vulnerability. The majesty of the incarnation lies in its solidarity with the marginalized. Resilience because this very same child, rose up from the midst of pain, destruction, darkness and death to challenge empires; to speak truth to power and deliver an everlasting victory over death and darkness.

This is Christmas today in Palestine and this is the Christmas message. It is not about Santa, trees, gifts, lights… etc. My goodness how we twisted the meaning of Christmas. How we have commercialized Christmas. I was in the USA last month, the first Monday after Thanksgiving, and I was amazed by the amount of Christmas decorations and lights, all the and commercial goods. I couldn’t help but think: They send us bombs, while celebrating Christmas in their land. They sing about the prince of peace in their land, while playing the drum of war in our land.

Christmas in Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus, is this manger. This is our message to the world today. It is a Gospel message, a true and authentic Christmas message, about the God who did not stay silent, but said his word, and his Word is Jesus. Born among the occupied and marginalized. He is in solidarity with us in our pain and brokenness.

This manger is our message to the world today – and it is simply this: this genocide must stop NOW. Let us repeat to the world: STOP this Genocide NOW.

This is our call. This is our plea. This is our prayer. Hear oh God. Amen.

(Source)

I found these on Twitter a while ago. Original creator unknown.

I can't stop you ascribing hateful, paranoid meanings to these images, but they're not about blaming religions. Jesus was a Jew born to a community of Jews in Palestine, the cradle of the Abrahamic faiths. He was raised and loved by them, betrayed by their rulers* and killed by Romans. He's a Prophet of Islam. End of.

*Y'know, like how the people of the Arab and Muslim nations love Palestine and crying to help them, except their leaders are greedy and rotted to the core. The ruling class will always only serve the empire.

Edit: alt text provided by @this-world-of-beautiful-monsters

306 notes · View notes

ozzgin · 7 months

Note

I love your work! It is so hard to find good Baki writers. Could you please do a Yujiro x Female fighter reader. I feel like Yujiro would actually start falling head over heels with a reader who fights well and is as sadistic as him.

Thank you! And yes, realistically speaking - or at least what makes most sense in my opinion - Yuujirou would go for someone that not only is submissive to him (because any human would then suffice), but also shows impressive skill and strength. There’s an interesting idea that I once read in the introduction of “The Gates of Janus”, the book written by serial killer Ian Brady. The foreword author argued that Ian is what you’d call a rat king, an alpha above most alphas, and that for such personalities, most of the time, an equally dominant woman is sought for as a partner. Naturally she’d submit to him still, but only a woman of high dominance could keep up with this kind of intense character. This mentality felt a bit outdated and potentially misogynistic to me, but I think it really fits in the case of Yuujirou. Sorry for the ramble.

Yandere! Yuujirou Hanma x Fighter! Reader

Featuring The Ogre and a female reader that nearly matches him in strength and ruthlessness. TW: Dubious consent, violence.

[Baki Masterlist]

Yuujirou can have anyone in the world, whether man or woman. It’s not up to them, really. It’s up to his mood and whims. And when he can have just about anyone, actually finding someone worth his interest becomes a difficult task. He doesn’t need an extra weight to drag around and as far as he’s concerned, commitment is not something he requires in his life. What would be the point?

No, for someone of his status, commitment doesn’t come as moral etiquette or requirement for a relationship. He has considered it, and in theory it could only be offered out of his genuine interest and never demanded by someone else. For The Ogre himself to fixate on one person and never wander eyes anywhere else… They would really have to impress him. Guarantee him that this is a one time deal never to be found again. And once that person is found, they’d do well to perform their role as his partner because there is no way out of it.

Lamentably, such temptation has never crossed his path. That is until a feminine figure strides into the ring of the Underground Arena. Yuujirou is ready to burst with laughter, but he’s quickly silenced by the rather abrupt end of the match. The mysterious character remains unfazed by the opponent’s blow and uses the opportunity to swiftly twist and crush the offensive limb. With the same indifference plastered on the face throughout the agonizing wails of the much larger man, she delivers her ending move and within seconds the arena is quiet again. After recollecting himself from this unexpected succession, Yuujirou turns to Strydum that’s been watching with similar amazement. “Who the hell is that?” He grunts. “I don’t know. Should I find out?”

Sometimes Yuujirou will replay the encounter in his head. He still gets shivers of raw excitement whenever he remembers your eyes back then. That utterly defiant glare. Strydum had asked you to meet them in private and as you entered the room, you immediately demanded to know why you’d been summoned. The Colonel begun fumbling in terror, almost begging you indirectly to not upset the redheaded man. “M-Mr. Hanma wished to see you, Miss (Y/N)-“ he was interrupted by your resounding snarl. “And who the fuck is Mr. Hanma to afford such audacity?” At that moment Yuujirou stood up, hands in pockets but visibly tensed up. You instinctively clenched your fists and frowned at the unspoken difference in power. The Ogre was halfway expecting you to fold and apologize, but after a minute your expression relaxed and your confidence returned. “Bitch. You’d rather die than give up your pride, huh?” He smirked at the thought. There was something about your attitude that greatly pissed him off but also turned him on at the same time.

The hardest part is getting you to accept him as your partner. See, Yuujirou will never beg or ask nicely. On the other hand, he’d rather not kill you, and severely damaging you in any way would take away the fun that caught his attention in the first place. That’s the dilemma: you’re stubborn and he can’t use force. Then again it’s not like he’s a mindless brute. Quite the opposite, only if he feels like it. A little charm with a dash of intimidation and you should be convinced, right? Don’t push it, (Y/N). If he really has to choose, he’d rather have you dead than belonging to someone else. It’s either him or nothing.

Really, it’s to your advantage if you learn to behave. He can give you everything you desire. He’s rather experienced in spoiling his women, and for you he’ll go the extra mile. Knowing he tamed you of all people is all the payment he could ever ask for. The satisfaction of putting you in your place, of having you cling to him fills him with greedy pride. A cocky smile distorts his features whenever the realization hits. If there’s such a thing as a soulmate, he’s found his. Although he doesn’t believe in that kind of bullshit.

A frightening pair in the eyes of most people. The Ogre relishes in the fact that displaying you as his woman has further increased his reputation instead of signaling any trace of weakness. As the time passes his conviction only strengthens: there’s no other place for you. You’re all his. Yet his favorite detail, what makes him flushed and dazed and addicted, is that no matter what he does to you as you lay there sprawled, naked, broken, your dignity never leaves. That prideful gaze that leers back at him makes him feel like he’s facing a mirror.

#baki #baki the grappler #baki hanma #baki headcanons #yandere #yandere baki #baki x reader #yujiro hanma #yujiro hanma x reader #yuujirou hanma #hanma yujiro #yandere x reader

548 notes · View notes

supertrainstationh · 20 days

Text

CHARITY CASE CHAMPION

by A. Griffin / Super Train Station H ---------------------------------

I round up with pride at the checkout for Autism Speaks, but insult adults who like "Thomas the Tank Engine", and call them freaks.

I want to help the disabled, my bumper sticker proves it, truly, but when they get older, they better not enjoy "Bluey".

I support the autistic, and buy charity merch gladly, but I harass them online over things that make them happy.

There's no way those people could be autistic in any case, because I'm normal, so how could them, and me, be in a common space?

Leading brand charities told me what to look for: kids, often pitiable, easy to be adored, typically male - if they don't look like that, they're surely faking it, without fail!

I trust groups claiming to speak for disabled folks, without a doubt, but when they speak for themselves, it proves they're acting for web clout.

I "light it up blue," so those with hardships won't be silenced, but if I meet them online, I pelt them with written violence.

If they were really autistic they wouldn't and shouldn't have mentioned it! Speaking to me is for equals, I know I'm better than them!

How dare adults speak of benefiting from therapy courses? They should feel terrible for stealing disabled children's resources!

My heart goes out for those with sensory issues, in their younger days, but when they grow up, seeing them happy makes me outraged.

God forbid an adult enjoy things rated for all ages, or draw themselves as creatures from the comic strip pages.

I sympathize with web videos of disabled kid's meltdowns, but I see an adult happily flapping online, I'll run them out of town!

Why should it be on me to stow my righteous hostility?

Those phonies are mocking the plight of children with special needs!

"Autistic adult" is clearly an oxymoron. I browsed a charity website, so I know what's really going on!

Autistic people aren't legit unless they're kids that don't talk, that means adults that use vocal speech are committing fraud.

And as for those with different brains who happen to be silent, why consider their feelings, when they belong in asylum?

Stories put forth by autistic adults, are clearly embellishments, since for disabled people, they sure seem oddly intelligent.

I'm a well-balanced person, doing what little good I can manage, so I lurk online seeking targets to hate and disparage.

Exposing the lies of those that falsely claim to be special, makes me such a good person, that I deserve a gold medal!

So pitch in this April, every penny will be spent well - the cute kids on the posters, need every bit of help.

Their lives have been stolen, only your cash can restore their dreams!

But know, they shouldn't be cared about, after they hit eighteen!

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

[Twitch] [VOD Channel] [Writing FA] [Ko-fi]

#a.griffin writes #poetry #autism #neurodiversity #neurodivergent #autistic #poem #writing

150 notes · View notes

dilatorywriting · 1 year

Text

Monster Mayhem: Donkeys & Dragons [PART 4]

Gender Neutral Reader x Malleus Draconia Word Count: 6.7k

Summary: 'Never tickle a sleeping dragon.'

🌶️Obligatory Warning for Some Descriptions of Violence & Mild Suggestive Content

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [EPILOGUE]

As detestable as they were, at the very least your assailants were well organized.

You were plopped neatly at the center of the room, in a very conspicuous location that would have made it difficult for a hypothetical someone to, say, just flat-out torch everything in sight without also catching his very tiny, mortal, companion up in said firestorm.

The group of them split off to tend to their tasks with a frankly shocking level of competence and foresight. Was this how adventurers were actually supposed to work? They didn’t just—I don’t know—saunter into an abandoned castle on a whim and a prayer, with no real end goal in sight and nothing but the perpetual bounding of a singular, shared, braincell to keep them on their toes? There was a plan? What was this madness.

“How much time do you think we have?” one of them called, busy working to set up some sort of wire trap that, in your humble ‘I have faced this legendary dragon and survived’ opinion, looked like it would do exactly diddly squat.

“Enough,” the Elf Wizard shrugged, thin arms crossed tight across his equally gaunt chest. “These vermin don’t have the same concept of time as we do. It may return soon, but we may also be waiting hours.”

Hours? Hours? You fought the urge to groan. And then remembered it hardly mattered if you did or not, because you were still trapped in a bubble of perpetual Silence, and that just made you want to groan louder.

Assumed-Rogue nodded tersely in response and continued constructing his pseudo-trap. The long, red, stripes of his sleeves were odd things—very in-your-face bold for a dude whose job you assumed it was to slip through shadows unseen. But then you noticed that the threads he was spinning were pooling from those slashes of crimson, and alright, that was fairly cool. ‘Your failure of a stealthy design gets a pass this time, good sir.’

“You’re certain this is one of the Briar Beasts, Lord Flamm?” Armored Lady piped in, busy shifting through the various swords strapped at her hip.

“Of course,” he hummed, flicking through his spell tome. “Have I ever led you astray before?”

Armored Dude snorted from his place across the room. “You’re not the issue. I just have trouble believing one of those monsters would still be alive at all after all this time.”

‘Lord Flamm’ snorted. “And why not? They’re like cockroaches—thriving through the worst of the world and gorging themselves on its corruption. This one is no different.”

Your brows twitched irritably.

Thankfully, Silence was not an indefinite spell. And after about ten minutes of muzzled misery, you felt its sticky, gauzy, gunk wash itself out of your throat.

“I’m getting the impression that you’re really not a fan of dragons,” you said, testing your volume.

Lord Flamm stared down at you with a hawk-eyed sort of sneer. His pale, green, glare felt like a tangible thing crawling along your skin.

“They are unnatural,” he huffed after a moment. “No creature should walk the planes of this world for such a great span of time. Immortality is a perverse transgression against the sanctities of life and existence.”

“You are literally an Elf,” you replied, incredulous. His face scrunched up like you’d forced a whole lemon into his mouth, and then he dropped another dome of Silence over your head.

Another ten minutes crawled by, and words returned to your tongue.

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit hypocritical?” you hummed, casually testing the arcane restraints binding your limbs. Those seemed to hold themselves in place with a great deal more fortitude than his on-again-off-again Mute Button, which was as frustrating as it was respectable.

“It’s not nearly the same. I was born into my burden,” he sniffed.

You blinked, confused. “I mean, so was Tsunotarou.”

Elf Wizard made a punched-out sort of noise, like you’d decked him right in the spleen.

“You named the beast?” he gawked. “Like a pet?”

“Look, man,” you grouched, offended on your scaly friend’s behalf. “If anyone’s the pet here, it’s me!”

Lord Flamm’s face went white, to red, and then nearly puce.

“Wait,” you spluttered. “That came out wrong—”

And then you were gagged once more.

The next time your muzzle was lifted, Lord Flamm was already pacing along the little, invisible, edge of the spell’s cage. You cleared your throat and he came to a stop a few feet away from where you were bound.

“I can see what’s happened here,” he said, stern, and you arched a brow in disbelief. You didn’t even have any solid idea what the fuck was going on, and you’d been living it for the past few weeks. He cleared his throat and glowered down at you. “You’ve been taken in by the monster’s wiles.”

You spluttered. “Not to just keep repeating myself, but really, if anyone did the ‘accidental seducing’ thing here, it was—”

He waved you off with a puckered grimace. “That hardly matters. At the end of the day, you are still the creature’s prisoner, and it is my duty as a man of integrity to assist you however I can.”

You frowned. Because while this whole thing had technically started as a hostage situation, it hadn’t really felt like one lately. Sure, Tsunotarou still threw tantrums that shook the foundation when you’d tried to put up a makeshift bathroom door, but he also listened to all your stories with the rapt attention of someone genuinely invested in the garbage pouring out of your mouth. He tucked you into your big mattress nest at night with his scaly nose, and endured all your griping with nothing but good humor. He showed you his treasures and told you terrible, dry, jokes that you were sure you only found so funny because he certainly hadn’t meant to be.

You sighed and dipped your head, expression shuttered.

Lord Flamm stepped forward and you felt a thin, gloved, finger tuck itself beneath your chin to tilt you back up to face him.

“I will save you,” he promised, something genuinely sturdy and righteous coating the words. “If you ask it of me.”

You took a deep breath in through your nose.

“There once a man from Trebucket,” you chirped, letting the jaunty tavern melody roll off your tongue like any good Bard ought to.

Lord Flamm arched a thin brow, in equal parts amusement and exasperation.

“Who really only wanted to find the dragon so he could fuck it—”

His face twisted in rage, and to the surprise of literally no one, you were Silenced yet again. Though this one felt the most like a victory so far.

And thus, the cycle repeated itself. Every quarter hour or so, the spell would drop and you’d start babbling some sacrilegious, borderline pornographic, nonsense that had him cursing you all over again. You counted each round of mockery softly in your head. Half to keep time, half to—

Your gaze trailed past the intricate, stone, entryway and caught. Perched atop the overhang were two gargoyles. Which was quite odd, seeing as you’d spent half a month living out of this room now and had never noticed them before (and you certainly would have, what with your host’s propensity for pointing out the gothic carvings each and every time one popped up in the castle’s architecture). Not to mention, they looked an awful lot like the pair of grey monsters which had been guarding the entrance when you’d first slunk in—the very duo that you’d sworn had tracked you and your friends with beady, gemstone, eyes and dug their pointed talons through solid rock.

Ancient buildings always seemed to have a life about them—never quiet, never still. Always settling with strange noises and shifting shadows that danced oddly along surfaces that were forever decaying. And this castle was no different. So it took you really listening, really closing your eyes tight and straining your ears against the perpetual white noise, to make out the low grinding of the Gargoyles as they shifted atop their perch and curled their sharp claws.

You tilted your head at them, curious, and the one on the left seemed to bristle. As much as stone could bristle. The one on the right very softly dipped its chin, almost like a bow. Its purple, glass, eyes flashed in the lowlight.

‘Wait,’ that look said.

And so you did, sitting straighter and at proper attention.

The group of Dragon Slayers was still milling about making preparations. Eventually, one of the two yet-unclassified hench people slunk from the room, and when your gaze slipped back to the gargoyles, the one on the right was gone.

You made eye contact with the remaining carving, and it curled its lip at you like a grumbly hound.

There was a scream from beyond the threshold, and then a great clattering of noise not unlike an earthquake, or the resonating crunch of a building crumbling at its base.

Immediately weapons were drawn, shoulders hunched in panic. Defensive magic swirled through the air like ink in water.

“What’s going on?!—”

With a shrieking roar, the remaining gargoyle lurched forward and collided with one of the armored attackers. The impact was like a crack of thunder, and it rattled around your skull like a gong.

And with that—dragon or no—the battle against the Hunters had officially begun.

With a panicked squawk, you began worming your still very bound self out of the dead center of this tornado of chaos. You flopped across the floor like a particularly determined caterpillar, or someone trussed up a in a sleeping bag with no limbs. You made it almost a solid twenty feet before you were scooped up by the back of your collar and dropped onto your knees.

“Not so fast, you little cretin.”

And then there was a curved knife at your throat and a set of hands trapping your own. You gulped and the blade bobbed against your chin. Stupid rogues with their stupid stealth. You grit your teeth and clenched your fists, willing the meager scraps of magic that twirled in your veins to bob to the surface. You could feel the trace rumblings of a Thunderwave reverberating down your limbs, and it was certainly no Fireball, or Lightning Bolt, but maybe it would be enough to—

There was a spray of red, red, red and the Striped Rogue at your back collapsed in a puddle of gore.

Standing over the corpse of the felled assassin was a boy. Or, well, something that very much looked like a young boy. Or, not young. Just… It was strange. He was small, slight, with a cheerful youthfulness to him. But the mirthful expression lighting his crimson eyes chilled your bones like the seeping cold from a long-forgotten tomb. It was like looking at someone with dozens—hundreds—of faces. A kaleidoscope of lifetimes. It was disorientating.

“Hello, you,” the little demon cooed. He reached out to tap a clawed finger against your forehead and the arcane binds holding your limbs shattered on impact. “Let’s get you out of here, hmm?”

Something tugged at your brain as you gaped at that mess of choppy, black-and-pink, hair, and the glittering irises that matched the blood splattered across his cheeks almost too horribly well.

“Are you… Lilia?” you asked, dazed.

“Well done, little human,” he trilled, lips curling in delight as he hauled you back to your feet. “But there will be time for proper introductions later. Let’s get you somewhere safe first, before my silly ward really does tear this whole castle down.”

“Tsunotarou is here?” you frowned, anxious. “But these people are here to kill him.”

“We’ve done our best to keep him away for as long as possible,” Lilia hummed. “But I doubt he has much more patience for skulking about in the shadows. He never did,” He sighed, long and world weary. “And I loved this old haunt so much too. I hope it survives.”

“You—” you gawked. “You’re talking about the castle?!”

“Of course,” Lilia smiled, perfectly sweet. “Swatting these pests is going to cause more damage than they’re worth to begin with—”

You were yanked out of the path of an encroaching blade, and Lilia sidestepped the pair of you smoothly to safety.

“You’re not going anywhere!” the Paladin thundered, hand whipping out to leash a whirl of vibrating, bright, magic around Lilia’s wrists. “This fight is mine! And you will have no other!”

“Ah,” your savior sighed, looking down at the faint, yellow, glow circling his skin. “Now that is a doozy.”

The great sword came down with a crash, and Lilia ducked away from the destruction with ease. He gave you a light tap on the shoulder, pushing you forward, and you felt the flush of a Haste spell nibbling at your limbs.

“Go on ahead,” he said, with all the nonchalant politeness of someone lamenting that they were going to be late for afternoon tea. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

BOOM went the now glowing sword as it sliced through the air where your savior had been standing not a moment before.

“Do not take me so lightly, wretch,” the Paladin spat, and Lilia’s civil little smile twisted into something that sent shivers racing down your spine.

“If you insist,” he beamed, with a level of enthusiasm that was bordering on sociopathic.

You didn’t stay to see the fallout. Lilia’s orders to flee aside, you knew well enough what a cat looked like before it pounced—that smug, animalistic, satisfaction that came after deciding that it was going to play with its meal for as long as it liked. And the grinding, snapping, howling noises coming from their direction was enough to reinforce that looking back would be a very terrible idea indeed.

You’d only just made it past the threshold and out in the grand hall beyond when there came a whining groan that sounded familiarly enough like the protesting noises the banister would make whenever Tsunotarou dropped too much of his weight on top of it. You peered back into the room, and from the darkness at its rear emerged a long, thin, snout.

The Great, Ebony, Dragon slithered forth from the blackness like a snake through the grass. The sharp drag of his claws against the stone was earsplitting, and when he spread his wings behind him, he seemed to cast the entire cavern into shadow. Faster than you could blink, one, two, three of the Slayers were scooped up by those massive, pointed, teeth and tossed through the air—wherein the pair of gargoyles descended upon them like a set of well-trained attack dogs. Your dragon swiveled to spit black smoke across the rest of the echoing room and its occupants. Between the swirling smog seeping from his throat and the blackness of his wings, the brilliant, green, glow of his eyes were the only source of light in the gloom. It was all horribly eerie, but mesmerizing in a way that reminded you exactly why so many ballads and epics had been written about the terrible might of Dragons.

He reared his head back and roared. His bellowing seemed to shake the very foundation of the castle, and the sparks jumping from behind his canines bit through the smoke with harsh little pop-pop-pops. And man oh man, he reallymust have been taking it easy on you and your duo of idiots, because this would have had the three of you shitting your pants on the spot.

From there, the battle more or less became a one-sided massacre. The stone soldiers flew through the air, decimating the opponents as their master demanded. Occasionally there was a flash of pink, and then a cheerful laugh followed inevitably by a noise that was all kinds of unpleasant. And at the center of it all was your newfound friend—picking apart the opposition with all the careful rage of someone determined to sear the consequences of these Hunters’ folly into the memories of their lineages for ages to come.

And then—amidst all the quite frankly epic fighting that you would have to tell Ace and Deuce all about when they came back to visit—you noticed that not far from where you were hiding observing was a familiar, angry, gaunt face. Lord Flamm’s elaborate black and maroon robes swirled around his ankles as he paced, and he was leering at the chaos unfolding not a hundred feet away with an expression that calling murderous would have been kind.

You bristled immediately, limbs lancing through with a tight sort of indignation.

He was just—right there! Standing all the way out here! When the rest of his party was busy being chewed to itty-bitty pieces!

And sure, rationally you knew that Wizards were squishy, glass-canons not meant for close combat more intense than a round of rock-paper-scissors. Sure, when you and your idiots had been facing down a dragon, Ace and Deuce had ordered you and your equally ill-armored self to run for it. Someone had probably hurled the Elf from the room the moment combat began, or demanded he whirl away to safety.

But you wanted to be angry. Because this was the man who had strode, eyes wide open, into a hornet’s nest with the sole intention of crushing the poor bugs beneath his heel. He deserved to bear the brunt of the miserable, stinging, backlash.

It certainly didn’t help that he was glaring down Tsunotarou with near frenzied loathing. The tome in his hands was flipped open to a dense spell that you couldn’t even begin to make sense of, and he was casting. Something tedious, and extravagant, and with enough somatic nonsense to make your head spin. His gloved fingers glowed beneath a growing mote of magic that shone horrible and bright in the natural shadows of the castle. Whatever sort of magic it was, it was strong enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and push frantic adrenaline through your veins. Sigils swam through the air, and you swore you could feel it sapping at your own tiny pool of mana. If this was some kind of spell that would gobble up magic, then a dragon who was nothing but magic—then Tsunotarou—he would—This spell might actually—

You ran at that wretched little bitch with everything you had, and tackled him to the ground just as a bolt of crackling, pale, force magic boomed from between his fingers. The spell shot wide, and you thanked every divine being you could think of for the enduring shittiness of Wizard Muscles.

“I should have known you’d risk your life to save that unholy monster,” he seethed, rolling back to his feet and sending you tumbling off the side.

You stood firm and silent between this awful, garbage, Elf and the Dragon he so hated.

Lord Flamm raised a hand in your direction, incensed, and then you watched as something sharp and frightened slithered its way across his features. No sparks danced along his fingertips, no black miasma curled from his palms. You shoved your hands into your pockets and rocked back and forth on your heels like the most obnoxious piece of shit you could be.

“Wow,” you drawled, low in your throat. “That was impressive. I mean. How many times did you cast all those spells on me earlier? I’m shocked you have anything left.”

The already dark look coloring his face twitched into something truly foul.

“You were doing that on purpose,” he snarled. “You vile, loathsome, bumbling ignoramus of a bard!—"

“Ah, stop, stop!” You beamed, fanning yourself with a limp wrist. “You’re going to make me blush~”

You ducked out the way with a yelp as a mote of fire whizzed past your ear—singeing far too many hairs at it went. Because fuck fuck fuck. Cantrips were still a thing. And he was powerful enough that those simple, little, bits of magic would still probably be more than enough to fry the meat off your bones.

“It’ll be enough to kill you,” he seethed—like he could read your thoughts—teeth tugged into a hideous, gaping, sneer.

Your mind zipped through every possible escape route and settled frantically on the only option that had ever truly seemed to save your ass.

“What white teeth you have?” you tried.

He roared and another shot of brilliant, red, flames careened over your head.

You ducked out of the way with a squawk just in the nick of time, nearly faceplanting into a wall in your haste.

And thus ensued a terrifying but morbidly hilarious Benny Hill chase through pillars, and behind rocks, and into holes. You killed your singular, daily use of Misty Step just trying to get out of one of said holes. And your brief attempt at tossing up a Mirror Image to throw off his groove did little but get you whacked with a Counterspell that made your bones ache.

Just as you’d burned through the last of your meager magic and were genuinely preparing to just try and deck the guy again, black smoke began to curl through the hall—soon followed by the ominous roll of thunderous growls and the heavy grindingof a gigantic beast clawing its way into the room.

You threw yourself at the dragon with more enthusiasm than was probably proper for a situation like this, and he immediately ducked his head to catch you against his snout. He curled himself around you with a rumbling snarl and your vision was drowned in a shifting sea of ebony scales. You squished yourself into his bulk with a shuddering sigh, fingers clutching a bit uselessly at the slippery surface of his natural armor.

A burst of orange flames rolled harmlessly off Tsunotarou’s scaled side and his lips curled unpleasantly over his canines. You could see the licks of emerald fire rolling off his tongue—dancing along his white teeth and lighting the hall in an ominous, sickly, glow.

Before the pair of you, Lord Flamm looked half-mad. If not fully consumed. His party wiped, his hostage freed, and the creature he hated so fiercely baring down on him with no escape.

He let his head fall back with a discordant trill of laughter and grinned at the approaching dragon without a hint of repentance. Fear, perhaps. Panic, certainly. But no remorse. He raised his hands once more, and another dredge of his own fire sparked along his fingers.

“And he shall smite the wicked and plunge them into the fiery pit.”

The Great Briar Beast of Old opened his gigantic, black, maw and choked the hall in a torrent of emerald fire.

And Lord Flamm and his Dragon Slayers were no more.

You stared intently at the singed corridor, as if waiting for one of the piles of ash to jump to its feet and pull a sword. Which you might have excused as paranoid fretting if you hadn’t heard of necrotic magics capable of doing exactly that. But after a long moment of waiting with bated breath and tight fists, the monsters did not rise from their graves, and all seemed to be truly well and over.

You let out a gigantic gust of a breath and collapsed bonelessly against the dragon at your side. After a solid minute or two of just awkwardly trying to find a good way to hug a giant lizard more than a dozen times your size, Tsunotarou slipped out of his scales, and then he was warm and fleshy in your arms once more. Still too big, still earth-shatteringly strong, but human-shapedenough that you could merrily settle into his embrace without the risk of becoming a pancake.

“Tsunotarou!” you chirped past the lingering haze of smoke. “You’re okay!”

“Me?” he gawked at you. It was an awkward angle to make eye contact, seeing as he’d latched himself onto you like a particularly determined koala, but he managed nonetheless. “You were worried about me during all of that?” He blinked those wide, neon, eyes at you like you were some horribly long and tedious math equation that he couldn’t even begin to make sense of. “You were the one who was captured!”

“They were Dragon Slayers,” you entreated, brow furrowed. “They didn’t need me for much of anything. Of course I was worried more about you.”

When the constipated look on his face refused to fade, you prodded him gently in his side.

“Look, I promise if we ever run into Bard Poachers I will be exponentially more cautious.”

He didn’t look particularly convinced—whether because he was trying to suss out of if something like ‘Bard Poachers’ were an actual, factual, threat upon your person, or because you’d just openly hurtled yourself at a clearly overpowered, feral, wizard with no regards to your already shitty constitution to speak of, so a promise to ‘be more cautious’ was about as good as saying that maybe next time you wouldn’t outright flirt with death. Only subtly. A lil’ bit.

You reached up to smoosh your thumb along the sharp slant of his frown and smooth out the harsh edges that were practically digging into his jaw.

“Tsunotarou, if you keep making that face, it’s going to get stuck like that,” you warned.

“Malleus,” he interrupted, firm. You blinked up at him slowly and your hand fell back to rest in the nonexistent space between you.

“A what?”

“Malleus,” he repeated, and you felt the weight of the word dance through the air like sparks. Like an invocation, or a curse. “My true name.”

You waited a moment in shocked silence before slowly repeating your own name back at him. He startled and snorted a laugh into your neck, some of that lingering, terrible, tension finally seeming to seep out of him.

“I am well aware of what you are called, Child of Man.”

“…I know that,” you mumbled, fighting the urge to fidget. Malleus, Malleus, Malleus. The syllables sat heavy on your tongue, like your mouth couldn’t figure out how to push them past your lips. “I thought you said that dragons don’t give out their real names.”

He drew back just enough to cup your cheeks in his ashy palms, brushing a clawed finger back and forth against one of the small cuts littering your jaw.

“There is power in a name,” he said. “It is not a gift readily bestowed.”

Then why—

You swallowed, nervous, and one of his thumbs tracked the movement along the hollow of your throat.

“This way, if you call for me, I will always hear you,” he promised, eyes going flinty and venomous as he gazed at the cinder piles of smoking intruders. “And something like this will never happen again.”

“I—I mean,” you spluttered. “Me being—And this being—I mean—” You cleared your throat. “That hardly seems like a good enough reason to—to—” To put something so important into the hands of someone who literally broke into your house less than a month ago. To give something so precious to someone so human.

“Isn’t it?” he smiled, that sharp anger melting back into something painfully soft. Your poor heart kickstarted itself all over again. He ducked forward to press his nose into your temple, and you could feel the soft puff of his breath as his grin sharpened into a smirk. “Though I would have liked to bestow my titles on you in other ways as well, if this little hero would be amenable.”

You squawked, and the only thing that shook you out of the immediate spiral into ‘did he really just ask me to—am I really going to be stuck in every goddamn bard’s trope existence of—of—' was the merry laughter that bubbled up from somewhere behind you.

“Careful, my Prince,” Lilia hummed from his place perched atop a particularly large heap of rubble. “If you come on too strong, you’ll only scare them away. Humans are flighty like that, I’m afraid.”

You could feel Malleus’s pout against your forehead.

“Not my human,” he grouched. His hands dropped from your cheeks to encircle your waist and clutch at your lower back. “And that besides,” he continued testily, “you were the one who only just this morning insisted I take decisive action.”

“That’s true,” Lilia agreed with a gentle bob of his head, resting his pointed chin against his palm. “But perhaps three sentences at least before the proposal?”

Malleus blinked, slow and serpentine, before flicking his neon gaze back to you. “That does seem fair I suppose. What do you think?”

“I think,” you gawked, trying and failing to process any of the words that were coming out of their fanged mouths, “that I am having a stroke.”

“NOT ACCEPTABLE!” boomed a voice from overhead. “YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO FALL ILL AFTER ALL THE EFFORTS WE TOOK TO KEEP YOU SAFE!”

You jolted in shock, and Malleus’s talons flexed reassuringly at your waist as he gently turned you back-to-chest so that you could face your accuser. He nestled his chin into your shoulder, and you could feel his horns bump against your skull as he tried to burrow in as close as possible. Which all would have been thoroughly distracting, but then you noticed that one of the Gargoyles from early had landed directly across from you. Its spiked head was swiveling back and forth as it appraised you like some particularly ruffled cockatoo. And that in itself was bizarre enough to help you focus on something other than the weight along your back and the steadily rising heat in your cheeks.

“Uhm, hello?” you tried.

“WE HAVE ALREADY MET!” It screeched. “THERE IS NO NEED FOR INTRODUCTIONS!”

“It talks,” you blanched.

“OF COURSE I SPEAK, YOU IGNORANT ENTERTAINER!” The Gargoyle thundered. Its yellow eyes flashed in indignation. “HOW COULD I NOT LEARN TO COMMUNICATE IN A RESPECTABLE FASHION WHEN SERVING SOMEONE SO MAJESTIC AS HIS MAJESTY?!”

“I think,” the other Gargoyle said, slipping forward so silently you could hardly believe it was made of such strong stone at all, “that what Sebek is trying to say, is that we are happy to finally be able welcome you into our home, even if it is under less than ideal circumstances. And that we are very pleased to be able to speak with you.”

“THAT IS WHAT I ALREADY SAID, SILVER!” the spiky one snarled. No one else looked particularly bothered by his ceaseless volume, so it was probably normal. He stuck his carved nose into the air with a harumph. “AND I HAVE HEARD OF THE WAYS OF YOU TRAVELING STORY TELLERS! IF YOU BREAK MY MASTER’S HEART, YOU WILL SUFFER AN ETERNITY OF TORMENT AT MY HAND!”

Malleus growled, low and rumbling, from over your shoulder. Instantly his stalwart guardian cowed—head dipping like a kicked a puppy.

“Of course,” it continued, much softer. “I don’t think this human would do that. And—And I think my master has made a very good choice in his mate, and I will be happy to serve you too.”

Lilia sighed a sigh that sounded very much like a doting mother overflowing with parental affection. Like the kind of noise one may hear on a cozy Sunday afternoon while helping prepare dinner, or while sitting on a little, floral, couch and sifting through little paintings of grandchildren. There was still blood splattered all along his cheeks.

“It’s so lovely to have the family all together again,” he cooed. “And I do think that you will make such a marvelous addition.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you,” you nodded jerkily, just as your knees buckled and you collapsed to the floor.

On the first day of the new month, Ace and Deuce made their way back to the forgotten castle nestled in a pool of lava.

“We should never have left them,” Deuce grumbled for what was maybe the ten thousandth time. Ace was sick of hearing it. He was even more sick of the fact that despite being constantly inundated with various versions of ‘oh, we’re such terrible friends,’ the little, twisting, spike of guilt in his gut never grew any duller. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to work? Something-something-repetitive-exposure-therapy, or whatever? This sucked. He wanted a refund on this whole ‘conscience’ thing. Maybe it wasn’t too late to sell his soul and become a Warlock or whatever. Surely that would help.

“We didn’t have a choice,” Ace reminded him. Again. “They’re okay. I know they are. We’re going to show up and they’ll be, I don’t know, lying in a bed of gold being hand fed grapes or something.”

Deuce made a rumbly, whining, kind of noise that made him sound even more pathetic than usual and Ace sighed, determined to instead focus on the rickety rope bridge swinging beneath their feet.

The ancient, looming, monstrosity of a building was just as cold and dark as it had been the first time. If anything, it was more filthy. With walls stained with seeping ash and the charred, skeletal, remains of something that Ace was definitely, absolutely, not going to think about scattered throughout the grime.

The two of them made their way to the heart of the castle until they were standing at the entrance of a grand, cavernous, chamber that may have once been some sort of ballroom.

Ace didn’t know what he was expecting. Slaver’s coils maybe. A chain around your ankles and rags drooping from your shoulders. Or maybe you wouldn’t even be there at all—long since swallowed down as a little, midnight, snack.

He certainly wasn’t expecting to see you lounging contentedly atop a mountainous heap of soft blankets, with the master of this castle—terror-incarnate, death from above, an eldritch beast ripped straight out of legend—curled along the lumpy hills of your grandiose pillow fort, its great head nestled at your back as you reclined against its scales and chattered away. Like the goddamned, rambling, idiot you had always been.

One of the dragon’s large, green, eyes shifted towards the intruders at its door, and Ace froze in place. You paused your chattering to raise your hand with an excited little wave. Your tattered traveler’s clothes had been replaced with something silken and soft enough that it would probably melt in his fingers, and it swayed like mist around you as you made your way to your feet. You were practically dripping in platinum, and diamonds, and emeralds, and—he was going to stop counting them before he gave himself a conniption.

And yeah… it wasn’t exactly a throne of gold and gemstones, but it was almost just as impressive. And immediately indignation swept through Ace with a horrible kind of vengeance. Because how dare you actually be living it up over here when he had been so fucking worried just lying about all that cool stuff to keep Deuce from storming the castle gates?

“You made it!” you chirped, perfectly merry despite the gigantic maw full of sharp teeth hovering at your shoulder.

“Of—Of course we did,” Deuce stuttered, his blue eyes flicking back and forth so quickly from the dragon, to you, to Ace, to the dragon, to you—that Ace genuinely thought he might be having a seizure. “We promised we would.”

You stopped in front of them with a considerate little hum, sharp eyes tracing and cataloguing their varying reactions. After a moment of what was obviously some very smug preening and even smugger ‘I win this round’ silent gloating, you slipped out of the piles of entangled jewels with an exaggerated shrug. With the exception of an intricately carved emerald pendant hanging softly between the hollows of your collarbones, the rest of the infinitely expensive and rare gems fell to the ground with a series of clattering chatter.

“All that shit is so heavy,” you whined. Whined. Like you had any right to complain about anything at all for the rest of your existence. You leaned forward with a wink. “I was just hoping it’d make your thieving, money-hungry ass, jealous.” You smirked, proud. “And it looks like it worked, you goddamn traitors.”

Ace was about to splutter out the most scathing remark his spiteful little brain could come up with, when Deuce ruined everything by rushing forward like the blubbering idiot he was and scooping you up into a bearhug.

“You’re okay! You’re okay!” he wailed. “We missed you so much!”

“Speak for yourself,” Ace huffed, and twinged miserably when it came out sounding far too soft. He cleared his throat and decided to take a different approach. “You know, last time I was sort of joking about the whole ‘bards and dragons’ thing. But it looks like you’ve made yourself real comfortable. And here I thought you were always super opposed to the ‘fucking my way out of my problems’ stereotype.”

However, because the universe seemed determined not to give Ace any kind of win for the rest of his natural existence, instead of getting all embarrassed and mousey, you just huffed and turned up your nose at him.

“Well obviously not as a dragon,” you complained. “Do you know how big he is? How would that even work, huh?” The aforementioned dragon lowered his gigantic head to settle on the ground at your side, and you leaned against him good-naturedly when he grumbled low in his throat. “Yeah, no,” you said to the beast, rolling your eyes. “Nice try, but no.”

Deuce immediately choked and started hacking up a lung, and Ace wanted to die.

“You can talk to it?” the redhead asked instead of keeling over.

You shrugged.

“Not like this. But I’ve learned to interpret most of it.” You wiggled your fingers. “It’s my sixth sense.”

Ace’s nose scrunched. “Yeah, right. If anything, it’s your ‘I’ve been dicked down by a dragon and think that makes me soooo special now’ sense—”

The great, ebony, monster growled and the Fighter’s mouth snapped shut like someone had taken a hammer to his jaw. You snickered goodhumoredly and elbowed your companion gently at the base of one of its long, sharp, horns.

“He’s just joking around,” you said to the winged horror. “You don’t have to get all defensive.”

There was another grumpy sneer, but the dragon simply settled more heavily at your side with a defeated sort of huff. The gust of a sigh sent a wave of scorching heat along Ace’s front, and he fought the urge to cow immediately and beg for his life. Because apparently that wasn’t going to be necessary, because you had—you had—

“Are you in love?” Deuce blurted, because unlike Ace, the Barbarian was pure, and good, and still didn’t fully understand how eggs worked, let alone the concept of Fuck or Die.

And then you surprised him yet again by getting as flustered as he’d expected you to when he’d accused you (rightly) of bending over for a goddamn fucking dragon.

But before you could answer, the dragon lifted its head to press its temple against yours. Or, as well as it could do that when it dwarfed the lot of you the way an elephant might hover over a mouse. Mostly it just ended up being a very, very, delicate head bump. A deep, warbling, purr started from its chest and rolled all the way up and past its sharp, white, canines.

“Uhm,” you tried again. “You guys are invited to the wedding, I guess.”

“The what?!” Deuce howled, before promptly falling to his knees to fan himself like a devasted matron in a church.

You sighed and rubbed at the back of your head, clearly embarrassed. You mumbled something under your breath that sounded a bit like ‘it’s kind of a whole saga, y’know.’ And Ace, in all his infinite good will, decided to take pity on you just this once. And also because you were clearly loaded now, and all good friends know that sharing is caring, right?

“Come on then, Bardy,” he smirked, leaning down to kick Deuce flatter to the floor—half to knock the guy out of his frantic spiraling, half so he could perch on his back like a chair. Because the stone floor looked really uncomfortable, and he had a feeling that trying to slip into that nice nest of blankets of yours would not end well. “Tell us a story.”

[TAG LIST] CLOSED

@marvelous-maxi, @ilikefanfics4, @jackalope08, @crocwork-clockodile, @cosmicobubisi, @buttplugs-stuff, @pomefleur, @decemebercircus, @ailynyan, @genzombie, @meliade-ot, @sunlightocean, @theofficialantitherapist, @hermiona18, @sailorenthusiast, @fantasy-dating-sim-trash, @thefiasco-onyourblock, @insideous-beez, @its-clockwork-princess, @liliasleftpinkytoe

@novaloptr, @imlost-sendhelp, @matcha-berry @preciosayorgullosa @whoretaglia, @kookygirlwholikescookiesandcoke, @nanauedorian, @trixeraptops, @voxnipop, @starkling25, @thedum1, @horcrux-alchemist, @sleepykitty21, @apathicace, @instantregret101, @nekanecorvus, @looney-mori, @re-ducing, @my2phetaliaheadcanons, @naughtybodypillow, @rendy-a, @carmen-404, @candy284, @thealiennamedterry, @their-name-is-fake, @huetolog, @glacticrose, @seraphinariddle, @rabioa, @sn00zl4x, @dreasimping, @jeidoreech, @ai-dev, @galaxyshine24-7, @fatally-incorrect, @juulranch, @camrastuff, @nocteetdie, @stargaryengirl,

#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Malleus Draconia x Reader #Malleus x Reader #Malleus Draconia #Malleus x Yuu #Dragon Malleus #Monster Mayhem #My Writing #Twst Fantasy AU #Sebek Zigvolt #Lilia Vanrouge #Silver Twst #Rollo Flamm #Slight Rollo Flamm x Reader #Ace Trappola #Deuce Spade #Monster Mayhem Malleus Part 4

3K notes · View notes

unseededtoast · 8 months

Text

One Bright Morning | Spencer Reid x F! Reader

Summary: After experiencing the most traumatic moment of your life, Spencer helps guide you through the darkness into one bright morning that changes the both of you. (Based off of "First Light" by Hozier)

Cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3

Word count: 8.8k

Warnings: Violence, angst, light smut. Poorly edited

a/n: Howdy y'all, this is my second Spencer oneshot based off a Hozier song and honestly at this point i think i might just create a Spencer fic for every song on Unreal Unearth. Anyways, here's my masterlist if you wanna check out my other stuff:)

"Hello?" You hear his voice as the door swings open, and the soft lighting from inside his apartment illuminates his figure as if he's an angel.

"Please." Is all you can say through your cries and he wastes no time before he's helping you inside of his apartment.

Your forehead is slick with sweat, your stomach tied into knots as you pace back and forth. Shaking hands push away the hair falling into your face and you know you have to do something soon, or the little girl is going to die. Your mind swims in all the information the team has collected about the unsub so far, trying to identify any leverage you can use in a last ditch effort to save the hostage's life.

"Does anybody have anything?" Your voice is thick with stress and tension, a bead of sweat rolls down your back. The quick pitter patter of your heart echoes in your ears and it's almost like a ticking time bomb.

"We've tried every angle we can think of." Morgan answers, equally as stressed out. But you can't accept that answer, there has to be something.

"What if I go in? Offer myself for her? He might think he can use me to get out of this situation." You're already taking off your bulletproof vest to carry out the mission, but Hotch puts a hand on your shoulder to stop you from taking it all the way off.

"No, it's too risky. We know he's suffering from hallucinations and if you walk in there he might just kill you." He explains, but you fight his hand off your shoulder. Maybe it's just the adrenaline pumping through your veins, but you can't understand why the team isn't doing more to save the girl.

"And if we don't do anything she's for sure going to die." Before he can protest, you shove your vest into his hands and make your way to the house across the street.

The team had tried to negotiate with the unsub, feeding him false promises of a safe getaway and immunity, but he hadn't taken them. He explained that in order for the victims soul's to be saved, they had to die before they could "commit an unforgivable sin". He's convinced he's saving their souls, but what he's actually doing is mutilating young girls in their own homes and leaving their bodies for their families to find. Unfortunately for him, you and the rest of the team had interrupted his salvation of this girl and unfortunately for the team, he had taken the girl hostage and is unwilling to let her go.

The house he's blockaded himself in is a typical, unassuming suburban home. The landscaping is manicured to perfection, the lawn is trimmed neatly, but behind the white door is a deranged murderer with a knife to an eight year old's throat. Your feet quickly carry you to the door and with heavy, shaky breaths, you knock on the door and speak to the unsub.

"I want to be saved." You tell him, hoping to appeal to his delusion. There's a loud crash in the house and you hear the girl cry out.

"Please, I want to be saved." You say with more urgency. Twisting the handle of the door, you slowly make your way in, not seeing the unsub or the little girl anywhere in immediate view. After a few seconds of silence, you hear the girl's muffled cries.

"I know you can save me. Please, help me." You beg, making your way towards the sound. As you round the corner into the kitchen, you see the unsub holding the knife directly over the girl's carotid artery. Your eyes dance from the blade to the psychopath holding it and see nothing but pure evil within him.

"Don't move another step. I know you're one of them." He yanks the girl back, further into his hold and you put your hands out in front of you to show him you're unarmed. Your head shakes, denying his claim.

"They're wrong. They don't understand the mission." Another small step is taken towards the man, and for a second you see his resolve starting to falter.

"No, they don't. I'm just trying to save them!" He cries out, seeming to be in agony. Another step is taken towards him. You're only ten feet away from him, if things keep going well you might just be able to get the girl from his grasp.

"Save me. Please, I want to be saved." You boldly take two more steps forward but freeze on the spot when he jerks back with the girl, pressing the blade more tightly to her neck.

"You can't be saved. No, not you. You've already committed an unforgivable sin. But she can still be saved. Yes, she can still be saved." His gaze moves from you to the crying girl, his voice becoming more stable.

You see a sick smirk crawl its way onto the man's face, and he glances at you from the corner of his eye before he readjusts his grip on the blade. As if time suddenly begins moving in slow motion, you see him tilt his head back like he's experiencing euphoria and his arm makes one clean swiping motion. Reaching out in a last ditch effort, you try to still his motion, but it's too late. You were too late.

Your body knocks into the man's and sends him tumbling to the ground. The fountain of blood released from the girl's neck splatters your face, she chokes and gurgles as she falls to the floor. Ignoring the man, you collapse beside the girl, holding your hands to her neck in a frenzied attempt of saving her life. You get tunnel vision, the only thing you can see is the girl and how the light slowly dims in her eyes.

At some point, you must have screamed out and alerted the others, because several pairs of hands are dragging you away from the girl. You fight them with all the strength you have left, reaching out for her small body, desperately trying to help her as her crimson blood drips through your fingers.

A team of EMTs rushes into the house past you and you see them leaning over the girl before you're taken away from the scene. You feel your chest tighten, your heartbeat race, and you're not able to form a coherent thought. All that consumes your mind is the little girl and how you were right there. You were right there and you still weren't able to save her.

-----

Days later you walk back into the office, running on maybe five hours of sleep since the incident. You had been given instructions to take three days off before coming back in and you know the team had to deal with the fallout of your shortcoming. In fact, you walked in with your badge and gun in hand, fully prepared to be suspended.

The atmosphere in the office is noticeably tense. Everyone is quiet with their heads down doing their jobs. Without greeting your team like normal, you duck your head and make a straight route towards your desk, trying to make as little sound as possible when you take your seat. Placing your gun and badge beside your computer, you see a single file laying on your desk. There are usually about ten.

Trying your best to keep your composure, you open the file and are met with a blank incident report. Unable to think about filling it out, all you can do is blink back at the white paper. What do they expect you to say? Thankfully, you're ripped from going down that rabbit hole by a hand touching your shoulder. Looking over, you see Hotch with a somber look on his face.

"Why don't you follow me?" His voice is quiet, and you agree wordlessly, following him into his office. As you walk through the office, you try to commit it to memory just in case this is your last day here.

Once you reach Hotch's office, you take a seat in front of his desk and wait for him to say something. You're keenly aware that you deserve to be suspended and reprimanded for you actions, or lack thereof, seeing as how you blatantly ignored orders.

"None of us blame you." His words shock your system, eyebrows drawing tightly together and lips falling apart in confusion.

"But-" You try to condemn yourself, but he holds up a finger to stop your words.

"All of us here have lost someone. Some more than others. It comes with the territory of the job, this is only your second year and you have a lot to learn. But with that said, you did ignore orders to not engage. For that, we cannot let you back in the field until you're deemed fit again. You're to stay here and help from the office while we go to case sites." Your mouth feels dry as he speaks, and you can't understand why your punishment isn't more harsh. An eight year old girl died because of you and all you're getting is a slap on the wrist?

"But-" You try to convince him again that you deserve worse, but he cuts you off again.

"Don't say anything. Go back to your desk and do your job." He orders you away, and this time you listen to him. Your walk back to your desk is a blur, mind fuzzy with questions you don't have the answer to. You feel several pairs of eyes on you, but you ignore them and go back to staring at the blank white paper that waits for you.

-----

Hours pass by, and you've made no progress on the report. You thought that maybe a change of scenery would help, and so you relocated to the break room with only the paper and a single pen. The team is already preparing to leave on their next assignment, and all except you and Spencer are going. Spencer had volunteered to stay behind and help Garcia, which he did on occasion.

You hear the team approaching the break room, preparing to leave, and so you quickly grab the pen and act like you're writing something useful. They come in and grab last minute snacks, telling you that they'll be back in a few days and you give them the best smile you can muster and watch with a tired soul as they walk out to catch the next monster.

"You know that's not true, right?" A voice behind you startles you, causing you to jump and drag a line of black ink across the paper. Spencer is standing behind you, coffee cup in hand.

"What?" You ask, not having the slightest idea of what he means. He takes a seat beside you at the table, his eyes locked onto the paper you had been scribbling your thoughts on.

"What you're writing. It's not true." You look from his face down to the paper to see what exactly you wrote. You're not entirely sure yourself.

She died right in front of me because I was slow. I was too slow and she's gone. She was right there. Right there.

The words accurately reflect the rhetoric that's been repeating itself inside your mind around the clock. You can't seem to find the lie he so obviously sees. You've been working with Spencer for two years now, and his mind still amazes you. But even geniuses are wrong sometimes. With a shake of your head, you bite the inside of your cheek and stare at the words.

"It's exactly what happened though." You confess, clearly remembering how the man had time to enjoy slitting the girl's throat. And you were still too slow.

"You tried to feed into his delusions, it was the only play we had left. And you were probably the best one to approach him, seeing as how you most closely resembled his victims." He explains with a wave of his free hand. Your eyes meet his and you see that he's being sincere. You've never been good at expressing your emotions, and so you try to deflect the ones bubbling up inside you.

"Spencer, are you saying I look like a ten year old girl?" You know he's only trying to help you deal with your fresh trauma, but you can't help yourself from making the comment. Used to your antics, his mouth flattens into a straight line.

"You do not look like a ten year old girl but seeing as how you're the youngest one on the team it was the best we shot we had." He follows up his explanation. You appreciate the effort he's making to make you feel better, you just wish it worked. With a sigh, you crumple the paper up and toss it across the room, barely missing the trash can.

"Don't say anything, I'm getting it." You preemptively dismiss the comment you know he's about to make. No matter how many times you try to sink a paper ball into the trash, you always end up missing somehow, and Spencer is always there to keep track of just how many you've missed.

"One hundred forty three." He quickly says before quickly moving out of the break room. A ghost of a smile finds its way onto your face and you pick up the pen you left on the table, going to search for a new report page.

-----

Unfortunately, by the end of the day, the report still had not been completed. You're unable to look at this case objectively, and you entertain the idea of asking Spencer to do it for you. But that would still mean you have to tell him what happened, and you know there's no chance those words can find their way out of your mouth.

The clock on the wall indicates that the work day is over, and so you close the blank paper inside the brown folder, vowing that tomorrow you will finish it. You don't want to stay here, but you also don't want to go home. But you guess it doesn't matter, no matter where you are you know the nightmares will find you in the dark.

Everyone leaves the office, save for you and Spencer, who's working over to finish his case backlog. Though in your two years here you've never known him to have a backlog. His insane memory is always allowing him to fly through reports three times faster than the rest of the team. But you're too tired, physically and emotionally, to delve into why he has a backlog now.

Realizing you've been staring at your desk for the past thirty minutes, you decide you can't stay here overnight. Standing from your desk you rub the drowsiness from your eyes and weakly smile to Spencer, who looked over to see what you were doing.

"See you bright and early." Your voice is soft as you push your chair back in.

"Wait, let me at least walk you out to your car. It's dark out there now." He says, standing from his own desk. You shake your head, not wanting to inconvenience him.

"That's okay Spencer, I'll be fine. But thank you." You try to dismiss him, but he's already got his jacket slung over his shoulders.

"I was just finishing up anyways." He says, and you're skeptical of how much of his statement is the truth. But you don't fight it, and let him accompany you to your car. After hours the office is eerily quiet, and you find yourself being thankful he wanted to walk you out.

"At least let me take you home, as a thank you." You say as you two walk out of the office doors into the parking lot. The chilly fall air infiltrates the thin shirt you're wearing, your breath evaporating in the air in a translucent white cloud.

"Sure, thank you." He says with a smile and the two of you climb into your car.

Spencer gives you directions to his apartment and you find out he only lives two blocks away from you. How you had never known this is a mystery. But had you have known you would've made the effort to offer him a ride more often. You park your car just outside of the building and look over at him, his hazel eyes illuminated beautifully by the amber glow of the streetlamp.

"I live just down the street." You break the silence as he unbuckles the seatbelt.

"And after all this time we've never seen each other outside of work." He points out and you smile,

"Well, this counts, right?" He lets out a small laugh and goes to open the door, but stops short of swinging it open. His lips open and close a few times, like he can't decide what he wants to say before he looks deep into your eyes once more, like he can see your mind through your pupils.

"You know, if it ever gets to be too much to deal with, you can tell me. I know how torturous thoughts can become." You're at a loss for words, but manage to nod your head. Spencer isn't known for openly extending empathy to very many people, in fact, you've only seen him do it twice so far. It's a break from the normal dynamic you two share and it throws you off for a second.

"Yeah, thank you." You say as he opens the door, leaving your passenger seat. He waves goodbye before he enters the building and you make sure he gets in before leaving for your own apartment, his words lingering in your head. What had happened to him to be able to understand such torment?

-----

A girl cries in front of you, her crimson tears flowing down her face and puddling on the floor. She's begging you to help her, to save her. Each time she's within reach, she slips right through your fingers and her agonizing screams ring inside your head.

Just like last night, and the night before that, and the night before that, you're awoken with a start. Panicked eyes stare down at your hands, expecting to see them coated in a thick layer of bright red blood, only to find that they've been scrubbed clean. In fact, they've been scrubbed so viciously that there are scratches from your nails evident on your knuckles.

Your head falls into your hands and you take in a shaky breath. The clock on your bedside table shows you that you've only managed to get two hours of sleep. But hey, it's more than last night so you guess you can't complain. Dragging yourself out of bed, you decide to get a shower, knowing that you're not going back to sleep.

As the scalding water trickles over your body, your mind is once again a chaotic mess. The girl's screams echo in your mind accompanied with questions about your effectiveness as an agent. If you were unable to save a girl within your reach, how good of an agent can you really be? How many more people will die as a result of your incompetence? Dwelling on that answer is almost enough to send you into an episode, but the hot water runs out and the cold shocks your system.

You step out and wrap yourself in a towel, but are unable to shake the thoughts away that easily. If you couldn't save that girl, how many do you expect to save? If you couldn't save her, then you won't be able to save others. And if that's the case, why are you still on the team? Your purpose is to protect and save people who are targeted by deranged killers, and if you can't fulfill that purpose, then what exactly are you doing? Wouldn't it just be better to give up your spot for someone who's more competent? Someone who can actually save people?

Your body moves as if it's been put on autopilot as you get ready for the day, hours earlier than what is necessary. Instead of holing up like a prisoner in your own home, you pull your shoes on and grab your keys, deciding to go for a walk and then head into work early.

It's still too early out for most people to be heading into work, so the streets are practically yours for now. A dense fog has settled across the roads and the crickets chirp all around. It's almost serene. Your feet begin wandering down streets with no real path or destination in mind, the coolness of the air helps keep you awake.

For about an hour you meander the streets until the clock on your phone shows that it's almost time to leave for work. When you reach your car, your gaze freezes on your passenger seat. Though you commute to work alone every day, the car feels empty now.

You don't drive yourself to work right away. Instead, you find yourself parked outside of Spencer's building, waiting for him to walk out so you can offer him a ride. It doesn't take long before he's walking towards your car, confusion clear on his face.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, opening the passenger door and getting in.

"I just figured you might enjoy a break from public transit." You smile softly at him before merging into traffic and taking the two of you to work.

The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for the remainder of the trip and once you park in front of the office building, you stop him from getting out by reaching a hand over the middle console and resting it on his bicep.

"How did you know that I was having bad thoughts?" Your voice is raw and you're sure you look exhausted. You're sure if your superiors found out about these thoughts that your punishment would be extended, but you're far too curious. He sighs,

"Persistent intrusive thoughts about a traumatic event are common. In fact, these thoughts can lead to insomnia and a change in normal daily functions." He explains like he's reading the words straight from a textbook. But you know it's more than that, it has to be. The way he offered his help yesterday was more reminiscent of someone who's lived through something similar. Empathy cannot be learned from a book.

"Right. Do they ever go away?" You don't push him to give you any answers about his own trauma, but you desperately want to know that these thoughts will eventually go away. Spencer glances down at your hand gripping his jacket,

"Sometimes they leave for a while. But, they don't ever leave forever." His answer is not what you had hoped for, but you know he wouldn't lie to you. You release him from your grip and clear your throat, turning your car off and getting out.

You know if the roles were reversed that you would suggest he seek out professional help. It's only the most logical way to deal with this sort of thing, but you know that you can't face a doctor and tell them about how you relive that girl's death every night. They'd surely diagnose you with something and you'd be kicked off the team.

But maybe being dismissed from this job would be the best thing for you. If you're unable to move on from this incident, how can you expect to function like everything is fine? And if something like this happens again, what will happen? Will you crumble completely?

As you step into the elevator, you can't help but wonder if the loss is worth it. Not only the loss of victims, but the loss of yourself as well. You feel the change within you, like a piece of you is fractured beyond repair.

Spencer and you part ways and begin your workload for the day. The blank white paper still waits for you. ----- The rest of the team had made it to the next site and had called Spencer and Garcia for their help. Of course, you used this as an excuse to abandon the report on your desk, insisting that you can be of some help to them. They're both geniuses and you know there's nothing you can do that they can't, but they let you join them anyways.

"Look for white males, aged twenty to forty, who recently experienced a severe head trauma." Derek speaks through the speaker and you watch in amazement at how fast Garcia is able to filter through hospital records.

"I've got one. Sending it over now." She drags and drops the file into a message and sends it off to the team.

"What would I do without you, baby girl?" You can practically hear Morgan's smile through the phone. His playful ways with Garcia had landed everyone in a presentation about inappropriate work relationships last year and you can clearly see they disregarded every piece of information shared there.

The phone clicks and goes silent, leaving the three of us crammed into Garcia's office and you can't help but feel like you're inconveniencing her and Spencer. You stand from your seat and dismiss yourself, telling them you're going to work on a report and to holler if they need you. You know they won't, but at least you offered.

Sitting back down at your desk, you grab your pen and convince yourself that you're going to write at least one good sentence. You need to have this done by the time Hotch gets back and at this rate you won't even have it done by Christmas.

Taking a deep breath, you tap the pen against the desk before putting it to the paper. You hold it there for so long that an ink blob begins bleeding through the document, and so you start moving it across the paper.

At approximately 4:47 pm EST on October 16, 2023 the Behavioral Analysis Unit from Quantico, Virginia, responded to a hostage situation that resulted in two deaths.

You stare at the sentence you had managed to write and wonder if you can just leave the report as is. Technically it is what happened. But you know that you have to fill in the details. Perhaps that part of it can wait just a little longer.

Deciding you've put in all the effort you can manage for now without slipping into another downward spiral or gruesome memories, you decide to go waste some time in the break room.

There's not much to do, but you make it seem like organizing the coffee mugs in the cupboard is the most vital mission you've encountered to date. And thankfully it keeps your mind distracted from everything falling apart inside your mind.

-----

Garcia and Spencer don't call on you to help them for the rest of the day, much to your dismay. You were hoping they'd at least take pity on you and let you do something insignificant. But perhaps they don't even trust you with the most menial tasks.

You sit at your desk at the end of the day and see others leave the offices, bidding each other goodbye for the weekend. The rest of the team will be back on Monday and you still only have one sentence written in your report that's sure to exceed ten pages if you do it correctly.

"Hey, staying late again?" You hear Spencer ask as he returns from Garcia's office. Spinning around in your seat to face him, you nod your head.

"Yeah." You reply without much enthusiasm, glancing back at the paper. He must think you're completely inadequate at your job because you've been unable to complete a single report in two days. If he's been secretly tasked with keeping tabs on your progress for Hotch, surely there is no good news to report.

"Why don't you take it with you? Work on it over the weekend?" He suggests, and it's not a bad idea. It would surely beat sticking around an empty office all weekend. But truthfully, you're not sure an empty house will be much better.

"You're probably right." You pick up the file and get ready to leave the office with Spencer, who has his belongings in his arms. The two of you walk down to the parking lot and he starts heading towards the bus station.

"Hey, I can take you." You offer, stopping him in his tracks. He looks between you and your car, almost like he's not sure if he should take you up on your offer. But eventually, he walks over and takes a seat in the passenger seat.

"Thank you." He says, fastening his seatbelt. You back out of the parking spot and make your way towards his apartment. Thankfully he says nothing about the fact you took the longest route possible.

"Any fun weekend plans?" You ask him as you pull up to the curb, stalling to keep here as long as possible, so that you're not left alone with your mind. He rests back in the seat slightly and puffs out some air as he shakes his head.

"What's fun for me doesn't always fit other people's definition." There's a small smirk on his face and you know he's either about to devour an entire book series in two days or learn an entirely new skill. He's always looking for ways to expand his knowledge, and you admire that about him.

"Well, as long as you enjoy it then who cares?" You shoot back, watching as he gathers his bag up in his hands and opens the door.

"Apparently our coworkers. But thank you for the ride, see you Monday." He bids you goodbye and you watch as he walks into the building. You don't leave for your home right away, instead you lean your forehead against the steering wheel and become frustrated with yourself. Since when are you scared of being alone with your own thoughts?

-----

"Save me. Save me. Save me. SAVE ME!" The girl screams in your face, blood dripping out from her mouth and onto your body. Your hands desperately try to stop the bleeding, but it's no use and soon her chanting ceases and she crumples to the floor. Her dull eyes stare widely at the ceiling and you're left covered in her blood. You're acutely aware of how it's sinking into the crevices of your skin, drying in your hair, becoming part of you.

Just like every night for the past week you awake from the nightmare. A sheer layer of sweat covers your body and you can't take it anymore. These nightmares are driving you out of your mind. You haven't slept for more than three hours straight over the past week and you start feeling like you'd do anything to be released from your own thoughts.

You push yourself out of bed and into your bathroom where you splash cool water on your face. You're well aware that you're getting into a very bad headspace, and being alone is doing nothing to help the situation. If you keep heading down this path with no help, there's no saying how much of yourself you will lose. Or what your thoughts will drive you to do.

Bloodshot eyes stare back at you in the mirror and you hardly recognize yourself. The dark circles under your eyes make you look like a cheap halloween decoration, your cheeks are sullen. You look miserable. You are miserable. Tearing your gaze away from yourself, you put some decent clothes on and grab your keys off the dining room table.

The air outside is crisp, dew gently rests on the blades of grass and the moonlight illuminates the sidewalks. The nocturnal animals sing their songs, their tunes carrying throughout the night. You almost feel a part of them, the nighttime animals, as you just meander the streets for another night with no destination set.

You turn down an empty street and hear the thumping of music approaching from the main road. Probably teenagers enjoying their weekend night without parental supervision. The music gets closer and closer and you see their headlights start casting a shadow of yourself on the sidewalk.

"Catch!" You hear a boy yell from the car out of the window, and you turn to see what's going on.

Before you can process what's happening, you feel something collide with your chest and your skin becomes wet. Looking down you see that they had thrown a drink at you, some sort of syrupy mess but you're not concerned with what it is; just what it looks like. Dark red syrup covers your hands and your shirt and you can't stop yourself from starting to hyperventilate.

Your chest begins rapidly heaving, your hands start shaking and it feels like your knees are going to give out. It looks too real, and it's on your skin. It's seeping into your skin and it's on your clothes. And it's on your face and in your hair. It's everywhere.

"No, no, no no no no.." Your repeat to yourself, trying to rid your skin of the syrup, but all it does it smear and glide across your skin, spreading itself all over you. Your nails claw at your hands trying to get rid of it but it just won't leave. Panicked tears fall from your eyes and you look around, seeing that you're all alone in the middle of the street.

Without thinking, you start moving towards a familiar building. Your body is on autopilot and it feels as if you're practically flying down the street. It could've taken you twenty minutes to get there, but it felt like five seconds. Once you're on the doorstep your sticky, red-laden fist knocks on the door. You can hear your rattling breaths as if it's from a distance and your vision begins to contort, making you dizzy. You knock again, having enough knowledge that you need him to open the door before something worse happens.

"Hello?" You hear his voice as the door swings open, and the soft lighting from inside his apartment illuminates his figure as if he's an angel.

"Please." Is all you can say through your cries and he wastes no time before he's helping you inside of his apartment.

He takes the jacket off your shoulders and helps you step out of your shoes, a vivid look of worry plastered all over his face.

"What happened?" His voice is concerned as he places his hand on your back, leading you into the kitchen. He wets a cloth and gently starts to wipe the red from your trembling hands. With each pass of the cloth, your skin regains its natural color and you feel your breathing begin to level back out. It's leaving your skin, it's washing off.

"I was outside and someone threw something. And then I don't know what happened, it's like my brain just snapped and I couldn't control myself, all I knew is that I had to get here." You try to explain it to him the best way you can, still feeling an adrenaline buzz. You half expect him to give you some clinical diagnosis, but he remains quiet.

His warm hand envelopes one of yours as he wipes the remaining syrup from your arms. Your face starts to feel stiff from the drying tears, and your eyes move from your skin to Spencer's face, who is standing less than a foot away, tenderly cleansing your skin. Guilt washes over you as you realize that you've just interrupted his weekend, intruded on his free time.

As your senses start to clarify, the guilt intensifies and you pull your hand away from his grasp. You can't believe you actually ran all the way here because some teenage kid threw something at you. How juvenile. He takes a step back from you and scans over your body, sending a self-conscious pang down your spine.

"I um, I'm sorry Spencer. I shouldn't have come here and I'm sorry if I interrupted your weekend." You tumble over your own words and go to leave his apartment, already mentally kicking yourself for knocking on his door. His hand on your shoulder stops you from walking to the front door, and he gives you a certain look you've never seen on him before. His eyes are tender and soft.

"Don't be sorry, I'm glad you came. I told you I was here to help." His voice is kind and gentle, and you're grateful for him.

"I can go back home, I think I'll be okay." You can't help but feel as if you're still inconveniencing him and make one more move towards the door which gets stopped by him again. He shakes his head,

"No, it's okay. Go sit on the couch and I'll get you some clean clothes to change into. What kind of tea would you like?" Your heart swells at his tenderhearted words. Your feet shuffle against the hardwood floor and you position yourself at the edge of his leather couch, careful to not get any of the stickiness on it.

"Um, anything is fine, thank you." Your throat begins feeling scratchy, probably from how violently you sobbed the entire way over here. He nods before disappearing into his apartment and your eyes travel around his place. You've never been here before and you're curious as to what he's like, what his tastes are.

It's not far off from what you expected. The color scheme is simple, the walls an earthy green and the lamp in the corner emits a soft amber glow. In true Spencer fashion, there's also a multitude of books, both laying on a coffee table and adorning bookshelves. It's calming.

He walks back into the room and hands you a change of clothes, which feel warm, as if they just came from the dryer. Spencer shows you to the bathroom and tells you that he'll be in the kitchen while you get changed. You strip from your clothes and try to fold them as neatly as you can, not wanting to make more of a mess in his home. He had given you a simple sweatshirt and sweatpants, which you already know are going to be too long, but you're thankful nonetheless.

The sweatshirt easily falls over your head and it smells like fresh laundry and Spencer. You breathe in the smell and it makes you feel secure. And just like you thought, the pants are far too long, but you roll up the legs and make it work. Before you join him in the kitchen, you try to rinse out the red syrup from your hair, knowing that if you don't get it out now that it'll be ten times harder to wash when it dries.

Once you're satisfied, you open the door and quietly walk back down the hall to the kitchen, where Spencer is standing with two mugs in his hands. He looks over you once and offers you one of the drinks. Steam rises from the top and you smell the chamomile. The warmth of the drink soothes your throat, and you follow Spencer back into his living room, resuming your position on his couch. He sits at the other side and you look over at him, feeling an intense sense of gratitude.

"Thank you, Spencer." You whisper, not wanting to disturb the stillness. He places his mug on the coffee table beside an open book and his lips curl into a soft smile.

"Anytime. I know you'd do the same for me." He says and you nod, knowing he's right. You open and close your mouth a few times, trying to find just the right words.

"I don't think I'm okay. I don't feel safe being alone with my thoughts. I can't sleep without seeing her." You admit to him, no longer caring if he reports this to Hotch on Monday. You chew on your bottom lip with anxiety, feeling exhausted from suffering. Expecting to find him looking at you, analyzing you, you delay meeting his gaze only to see that he looks empathetic.

"I know what you mean. I barely slept for two weeks when mine started." His voice is raspy, yet gentle. Your head shakes as you take another sip of warm tea.

"How do you deal with it?" You're desperate for answers, knowing you can't keep functioning this way. He sighs,

"One day at a time. I put off confiding in someone for a long time, probably too long. But this isn't something to deal with alone." The two of you lock eyes, and for the first time since the incident, you almost feel at ease.

"Am I going to be kicked off the team?" There's worry evident in your voice, and you're scared of his answer.

"No. If they got rid of everyone who has dealt with trauma from the job there would be no behavioral analysis unit." He says with a small smile, trying to lighten the heavy mood. You take another sip of tea and allow yourself to relax into the leather of his couch. His presence alone is enough to make you feel safe.

"Are you going to tell the others?" You ask, looking down into the tea, watching it swirl gently around the ceramic. He readjusts on the couch.

"No." He says, much to your surprise, but you're thankful he's not reporting back to Hotch about how you've been doing.

The two of you let the conversation fall back into a silence, and you finish off the tea. Your body feels relaxed and warm, your eyelids begin to feel heavy. Leaning back into the comfortable cushions, your eyes close and you take a deep breath, thankful for the little moment of peace. You're not sure how much time passes, but you feel Spencer tapping you on the shoulder. Fluttering your eyes open you see him standing beside you.

"Follow me." He quietly instructs, gesturing for you to go with him down the hall. Without thinking of why, you blindly follow his orders. He leads you into a dark room, his hand on the small of your back to guide you through the shadows. Spencer sits you down on a bed and an uneasy feeling settles in your stomach, you can't let him do this for you.

"Stay here tonight, I'll be in the living room." His hand leaves your back but you reach out and grab his wrist before he can leave.

"No, Spencer, this is your home. I can't." You tell him and stand from his bed, which is admittedly very comfortable. He turns to face you fully and sits you back on the bed, his hands on your shoulders.

"Please?" He asks, and you're not sure why he's being so generous. He's already done more than enough for you tonight, and now he's giving you his bed. The man doesn't like to shake peoples' hands because of germ transfer, and here he is letting you stay in such an intimate place of his? You can't wrap your head around it.

Though you feel sleepy, there's an uneasy feeling in the back of your head and you know what will happen if you go to sleep; you'll see her again. You reach your hands to rest atop of his on your shoulders and look up at him through the darkness, just barely able to make out his features.

"Stay with me." You whisper and let his hands go so that he doesn't feel trapped. In the darkness you see his shoulders tense, and you wish you could take your words back. But to your surprise, he nods his head and makes his way around to the other side of the bed. He pulls the covers back and slowly gets in, and you lay down, keeping a respectable distance between the two of you.

Your heart pounds in your chest and you reach across the soft blankets for his hand, needing it to ground you, to remind you that you're not here alone. His larger hand engulfs yours and his thumb traces soft circles on the back of your hand. Your eyes close and before you understand what's happening, you fall asleep.

-----

Bright, almost blinding, sunlight breaking through curtains stirs you awake and you open your eyes to find that you're not in your own room. Your mind takes a moment to remember where you are and your muscles relax when you realize where you are. But the relaxation is short-lived as you realize that it's not a pillow in front of your face, that you're in fact resting your forehead against Spencer's chest, your hand still entwined with his.

A moment of pure fear strikes you and you try to untangle yourself from him without disturbing him. Surely if he woke up and saw this he'd be uncomfortable. Gently, you try to extract your hand from his, but instead of being able to separate, he squeezes your hand tighter. Your eyes trail up from your hands to his face, seeing that he's already opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry I don't, I didn't mean-" You try to manage the fallout of your actions, but he shushes you.

"It's okay. How did you sleep?" His voice is deliciously raspy, and it distracts you from answering the question for just a second longer than it should've.

"Um, good. I didn't see her." You admit and lean back so that you can more clearly see his face. His curly hair is disheveled and his eyes are still clouded with drowsiness. His soft, pink lips turn upwards into a smile.

"That's great." He says and closes his eyes once more, keeping your hand in his. Your tense body eases once more as you realize that he's not uncomfortable. You know him well enough by now to understand that if he were uncomfortable, he wouldn't still be here.

You rest your forehead against his chest again, savoring the warm and comforting smell of him. The two of you are entangled with one another under the cozy blankets, and you're perfectly content with staying just like this for as long as possible.

As you drift back off into a sleep, you feel Spencer move around and feel his soft lips press a delicate kiss to your forehead. Instinctually, you lean into him, nuzzling your nose into the space where his neck meets his shoulder.

-----

Sometime during the afternoon, the two of you decide to get out of bed. You're very aware that a rosy color adorns your face, feeling flustered from whatever transpired between you and Spencer. You had always been attracted to him, not just for his looks, but also his intelligence, but you never thought he'd reciprocate those feelings. But after last night and this morning, you can't help but wonder what's actually happening.

The two of you sit across from each other at the dining table, drinking coffee and eating mixed berries. You catch him stealing glances at you, and he catches you doing the same. You're too afraid to bring it up, scared that whatever is happening will be dismantled. So instead you're perfectly content just enjoying the moment.

After breakfast, you move into the living room where he picks up his book from last night and you pick one of them off his shelf. The synopsis sounds interesting, and so you curl up on his couch with it. Unlike last night, you no longer feel like you're intruding on his space, it almost feels natural to just coexist with one another on this Saturday morning.

He finishes the book in record time, and you had only reached page twenty of yours. You watch as he files the book away on his shelf, and instead of reaching for another, he trains his gaze on you. Your fingers close the front cover of the book, waiting for him to say something.

"You said you didn't see her last night, right?" He asks, breaking the silence. You nod your head,

"I didn't see her last night." You confirm and he smiles, joining you on the couch. He's sitting so close that your knees brush against each other and it sends a warm feeling up your spine.

"It's one of the harder parts of the job, I think. Nobody tells you about this side of it when you join. And nobody really talks about it either, everyone would just prefer to suffer in silence so as not to be perceived as weak. But without finding an outlet, it'll eat you alive." He speaks, resting his hand atop your knee. Your eyes stay glued to his hand as you add onto his statement.

"I considered leaving the team because I felt like I was going insane. I thought that if I couldn't save that girl, then what good am I to anyone else?" You reach out for his hand and he looks over to you, hazel eyes shining with an unfamiliar light in them.

"It's hard, but you can't focus on those you lose. You have to remind yourself of how many you save. To get yourself out of that darkness of guilt, you just have to remember the ones that are alive and well because of you. You've been on the team for two years now and you've already saved countless people, both directly and indirectly. Don't let the job strip you of your humanity." He tells you, looking deep into your eyes. You swallow, digesting his words and your eyes are unable to look away from him.

"It's so hard though. She was just a child." You say with exasperation. He squeezes his hand on your knee in reassurance.

"She was, but so many children get to live because you stopped him." His voice is sincere and your eyes water at his words. Your mind conjures images of children with families, alive and healthy.

Spencer raises a hand to the side of your face, and you lean into his touch. His thumb comes up and brushes a lone tear from the corner of your eye before gently stroking your cheek. You reach out and pull him into you, wrapping your arms around his neck as he circles his arms around your waist. He hold you tight, and you never want to let go. Spencer is warm, comforting, and you know that from this moment forward, you won't be able to survive without him.

Pulling away from the embrace, you rest your forehead against his, the two of you meeting each other's eyes with parted lips. Your hands find their way to the sides of his face, and you bring your lips to his. His hands hold your waist, keeping you in place as you move against each other in perfect harmony.

One of your hands finds its way to his curly hair and you rake your fingers through it, eliciting a soft moan from him. Heat ignites within you and you push your body closer to him, unable to get enough. His skin is soft under your touch and you try to memorize the way it feels, just in case this never happens again.

His hands move to map out the curve of your waist and your breathing gets heavier with desire. You move one of your legs across his lap, straddling him. He breaks the kiss first and holds you upright on his lap, looking over your body that's still concealed by his clothes. Deep in your soul, you know that this is more than just a random act of lust.

You lean in to kiss him again and you help his hands remove the sweatshirt from your body. The air is chilly against your skin and you shiver. Spencer kisses your lips and trails down to your neck, and you're unable to contain your breathy moan. Your body aches with desire to have him all over you.

His hands map out every inch of your body, taking the time to memorize the way you feel underneath him and how you respond to his tender touch. The two of you take your time to make each other feel good, to make each other feel loved and understood. There's no rush to your movements, and you're perfectly content taking as long as you want to touch him, to feel his warm skin on yours as you move in tandem, the two of you becoming one.

You treat each other as if you're both made of precious glass, appreciating the fragility of the moment. The two of you soak in every moan, every breath, every kiss from the other, and you've never felt more alive. With each movement you find a new way to appreciate his beauty. His beauty is in the tenderness of his touch, the colors of his eyes, the pinkness of his lips. Every inch of him is beautiful, and you know that nothing else on this Earth can ever begin to compare.

Spencer rests his forehead against yours, the two of you out of breath and sensitive. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead as he moves beside you, cradling you in his arms and placing delicate kisses to your warm skin. The two of you hold on to each other as if the other would cease to exist if you let go.

Without having to utter a single word, you know that the two of you will never have to face this life alone again.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #hozier #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #Spotify #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction

343 notes · View notes

the-kr8tor · 3 months

Text

Go by the Board

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 5.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mentions, TW violence, CW injury, TW blood, TW death, CW needles.

Navigation

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

CHAPTER 4 >>> CHAPTER 5

The bandages around your wrists itch, you try not to scratch the annoying feeling away knowing infection on a ship could be deadly for you. Frozen in a fetal position, your legs tucked under the dust covered blankets, you focus on the locked door, the silver pendant hanging on the doorknob sways as the boat rocks in the wild waves.

You've only slept for a few hours following what you've witnessed, the sailor's screams still echo in your mind, clawing and gnawing at your skull. You try not to think about it, pushing the image of him writhing on the blood soaked floorboards.

Maybe it's better if you don't think about it, ever. Scrubbing it from your mind, you exhale a shaky breath, fingers twitching to scratch that annoying itch.

Why is it so fucking itchy? Your nose itches. Why does everything in this damned room smell old? The small cabin seems to swallow you whole as you lay on the unusually soft mattress. You twist and turn, kicking the blankets away in frustration. Your head pounds from the oncoming headache.

Gritting your teeth, you hear gasps and pained yells from outside. There's something dragging under the sound of curses. You sit up, your eyes feel heavy, it seems like your brain is trying to escape from you. You don't blame it.

You do your best at trying to look normal, well normal for someone who hasn't slept for more than four hours for two days straight. Straightening your back, the noises stop right at your door.

There's shuffling then the clinking of keys, the door bursts open, a man stumbles inside, landing harshly on his face. You recognize the navy lieutenant, his hands and feet bound. His once pristine uniform slashed and dirtied with drying blood. His shiny medals are nowhere to be found.

You lift your feet up on the bed, shielding yourself, wide eyes staring at the captain who looks worse than you. Hobie's still wearing the exact same clothes he wore during the battle, cotton shirt marred by crimson and tattered at the seams, his eyes are bloodshot, the storm still raging inside. There's a large slash by his collar bone that's only been remedied by a hastily put bandage.

Gwen follows right behind him, equally tired and bloodied. Her face is flat, emotion unreadable. She holds a blunderbuss to the captive’s head.

“Now, do you know her?” Hobie speaks up above the silence. Your heart skips a beat after mentioning you. “Don't keep us waiting, George. We haven't got all day.”

The navy man props himself up slowly and painfully, his joints creak, wounds opening. He looks at you through one eye, blood and bruises obscuring his vision.

He inhales scratchily, you suspect his lungs have collapsed. He chuckles and you could only look back towards Gwen who secretly shakes her head at you.

The captive laughs louder and louder, like he's lost his damn mind. “I think I know who this room belonged to, you fuckin’ snake!” he sing songs.

Gwen pushes the barrel closer to his temple, he pauses for a moment before cackling again. Hobie's knuckles tighten but his face remains indecipherable.

“Did you think bringing me here will get me to talk about what happened that day?” He makes it his mission to rile Hobie up, he's given up.

“Or are you showing me her replacement?” His eyes slither over to you, cackling more and more as his eyes roam your body.

“Enough,” Gwen finally speaks, pushing the barrel painfully close to his skin. “He asked you a question”

“You've already gotten what you need from me you fuckin' barbarians!”

Hobie closes the distance, “And we need more from you.” he bends at the waist to forcefully move the man's face towards you. “Do you know her?”

The beaten man smirked evilly, bloodied smile tempting you to hit him. He tilts his head, “Aye,” alarm bells start ringing in your head.

“The captain sent her as a spy, just look at her,” he side eyes Hobie who stares at you with his stormy eyes. “Quite a siren, huh? Were you captivated, eh ‘captain’?”

You could only look at Hobie through tearfilled eyes, pleading silently. You want to live but your mouth has clamped shut, your entire body is frozen, preventing you from laying your case.

After a minute of listening to the man praise you for your supposed work, Hobie yanks him away when George gets too close to you.

“Good on you for confirming our suspicions.” Your heart drops to your stomach. “But the details you've given us don't quite match up with what she's told us.” Hobie clicks his tongue, “I think you need to sing more for us, Georgie.”

The man's smile drops, he swallows thickly.

“Take him below.” The captain says as he reels in his anger.

Finn appears from the doorway, immediately taking the prisoner by the collar, dragging him further down the hallway, while he kicks and squirms to no avail. Gwen follows, sparing you a quick nod. She shuts the door behind her, the clicking sounds like a death knell specifically for you.

The soft lapping of the waves doesn't ease your nerves, it acts as a countdown with every hit to the side of the ship. The seagulls squawk loudly just outside your window, they're annoying but at least they're free.

After a minute of quiet and Hobie's eyes roaming around the small cabin, you hear him thud against the door. This is it, you think, picturing him taking out his cutlass to sever your head from your shoulders. Or maybe he's a gentleman, preferring to off you quick and painless with his blunderbuss.

Instead of the loud booming sound of a gun going off, you hear his voice. “What happened to your fire?”

“I'm too tired to keep it lit.” you bravely look up, he leans on the door, his shoulders and face relaxed, back slouched, knuckles bloody and broken. “Are you going to bring me below too or are you gonna end me right here?”

He frowns, “Why would I do that?”

“Because he just told you—”

Hobie sighs, you fall silent. The lines of his face are prominent as the sun rises once again. The light from the window hits him just right, bathing him in soft yellow. He closes his eyes like he's savouring the warmth.

“Men like him will do anything to bring someone else down with him.” He opens his grey eyes, the storm has calmed down behind it. “He knows he's lost.”

“You tied me up. Locked me up.”

“I know, it was for the better until I truly know you're not one of them. You're alive aren't you? Do you want me to apologize?”

“No, fuck you. I want you to thank me for saving your first mate.”

He chuckles lowly, “There it is, keep that fire yeah?”

You scoff, shaking your head.

“Sleep, you can have this cabin in the meantime.”

You glare at him, not trusting his own words.

“Here,” Hobie tosses a key at you. “my olive branch. Rest, trust me once everyone wakes from their poppy filled haze you're gonna wish you've slept.”

You hold the key in between your fingers, familiarizing yourself with the indents. “What?”

“Mend their wounds, doc. Prove your worth.” He turns to leave. “Do keep the place clean, yeah?”

You shakily stand up, locking the door behind him. Barely making it back to bed, you collapse, sleep taking you in its embrace.

—

You wake up to loud frantic knocking on your door. With a groan and sleep laden eyes, you reluctantly open the door.

Miles greets you, his smile not reaching fully to his tired eyes. “Finally! You sleep like the dead you know?”

“What's happening? Are we getting attacked again?” Your eyes roam across the cramped hallway.

“I hope not, they need you at the infirmary.”

“The ship has an infirmary?”

Following Miles through the halls and numerous stairs, you make unusual small talk.

“So…did Hobie tell you that I'm not a traitor?”

Miles stops in front of you, eyes narrowed. “Don't say the ‘T word’ around here or” he steps closer to whisper. You listen with trepidation. “or saving Gwen won't be enough for you to stay.” he looks around for a sign that someone else is listening.

“Why can't I say the ‘T word’? Did something happen back then?”

“Can you not?” He grimaces. “You can literally ask me anything else other than that.”

“Right, sorry.” You two continue to walk. “Who's MJ?”

Miles groans in annoyance. “Seriously?”

“What?! You said anything but that.”

“Alright, smart ass, anything but those two. Learn to read the room, jeez!” he shakes his head.

“Fine! How'd a kid like you end up here then? Am I allowed to ask that? Hmm?” you rile him up. This is the most fun you've had in days, anything to get rid of the thoughts swimming in your mind.

“Don’t call me kid, landlubber. If you hadn't saved Gwen back then I would throw you overboard so fast right now” Miles stomps further away from you while you chuckle.

“Yeah? And what's Gwen to you then? I see how you look at her.”

He stops with his hands on his hips, head falling in exasperation, he's too quiet.

“Miles?” oh shit. You might've gotten too far with your teasing. You weren't even sure what you said was true, it was just a wild guess.

“Is it that obvious?!” He suddenly yells, turning to look at you with his hands over his head like he's in physical pain. “You've been here for less than three days and you've noticed!”

“Please calm down.” You laugh nervously, the last thing you need right now is making Hobie's navigator cry. “I was teasing you is all.” You have no idea how to comfort the poor guy. “I won't tell anyone I promise!”

“Especially Gwen,” he points at you.

“I won't tell anyone.” you cross over your heart. “If you answer my questions” smiling mischievously, you can see Miles already regretting his choices.

“Blackmail? Really?” He huffs.

“Please it's the least you can do for me after saving the love of your life. Also blackmail is probably the lowest crime the bloodsail pirates have committed.”

Something passes by his eyes, a memory perhaps? You have no idea what it was but his eyes glissen over. He composes himself in a second, clearing his throat.

“Correction, you're not a bloodsail pirate.”

“I am for two weeks at least” you shrug.

“Finn is right, you are annoyingly talkative.”

“Hey! Talkative for his standards maybe. You try getting stuck in a small room with a silent giant and you will truly know how bored you can be.”

Miles nods, smirking like he knows something you don't. “You talk a lot to hide the fear inside you.”

Did he just psychoanalyze you?

“This crew will be the death of me, move, people are probably dying while we're talking” you walk past a grinning Miles.

Walking past a few more rooms, you spot an open door to your right. The dimly lit room catches your attention with its bookshelves full of gorgeously bound books.

“A library? You have a library here?!” You excitedly walk over to the doorframe, eyes quickly scanning the titles on the shelves. “I haven't seen a huge collection like this in my entire life.”

Miles steps over to the side, promptly shutting the door. “After you take care of my family then we can talk about library privileges.” He gives you a look that has you rolling your eyes.

“Fine, dork” you whisper the last word.

“What was that?” He clearly heard you.

“Nothing! Let's go and save some people.”

Turning the corner, leaning on the walls, there lies a line of disgruntled pirates. They hold on to their various injuries, groaning in pain. They cheer once they see you but they quickly shut up after their pain flares up from the cheering.

Walking towards the open double doors of the infirmary, they look at you with their unreadable faces. The common theme though is the ache in their bones and the blood coated shirts.

You assess each of their injuries, some are minor, only having gashes on their arms and legs. A few are bleeding through their bandages, head wrapped hastily in bandages that clearly needs to be changed immediately.

Trying to remember what she taught you, you sigh, hands clammy. You haven't handled this many people, only used to treating a couple of people at a time in your small village with her. Times like this, you can't help but miss her. Shaking your head, you can't let your mind wander again, right when the people who are helping you stay literally afloat need you.

But you can't handle this many people alone.

“Uh…who’s more injured?” you ask.

They all raise their injured hands.

“Okay, who's still bleeding?”

Half of them raise their hands.

As if sensing your panic, Pavitr comes up behind you, tapping you on the shoulder.

“Need my help? I'm not that good with blood but I'm sure I can help. and Miles can help too, right, bud?” Pav catches Miles who's sneaking away to leave. “Where are you going?”

“Uh… to look for Ned, yeah! He can help too.”

Ned yells from inside the infirmary, “I'm already in here! I was the one who told you to fetch Y/N, remember?”

You and Pavitr share a look.

“Yep yep! I'm coming to help, see?” He stops when he's inside the small clinic. “Oh man, that's a huge needle you have there Ned”

You clasp Miles on his trembling shoulder, “Don't worry I'll keep it away from you. For a price of course.”

Miles huffs, gritting his teeth. “You get three questions.”

“Good–”

“After you're done here”

“Fine.” you enter the room with a roll of your eyes. The smell of poppy, ointment and iron fills your senses. Suddenly you're back at home, the roaring fire from the stone fireplace warms you as the huge book in your lap has you enthralled by the illustration of human anatomy.

Groaning brings you back to the present. The first thing you see is Ned tending to ugly mug, his back exposed. Ned’s huge needle is sewing up a deep cut just below the man's shoulder.

“Give it to me straight, mate, I'm gonna look even uglier now aren't I?” He asks Ned.

You scrunch up your nose after seeing his face still good looking and injury free.

Turning around to face Pav and Miles, you try to remember her teachings, you can still feel her hands guiding your own as she rambles on how you should always wash your hands before treating someone. It's been years since then, her voice is nothing but a memory, slowly fading away as you grow older.

You haven't been practicing much, but you kept up with your knowledge by reading pamphlets as much as you can. It's a useful skill afterall, especially when you travel. With an exhale, you start instructing the two.

“Pav,” he straightens up. “get me some hot water from the galley and the purest alcohol Finn has.”

“Got it, I have to fight Finn though” he runs off with determination in his eyes.

“Miles, I need you to triage” you continue as you head off to the basin to clean in between your nails. The dried blood from your fingernails turns the water murky and brown.

“Put the people in front of the line who need to get treated first and with the most severe injuries while the people with the least severe injury to the back of the line.” You look over your shoulder. “Understood?”

“I'm doing it but not because you told me to.” he goes out of the room, already yelling at his impatient crew mates. You hear someone saying ‘what the fuck is a triage? use english!’

You look at Ned. “Please tell me you washed your hands.”

—

You're incredibly hungry, again. Your fingers ache from all the sewing and patching you've done. Your hands smell like herbs and ointments. The muscles in your hands still shake from all the bullets you had to carefully take out. But everyone seems to be stable now, thanks to you.

Washing your hands in the newly replenished basin, you hear footfalls against wood from above. For a second your mind flings back to the fight, you pinch your pinky to distract yourself from the image.

A plate clangs behind you. Looking over your shoulder, Miles is once again trying to sneak away.

“Thanks, Miles” You genuinely smile at him, just looking at the hot plate of mashed potatoes and beans has your stomach grumbling.

“Fine, ask away” he sits across from you, arms crossed on his chest.

“I actually forgot about that, thank you for mentioning it.” You smile mockingly, taking the plate to finally eat.

“What? Oh come on, man” he points suspiciously at you. “Why are you so curious?”

“Because human beings are naturally curious.” Miles makes a face. “Fine, I want to know the backstory of the legendary bloodsail pirates. I mean can you blame me? I have to live with the crew for two weeks.”

He sighs, convinced. “As long as the answers to your questions are already known by the navy,” you nod, “ask away.”

You chuckle. “First question, Where did Hobie get this huge ship?”

“Stole it, next question”

“Really? you're not gonna elaborate on that? I got the needles far away from you the entire time.”

He clicks his tongue. “Stole it from a rich merchant ship years ago with just his wits and a blunderbuss. He's been upgrading it since then, you can barely see the original facade.”

“I gotta admit it to him, that sounds like a good story to tell.”

“Maybe if you play nice he can tell it to you someday.”

You sigh, “Some mysteries just have to stay a mystery.”

He chuckles softly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Second question,” you take another spoonful of beans, chewing while talking. “Where did he get his crew?”

Miles looks at you with disgust. “Swallow first, Christ. Some joined later on, some like Gwen, Pav, Finn and I have been with him from the start.”

“Elaborate? Or I'll chew with my mouth open”

“What is wrong with you? I'm not done yet, jeez.” He looks like he's about to jump away from you. “A few of us were running from getting drafted during the war, only having us as their only option or go to jail.” You listen intently.

“But most of us joined after hearing about us, wanting to be pirates but they want to give back to the people instead of just taking and plundering for gold.” he scratches the back of his neck. “I guess some of us are more into it rather than just pure survival.”

“Wait, you do that? Like some sort of pirate Robin Hood?”

Miles looks at you surprised. “Of course we do, I'm guessing that doesn't make it to the sunday news huh?” he sighs. “Well that's what we do, we only take from the rich and give it back to the people who need it most. Most of the time the nobles and merchants don't suffer much loss from it.”

“Well until I see it for myself I'll think otherwise. Next question—”

“Nope, you've already asked your three questions!” He cackles.

“Wait, the last one doesn't count! Come on, one last very important one that if I don't get the answer to, I will combust.”

Miles pouts his lips, thinking like it's the most difficult thing ever. “Hmmm, you blowing up into tiny pieces sounds great actually.”

“I won't tell Gwen you're utterly in love with her. Just one last thing.”

“You won't tell anyone”

“I promise! And when I promise I intend to keep it.”

He exhales the most tired exhale ever. “Ask”

You smile. “Why follow Hobie?”

Miles stares at you directly, none of the annoyed look he's given, no boyish charm you've seen the entire day you've spent with him and the crew. He looks like a proper pirate with his back straight and loyalty emanating just from his tone.

“Because it's Hobie,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “You have no idea the things he's sacrificed for us. Before we were a crew he— I owe him my life. And it's not blind loyalty, we're all free to leave if we don't want to follow him to the end. Some have already left.” He says the last part forlornly. “I guess I follow him because he's family, not just my captain.”

You look at your half eaten meal, family, you haven't heard that in ages. You have family somewhere, you're sure of it. In your journeys you've had people, friends, but not enough to be called your family; they haven't come close to what you had with her in that little cabin of yours in the middle of nowhere.

If only greed wasn't a thing, you'd still be with her.

You feel a ghost of your necklace graze your chest, instinctively holding on to it for comfort, disappointing yourself when you can't grasp it.

“Y/N?”

You clear your throat, fighting the tears from flowing. “So if he's your family and the crew is also your family, does that mean you're in love with Gwen who's supposedly your family? Hmmm?”

“You know what I meant! What is truly wrong with you?!”

“What? I'm just asking!”

“Oh really? Well you use humour as a crutch!”

You gasp, “Rude!”

“Yep that's you! Miss ‘I make jokes during serious conversations’”

“Understood, now where did I put that needle?” you act like you're trying to find it, patting your pockets.

“Nope, I'm already gone!” He's sprinting away from you. “You're needed in the galley by the way!” His muffled yell makes you laugh.

Another day, another quiet day in the galley for you.

—

During dinner, you've noticed the empty chairs, the sound of the waves crashing and utensils scraping still echoing in your ears as you watch them bring out their dead from below.

The full moon witnesses the crew put their dead on the now pillaged navy ship. The bodies wrapped carefully in white sheets. There's no breeze blowing or waves lapping at the sides of the ship. Everything's at a standstill.

The eerie silence has you standing by the edge of the crowd. Not a part of it but not truly alone.

The gas lamps illuminate the crew's expressions. You're not used to seeing their faces look so devastated, especially after all the laughs you've shared with them while mending their wounds mere hours ago.

You know it's not your place to be here or to even stand with them while they're mourning their friends. But you stay because if it's the other way around you'd want the only outsider to mourn with you, to stand in solidarity with you even if she doesn't know how the people you're laying down on the cold wood used to comfort you through the storm and how they used to hate the summer heat.

You'd want the outsider to know that they once lived.

The floorboards creak as Hobie lays the last body on the navy boat's deck, kneeling by the side to say his final farewell. After a moment, he stands up, knuckles so tightly closed that you can see his hands shake from where you're standing.

He cuts the rope tied to the mast, the sails unfurl, the slight breeze making it move slowly. Hobie jumps back to the revenge before the navy ship sails too far.

With his crew right behind him, you all watch as the ship sails for the final time. Hobie takes a musket from Gwen, they share a comforting look briefly before he takes aim at the ship. The shot echoes out, hitting the barrel full of gunpowder directly. Fire immediately bellows, engulfing the wooden ship.

The fire cackles further away but it still warms your cheeks. Orange and yellow dancing on the water as the mast burns and falls into the depths with a splash.

A soft voice sings a mellow tune, the lyrics full of sorrow and longing for what they've lost.

You look over to the source of the song, Yuri has her eyes glued to the flaming ship, her cadence echoes out to the open sea, the rest join in, goosebumps flare up on your arms. They sing about how the sea has claimed them but they aren't truly lost for they still sail the endless depths with the stars as their guide.

The singing ends and as everyone goes their separate ways, Hobie stays behind, watching as the fire devours the ship. With one last look, you head to your cabin, head full of thoughts that you'd rather not let it fester or it might consume you like the fire outside razing the once mighty ship.

The tune still stays with you until your head hits the soft pillow, you wonder how many times they've sung it together.

That night you wake up to someone screaming from above, cursing Hobie's name. Frantic footsteps dance above, you can hear a gun clicking. Recognizing the former lieutenant's voice, you fall back under the covers, jumping in place as you hear the gun go off followed by a splash and then a sudden silence.

For the next two days, you get acclimated to your life on the people's revenge. Having some sort of routine. In the morning you go to the infirmary to help clean their wounds and change their bandages, single handedly stopping infection. The survival rate of the injured has increased tenfold with your help. They greet you with a smile every morning, sometimes calling you ‘doc’ and you correct them everytime.

You haven't seen Hobie the past two days, always getting glimpses of him in the halls as he turns a corner. None of the crew have seen him out either. You wonder if he's had anything to eat in the past few days.

You've encountered how grief could consume someone, you hope you don't witness it again.

At lunch, you cook with Finn in the galley, making conversation, telling him stories you've heard during your journeys as he grunts and huffs in reply. You've gotten used to the quiet in the kitchen with only the waves outside and the bubbling pot filling your ears.

The crew have gotten better after the loss, they've started laughing again, making jokes and even including you to the conversation. You keep finding yourself chuckling among them during dinner.

After the day ends, you bring Pavitr his tea as he gets ready for another long night shift of sailing. As you head down to the library, you check in on Miles as he toils on a map, studying every detail, making sure the ship's on track. You bring him his cup, he's stopped looking at the tea suspiciously after the third time you've given him one.

You hear arguing in Hobie's cabin again, the voices are different each time you pass through but you don't dare eavesdrop, you swear that man has eyes everywhere.

The library has become your sanctuary, not the cabin you're temporarily placed in. You get a weird feeling everytime you enter the small room, like you don't quite belong in the obviously lived in space. There's tiny trinkets hidden on shelves, some are quite peculiar, unlike anything you've ever seen. You keep finding drawings and journal pages tucked in the corners and the bed frame, the ink already too faded to read or to even make out the art. You surmise the old resident of the cabin pushed the papers in there to stop the draft.

As you sit down on the lumpy green armchair of the library, the oil lamp illuminating the pages with only the moon as your companion; you get sucked into the yellowed pages, burrowing into every word printed, making a home for yourself in between the letters written by authors you'll never meet in your lifetime.

A soft knock brings your soul back to the old library, your eyes adjust in the darkness, his silhouette leaning casually on the doorway.

“So this is where you vanish off to every night” you can barely make out his face but you know he's smirking by the way his lip piercing glints in the lamp.

“Am I not allowed, Captain?” he chuckles. The sound reverberated around the room. A ghost of a smile passes by your lips.

“Keep callin' me like that and you might find yourself having special treatment.”

“And what exactly is the special treatment?”

Hobie shrugs, raising a finger up as he lists them down. “Havin' your own cabin, getting fed twice in a day, access to the ship's library, did I mention staying dry and alive?”

“You've mentioned it once or twice.” You sigh, gathering courage for what you're about to ask. “I've got a question, Cap.”

Hobie scoffs, “Heard you've been asking those a lot. One of these days your curious arse will get you killed.” You shrug, ignoring his comment. “You know I'd hunt you down if any of this information gets to the navy right?”

“I know, and I'm not a fucking snitch especially after you've kept your word of letting me stay even though you did use me as bait when you were interrogating the navy man.”

“Come off it,” he clicks his tongue. “I did not use you as bait.”

“Sure, and you don't have trust issues, Hobie Brown”

“Likewise, Y/N asshole.” he enters the room and into the light. You don't miss his snarky nickname for you. “Can a person with trust issues do this?” Hobie tosses a bag right on your lap.

You recognize the satchel, blinking in surprise “My bag!” You scan the contents down to the small bag of coins finding everything is still in its place. “Did you happen to see a necklace? It has a circular pendant with a bird engraved on it.”

“No, it doesn't ring a bell. Trust me somethin’ like that would've left a mark.”

You frown, hope diminished. Hobie gestures towards the seat in front of you, asking permission. You nod, letting him in your personal bubble.

“What are you reading?” He sits across from you on the rickety rocking chair, groaning, knees cracking.

“Just a story about some Greek hero that my m– I used to read back then.”

He nods, not mentioning the blunder. “I don't think Theseus is just some bloke.” You chuckle softly. “Y’know there's a much better read than that over…” he twists around, taking a book right behind him. “Here” he hands it off to you, calloused fingers grazing yours.

Turning the small book around, you shake your head with a subtle smile. “‘How to conquer your fears volume five: Learn how to swim by Sir Riordan of Canterbury’ Very funny”

Hobie stifles a laugh, a genuine smile across his face. “Thought it was appropriate.” he crosses a leg over the other, shoulders relaxed.

“What was your question, scuttlebutt? Ask me before I change my mind, ‘m feeling generous today.”

Your hands play with the spine of the old book. “Why haven't you killed me yet? After what George said, why didn't you believe him that I'm a traitor?”

He visibly stiffened, “You can't be called a traitor if you were never part of the crew, eh?” your heart thumps louder as he observes your every move.

“Also that's two questions,” the moonlight hits his fatigued face, you stare into those eyes that threaten to bring you under, but you swim out just in time before it drags you down. “good thing they have the same answers.”

You blink slowly, fingers nervously pick at the dry skin on your thumb.

“Your rucksack,” he points with chin. “I didn't pay enough attention to it when you first arrived but when I had my suspicions I had to check. First the coins or the lack thereof. If you were a navy spy they'd give you enough to use it as a bargaining tool.”

“You calling me poor?”

“Yes” he doesn't miss a beat. “Second your shoes, the bloody thing is thinner than Finn's flat bread.” you suck in your teeth in annoyance. “And that–” he leans closer, his elbows resting on his thighs. “Your fuckin' attitude, you didn't even try to play nice. You just did what you were told so you could survive. The only time you're actually nice is when nobody else is lookin'” you scoff while he continues on.

“Don't think I didn't notice you during the funeral or whenever you give Pav and Miles their tea. You stay along the edges of the crew, lingering, not really looking for any approval. But you're there, acting like you don't care but based on the careful stitches and gentle hands, you care, a lot.”

You grit your teeth, letting him read you like an open book that you've kept hidden behind the shelves, under all the more interesting books.

“Spies ease their way into the crew with effort, you did it unintentionally. You didn't hesitate saving Gwen, you could've done anything else in an attempt to escape but you helped and you stayed. You're not a spy, I think you just want to belong somewhere—”

You cut him off, “What makes you think I want to join your rag tag group?”

Hobie looks like he's about to swallow you whole, ignoring your last snarky comment, he continues his rant. “You want to belong even if it’s on a damn pirate ship. You're a genuine stowaway.”

“Alright, you're quite perceptive then, but that doesn't answer my question on why you haven't killed me yet.” you bravely face him. “You said it yourself, you would kill me if any information about you and the crew comes out from me. And you told me I needed the coin so what's stopping me from going to the nearby governor and selling off the information the moment we land?”

“Because you're running too,” his eyes shine in the low light, looking at you mischievously. “I don't know from whom or if you're wanted like us but I do know you're not gonna risk your freedom for a few coins.”

Hobie beams at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And lastly, I'm gonna need you before I let you go.”

169 notes · View notes