#STAB ME IN THE HEART FINE BUT QUIT TWISTING THE KNIFE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thedepthsoffandomminds · 3 months

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Episode ten - paper

Jack Dawkins x fem reader.

Jack's eyes opened slowly, the room around him was dark. He was on the ground and pain clamped at his chest.

"What's going on?" He asks into the darkness. Footsteps tapping against the damp stone floor.

"Oh weren't sure if you'd wake up, you're losing a lot of blood. My lad hasn't quite learnt how to stab and not kill just yet." The voice felt familiar to Jack.

"Bill?" He says. The man laughs. The rope around Jack's wrist tugs and begins to lift him until jack's feet barely touch the floor.

"No, no my brother is well and truly dead, that Oliver Twist really got him good. Still, little toff is in prison himself now. Sweet justice." He laughed again.

"What?" Jack was finding it hard to keep up.

"Oh, I'm just here getting a little payback. You're collateral damage as they say." He laughed again. Jack felt him come too close, the stink of his breath assaulting his nostrils.

"I never did anything to Bill or you!" Jack strains against the pain from his knife wound.

"Oh I ain't got problems with you, but you dying sure as hell will hurt the people I hate." The man laughed again, slamming his fist into Jack's stomach.

*_*_*_*

"lady y/n, what on earth do you think you are doing?" Sneed questions entering your room.

"I have to help Fagin find Jack" you say, pulling your dressing gown on over your nightdress.

"Find Jack, he only just got back, what happened to him?"

"He was kidnapped, last night. It looks like he was hurt. We have to find him." You say taking your sister's arm.

"And you were just going to let her run off? Y/n has just had heart surgery!" He asked Belle. She tilted her head in a shrug.

"Do you think we could stop her?" She shot back at him.

"At least put on some clothing. If you insist on charging around Port Victory your corset will help keep you together." Sneed sighed. You held his hand.

"thank you, thank you Rainsford."

Belle helps you into a simple white cotton dress, forgoing the hooped crinolines. The corset felt foreign after being in bed for so long. Though you had to admit it was making your chest feel a little easier. You don't bother to put up your hair, choosing instead to simply tie back the front.

When ready you make your way down to the morgue where Fagin waited for you. Aputi, Flashbang, Tim and Red are with him.

"Do we know anything yet?" You ask.

Fagin shakes his head.

"We've heard nothing. Not a dot." He admits.

"That isn't true." You spin heating your father's voice behind you.

"Father?" You take his outstretched hand.

"It appears this is all my fault." He says, leaving a folded slip of paper in the air. You snatch the paper from his hand.

"Governor Fox, you may recall Lord Branwell. You have debt with him and I have come to collect. Arthur Sikes." You read aloud.

"Sikes?" Fagin turns white, "Oh that family is like a bad smell, they always come back."

"Father what did you do?"

Edmund sighs, "Many years ago during my military days I had command of Lord Branwell's son. A fine chap really if not a little wild. Branwell always blamed me for his death"

You put your hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright father, we will deal with this. Surely he will want money and we have plenty." You say.

"No, if I know the Sikes this isn't about money."

*_*_*_*

Jack pulls against the rope holding him up. His fingertips were already beginning to turn blue.

"If killing me is the point why not just do it?" He coughs out.

"Well no need to be boring. We all like to have a little fun in our work. Plus seeing old Fagin's face when he sees your mutilated body will be fun." Arthur bit into an apple as he talked.

"So it is a little about him then?" Jack says between heavy breaths.

Arthur kicks his foot, knocking the tied rope. It uncurls and skids until Jack hits the floor, face first. Blood quickly starts dripping from his forehead. Joining the wounds that now littered his body. Stomping across the room Arthur grabbed Jack's shirt and shoved him onto his back. Crouching over him.

"You know, it isn't really you that I want, I just know having you will bring one Fox's kids here. Then he'll learn what it is to lose a son."

"Fox doesn't have a son." Jack says.

"a daughter then. I hear one of them is quite taken with you." He laughs again. "now how about we choose something to send to them? A finger? The whole hand? And ear? A foot? Hmm? What about your baby maker?" He laughs again, showing his rotten teeth and twirling a knife between his fingers.

"No, please" Jack began to beg.

"a toe then, we'll start small." Arthur pulled Jack's shoe from his foot, sliding the blade between his toes.

"No."

A door opened somewhere behind Jack and a voice called to Arthur. He grabbed Jack's face around the jaw.

"I guess this will have to wait. See you soon, Jacky boy." He shoved Jack's face before rushing away.

"What is it?" He growls at the smaller man.

"the whole town is looking for him. We're done for."

*_*_*_*

"Where has she gone?" Edmund bellowed through the hospital.

"We don't know. She was looking at the paper and then she just took off!" One of the recoats explained.

You had slipped from the hospital and we're making your way through the streets of the town. The dirt scratching against your bare feet. Your sister knew very much about the body, Jack was impressively good at surgery but you, you knew about paper. Seemingly dull to many but upon arriving in Port Victory you had familiarised yourself with each type of paper available to you. Only one was made within the town limits. A basic sheet, thicker than that shipped from England. It had little wooden flecks throughout it, picked up from the sawdust that littered the factory floor. This had to be where they were keeping Jack and you knew exactly where to go.

The cut on your chest pulled at your skin as you walked. You had to ignore it and find him. If you told anyone else your theory they would send an army to the door and that ran the risk of Jack being killed.

You hear a bell being rung and know they have discovered your absence, leaving you little time.

The factory was not a large one, and was connected to a boarding house. You knew it would be stupid to walk in through the front door. Looking around you see a window on the upper floor. You climb the wooden steps on the boarding to balcony and climb onto the railings. You slip, catching your dress underfoot. Grumbling you unclasp it and let the garment fall to the ground, leaving you in just your bloomers, corset and short chemise. Able to move more freely you climb back up and throw yourself across to the small ledge under the window. The bump catches your breath and you're sure you feel something catch below your corset. You pull yourself up and slip into the window, there is an old wooden platform that you stand on. It is filled with old boxes. You hide behind them, doing your best to move quietly. You see Jack lying in the ground and your heat breaks.

A fast sweep of the room tells you he is alone so you slowly make your way down the steps and across the floor.

"Jack?" You touch his face, then check his body. The wound on his chest looked angry.

"Jack, Jack come on you have to wake up." You whisper to him, tapping his face to rouse him. When his eyes finally open he looks up at you. Fear crossed his eyes.

"No, Y/n you shouldn't be here! You have to go. Now!"

You ignore him and u tie his hands.

"can you stand?" You ask. He nods and the two of get up.

"Wait, y/n you have blood on you." He says pressing his hand to your chest.

"Perhaps it's yours." You say, once again ignoring the sting of pain below the corset, "come on we have to go quickly." You pull his arm around your shoulders and start to direct him towards the doors.

"This was silly, you should not have come here." Jack chastised you.

"No she definitely should not have." Arthur's foot kicks into the back of your knees sending both you and Jack to the ground. He drags you backwards by your ankles. No matter how you claw at the floor you cannot stop him. Jack struggles to move as two other men grab at him.

"Here you go my Lord. Just in time for you to watch it." Arthur grabs you by the hair and yanks you back. You meet eyes with a pompously large man who laughs, pouring a glass of wine.

Episode eleven

@fandomfan-102 @darasloves @afalls14universe

#jack dawkins x y/n #jack dawkins x reader #jack dawkins #the artful dodger x reader

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yhwhsdaughter · 3 years

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Eunuch! Bum x Queen! Reader + King! Sangwoo

word count: 4.1k

tw: sangwoo, noncon, abuse of power, misogyny, murder, cheating, degradation, choking, cursing, minors dni

Ongoing…

[Chapter 2] , [Chapter 3]

Upon sliding the doors open, you were welcomed to blood spraying on your face. Droplets kissed your cheeks and if it was a calmer atmosphere, it would give the illusion of a blush. Reality, however, was much horrifying. Shocked by this, you stopped to assess the scene. Everyone was afraid to move a muscle as the king swung his sword, killing the chief state councilor with a stroke. As his body fell, more blood puddled at your feet, staining your slippers. Once the initial horror faded, you sprang forward, hugging Sangwoo’s midriff. “Your Majesty! Please stop this!” It was a brave or perhaps foolish action, interfering with your ruler. Words falling on deaf ears, he pushed you from him. The closest guard caught your form. Despite his absolute authority, killing nobles without reason, especially high ranking officers, was frowned on.

This is madness.

Your king was beauteous and cruel. A month into his ascension to the throne and he was already crumbling the ideals in which this nation was founded. Stray hairs hung around his chiseled face, tiny beads of sweat mixed with blood giving him a sadistic gleam as he grinned. Looking your way for a moment, he lazily waved at guards, “Take the Queen to her room.” Without a choice, the two of them gently nudged you from the scene. “Your Highness, please follow us.” Though their faces remained unmoving, their tone revealed their true feelings on the matter. Palm pressed against your mouth, you threw one last glance at the massacre before you. Blinking any lingering emotions, you walked away.

—

Pants filled the room as Sangwoo thrusted into you relentlessly. He was angry; even though he’d appointed new council members, he wasn’t sure he could trust them. In his mind, everyone was after his crown. You were angry as well, but for an entirely different reason.

You laid bare before your king, the fine robes that adorned your body pushed aside revealed your soft breasts; legs spread showed the path to your royal cunt. It disgusted you, thinking how many women had been in this bed, in your same position. Though the silk sheets were pristine, it could never truly wash away the sin. He grunted, “Stop overthinking. Just focus on—” he was close “—taking my seed, it’s all that matters.” Uncaring about your pleasure, Sangwoo bent you into an uncomfortable position, one that allowed his member to penetrate your walls at a deeper angle.

You allowed it.

The two of you, mostly you, were under incredible pressure to conceive. Not just a child, but a male heir. The fact that you hadn’t produced a son for the king was worrying to your mother. She wrote, often. It’s all she could talk about in her letters nowadays; there was fear in her that you would suffer as she did. Four miscarriages, three stillbirths, and then you. Highly superstitious, your mother believed that her misfortune was the price for the murder of the heirs by concubines in a fit of jealousy.

“Put a baby in me Sangwoo.”

You nearly begged, if only to end this. Making love wasn’t an option, nor your life a fairytale. No. King Sangwoo only fucked, and in the most inconvenient places too. You’ll never forget the embarrassment endured when you had tea with several noblewomen; your gracious king thought it would be appropriate to do it in a room adjacent to theirs. He bent you over a desk, throwing everything else off it, before sheathing himself inside of you. Emerging twenty minutes later, you couldn’t even look the ladies in the eyes. No one said anything, lest they lose their heads, but they knew.

Spurred by your words, Sangwoo thrusted faster and harder. “Fuuuck.” He stayed attached to you, like a dog, making sure your womb swallowed every last bit of his essence before pulling out. “Get pregnant.” Is all he said to you as he dressed again and exited the chambers. Out of breath and without a care, you laid there on the bed.

—

A life of servitude awaited YoonBum the second he was born. His poverty stricken parents sold him to be a household slave. Doomed to this fate, Bum tried his best to follow through and avoid punishments. Unfortunately, his master was a sadist and everyday, he received a beating.

After running errands, Bum stood in line to receive the bags of rice his master had ordered. It was the last thing on his list before readying to go home and continue working. Being close by, he couldn’t help but overhear several gentlemen talking, “Where is that damned village?!”

The village in question, it seems, was Bum’s hometown. Because it was a tiny place full of peasants and criminals, cartographers didn’t bother putting it on a map. Only those that came from there knew the area. Sangwoo caught him staring. Quickly glancing away, Bum only saw the man motioning to his companions from the corner of his eye. In a matter of seconds, he was facing the man. He was dressed in purple robes and a gat, symbolizing his status. “Do you know where this village is?”

Daring not to look him in the eye, Bum was slow to nod. He’d been out long enough; his master was probably marching towards the market to drag him home. “Show me.” As guessed, a heavy man came barreling in their direction. He was red in the face. “Bum!” Master Yoon screamed obscenities. Coming to a stop, he sneered at the men.

“We need your servant.”

Though the statement seemed like a request, Sangwoo’s tone made it clear that it was an order. The balding man huffed, ready to curse him out and refuse when Sangwoo showed his name tag. It was made of a cool stone, Oh Sangwoo engraved with the royal crest. The fact that was once red turned pale in realization. Meek before his ruler, Mister Yoon had no choice but to relent. “We’ll be taking him then.”

Bum felt his humanity slip away as he was given to another man so easily. With his head bowed down, he followed this strange new path forged by the man in purple robes.

—

The Heavens decided to smile on YoonBum when he saved the king’s life.

It was an accident, really. The guards felt no threat to the approaching figure in the form of a frail, old lady who was an assassin in disguise. YoonBum saw the knife before they did, jumping in front of Sangwoo.

Adrenaline in his system, Bum didn’t realize he was stabbed till he felt warmth seeping through his rags. Looking down, red spread around the area. It hurt. Badly. Bum’s legs felt like noodles; the little energy he had left his body as he collapsed onto the dirt. Even breathing was painful. His intervention set things in motion. One of the bodyguards chased down the assassin, two stood by Sangwoo and another leant down to help him. He must’ve asked something important but Bum couldn’t hear him clearly. It’s like he was submerged underwater. The last thing he saw before his vision turned black, was Sangwoo staring at him with interest.

He woke up in the nicest room he’s ever been.

The king didn’t visit him personally but he was sent a letter. Red overtook his face as he was forced to admit he didn’t know how to read. The servant relayed the contents, stating that when he was recovered, he would serve the king closely. From someone of his birth, it was the best he could get. YoonBum suddenly felt immensely grateful; he would no longer sleep in a shed with the pigs but a real mat! The pain on his side reminded him of the price he’d paid for this position, but he was used to being hurt. At least now it served to help him.

As the moment of glee passed, Bum realized he didn’t quite know the etiquette of serving the king. Joy left his body as he wondered how he would figure it out.

Like him, Sangwoo was plagued by this constant state of unhappiness. After the attempt on his life, he would think his subjects would be glad to see him breathing but instead he got murmurs of concern. What if he’d died? Who would’ve taken the throne since there was no heir? It would’ve thrown the palace into chaos.

Their silent pleas did not go unheard. “Maybe I should have them killed. Them and their entire families—” he paused when he saw you in the gardens, smiling at one of your ladies. His heart twisted. Sangwoo couldn’t explain it, but he always got the urge to inflict pain on you. He could say it stemmed from a place of resentment. How hard was it to get pregnant? If you gave him a son, he wouldn’t be pestered by these old fucks. Not to mention, your face contorting in distress was intoxicating—not even the concubines could compete with that.

Beneath his robes, his cock twitched with excitement. Oh, how he was going to enjoy this. Approaching your unsuspecting figure, he threw a dazzling smile to your courtesans. Sangwoo knew how to use his assets advantageously. Despite the suffering he caused, people were rendered speechless by his charm and good-looks.

He was like a snake, slithering towards his prey, waiting to attack. You did not hear him coming till you saw your ladies-in-waiting bowing. Greeting him appropriately, you expressed your relief. “Your Highness, I am glad to see you unharmed.”

It’d been a while since you last saw him; when he arrived, the rumour about the assassin spread like wildfire. “My Queen, you are truly a vision. These flowers have nothing on your beauty. You are proof that absence makes the heart grow fonder.” His honeyed words felt like prodding the bees’ nest. If you weren’t careful, you would be stung.

The only times he was this affectionate was when he wanted something. He played the same lovestruck role with your father to convince him of marrying you. Sending your ladies off, Sangwoo dropped his smile. His expression was replaced with desperation. Pulling on your wrist, the two of you traversed to your quarters since they were closer. “Ah!” Thrown harshly onto the bed, you hardly had time to compose yourself before he was mounting you. “Let’s put your cursed womb to good use.” A gasp escaped your lips as he entered you without warning. Your hands formed to fists, grabbing onto the sheets for dear life. It hurts, it hurts!

“Your Majesty! Please— aaah! Be more gentle..!”

Without seeing his face, you could already picture his cruel smirk. “You were born a disappointment. The least you could do is serve your purpose as my wife and bear me an heir.” His words angered you. Managing to twist away, you tried to escape his iron grip. This only resulted in you being pushed onto your back. Sangwoo pried your legs open and realigned himself.

Slap!

Sangwoo’s eyes widened with disbelief. The stinging in his cheek somehow made his pulse beat faster. Hands wrapping around your throat, he squeezed. “You should treat your king with more reverence. It would be a shame if the nation lost its queen. Especially one who can be easily replaced.” Having been the youngest war general, Sangwoo had strength to spare. Your hands seemed small as they banged on his form, silently begging to release you.

Having your life in his hands gave him the edge he needed to cum. With a low moan, Sangwoo emptied himself inside you. In turn, you couldn’t even focus on anything else other than breathing, choking as you gasped for air that you’d previously been deprived of. Knowing that he was capable of committing the worst, death seemed better than staying by his side.

“Perhaps I am not the problem, Your Majesty.”

Your voice was raspy but it rang clear across his majesty’s mind. Your words struck deep, like a knife embedded in his brain. It created a wound that would eventually fester. “Shut up.”

As if to disprove your point, he visited every concubine, not leaving until none of them were left untouched. He needed a son, one way or another, and if you wouldn’t give it to him, he would seek it elsewhere.

—

YoonBum was mostly healed; if anything, it appeared he’d been forgotten after a week of rest. The medic was currently tending to his wound, “It's healing nicely. A few more days and you should be out of here.”

The two of them turned at the sound of the door sliding open, immediately bowing at Her Highness’ entrance.

“Your Majesty, how can I be of use?” It was a bit surprising to see you there; your medical checkup wasn’t till another month. He wondered if you were feeling ill. Fabric wrapped around your neck; the weather was tepid, even inside the palace. That’s when he noticed the purple marks that peeked from under the material. Aware of his pointed stare, you moved the scarf upwards to conceal it. “I need you to acquire these medicinal herbs for me.” Taking the list, he read it carefully. How odd. Before he could ask what they were for, you added, “Your discretion would be appreciated.”

“Of course.”

Bum sat there silently, head facing the floor when you acknowledged him. “Are you the man that saved my husband?” Snapping upwards, he sputtered before letting out a quick “Yes!” Finally having a chance to gaze at your face, Bum felt himself turning red. Dressed in the finest silks from head to toe, standing with an air of regalness, was you. Unlike the king, there was warmth in you. Being in the presence of such a being felt unreal.

At first glance, the young man seemed no different than the other servants. However, his pink cheeks reminded you of innocence that one so rarely saw in the palace, which was filled with betrayal and resentment. His disposition was kind of endearing. You hoped he would remain like this, untainted by the world. “Then I must thank you.”

At your words, Bum’s figure lowered, forehead touching the wood. “Y-your Highness is too kind!” This position caused him a stab of discomfort, applying pressure to his wound yet he refused to straighten up. Noticing, you motioned at him, “Don’t force yourself.”

With that brief interaction, you were gone.

Entering your chambers, you signaled for the maid. Unwrapping the silk bandages, you stared at the mirror. Your husband’s marks served as a reminder of who held the power in this union. The young woman kneeled before you, taking a round brush and rolling it in powder. Although her ministrations were gentle, you couldn’t help but hiss when it applied pressure to your tender skin. “Forgive this servant, Your Majesty!”

“Don’t mind it. Continue.”

—

The king was anxious.

It was one thing for you to not get pregnant, but he’d been keeping busy and there was still no news of concubines with child. Reminded and bothered by your words, he summoned the royal physician. Sangwoo believed he wasn’t the problem, he just needed confirmation. What did you know? He wanted an expert to say that he was fulfilling his duties as king and it was everybody else that lacked.

“I’m sorry to say this, Your Highness.. but you’re infertile.”

With great effort, Sangwoo stopped himself from strangulating the doctor. It was impossible. A frown etched itself in Sangwoo’s face, his handsome features twisting into something scary. “You’re wrong.” It didn’t make sense; as a healthy male in his prime, Sangwoo shouldn’t have a problem fathering as many children as he could. There were several causes that may have caused his infertility, especially since he was a war general but the fact remained that he could not produce children.

Only an heir of royal blood could be king.

He forced the poor man to do every test available to ensure this. The result was the same. Again. And again. “You must not be doing your job right.” As the guards dragged the pleading man, a piece of paper fell from the medics’ robes during the struggle. Picking it up, Sangwoo recognized your handwriting.

“What’s this?”

There was temporary relief in the man’s face as Sangwoo stopped in front of him. “That.. the Queen requested a few me-medicinal herbs.” It didn’t sit right with Sangwoo. Why on earth would you need this shit? The physician seemed hesitant to answer his question. A rough push finally ushered him to say, “Alone these herbs are fine, but mixed..”

As requested, the herbs were delivered to you by the doctor’s assistant. The timing was perfect too. “Why didn’t your master deliver these himself?” Nervous, the boy stuttered a few excuses before asking for permission to leave. That should’ve raised flags in your head but you wanted the plan to work. You needed it to work.

The king had finally taken time out of his busy schedule to visit you, and not just to copulate. He was kind enough to accept your invitation to have a picnic at the pavilion. It was surrounded by a grand lake and vividly green trees; a true landscape.

Sangwoo arrived with a familiar man at his side. You realized you never asked for his name, though that was easily fixed when Sangwoo made a vague motion towards him. “That’s Bum.” He was dressed in green and Sangwoo in red. In comparison to their bright colors, you wore a soft pastel pink, denoting your sophisticated features.

Sitting down, you signaled the servant to begin pouring the soup. Sangwoo raised a brow, curious, “You’re not going to eat?” Listening to your response, a smile appeared on his face. “I wanted to make a special meal for Your Highness, from the bottom of my heart.” It was unnerving, the way he looked at you. Still, you never lost composure, waiting patiently for him. That is, until he asked Bum to lean down and try it. Obedient, the male did so without question. Eyes widening, you managed to stop Bum from tasting. Your hand held onto his wrist tightly—the spoon hovering centimeters from his lips. A few droplets spilled onto the wooden table. Sangwoo tilted his head to the side, innocent expression in tow. “Something wrong?”

Everything is wrong!

Sangwoo knew. You didn’t know how, but of this, you were sure. Fear is what he wanted and you weren’t going to give it to him. “This meat in this broth was especially prepared for His Royal Highness. It shouldn’t go to waste on someone else.” The tip of Bum’s ears burned from embarrassment. He was under the impression you were a benevolent queen; instead, he was reminded of his lowly status. Of course he couldn’t eat the expensive meat, a peasant like him wouldn’t know how to appreciate the flavor. The hurt on his face was evident but he turned to the king, awaiting further instructions. Sangwoo wasn’t fazed, “Don’t be silly.”

Taking the spoon, Sangwoo offered it to you.

You stared at it, unmoving. Sangwoo poked your lips, “Who else but the Queen would be worthy to try such delicacy?” He was baiting you, daring you to deny or confess. Neither was an option. Grabbing the spoon from him, you slowly opened your mouth and dropped the contents inside. Sangwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly but he said nothing. “Swallow.” Damn him to hell. Before you could do such a thing, a guard interrupted. Apparently there were news concerning Yang Seungbae, a traitor to the crown; he was spotted near a town on the outskirts of the forest.

Sangwoo hated him. More than anyone. That bastard was working hard to rally forces that would conspire against him. While things were peaceful at court, Sangwoo had felt a shift ever since the assassination attempt. His eye twitched in annoyance, though you weren’t entirely positive if it was because of Seungbae or the fact that he’d been interrupted. Sitting completely still, you watched as Sangwoo whispered to Bum before leaving. As soon as he was gone, you grabbed a handkerchief and spit out the soup. This action worries a few servants but you waved them off. “It’s cold.” They couldn’t understand as you ordered them to throw it, seeing as it was perfectly edible. Such a waste, disposing of such good meat.

Bum followed you like a lost puppy. The first night Sangwoo bedded him, YoonBum experienced true love. It wasn’t gentle; the king’s touch harbored no hatred but passion. Bum had never felt like that. It made him feel special; the ruler of the country placed his lips and strong hands on his skinny body. He had a queen, concubines, and still, he went to him. Elated couldn’t begin to describe how Bum felt. His feelings for his king were all-consuming. Since then, he’d made a promise to follow every order Sangwoo asked of him. Bum didn’t have anything against you, truly, but his loyalty laid with his king.

On their way back, they encountered Imperial Concubine Min Jieun. The crowd following her greeted you respectfully, and while she did so too, there was a triumphant smirk on her face. Nodding in acknowledgment, you continued walking, enjoying nature. The sun warmed your skin, making you forget about any worries, if only for a moment. Once the group was out of earshot, you glanced at your companion. “What was that about?” It was no secret how spoiled Min Jieun was; she was a woman of noble birth, groomed to perfection. That’s the facade she chose to wear instead of the power hungry bitch she was. Envy burned in every particle of her body. She wanted you out of the picture—she wanted to be queen and mother of Sangwoo’s children. Still, your position commanded respect. Your lady leaned in, whispering, “There’s rumors that she’s with child.”

“Oh.”

Bum watched your composed reaction with intrigue. He could understand if you held a grudge towards her. He did. You would always be first to the king, so he had to accept that. Bum knew it was the way things ran. However, he couldn’t say the same for the other concubines. They had the chance to bear Sangwoo’s child. Bum only wished he could do so too. Alas, this resentment made him feel guilty because the concubines were amicable women—well, except Min Jieun. He didn’t realize that they were shackled to this restrictive lifestyle; that they had no choice but to make the best of the situation.

“Is there something you want to say?”

Almost jumping at the sudden sound of your voice, Bum gazed around to see who you were talking to. Finding your clear eyes on him, he realized you’d seen through him. “Uh.. n-no, Your Majesty..”

“Say it.”

“How.. how does Your Majesty handle it?”

Though the question itself was vague, you got the gist. “Queens are expected to rise above such earthly emotions.” You had a solemn expression and the grip around your fan tightened, “Jealousy is futile.”

Nodding, Bum felt like he’d swallowed vinegar. This revelation left him in deep thought. Perhaps that was the difference between royals and peasants; possessiveness was quick to overtake him while you had to live with the knowledge that your husband would seek the company of others.

Hm, maybe he was right not to envy you.

—

“The Queen has fallen ill.”

It was so sudden; you were so healthy one day and the next, chills racked your body, fever uncontrollable. The court tried to be positive on the matter but it wasn’t looking good. Sangwoo was advised to refrain from visiting you—if he got sick too, it would affect the entire nation. “I will see my wife as I see fit.”

“Open the door and step aside.”

He was like an angel of death, entering with eerie calmness. Even through the soft curtains he could see your weakened form. You looked thinner, unable to eat. The physicians tried to get you to consume anything but it was just regurgitated in minutes.

The bed dipped under his weight as he sat next to you.

“Did you eat something bad?” He caressed your face, pushing hairs away that stuck due to the sweat. Fingers tightening on the blankets, you managed to open your mouth. “Congratulations.” Lips pale and cracked, you smiled sardonically. Sangwoo wasn’t expecting that reaction. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve heard news that Concubine Jieun is pregnant.”

A dark look crossed his face. “Is that so?” He stood, “Perhaps I should pay her a visit.” Though his tone was mocking, there was something bothering Sangwoo. Fortunately for the king, you were too woozy to think straight. Leaning down, Sangwoo placed a hand behind your neck, lifting you just a bit, enough to kiss your lips.

“Don’t die.”

#oh sangwoo #sangwoo x yoonbum #sangwoo x reader #sangwoo #yoonbum x you #yoonbum x y/n #yoonbum x reader #killing stalking yoonbum #killing stalking #ks yoonbum #ks sangwoo #yang seungbae #king x reader

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mysticalrambling · 3 years

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Love Eventually Wins (A.B) Part 1

Andy Barber Fanfiction (Fanfiction Master List)

Warnings: Angst but eventual fluff.

Summary: dad! Andy Barber x female reader. You are having the worst day of your life and you just needed your husband. Andy and you get in to a fight and your ten month old is sick. But it is all eventual fluff.

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"Where were you?" You silently spoke out from the couch as you saw your husband enter the living room with his jacket slung over his shoulder.

"Just out with some friends." He was not in a mood to talk right now so he started going towards their shared bedroom.

"You could have at least texted me that you were going to be late. I was getting worried." You hated fighting but most of all, you hated fighting with Andy. You both have always been the ones to resolve issues peacefully but you had a gut feeling that this interaction was going to be different.

"Well, I am here now so I am obviously fine." He snapped, clearly irritated by your complaints, which he subconsciously knew were right. You were taken aback by his tone because you didn't know what was going on his mind.

"Can you please keep your voice in check? I just put Gabriel to sleep." "So now I am the one causing the problems? Great." He frustratedly ran his hands through his dirty blonde hair.

"I did not-"

"I am tired and I am done arguing with you." Andy turned his back around but was stopped by your frail hands on his arms.

"I am also tired, you know. Gabriel was sick today and he did not stop crying the whole day." Your six month old son was not feeling well when he woke up this morning. He had a sore throat and a high fever so he wasn't able to eat any food or drink milk. At one point, it got too much for you and you started crying with him.

"I didn't told you to take care of him."

"What do you mean? He is our son. Of course, I will take care of him." You were offended when he started speaking like he didn't even know you, like you were a burden to him. "I have had the worst day of my life and I just needed you."

"What could have possibly been that bad about your day? You just had to take care of a child and it's not as if you had something else to do." This was the last straw because he could not just throw that in your face.

"I had something else to do and I quit my job as a lawyer to take care of our son." You could not just stand there and let him throw insults to your face. It was both your decision that you will take sometime off from work till Gabriel was a little bit older. Andy was a little bit hesitant to agree with you first but then you both thought it was for the best. He was the assistant district attorney so the job wouldn't be waiting for him after six months of leave. It just made sense for you to be the one to take a step back.

"It was your decision so don't blame it on me. God, I just need a break." Your husband looked like a whole different person right now. Gone was the caring man that brought you ice cream at four in the morning because you were craving it or who gave you foot massages after a tiring day. You did not what caused him to be this way but he had absolutely no right to talk to you like this.

"From what? You need a break from what?" Both your voices were slowly rising and you unintentionally stepped closer to one another that you were now face to face. Tears were pooling in your eyes but Andy did not take a notice of it. It was as if he was in a haze and he didn't care who he was hurting in the process.

"From you, god dammit. Can you please get off my case?" The moment those words left his mouth, it was as if he stabbed you with a knife.

He had a bad day at work today because he lost a major case today because the witness did not show up and that murderer was proven innocent. The district attorney was not happy with him and laid it out on him good. She even gave one of Andy's most important case to his work enemy, Carter. Taking him to a bar at the end of the day, his friends tried to cheer him up but nothing worked. He was a little tipsy when he got home and when you told him that he was not even there for his family, he felt like a failure. Andy turned his guilt in to anger and took it all out on you.

"Well, if that's what you want-" Before you could say something else, your son woke up from all the commotion that you were making in the living room. The look that you gave him was one of hate and loathing and you did not want to see his face right now. Racing towards the nursery, you took him in your arms and noticed that the fever was back. You cuddled with the baby and shed a few tears of your own. Your life was a mess right now and you didn't know what to do with yourself.

Meanwhile, Andy was angrier than ever. He pored himself a glass of whiskey and was about to drown it in a go, when a ringtone interrupted him. You and Andy have always kept the same phone and ringtones. It was their thing. So he didn't realise that it was your phone when he picked it up.

"What?" He snapped.

"Andy? Is that you?" a hoarse voice questioned with uncertainty.

"Yes." Quickly checking the phone screen, he realised that it was your phone and it was your sister, Josie calling.

"Are you guys on your way now?"

"What? What are you talking about?" Confusion clouded his brain as the anger slowly started to dissolve.

"Dad had a heart attack today and he is about to go into surgery. They are saying that it is a risky one and he wants to meet (Y/N) before it. Realisation slowly started to seep in him as he recalled about what you said. "I thought you guys would already be on the plane."

"Yeah yeah. We are about too." Putting the phone down, he closed his eyes tightly and contemplated on the fact that he ruined everything. Andy knew that he was selfish and a little bit narcissistic. You always tolerated these little tweaks in his personality but it got out of hand today. He knew he screwed up big time and he just wanted to fix it immediately.

He could hear you gently humming to the baby and the little sniffles along with it. His heart broke a little because he was the cause of your misery. Quickly packing your bags, he booked three seats to Los Angeles and then made his way towards the nursery.

"Hey. Uhm, I packed our bags and booked our seats. We can leave right now." Your back was turned to him as you kept rocking Gabriel to sleep. You couldn't bare to look at him right now. The things he said hurt you too much because you did not even deserve it. "(Y/N), I am sorry."

"Andy, I can't do this right now."

"Baby, I did not mean a word I said. I was having a bad day and I just took it all out on you." He wanted to take you in his arms but he knew that he should not push his luck right now.

"Can we please not talk about this right now? Gabriel's fever is spiking up."

"Let me see him and (Y/N) I am so sorry. I will make it all up to you, I promise." Andy took his son in his arms and gently started to sway him.

"What happened at work today?" You knew that he would not have behaved like this without a reason so you tried to become the bigger person. Your husband was quick to explain everything and you understood because you have been in that position once or twice. "But this does not justify your actions."

"I know and I am so sorry. I will make it up to you, I promise."

"Andy, if you really need a break from us, you can-"

"No, I don't. I didn't mean any of it. It was all out of anger." His heart broke when he saw you doubting their eight years relationship because of his stupid words. His gut twisted and he just wished that he could go back in time and smack himself.

"Oh okay. I suppose it's okay then but you can not do this again."

"I promise." Pecking you on the lips as a silent gratitude and took you in his other arms. "I am sorry about your dad. Let's go meet him."

"Okay. Can you pack Gabriel's toys and pacifiers? I am going to change my clothes." Andy nodded his head and got to work as Gabriel started to play with his stuffed toy. Meanwhile, you changed in to a simple sweater and leggings.

Your dad was one of the most important person in your life and you can't imagine a life without him. He was the first man who got you bouquets and took you out on a date. Your dad was always their for you to help you make important decisions in your life like when Andy asked you to marry him, you first asked your dad's opinion and then said yes. You couldn't imagine him as a sick person because he was the definition of health. You silently prayed that he was going to be okay.

"Ready to go, babe?"

"Yeah, let me just switch off all the lights."

"Okay. I was thinking that I can get Gabriel checked up when you go to your dad's room."

"I will come with you, honey." You watched as he strapped the toddler in to the baby carrier and kissed him on the forehead. At that moment, you knew that no matter what happens, you will always love him.

"No, it's okay. I will take care of it. You spend time with your dad when you get there. I love you."

"I love you too." Taking his hand, you both stepped out of the house together and you knew that no matter what happens, you will be alright because your husband was with you.

Hope you guys enjoyed it!! Here’s a link to Part 2

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A/N: I loved watching Defending Jacob so I came up with this plot. Andy Barber has my whole heart and I hope you guys liked it. Tell me what you think and message me if you want to be added to the tag list.

Like, comment and reblog.

P.S. There is a part 2 as well:)

Taglist: @justile

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245 notes · View notes

drarrily-we-row-along · 3 years

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Day 106: Eyes

"Malfoy," a voice called as his hair was pushed out of his face and his chin was tilted slightly. "Malfoy," the voice repeated.

Draco was quite certain he must be hallucinating, there was no way that it was who it sounded like.

"Draco," that voice said again, "Wake up."

His eyes fluttered open and he groaned in pain as the light seared through his retinas and straight into his brain.

"Hey," Harry bloody Potter said.

He opened his mouth and spit out a bit of blood.

"Merlin," Potter said, "Do you think you can stand?"

"Yeah," he grunted. "Yes. I'm fine. Thank you for your assistance, Potter."

The other boy huffed a laugh, "Sure. Come on. Let me help you get to Madam Pomfrey."

He shook his head, "Don't let me keep you from your important life," Draco said as he stood up and reached out to steady himself on the wall.

"Draco," he said.

Looking through his swollen eye, he tried to glare at the other boy. "Harry." he parroted.

"You don't have to be so stubborn," he said with a laugh.

He took a step toward the infirmary and his knees buckled.

Potter caught him and put an arm around his waist. "Come on."

(Read more below the cut)

"What? No one else to save?" Draco asked through clenched teeth as he started to hobble off down the hallway using Potter as little as possible.

"Not at the moment, no," Potter quipped. "You want to tell me who did this to you?"

He let out a humorless chuckle, "It doesn't matter."

Potter hummed and caught Draco when he started to slip a bit. "I've got you," he murmured.

Draco tried not to let the words go to his head.

----------

After they'd reached the infirmary Potter tried again to get Draco to tell him what had happened but there was honestly no point.

Madam Pomfrey had shooed Potter out and then Draco had a few hours of peace and quiet while his wounds were healed. Fortunately he had a good book in his school bag, which Potter had carried up for him.

"Why don't you stay over night, love," Madam Pomfrey said and Draco looked up from his book. "You're not quite ready to go back yet and it's just about bed time anyway."

"Thank you," he replied, giving her a little smile before going back to his book.

Shortly thereafter, the door to the infirmary flew open and Draco's head snapped up. Normally an entry of that magnitude meant that something horrible had happened.

But it was just Potter, looking thunderous as he stormed over to Draco's bed.

"Madam Pomfrey's just gone to bed," he said as he closed his book and set it on his lap. "If you've come here to inflict more damage, perhaps you could wait until the morning for her sake."

That stopped the other man in his tracks. "I'm sorry. What?"

"Just, whatever it is that's made you look murderous, I'm sure it's warranted but I do think that Madam Pomfrey deserves a good rest, don't you?"

"I'm not," he shook his head, "I'm not here to hurt you."

"Oh."

Potter rubbed a hand over his face. "I found Smith."

"Ah," he replied.

"He said that you didn't even raise your wand to cast a shield charm to protect yourself," Potter said as though he was personally offended by this.

Draco shrugged.

"Why?" Potter asked. "Hermione thinks it's because the Ministry has told you what spells you can and can't cast, and if that's the case, I'll write a letter to Kingsley right now-"

"It's not because of the Ministry," he interrupted.

"Then why-" he started before pulling over a chair and plopping down next to Draco's bed, "Why do you keep letting this happen to you?"

"I don't see them," Draco replied, staring at his hands that were twisting together in his lap.

"Look me in the eye and tell me that you don't see them," Potter replied.

He shook his head, "Why does it matter?"

"Draco," he said, "You can tell me-"

"There's nothing to tell," he snapped.

"Look, I know that the war was hard on all of us-"

"You have no idea what the war was like for people like me," he interrupted, trying to keep his breathing under control and his voice low.

"No, I suppose you're right," Potter replied and Draco couldn't help but look over at him. "Would you like to tell me?"

"No!" he exclaimed. "There is nothing to tell! Just like there's no reason for me to tell you who keeps cursing me. And there is no reason for me to tell you that I don't stop them because I deserve it!"

They both sat in stunned silence; Draco breathing heavily, his heart hammering away in his chest and Potter just stared at him.

Potter broke first, "You-"

"Don't," Draco said, shaking his head. "Circe, Potter, don't say it. Don't tell me that I don't deserve it because we both know that isn't true."

"Draco," he breathed and it was like he was shoving a jagged, rusty knife straight through his chest.

"Don't," he repeated, begging this time.

"Draco, listen to me."

He shook his head and to his mounting horror a tear spilled from his eyes.

"It wasn't your fault," Potter said.

"Don't," he begged, wrapping his arms around his stomach as though it could stop the way his entire body felt like it was unraveling. "People died-"

"Yes," Potter agreed. "People died on both sides. From your actions, from death eaters actions, from the Order's actions, from my actions; people died. You never actually killed anyone, though. You don't have it in you."

"Potter, I am culpable for-"

"You never killed anyone." Potter repeated. "You didn't want to hurt people, you didn't want to kill people, you just wanted to protect your mum."

"Don't." He shook his head, "You don't understand."

"I actually killed someone," the other boy replied.

"The Dark Lord doesn't coun-"

"When I was eleven," Potter started and Draco was so shocked by those words that he didn't even interrupt. "You remember all of the commotion at the end of the year or first year?"

He nodded slowly.

"I killed Professor Quirrell," he said. "Long story short, because of the blood magic protecting me, he couldn't touch me and it killed him."

"But that's not-"

"Second year, Tom Riddle was sucking Ginny's life force so that he could come back, I killed him. I stabbed the horocrux with a basilisk fang and I didn't even think about it," he continued.

"But-"

"Last year, Pettigrew died because he owed me a life debt and he tried to kill me."

"But-"

"I not only was responsible for Voldemort's death the first time and the second time, I was responsible for killing seven pieces of his soul."

"But it's not the same!" he finally managed to get in.

"Why?"

"Because you were on the right side of things and I wasn't!"

The other boy shook his head, "Yeah but it's not like you wanted to be on that side."

"When I was young-"

"Oh sure," he agreed, "you were a complete arse. But we wouldn't have won if you had turned me in, if you hadn't given me your wand, if you'd killed Dumbledore. It's not who you are any more."

"Still," Draco whispered. "I fixed that closet."

He nodded, "And I can't count the number of things that I've done to cause deaths. Godric, Draco," he shook his head, "I don't sleep well as it is, but I'd never sleep if I held myself responsible for all of the horrible things that happened because of my actions."

"Potter-"

"Look, it doesn't have to happen in a day, but you can't keep doing this, Draco. You can't keep letting people hurt you to atone for your perceived sins."

He let his head fall back against the pillows. As much as he would love to live in the delusions that Potter was offering he couldn't imagine that world actually existed.

"Be my friend."

"Excuse me?" he asked, looking over at the other boy.

"Be my friend," Potter said. "Please."

"Why?"

He sighed, "Because..." he trailed off.

"I'm not a broken thing for you to fix."

"No," he agreed easily. "I'm the broken thing."

Draco stared at him, "You make no sense to me."

Potter grinned like he'd complimented him.

"Will it shut you up if I say yes?" he grumbled.

"For now," he replied with a nod.

"Fine."

"Alright," Potter said, sitting back and making himself comfortable in the chair.

"What are you doing?"

He gave him a little grin, "Being a friend. You're stuck with me like glue now."

"That's a boyfriend not a friend, you're confused."

Potter shrugged and said through a yawn, "Boyfriend, then. That title is fine with me."

"What-?" he started.

But Potter leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead as though it was the most natural thing in the world and every word that Draco knew evaporated. "Good night, Draco Malfoy. Sleep well."

He was so stunned that he said nothing in reply and by the time he'd gotten his thoughts in any semblance of order Potter was fast asleep; his head resting on his hand as he snored.

Draco shook his head and decided that he would just have to wait until the morning to straighten all of this out.

For now, he decided that it might be alright to spend the next few hours with the tiny, fragile ball of joy unfurling in his chest.

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Day 105: Cuddle | Day 107: Charge

#100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #Day 106 #Eyes #hogwarts eighth year #Dealing with Trauma #cw: ptsd #becoming friends #drarry #drarry drabbles #drarry ficlets #This one got a little bit long-sorry!!

282 notes · View notes

spacestationdaedalus · 3 years

Text

it’s called freefall

in which Jon has trauma related to his time with Michael Crew, and it makes falling off the ladder in 198 just a little bit harder. Martin (and Basira) try to help.

dedicated to the lovely @captaincravatthecapricious for this wonderful idea!! ao3 link here!

The statement finishes with a trailing buzz of static, and none of the relief.

Although, Jon can’t help but think, that’s not entirely true. He can feel the pressure, the thick weight easing from his mind. Like a fog, lifting with the Eye’s satisfaction. But there’s a deep dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, icy fingers cramping around equally icy and rickety metal and ah yes, I’m still on this god forsaken ladder.

The rusted steel is coarse underneath his fingers. The scar on his right hand might dull some of the rough cold, but the loss of superficial sensation is made up for with a deep aching pain that's practically begging him to get on with it. To let go.

He wasn’t lying when he told Martin and Basira that the fall wouldn’t kill them. Of course he wasn’t. He Knows with absolute certainty that this is true, as surely as one might know their name or their favorite color. He wouldn’t have let them fall if he didn’t.

And yet.

Jon takes a breath. And another, around his heart that has decided to make a home at the base of his throat. It hammers away, hard and loud but not quite loud enough to drown out the echoing yells of the statement’s victims. Screams overflowing with the mindless terror of falling to unforgiving ground. Not knowing when the ground will come-

Jon had never considered himself afraid of heights. There were a lot of things he didn’t used to be afraid of.

And yet.

The Eye eagerly supplies an empty silence when he tries to Know how far the drop is. What he does get, is the knowledge that humans tend to greatly overestimate vertical distances, especially when viewed from above. That studies have shown height overestimation is greatly correlated with fear. Jon sighs, because of course having all-knowing powers would be this useless.

He's not sure how long it’s been since he finished. But there’s no use in keeping them waiting, right? And there’s nowhere off of this ladder but down. Jon knows and Knows this.

And yet.

It takes a few tries for his brain to start unclenching his fingers, curled tightly as they are. He takes it slow - first his pinkies, then the ring fingers, until it’s only his thumb and index fingers - and his feet planted on the bottom rung - keeping his balance. A clammy sweat breaks out across his palms, and breathing is getting more and more impossible around the tightness in his chest. The thought of the last time he fell comes unbidden to his mind - of a wooden chair, wooden table, a face that might be kind if it wasn’t making him feel like he would never touch solid ground again for the rest of his life-

Stop. Focus.

Actually, stop focusing. Stop thinking. Just get it over with. Just let go.

He does, against every instinct and nerve screaming at him not to. Jon lets go, and everything is worse.

His stomach drops out from underneath him and he's falling falling falling no where to go but down. The wind whips at his hair and his face and steals any hope of breath out of his throat. How people can manage to scream while falling, he doesn’t know.

He's back in that chair, at that table, but not in the chair or at the table. He's not touching anything but open air. Then it had been a deep, unnatural blue, but now. A grey mist, thick and heavy such that opening or closing his eyes means nothing. He thinks his eyes are closed, already lost sight or feel of up and down and where-

The terror is so paralyzing, so encompassing in it's consumption of his thoughts, he hoped it might dull the pain of hitting the ground. It does not. Fire blooms across his back, his neck, his head, in an agony so acute he bypasses any sound all together. The wind would be knocked out of him, if there was any wind to knock out in the first place. And he's still falling.

Is he? Jon registers a dull graininess under his hands, cool earth on his back. Ground?

It can't be. His insides are still weightless, dropping, he's on the ground but not on the ground. It might as well be empty air. He's falling straight through the earth, and he will for the rest of his life. If he opens his eyes all he'll see is sky blue enjoy sky blue-

He doesn't know how long he lies, falls, in silent terror. But after a moment hours seconds something grabs his arm, both of his arms, and pulls. The world lists with a dizzying vertigo, a shift in gravity and up and down and he feels himself tilting, but to or from where when how he can't tell and he never will. Something grabs him again, his shoulder, maybe, and it should help but now he wants to scream because it doesn't it doesn't it doesn't please make it stop-

He tries, oh god he tries to breathe. His lungs, his throat, seized tight with panic and wind and sickening emptiness. Like a vacuum bag, every last molecule of air sucked away. There's still a gaping pit where his stomach should be, and he wonders numbly if he'll ever get it back.

Something that might be words pass over his head. A conversation intercut with the sound of blood and wind in his ears.

"Is he-"

"-ou alright? Hey-"

"-can we-"

"Jon?"

There's something - a hand? - against his cheek. It's warm and rough against his wind chilled face, so warm it almost burns, but the shock of it is something to focus on that isn't falling falling fal-

"Hey, it's alright. You're alright-"

Martin.

Jon feels another hand, Martin's hand, on his face, stroking thumb pads against his cheekbones. Jon reaches blindly to grab onto his wrists in some mockery of purchase. Something, anything to stop the falling. He opens his eyes, which is strange because he doesn't remember closing them. He can feel how his face aches though, with how tightly he had clenched them shut.

And Martin is there. He's kneeling in front of him, eyes searching him in flickering panic for some kind of injury. He meets Jon's eyes, and something bordering on relief flickers for an instant before his brow furrows again. He's saying something, and Jon wants to hear it so badly he could cry. He tries reading his lips - it’s something he's usually good at when his brain can't keep up with sound.

But his eyes can't focus right. Everything in his vision shifts back and forth, his brain trying to compensate for movement that he knows isn't there. He closes his eyes again, against the dizzying nausea. It's a bit easier, in the same way that stabbing yourself is a bit easier with a sharper knife.

"M-...m-ha-"

There's barely enough air for him to breathe, let alone speak, and all that comes out is a choked wheeze. And it's as painful as it is concerning, even to Jon's own ears.

"Hey hey hey, it's okay, just- just try to breathe with me, okay?"

He can hear Martin's voice again, as muffled as it is, laced with worry. Jon wants to apologize, to tell him it's ok, it's fine, but it's not really fine, is it? But there’s Martin's breathing, deep and slow, exaggerated in such a way that Jon can hear it over the sound of everything else.

It's something for Jon to focus on, and it helps. He thinks. Painstakingly, forced wheezes become shallow breaths become gasps for air. His lungs burn with the strain of it, but it's probably a better pain than suffocating on nothing. So he keeps going.

There are words, again. Some close, some further away. Something - Martin Martin it has to be Martin - shifts beside him. A steadying hand rests on his back, leaning him forward until his head is between his knees. It almost sets off the vertigo again, but the movement is just slow, just gentle enough not to.

The hand stays, though, solid and warm and comforting above anything else.

The breaths come easier with each passing what-might-be-a-minute.It's hard to tell time under the weight of what his brain still thinks is some twisted imitation of freefall. Equilibrium comes back to him with all the speed of a dripping faucet, but there's ground beneath him and Martin next to him, and it gets better. The world is less of a sickening drop and more of a lingering dizziness, like stepping off of a merry-go-round a little too quickly.

The vertigo fades and the adrenaline leaves with it. Jon can feel his hands start to shake, but it doesn't stop him from reaching a trembling hand out towards where he thinks Martin is. Eyes still closed. He's met with another hand almost immediately, squeezing his tight, and the pressure soothes the most ragged edges of the tremors.

"Jon, hey- are you…?"

Jon nods, slowly, carefully. He's not entirely sure what question he's responding to, but Martin deserves some kind of acknowledgement. For whatever...this is. There's a shaking weakness deep in his core, like he just ran a marathon at a dead sprint. But he looks up, cautiously opens his eyes. And Martin is there. Still. Again.

Martin brings a hand to his cheek, just like before, and Jon can't help but notice how soft it is in spite of the rough dryness of his skin. It's a shaky thing around the edges, but Martin smiles at him, breathing a sigh of something like relief.

"There you are."

Jon really doesn't want the tears to well up in his eyes. But the fear is so acute, sharp and hungry in a way that leaves him hollowed out, with nothing but lungs that still barely work and a surge of emotion that he doesn't know what to do with. He reaches for Martin- or, he tries to, but he doesn't have to go very far, because Martin meets him more than halfway.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, come here-"

Martin pulls him close, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and another in his hair. It's pulled free from it's tie, still a complete mess from the fall. But then again, so is Jon. His shoulders are shaking with the force of muffled sobs, and Martin holds him tighter. Everything hurts, bruises from the fall that aren't really there, his head, his chest, his lungs that still don't feel like they're getting enough air. It might help if his face wasn't buried in Martin's jacket, but it feels like a fair trade at the moment.

He can feel Martin's pulse where his face meets the crook of his neck. It's steady and strong, a little fast, maybe, but so comforting in a way that Jon could probably never put into words. He lets himself be, miserable but alive and held in Martin’s arms, until he feels like more of a person again.

After what probably isn’t long enough Jon pulls back, but Martin’s arms don’t let him go far. He reaches up to wipe his face with clumsy hands, and tries for words. They come a bit easier now. "Martin, I'm-"

"Nope, absolutely not, don't you dare apologize." Martin cuts in immediately. He strokes a thumb across Jon's cheek, brushing some of the remaining tears away.

Jon sighs. "I just- I didn't mean to worry you, is all."

"Well, it is a little bit late for that." He's going for brevity, but it's quickly drawn into something more serious. "But don't worry about that, that's not- are you alright? What happened?"

Jon swallows, his throat sticky and sore. He wants desperately to say he doesn't know, but he does, and he just hopes he can get the point across in the fewest words possible. "It's just, uh… the, falling, reminded me of… Crew. I didn't realize how- how much that still affected me, I suppose."

Martin sucks in a breath. "Oh, Jon. I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"It's okay." Jon supplies, and means it wholeheartedly. "I mean, I didn't- I didn't know either, until it was, ah… a little too late."

There's a small tap on the ground to his right, and Jon looks over to see Basira kneeling next to him. She has a small water bottle in her hand, held out towards him.

Jon takes it in muted surprise. "Oh, thank you. Wh...where did you-"

"Don't worry about it."

There are too many other things to worry about right now, so he doesn't. "...Right."

They don't really need to drink anymore, but the water is cool and surprisingly fresh. Basira speaks again.

"It's not like we're in a rush, exactly. London isn’t going anywhere. We can wait here for a bit." She shifts from a crouch to a sitting position on the ground next to them. Martin hums in agreement.

After a moment, Martin gestures to the elastic band on Jon's wrist. Jon hands it over wordlessly, with a rush of affection, as Martin begins sorting through the tangles in Jon's hair.

It's not the first time he's done it. The feeling of gentle fingers through his greying locks, diffused afternoon sunlight seeping through the windows like honey in Scotland. Jon showing him how to braid, just a simple one, because Martin claimed to not know how and they had nothing better to do. Later, Martin admitted it was a lie, an excuse to play with his hair. After which Jon had kissed him and said he'd never need an excuse. Ever.

Martin's fingers comb through his hair, pulling at his scalp in a way that never quite hurts. Not like when Jon does it himself. It soothes the tension still wound around his chest, the hammering of his heart easing beat by beat into something resembling normal. He feels the strands twisting into a braid under Martin's hands, and when he's done he rests it over Jon's shoulder. It’s a little lopsided, a little uneven, and utterly perfect.

Jon takes one of his hands, laces their fingers together in a sign of appreciation. Martin squeezes his hand, and Jon squeezes back.

They sit like that, for a while longer. At Jon's cue Martin and Basira help him up, on slightly shaky legs, but he's alright, really, I promise. And it isn’t a lie. So they continue on.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fics #my writing #cw panic #cw trauma #in which my love of the Vast as a fear shows #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #basira hussain #jonmartin #spoilers up to and including 198!!

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slashersins · 4 years

Note

Hey! Could I request how the slashers would react to finding out the reader doesnt feel loved or feels like it's just a one sided relationship? You can do any but u would really enjoy it if one of them was Micheal!🧡

oh shit , it’s the angst with maybe some fluff . what’s gonna go down ? ? ? ? ? i’m gonna do this for just michael , maybe the other slashers later ? who knows , right now i’m feelin’ mikey .

he isn’t the best at affection . everyone knows this . he knows this . and he doesn’t seem to care . you’re happy enough , taking whatever he gives you without complaint . he thinks you’re happy . and that’s fine . as long as you keep giving him what he wants . what he needs . but you’re not happy . you feel used , like a toy picked up and tossed away . and you have no idea how to tell michael this . how to explain it in a way he would understand . in a way that he couldn’t get furious and decide to finally kill you . or worse , leave you . so you don’t tell him . but you do tell you’re friends .

michael liked to follow you . to keep tabs on you . to stalk you . he knew you didn’t like it , and he knew you understood that he didn’t exactly care whether you did to not . he was possessive and . . . to a degree ( a large unspoken degree ) protective . so he watched you like a hawk , eyes dark and narrowed as a male he hadn’t seen you with before walked over and hugged you . touched you . he had to get closer . had to memorize his face . had to slaughter the man who touched what was his . closer and closer , grip white knuckled on the hilt of his blade , quite predatory , until he was just out of reach .

he tensed , pausing in his war path when he heard you cry . and then was stepping quicker . did this man hurt you ? hurt what was his ? only he was allowed to leave a bruise or cut into your skin or -

“ i know he doesn't love me . it’s - i’m such a mess . ”

“ hey , y/n , it’s okay . take a breathe , just talk it out , yeah ? ”

“ i - i know . i just . i can’t - it hurts too much . i love him . i love him so much . i - i get so lonely when he’s gone and - and when he comes back i just - i’m so happy . i’m always so scared he’s not going to come back and . . . and i know he doesn’t feel the same . i don’t mean anything to him . i’m just a pass time and - it hurts . sometimes i - i think i’d rather die and him leave me for good and i hate it . i hate feeling like this . and i can’t tell him . i can’t - i can’t risk it . i’d do anything for him to stay close and i - god , he’s a terrible person , he’s a mess and - and he’s - i just want him to be mine . and i want to be his . but not just for - for food and sex and a place to sleep i want - ”

michael stood , only feet away from the pair of you , watching as the man tugged you close and kissed your hair , as he rubbed your back and hushed you . telling you to breathe , that you didn’t deserve any of this . that the man you were in love with , that michael , was a fool to not see how much you loved him , how much he was hurting you .

the grip on his knife tightened and loosened as his chest clenched so terribly painfully hard he felt as if he as trapped in his small room at smith’s grove . his limbs were lead , and eyes wild . it felt like he was being stabbed in the lungs , but there was no blood , no gash , nothing but pain with every slow inhale .

he thought you were happy . he thought you were content . you never showed him any signs of whatever emotional agony was causing you to break down . so much so that you sought out another man before seeking out him .

fury and rage and loathing and pain and twisted dark agonizingly crushing emotions welled in his chest . a perfect storm that had him unable to move as you shook . was this . . . fear ? was this pain ? was it loss ? he’d never experienced this . no , he had . he’d felt this once . a few months when he’d tried to quit you . when he tried to convince himself that you weren’t something he needed in his life . he’d felt this feeling every time he ate food that wasn’t yours , slept in a bed that wasn’t yours , saw a smile that wasn’t yours . but it hadn’t been this terrible . and there hadn’t been such a hatred towards himself . this feeling . he didn’t want it . and the longer he watched you the stronger it grew . so just as quickly and quietly he’d made his way over to you , he left .

eyes blank as he stared holes into the walls , trying to figure out some way to end it . killing hadn’t helped . eating hadn’t helped . nothing . nothing could chase the image of your broken features , not even the voices that urged him to slaughter could be heard over your hiccups and stuttered words .

you didn’t think he loved you . could he even love ? was that an emotion he was capable of ? loomis had called him an emotionless evil creature . he’d been wrong . michael was capable of emotions . not many , but enough to keep him alive and enough to keep him killing . but love . . . could he feel that ? it frustrated him .

you never called the police on him . you always came home to him . you always cooked for him . you bathed with him , washed his clothes and mask . you tended to his injuries , always acting as if you were hurting by stitching him up or tending a gun shot would or a deep cut . you always offed him a smile , always let him pull you into a crushing and awkward embrace when he felt the the need for affection . you did so many things for him . . . you loved him .

michael sat , lost in thought for hours . trying to figure out if he could feel love , trying to figure out what you meant to him . he . . . couldn’t imagine you dying . not from anyone’s hand . not from his own . he’d tried , multiple times to cut into your chest while you slept peacefully , but each time something stopped him . something within him . was that love ? was that care ? he considered you his . and the sight of anyone close to you , anyone touching you , anyone encroaching on his territory made his blood lust sing . he came back to you time after time after time . even when he didn’t need to by why ? and how could he convey that he was . . . that he . . .

the sound of the door opening had him standing , staring at you as you turned on the lights and locked the door . you jumped when you turned to see him , holding a hand over your heart and laughing at how startled you were . despite your puffy red eyes and tear stained cheeks you still managed to smile . still managed to welcome him home and ask if he was hungry . if he wanted take out . michael couldn’t take it .

three strides and he was in front of you , backing you against the door . on hand held both of yours as he unzippped his coveralls and let them fall to his hips . you looked panicked . a slight fear that you tired to hide behind a nervous smile . a look that said you didn’t want sex right now . but neither did michael . the hands that had been trapped by micahel’s and pressed against his bare chest were released for a single moment before he took his knife and placed it in yours . the tip of the blade pointed against his skin .

you looked with wild , unsure eyes between his unmasked face and the blade . hands shaking as you tried to pull away , to get the knife away from him , but the iron grip he had on your wrists left no freedom to move .

“michael , what - michael , stop ! what are you , i don’t - i’m not going to hurt you michael , this isn’t a game . i don’t - no . michael stop , let me go ! ”

your cries fell on deaf ears . michael made his choice . with ease , he forced your hands forward , digging the knife into his abdomen with enough force to cut in and draw blood . you were sobbing , shaking , begging him to stop , you didn’t want to hurt him , please michael , stop it . but he kept guiding your hands , guiding the blade . his breathing even , as if he felt no pain with each dip of the knife into his pale flesh .

he released your hand when he had achieved the desired cuts . watching as you dropped the knife and fell to the ground . despite you’re shock and terror at what michael had forced you to do , despite your hysterics you still reached up , shaky hands trying to stop the bleeding , trying to erase when michael had forced you to do . he only tilted his head and watched you .

once again he took your hand , taking two fingers and guided them over the cuts . once , twice , three times . repeating the motion until what he’d done sank in . he let go when he saw understanding sink into those cried raw eyes of yours . a sharp intake of air when you felt the marks on your own .

michael didn’t know if he could feel love . he didn’t know if loomis was right or wrong in calling him a monster , though he leaned towards being right . he didn’t know why he couldn’t kill you . why he couldn’t stand to see you smile at anyone else . michael didn’t understand the emotions at war inside of him .

but he knew that you were his . he knew that he was yours . and he could only hope that you knew it too as your fingers dragged over the your name carved into his skin .

#michael myers x reader #michael myers #michael myers imagine #slasher x reader #slasher imagine #slasher #slashers #slashers x reader #( this was LOOOONG )#( AND EMOTIONAL )#( i hope you like it ! )#( asks / answered. )

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errorpeachy · 4 years

Note

Helloo!! I just discover your page and even tho you only have one fic I already love itt!!! I finished hxh last night and my heart need more💔💔 could you do a Killua x reader, they know each other since they were babies and their families wanted them to get married, but when Killua find out that’s when he escaped and maybe after that the reader escaped too but they don’t see each other until they are like 20 or something like that. Btw sorry for my English I suck hehehe.💕💕

I can absoLUTELY do this! And don’t worry bb, your English is great💞 I’m doing a scenario for this one~

𑁍 No Take Backs! 𑁍 《Killua x Reader》

“Hey, Hey, Killua!” You shouted, running up to him with enthusiasm. He glanced at you, raising a brow. “What is it, Y/N?” He asked, turning to you. Smiling, you took his hand in yours. “I have something to show you! Follow me!” You said, pulling him along as you walked through the forest that surrounded his house.

Fighting your way into a clearing, you watched him let out a small noise of shock. It was a beautiful, crystal clear lake, one he had never seen before. Flowers surrounded the area and light shone onto the water, making it look drastically different from his dreary house. “How did you find this, Y/N? I live here and even I haven’t seen it before.” He said, looking at you. You grinned, pointing to the scrapes on your knees. “I fell into this clearing when I went exploring. Cmon, let’s swim!” You said, jumping in fully clothed. He paused before shrugging. “Ah, what the heck.” He said before jumping in, making a big splash which caused you to giggle.

“Hey Killua?” You asked, swimming over to him. He looked up at you, shaking his head to get some of the water off of him. He looked kind of like a dog, you thought. “Yeah Y/N?” He answered, powder blue eyes staring back at you. “Let’s stay best friends forever, ‘Kay?” You said, smiling up at him. He turned pink, looking away. “Sure, I guess. You’re not THAT bad.” He muttered, causing you to smile. You were used to his antics, he acted like this ever since he could talk. Even though you two were 12, he hadn’t changed a bit.

“Okay, but no take backs!”

You woke up to the sound of arguing. You were sleeping over at the Zoldyck household, since Killua’s mom practically begged you to stay over. She was almost as protective of you as she was her own son.

Your feet met the cold wood floor of the guest bedroom as you got out of bed. Rubbing your eyes, you fixed your sleepwear before quietly opening the door. You could use Zetsu, however they would all notice it more if your aura suddenly disappeared rather than just moving around. You snuck around to the stair railing, peering between the wooden rails as you watched Killua argue with Milluki and his mother.

“I’m not marrying them!” He shouted, crossing his arms. Milluki rolled his eyes. “You should be glad mother is allowing you to marry someone in the first place, Killua!” He shouted back. Killua glared at him, before looking at his mother. “I want a choice in who I marry! Just cause we’ve been friends since we were little doesn’t mean we’d be a good match!” He said to her. “You two don’t have to be a good match to have good grandchildren. You’re the heir to the family business, and they easily match you in strength. I’m sure you two will have powerful children.” She said, causing him to give her a disgusted look. You were equally as grossed out. Sure, you did have a small crush on Killua, but children was something you definitely didn’t want to think about as a child yourself.

“Why are you even thinking about that?! I’m twelve!” He shouted. You nodded quietly in agreement, thinking it was really weird. His mother had always been a little... odd.

“Because it’s what you should be focused on! You need to take on the family business and marry the right person, and Y/N is that person!” She said, with Milluki nodding next to her. Killua huffed. “Then I’m leaving!” He shouted, storming over to the stairs. Milluki grabbed his arm. “Killua, where do yo-“ he started, but was cut off as Killua grabbed his wrist tightly with his free hand, giving him an ice cold stare. “Milluki. Let go of me.” He threatened lowly. His brother scoffed, grip tightening. In a flash, Killua dug a spare knife out of his pocket and stabbed him in the arm, causing him to reel back in shock. It was honestly a little funny, in a twisted way. His mother rushed over to Killua, pleading in her high pitched voice. He whipped around, and in an instant, she was holding her bleeding face. Her visor was knocked on the ground as she covered her face and called for her husband.

Walking up the stairs, he went over to where you were crouched down. “You’re so nosy, Y/N.” He teased, poking your cheek. You pouted. “You said you were leaving.” You muttered, looking at him. He sighed. “I am. I’m sorry, but I can’t marry you. It doesn’t feel right. I need to get out of this family business and be something that’s not related to assassin life.” He said, patting your head. You felt tears well up in your eyes, but you gulped them down. You got up onto your knees and hugged him, burying your face into the crook of his neck. He smelled like vanilla.

“I’m gonna miss you, Killua.”

“I will too.”

Ten years had gone by since that night. After Killua left, you had gone over his last words to you in your head. You decided to quit your family business and become a hunter at the age of 14. Since then, you had been doing freelance jobs and earning money. Life was good. You still had memories of Killua, where you two stayed up and told ghost stories with a flashlight under his soft sheets or splashes around in the clear waters of you two’s secret lake. You hadn’t seen him since he left, but you thought of him often.

Shaking your head, you laced up your shoes. You had a match against some random person in Heaven’s Arena, and you were supposed to go fight in less than a minute. Standing up, you rushed to the tunnel, waiting for them to announce your name.

“And here we have the returning powerhouse, Y/N L/N!”

You stepped out onto the stage, smiling as you waved at the crowd. Scanning the audience, your eyes met a pair of blue ones.

Powder blue.

White hair.

It couldn’t be... could it?

You felt the air leave your lungs. It was him. It had to be. He looked grown up by now- of course he would, he would be 22. You blinked, trying to focus as the fight started.

‘I might as well show off a bit.’ you thought.

The fight was almost criminally easy. You defeated the guy rather quickly before rushing off the stage, not even staying for your victory announcement. Running through the halls, you slammed straight into another person, causing you to fall back.

“Ouch! Sorry!” You said, looking up. The boy had green hair and light brown eyes, as well as a kind smile. He offered a hand to help you up, which you accepted. “It’s alright. You did great in your fight!” He complimented, causing you to smile back. “Oh, thanks! I-“

“Gon! I was looking for you, whe-“ A familiar voice said, pausing. You looked over to see who it was. Your eyes lit up as you rushed over to him.

“Killua! Oh my god, it’s been so long! I’ve missed you so much!” You shouted, hugging him. He turned red, patting your head. “Baka! Don’t say that stuff, it’s embarrassing...” he muttered. You smiled, knowing he was still the same boy you knew long ago. The boy, who’s name you now knew as Gon, looked at the two of you confused. “You know them, Killua?” He asked. “Yeah. We grew up together, but I left to take the hunter exam when we were little and I hadn’t seen them since.” He said. You nodded, smiling at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Gon!” You said, and he nodded back. “Same here!” He said.

You turned to Killua. “Come sleep over at my place! We have to catch up!” You said. He gave a smirk, looking away playfully. “I don’t know, what if people get the wrong idea?” He asked, smirking. You smacked the back of his head. “Ow!” He said.

“Don’t be a pervert!” “Fine, fine, I’ll come over. Only cause you asked.”

Fixing the white sheets on your guest bed, you walked out to see what Killua was up to. He was sat on the couch, watching some sort of TV show about... superpowers? You sat down next to him, leaning on his shoulder. He froze, blue eyes gazing over at you. “What?” He asked, seeing you give him a gentle stare. You smiled softly. “I really missed you, Killua.” You said, hugging him. He turned red, pushing you gently by the head. “Don’t say stuff like that! It’s embarrassing...” He muttered, cheeks pink as you continued to have your arms locked tightly around his waist.

“Why did you leave without me?” You asked quietly, causing him to pause. “I needed to find myself, I needed to become something that was detached from the Zoldyck name. I figured becoming a hunter would do that, and it did. I met some really nice people, Gon being one of them.” He said, gently stroking your hair. You nodded, agreeing silently. You completely understood why he wanted to do that, but something that had been eating you alive for the last ten years had you asking one more question.

“When you said you didn’t want to marry me... was that true?”

His hand stilled, gently resting against your head as he thought quietly. “It wasn’t necessarily true, but I did feel like it wasn’t something that needed to be talked about.” He said, carefully choosing his words. You reached up and gently moved his hand off of your head, holding it in your own instead. “Ever since you left I worried about you. I know you’re strong, but I always thought about whether you were alright or not. I missed you so much- not a day went by with your name not popping up in my head.” You confessed, feeling your face heat up as you buried your face into his chest.

He still smelled like vanilla.

He tended up, his face turning red as he flicked your head. “You’re so embarrassing...” he muttered. “I’m telling the truth, though.” You said softly, looking up at him. He stated back at you, his eyes shining with... love? Was that what it was? It didn’t really matter.

“I’m in love with you, you know. You’re so stupid, making me like you.” He said, looking away as he turned bright red. He looked adorable, his cheeks puffed out due to embarrassment. You smiled, leaning up and giving him a gentle peck on the lips.

“No take backs.” You said, giggling. He rolled his eyes playfully before giving you a gentle smile.

“I’d never want to anyways.”

#killua x reader #killua zoldyck x reader #killua tag #killua headcanons #hxh x reader #hxh scenarios #hxh headcanons #hxh imagines #hunter x hunter #hxh 2011 #killua hxh

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sergeantsporks · 3 years

Note

Your recent post gave me a craving for a whump fic where Amity DOES stab Hunter, but it's not immediately fatal. Eda finds her kneeling, in shock, next to Hunter, who is unconscious and laying in a large and growing pool of blood. Eda or Amity seals the wound (Owlbert or fire glyph or abomination plug?) but he has lost too much blood and they race against time to the healing coven for a transfusion, ring the doorbell and hide. They spend the night hidden outside, waiting to see if he made it.

I am 100% focused on whumptober, I whisper as I open up another word document, I am not getting distracted by side-fics

“If you really wanna help, then give me that key!”

Hunter lunged forward, his staff catching the string of the key around Amity’s neck and tearing it loose. Amity lunged for the key—Luz neededthat!

Hunter’s weapon pinned her arm, and she reacted instinctively, her magic forming to her fear and creating a sharp weapon on the end of her hand. Amity swung her arm up almost without thinking, and the pressure from Hunter’s staff dropped away as he let out a choked, garbled scream.

Amity froze, her abomination weapon buried right where Hunter’s neck met his jaw. She hastily shoved the key in her pocket, grabbing the front of his cloak as he fell and lowering him to the ground. Her weapon was still stuck, and she forced herself not to remove it, instead kneeling next to him. “Don’t die!” she begged him.

Hunter gurgled in a final kind of way, blood dripping down the surface of Amity’s weapon.

“No, no, no, no—”

Please don’t die!

Xxx

Eda dove down through the tunnels, worry fighting excitement. She hadn’t heard Amity or King in a minute—she knew they could handle themselves, but the golden guard had bested both her and Luz together before.

She swooped out into a wide cavern.

“Eda!” King called. He was stuck, horns first, in a rock, and Eda tugged him out.

“Whoa, you made short… work… of…”

She landed next to Amity, who was staring blankly ahead. The sleeve of her coat was soaked in blood, and it was starting to drip down into a red stain on the sand.

It wasn’t hers.

Amity seemed very determined not to look down at Hunter, her eyes glazed over. Eda couldn’t blame her for disassociating from the situation—she wouldn’t want to have her talons stuck in someone’s face, either. She wasn’t sure if she’d have been able to do it.

“Boots—Hey, Amity.” Eda took her shoulders. “Amity, are you hurt?”

Amity shook her head, tears blooming in the corners of her eyes. “I can’t move,” she whispered, “He’ll bleed out.”

Eda took another look at Amity’s blood-soaked sleeve. Wouldn’t be long before that happened anyway, at this rate.

“Okay,” she said quietly, “Okay, Amity. Just a few more seconds, alright?” She traced a fire glyph on the ground, scooping up the fire in her talons. Thank you, owl-beast. She put her free hand on Amity’s shoulder. “Okay. Let him go in three… two… one!”

Amity pulled her hand away, her abomination goo mixed with blood. Eda quickly put her fire against Hunter’s face, wrinkling her nose as the smell of burning flesh hit her nostrils.

Hunter let out a gurgling scream, his back arching. Eda removed the fire, and he went limp. “Hey—you still alive?” she felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak. Uh-oh. Eda glanced at Amity, who was hugging herself tightly, rocking back and forth. Eda shook her head. Poor kids. Both of them.

She could hear movement in the tunnels—time to bounce. She scooped up Hunter. He needed help—the cauterization wouldn’t hold forever, and he’d already lost too much blood. “Okay, everyone hang on!”

King and Amity grabbed her arms, and she lifted up into the air, flapping out of the cave and into the sky. Hunter shivered violently, heaving in wet coughs frantically. Eda flapped her wings just a little harder, slicing through the air like a knife.

Amity’s grip started to loosen, and she stared ahead, still not looking at Hunter. Eda glanced down at her.

“Hey. Boots. It’s okay—you didn’t mean to hurt him this bad.”

“He attacked you,” King reminded her.

“I didn’t have to make the weapon so sharp,” Amity said in a daze, “I could have used a hammer, or something blunt.”

“You were in the middle of a fight. Things happen. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” Eda swooped in for a landing when she saw glimmering lights. “There’ll be a healing coven center some—there!” She gently settled Hunter down on the doorstep of the hospital, then gestured for Amity and King to hide. She knocked twice on the door, then dove into the bushes, joining the kids.

The door opened, and Eda heard a gasp from the healer, and shouts for a blood test.

“Okay. Time to go.”

Amity grabbed her arm. “We can’t leave him!”

“There’s nothing else we can do.”

“Please, I… I need to make sure he survives.”

Eda took her arms. “And what if he doesn’t?” she said quietly. Maybe not the best thing to say right now, but she couldn’t sugarcoat it—he might not live the night, no matter how hard the healing coven tried. She knew from experience that they couldn’t fix everything.

“Then I need to know.”

Eda settled down next to her. “Okay. Fine. We’ll stick around.”

Amity twisted her blood-stained hands. “…Eda? Do you… really think it’s okay?”

Eda heaved a sigh. Oh, boy. Parenting. “You were in a fight,” she repeated, “Everything happens fast, you have to make split-second decisions. You’ve never really been in a real witches’ duel before, the one with Luz didn’t count. And he’s trained in combat. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t acted?” Eda gently tugged the gloves off of Amity’s hands, and removed her coat, tossing the bloodstained clothing articles out of her sight. It felt warm enough here that it wouldn’t be a problem to get rid of the extra layers. “I don’t think you reacted wrongly. There might have been another way out of the situation, but that doesn’t make the way you took any worse.”

Eda drew an invisibility glyph, holding her breath and flapping up to the windows. There was Hunter—healing coven members were all gathered around him, checking his heart rate. His arm was plastered with patches—Eda could recognize painkillers and sedation in there, as well as a stimulant patch—probably to keep his heart beating. Whoof. He was going to be completely out of it when he woke up.

If he woke up.

Quit that, she scolded herself. She couldn’t think like that, for Amity’s sake. Eda dove back down, as she took a breath and the spell ended. Amity shifted from foot to foot. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“Okay, okay, hold your breath.” Eda scooped Amity up, holding her own breath with the invisibility spell and flapping back up to the window.

The healing coven had added a few more patches—more painkillers, another stimulant, and now a bag full of red blood dripped into his arm. Amity made a little noise, and Eda ducked back down. “You can’t take a breath, the spell fades,” she hissed. Amity nodded, taking in another breath as Eda pulled back up with another spell.

Even more painkillers. At this point, Eda sincerely doubted that Hunter would be able to form a coherent thought. Or move. But then he did, his fingers twitching. He coughed, his eyes opening just ever-so-slightly. His glazed-from-pain-meds eyes slid around the room, landing on the window—and looking directly at them. Amity gasped, and Eda dove back down. “I’m not bringing you up there if you keep stopping the invisibility spells,” she scolded.

“Sorry.”

Eda set her down. “You stay here, and I’ll report back down, okay?”

She swooped back up to the window. The coven members had put a couple more sedation patches on Hunter’s arm, and he was passed out again, the rise and fall of his chest still uneven.

Eda landed next to Amity and King. “They’ve got him pretty hopped up on sedation and painkillers.”

Amity bit her lip. “Is that good? Is that bad?”

“Good,” Eda replied. Maybe if she said it confidently enough, Amity would believe her and stop worrying.

And it worked. At least a little. There was a tiny little relaxation of her shoulders. Eda nudged her. “You should get some sleep. You’ve had a long day. I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

Amity shook her head. “How can I—actually, that doesn’t… sound like a bad idea.”

Amity sat down with a sigh. “Eda. Be honest. Do you… do you really think he’s going to be okay?”

Eda hissed out through her teeth. “I… I don’t know. It was a nasty wound—but he’s one tough customer. If anyone can get through it, it’ll be him.”

Amity ran a hand through her hair. “He was so desperate. So scared to fail.”

Eda extended one wing around her. “And if he’d succeeded, you’dbe the one in the hospital bed. Amity. I know it’s hard to have this kind of… burden, I suppose. It’s good that it’s hard for you to hurt someone else—it means you’ve grown as a person since when you first met Luz. But you can’t think too hard about it, okay?”

Amity didn’t respond. She’d fallen asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily, snuggled in Eda’s wing. “Ohp—okay. This is a thing that’s happening.”

Eda gently slid her wing out from around Amity, settling the witchling on the ground. She flapped back up to the window. The coven members had all disappeared, leaving Hunter alone. His breathing had evened out, his chest rising and falling evenly. Even with the multitude of patches plastered on his arm, his face was still twisted up in pain, and blood stained through the bandages wrapped around his face. His face very nearly matched the color of the bandages—pale as paper, the dark circles under his eyes standing out like bruises against his skin.

After watching for a while to make sure the healing coven wasn’t coming back, Eda gingerly slid the window open, slipping into the room. Hunter shivered at the sudden draft from the window, but didn’t wake up. Eda supposed that the four sedation patches on the belly of his forearm saw to that. She shook her head. “You really got yourself into a mess, huh, kid?”

Eda heard a chirp, and Hunter’s cloak rustled. The cardinal palisman wriggled out, warbling softly and sadly, gently pecking the uninjured side of Hunter’s face. Eda scooped up the little bird.

“I wouldn’t do that. He needs his rest.” Eda patted the bird’s head. “You picked a heck of a witch to bond to, huh? No powers, self-destructive—”

The palisman pecked her fingers indignantly and fluttered back down to Hunter’s chest, chirping softly at him. To Eda’s surprise, Hunter’s face relaxed just ever-so slightly. She glanced out the window—the sun was starting to rise. She gave the palisman another pat on the head.

“You got it from here?”

It chirped an affirmation, and Eda started out the window.

“Hngh…”

Eda whirled back around. Hunter’s eyes were open just a slit, giving her a dazed, unfocused look. She moved back and knelt down next to him. “Hey. You gave us a scare.”

“Mrgh.” He winced, his fingers twitching like he was trying to touch his face.

“No way. You need to hold still. Look. Kid. Amity’s really sorry she stabbed you. She was freaking out about it. Wouldn’t let us leave until she was sure you’d be okay. We weren’t going to just leave you for dead—but Belos would have. Listen to me—you drove yourself crazy over that blood and ended up getting really hurt trying to continue a fight you weren’t going to win. Belos isn’t worth that. And if you keep trying to please him, you’re just going to isolate yourself and get yourself hurt worse. This time, we were able to get you help. Next time, you might not be so lucky, or you might fight someone who won’t be as nice as Amity.” Eda sighed. “You probably won’t even remember this—you’re out of your mind on painkillers. But hey. Take care of yourself. And… maybe start considering that if this is what he drives you to, then Belos might not be the kind of guy you want to follow.”

“Hrgh—”

Eda looked around and found a stack of pain patches. She applied it over one of the used-up ones, and Hunter’s eyes slowly closed. She went back to the window. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

Eda jumped back down to where Amity was waiting, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “He’s going to be okay.

Amity grabbed her arm. “He is?”

Eda nodded. “He’s in rough shape, but he’ll make it.”

Amity’s legs wobbled, and she slumped against Eda. “He’ll be okay,” she said dazedly, “I didn’t kill him.”

Eda scooped her up, tucking a still-sleeping King under her arm. “C’mon. Let’s go home.” She cast one last look at the hospital as they flew away.

Good luck, kid.

#do witches have blood types? I don't know #toh #the owl house #writing requests #asks #save the owl house #my writing

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lackingspace · 4 years

Text

Vindictive (Ghostface x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: Danny is jealous and that’s your fault.

Warnings: Rough oral sex, degradation, humiliation, dirty talk, cum swallowing, light daddy kink, Danny just being Danny.

A/N: Had a request for a Jealous Danny. Here it is! I hope you like it. Sorry its taken so long! ･ﾟﾟ･(>д<)･ﾟﾟ･

When you were first dropped in this place you’d been confused, scared, and a little more than annoyed because what the fuck had you done to land yourself here? After the first few freak outs of death and despair, being sacrificed, and the general malaise of being here became your new normal. Falling into a routine became easy after that- trial, struggle, escape if you were lucky, die if you weren’t, and repeat.

Quite frankly, things were getting boring. The others trapped with you made it better, talking, joking around on occasion- friends forged in unfortunate circumstances. It was a tiny slice of normality that you were grateful for because who knows how long you’d been here or would be here. Time didn’t mean anything when there was really no way to measure it. You just knew that it was far longer than you’d have liked. Long enough to become numb to the killers and their brutal treatment. To find them not so threatening and more of an inconvenience.

You missed the real world. Missed the simple things in life- a walk in the park, meeting up with friends, food- God did you miss food. But what you missed the most was an intimate connection. And sex. You definitely missed sex. Relieving tension and having something to distract you from this monotonous existence would have been a blessing.

None of the others trapped with you really appealed to you. Sure Jake was cute, and Yui had that badass look, even Ash had the daddy thing going for him...but none of them really set your nerves on fire. At least not even enough to try it out and spend eternity awkwardly if it didn’t fly. But damn did you need release. so with no options for a partner, you settled on sneaking away into the woods to take care of yourself.

And that’s how he found you. One hand down your pants and the other up your shirt, eyes closed, head tossed back, and softly moaning. He’d leaned against the tree directly in front of you and waited quietly until you opened your eyes. You’d almost had a heart attack when you opened them to see Ghostface casually leaning there while staring you down. It was altogether embarrassing but still had your senses buzzing.

All he did was firmly tell you to keep going. That he was enjoying the show. And something about it, his voice? The command? It just worked for you. Maybe it was the combination of him being dangerous, a killer- someone familiar, but not, an unknown that made your senses tingle mixed with his nonchalant attitude and that damned voice that made your toes curl. So you’d done what he’d asked and kept going.

That marked the start of whatever it was you had going on with Ghostface. At first, it was just hooking up- sneaking away when you saw him lurking and wandering back with a few new pleasurable aches, pains, and bruises. You were sure some of your friends noticed- you knew for a fact Bill, Ace, and David did. The raised brows they’d give you on occasion told you that you were found out. That they knew a clandestine meet up just took place. As long as they knew what you were up to, just not with who, you didn't care. For all they knew it could be another survivor who hadn't wandered back from a trial yet because who would be fucking a killer?

You were content with ignoring them and they seemed fine with not questioning. Besides, it wasn't their business and you have no plans on stopping because it was something you enjoyed- it unquestionably helped deal with the mental stress of repeatedly dying. After a while though, and you really couldn’t pinpoint when, it turned into something a little more. At least for you.

Made you unnecessarily giddy when he was the killer in your trials. Both of you more playful in chases, he had a habit of drawing those out with you, grabbing your ass before letting you run away only for him to ambush you, down you, and then run his hands up all over you before picking you up.

If he caught you jumping through a window? You better expect a few well-placed slaps while he teased all sorts of dirty things he'd do to you once he had you alone.

You didn’t want to admit it, but feelings had reared their ugly head in you for this sarcastic bastard. You caught yourself being soft for him when you really shouldn’t have. Honestly, you felt a little bad because you weren’t the best teammate if he was the killer of the trial. You should have been focusing on gen rushing, saves, or even trying to distract him- which you were more than capable of doing.

But instead, you found yourself being distracted by him. You'd be there staring, sighing while watching him sneak around. Giggle to yourself about how much of a sadistic bastard he was when in a chase. And if he found you? And God did you want him to- you were even more useless. You weren’t fooling anyone with your pseudo-chase. You didn’t really try to escape but that was ok, both of you liked it that way. You always blamed it as an off match when questioned why you’d done so poorly. No one seemed to notice it was only during a trial with him, and you were totally fine with that.

So that was how your existence was for now. Honestly, you weren’t mad about it either. His attention in and out of trials gave you back a spark that had been dulled after one too many sacrifices. This trial was no different, you found yourself relaxed, good-spirited, and snickering at a comment Zarina just made. When the gen popped you looked over to see Jane shaking a hand with a mumbled apology. A second later she let out a shriek and started running away.

You knew what that meant and so you tried to gauge if you should sneak away as well, but you hadn’t seen what she had. Would've been nice if she’d have at least said the killer before sprinting off, but you understood sometimes they just caught you off guard and fight or flight took over.

Cautiously looking around you decided it was best just to move on, Zarina had the moment Jane ran. You probably waited around too long and would get caught, but at least you'd be prepared after you got off the hook. The fact that you hadn’t heard any footsteps or seen anyone usually meant it was someone stealthy too. You really didn’t want the shape. He was always terrible to play against in this underground lab. Harder to outmaneuver him within the space. Hope welled inside you that it was your...boyfriend? well, whatever he was, you wanted Ghostface. Trying to quietly sneak away seemed like it was going fine until you were suddenly stopped.

Something had gripped the back of your shit and yanked. You stumbled and then felt yourself being dragged around a corner only to have your face pressed against a wall. You were pretty sure you knew who it was, but shit why was he being so rough?

“So that’s the game you want to play, huh?” Your wish came true, it was your sarcastic boo, Ghostface- you had no idea what he was talking about though, “What the hell do you mean? What’s th-” he cut you off as he pressed in against your back while placing a hand in front of your smashed face, “Don’t give me that. You know damn well what I’m talking about.” He said it with so much venom dripping in his voice, you’d never actually heard him like that before.

He was usually snide, sarcastic, kinda dark, sometimes angry, but this? He sounded well beyond any of that. And it was all aimed at you….shit.

“Dude, I really” He pressed a forearm to the twisted side of your neck and gripped your shoulder. You winced at the pressure, “Really have no idea what you’re talking about. What game?” There was silence as you felt cold sweat run down your spine. In that same vicious tone, he answered as his grip tightened on your shoulder, “I saw you and that bastard.”

You wracked your brain trying to figure out what he meant. It had to have been something in this trial, he wasn’t upset when you’d seen him be-- oh god it hit you just like that. You’d slipped and would have had a nasty face-first fall into some crates, barrels, and a pallet, but Ace had grabbed you. Unfortunately, it’d been by the hips and as soon as he got you up he’d apologized for the placement while patting a shoulder.

He must have seen that. It had to be what he was talking about….But did that mean....was he jealous? His knife suddenly stabbed into the wall next to your face, ohhh, even if he denied it you could tell, he was. There was no question with the growl in his voice, the tight grip he had- which you’d like to point out was only getting tighter, and now the knife threateningly in your face? This wasn’t his normal rational ‘let me weasel my way in, tease, and manipulate to my advantage’, this screamed irritated topped with irrational.

And even though your brain screamed it was an awfully bad idea, you were going to have fun with it.

“Not even going to deny it? You little fucking whore.” The rage in his voice felt like someone had submerged you in acid. It really did make your skin crawl that he thought you’d do something like that. After everything the two of you got up to he should have realized how much his dick did it for you. And only his dick. That aside, you weren’t going to just lay down and take his attitude. Nope, not at all. If he was going to be a jealous prick then you were going to be a coy bitch. It might land you in hot water, but you were hoping it was the kind you liked with him, “Oh, but Ghostface, I thought you liked it when I was bent over?”

The arm still pinning across the back of your neck lifted off quicker than lightning only to move into your hair and rip your head back with a snarl, “Only when your bent in front of me you little cunt!” You moaned at the pain in your scalp but still enjoyed the feeling. It sent some nice jolting tingles straight to your nipples, “But I was in front of you.” The grip in your hair was impossibly tight as the knife scraped against the wall as it moved from next to your face to press against your newly exposed throat. Ignoring that you pressed on, “You’re just pissed that it wasn’t your hands on me.”

Even with his knife millimeters away from cutting into you and the very real possibility that he was beyond reasoning, would just slit your throat and throw you up to hang- there was still an overwhelming feeling of bravado and the need to tease just as much as his anger was crushing down on you.

With that feeling overflowing, you took the chance before he responded to push just a little more, “In fact, I bet you’re mad because you couldn't make me stay like that.” Wiggling under his tight grip had your hair pulling and the knife pressing harder into your throat- a wet trickle down the side told you skin broke, “Bet you would have fucked me right there too. Let my friends see who's been giving it to me.” The hiss he let out had a smirk clawing its way onto your lips. That feeling of getting under his skin made it impossible to keep your next thought locked inside, “Too bad it was just Ace...His rough hands grabbing me, having him pressing against me, he could have pushed me however he’d wanted...too bad it wasn’t you.”

Growling out, “You little bitch.” he quickly pulled his knife away as he pressed his hips into yours- he must have liked what you'd said because he was half-hard already. Pulling your hair harder had you moaning out at both the rough treatment of your scalp and the hard length now pressed against your ass. A hot flush circulated your system as relief filled you- The fact that he hadn’t plunged the knife in was a good sign. It seemed like your gamble had paid off.

You moved your hips against his as he leaned in to hiss in your ear, “You’re fucking right I would have fucked you right there. Would have shown that prick exactly who you belong to.”

His knife hand grabbed your hip in a bruising grip and directed you how he liked, “I should just throw you up on a fucking hook with your tits out and my name carved across your chest for everyone to see.” Another wave of heat flushed through you at that, Would he? That’d be embarrassing as hell and you really did not want to explain that to your friends, at least not yet. But it sent heat through you all the same. "Show them how nasty you really are." On second thought explaining wouldn't be that big of an issue. Your squirming gave away how much you liked the thought, which he pointed out, “Of course a dirty girl like you gets off on that. I shouldn't even let you come. Should just use you and make you wait until you're really fucking sorry. ”

Ignoring that last part to focus on his phrasing. He had said should, which implied that he was questioning it, so you asked in a shaky voice, “But?” Between his hands and his hips, you couldn’t hold back the moan at the pleasurable drag of him against your ass- he was only getting harder, “But nothing, I might just fucking do that...either way, they're going to talk. ” The hand in your hair released and reached around to hold your cheeks in a harsh grip, “I’m going to teach you a fucking lesson because it seems like my mouthy whore needs to be reminded of who she belongs to and what that means. They get free tickets to the show...Lucky them.”

The venom was still there, but instead of the pure angry tone from before, it was colored by an undercurrent of something darker- something hotter. Something that told you on an instinctual level you wouldn’t be walking the same if the entity didn’t have pity and heal whatever he was about to punish you with. Fuck, you wanted it though. Wanted all the pleasurable pain he was about to dish out to you. “You’re going to regret letting that bastard anywhere near you.”

Your brain wasn’t functioning not when he’d just declared he wanted everyone to hear him fucking you. See the evidence of it. Threatening it like he’d done about carving up your tits was a hot possibility, but he was actually serious about this. You weren’t sure what it was he was going to do to you, but you could tell you most certainly weren’t going to be quiet about it.

Ghostface could get rough sometimes, but it wasn’t the usual. Demanding? Yes. Controlling? Definitely. Explicit? Absolutely. But being rough just to be rough was generally only when he was especially frustrated, and that wasn’t often. Maybe only a handful of times since you’d been together and at this point, you weren’t even sure how long that was, all you knew was that it’d been a while.

Which boasted to how much this affected him. How jealous he was seeing something that really, really hadn’t been anything at all. It should have turned you off, sent you running by how possessive he was, but you ignored that in favor of knowing he got you wetter than anyone else had ever done before. There was no way he’d admit to being jealous though, not outright, but you knew that’s what this was all about and fuck did that work for you. Having him teach you a lesson? All you could do was moan at the prospect.

“Such an eager slut for it even after knowing your friends are gonna see. So pathetic.” You whined, whether in protest or confirmation it wasn’t clear, “You think it’s ok to let someone else put their hands on what’s mine? That’s not going to work, kitten.” at the pet name you knew this was going to be fun- but you couldn’t let him know that though, would have to turn up the waterworks, “We’re going to show them just what a disgusting whore you really are for me. Let them see you taking my cock and how you beg for it.”

He shoved you down to your knees. The impact against the hard concrete making you wince, “Good, feel the sting. Better get used to it because your throat is about to feel it too.” he was going to fuck your face? God. You loved when he made you choke on it and you could tell with how aggressive he was you really were going to choke.

The thumb on the hand on your face swiped across your bottom lip, dipping in to press down on your tongue causing some drool to slip down before regripping your face with the now wet appendage, “You’re going to open wide and let Daddy use this pretty mouth of yours while we let all your little fucking friends know whos been sending you back to that fucking fire pit covered in bruises.” Goddamn that set your nerves ablaze and if your panties hadn’t already been drenched that was added insurance. He was usually subtly possessive but this was flat out plain as day possessive and it had you crying for it.

You didn't care anymore. You didn't give a single fuck if you had to explain why they'd caught you with a mouth full of Ghostface's cock- and maybe more. if this meant him declaring to everyone that you were his you’d happily tell them to fuck off if they had any issues.

You were going to beg him for it, but the hand gripping your face prevented anything escaping outside of mumbled strained moans. He answered for you though because he forcefully made you nod up and down. In a mocking falsetto, he voiced for you, “Yes, sir. I’ll open up like a good girl and apologize with my filthy mouth. I'll show you how sorry I am for letting some asshole put their hands on me.”

Yes, fuck yes! is wanted to say, but all that came out was a garbled moan through your closed mouth. At the sound, his grip tightened, “Such a fucking slut. Would you have moaned for that fuck too?” At your muffled outrage his grip forced your gaze up, “At least you fucking know better on that.”

You thought he would release you to undo his pants, but after a second of silence and you quietly looking at him, he said, "well? Get to apologizing with that pretty mouth before I decide to gut you instead." Ah, he wanted you to do it. That was fine by you, didn't really want him to let go of your hair anyways. You opened his pants with ease, already intimately familiar with the clasps and he squeezed your cheeks forcing your mouth open before he finally released the grip as you took him in.

He was hard and pulsing when you pulled him out, precome just slightly swelling at the tip. He would have shoved into your still open mouth if it hadn’t been for the entranced look you were giving him. The affectionate desperation you wore while staring helped quell the rage clawing through him. He decided he'd let you play for a second, seeing you so willing to drool for him tore against the need to roughly shove down your throat.

Unabashedly licking a hand before wrapping it tightly around his base to give him a rough tug. Staring up at his mask again you pleaded with him, "I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t do it on purpose." Teasing his tip against your lips before you kissed the head, "I don't want him. Or any of them. Wanted it to be you" Licking the underside followed by a few gentle nibbles to the base made his breath catch, "Always you, daddy."

His cock twitched against your tongue as he hissed, "And I like that they'll know. I want them to hear what you're about to do to me." He retightened his fist in your hair to pull your head back slightly. He took himself from your hands to slap his cock across your cheeks, "Yeah? You're gonna get off on them hearing your mouth full of killer cock? Filthy thing." You whined desperately trying to nod against his grip, "Then open fucking wide." You dropped your mouth quicker than he finished speaking and you were rewarded with another slap across your cheek before you felt him rest heavy against your tongue.

It was hard not to close around him and start working on the shaft, but you could tell he wasn't going to let you warm up to it. He wanted you wrecked- a gagging crying used looking mess. And the heat that sent through you had your clit pulsing in want and made you squirm around for some type of relief. But you'd be a good girl and take it for him.

"Keep your fucking eyes on me and don't you dare try to keep quiet. You better make as much noise as you fucking can." Before you could answer he was shoving to the back of your throat and down. The choked sob you made was just what he wanted as you gagged around him. Sliding down your throat, he mockingly cooed, “Aw, is that too much? Don’t lie, I know you can take it, kitten. Just relax and swallow like my good girl. Impress all your survivor friends.”

You gagged hard and sputtered around him while he kept thrusting using the grip in your hair to hold you in place, “Don’t even try to deny it. You’re always gagging for it regularly. I bet those little boys wish they were here in this tight wet heat instead.” His voice was strained and you could hear him holding back his own moans.

Gripping his thighs tightly while trying to relax like he'd suggested, but the burning stretch of your throat was hard to ignore, “But that's why we started this, huh?” his thrusts had been rapid and shallow, but were turning slower while he held in your throat longer, “None of their cocks would do it for you.” Swallowing around him only made him hold deeper, “ For as much of a dirty slut you are, none of them could get you going like I can.”

Tears were freely falling- leaving tracks down your cheeks, drool was constantly spilling out, your throat ached at the persistent gagging, and the obscene noises you were making with each thrust was driving the both of you wild. “None of them. None...of...those...pricks!” He punctuated each word with a deep thrust, “No one can fuck you like I do.” You moaned sloppily around his cock in agreement, “ They’re not going to throat fuck you like this. And they not going to bend you over and make you fucking take it like daddy.” crying out around him just as much as you were gagging- near constantly and God did you love it.

You’d be begging for him to fuck you if you didn’t have a mouthful at the moment. So instead you were squirming, tightly gripping his thighs, tears continued to spill down, and taking anything he gave you. He knew you well enough to know what your pathetic looks and sounds meant, but he wasn’t folding, “Aw, do you want something?” all that came out were some choked sobs, “What's that? I can’t really understand you.” He shoved completely down your throat and held your head there causing you to swallow and make some disgusting throat sounds, “You should really learn not to talk with your mouth full, kitten.” He tutted at you while you sobbed harder, “ But I can’t expect any manners on such a dirty girl.”

His hand tightening and his voice gaining a shakiness betrayed how close he was even if he looked like the picture of control, “You’re not meant for them.” His pace quickened, “Your place is right fucking here.” He was using both hands to direct your head now, “On your goddamn knees for me.” He pulled out as he ripped your head back, “Gone on, tell them who fucking owns this you!” It only took you a second to catch your breath before you were rasping out his name, “Ghostface! I’m yours, just yours!” Movement in your peripheral caused your eyes to widen, someone was definitely watching. Maybe they all were, but you wouldn’t fuck this up by looking over to them. Who knows what he’d do then.

You could hear how smug he was when he whispered, “Yeah they’re fucking watching. Saw you choking on it like a professional. Now show them how much of a cumslut you are for me and beg for it. If you do it good enough, maybe I’ll be nice and let you cum before the end of the trial.” Denying him wasn’t even a question, you’d said you wanted them to hear and now they had. The satisfaction that at least one of them knew was sending a burning hot pulse through you.

So you started begging with your raw voice, “Please, I need it Ghostface! I want it so bad! Need your cum! I wanna taste it so bad. Please! Please, daddy, can I have it?!” He was still pumping his cock in front of your face while you continued to say his name like a prayer, “Open that pretty mouth for me, Babe.” You did as you were told and opened wide while staring up at his mask. The hand not working himself gripped your chin, sliding his thumb inside before moving back up into your hair to yank your head where he wanted. Keeping your mouth open as far as you could you moaned for it.

You could see more movement to the side, but you ignored it when you felt the first spurt of his cum splash against your cheek. He covered your face before giving you the last on your waiting tongue. “Keep your mouth open.” You heard the telltale clicks of his camera and embarrassment flushed through you just as a new wave of arousal settled low in your stomach. “You can swallow it now.” You made a show of savoring the taste for him, and anyone watching.

Slowly opening your eyes you could feel your lashes heavy with his cum. You moved to wipe some of it away, but he caught your wrist, “You’re going to leave that right where it is.” You gave him a questioning look that he answered with, “I’m going to hang you up on that hook and you're going to run around the rest of this trial with it on your face.” Your jaw dropped as your face burned. That was so fucking embarrassing. You’d think that wouldn’t bother you since you let everyone watch you be thoroughly face fucked but having to talk to them with cum on you went to the next level. But you wouldn't try to stop him- didn’t want to. It sent a nasty pulse of perverse heat through you, “If you keep it like a good girl, I’ll fuck you in front of them before the trials up.” You were begging before you even realized.

He chuckled while brushing some of your hair back from your face, “Well, let's get you up there on the hook then.” He lifted you with ease and surprisingly gently compared to his treatment just a second ago. You felt the familiar feel of the hook entering you, heard yourself scream, and then you were hanging there and he was patting a cheek of your ass, “Remember, no wiping it off until I say.” and then he was walking off.

You hung there for a few minutes before you saw Jane silently walking towards you. You tried to look away, but she was already lifting you off of it. Settling on your feet had you unconsciously looking up to her. She was taking you in with a raised brow and a slight smirk, “Ghostface, huh?” Hearing her say it was about enough to kill you from embarrassment.

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dmwrites · 2 years

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It wasn’t exactly good manners to kill someone on the first date, but it did make for a memorable story. Well, it would be a memorable story to tell if not for one off-putting detail.

“Why won’t you die?”

“I don’t know, maybe you’re just not doing it hard enough!”

Sky snorted. “Excuse me, we haven’t slept together yet you don’t know how well I perform!”

Polly rolled her eyes. “Gross. Moving on.”

“Fine fine fine sorry…” Sky shifted the sword in his hand awkwardly. “I don’t think me successfully killing you has anything to do with the fact that you won’t die, to be fair.”

Polly bobbed her head, considering that. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Sorry I lashed out, it’s just been a weird night.”

“You’re telling me!” Sky replied, holding up the sword as if it was proof.

It had been a bit of a weird night. Sky had met Polly on a dating app, and they’d gotten along alright enough. The date would have been fine, except for the fact that Sky had accidentally run over Polly with his car when he came to pick her up. But she was fine. Just a little ruffled. But he had felt her go under his tires. She should, by all definition, be dead. She had then surprised him by taking out her pocket knife and stabbing herself in the heart. Still fine. And so they had abandoned their dinner plans.

And so now, their date had turned into a strange limbo of brainstorming ways to kill Polly, Sky trying said way, and it not working.

Polly huffed, more to herself then anything. “I don’t even know what to do with this information.”

“You should go skydiving without a parachute. That sounds like fun.” Sky tossed the sword to the couch. He looked at the clock. “Listen, Polly, I think I should be going. It’s getting late.”

“Wasn’t quite the date you expected, huh?” Polly gave him a twisted smile.

“No, but I’d love to go out again sometime, if you’re interested.” Sky smiled back at her.

“Really? After everything?”

Sky nodded. “Hey, it’s not every day you get to kill your date consensually. Leaves quite the impression on a guy, you know?”

Polly giggled, and ran over to the front door to give him a kiss on the cheek. “See you soon then.”

#Jan 22 2022 #eh #i didn’t know what to write tnh #concept is decent #personal

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wellhellotragic · 3 years

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These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal 3/4

Summary: It’s not her fault. She’s still new and doesn’t know. He’s not flawless. Not anymore. He’s got scars, ones she’s seen first hand. Ones she helped tend to. His body is covered in them. There’s a thin red line where he took a bottle to the face during his early beat cop days. There’s another angry red mark on his torso from where he was stabbed with a knife in his ribs. The one where he had his hand slammed in a locker as a teenager has long since faded, only the barest hint remaining, only visible in just the right lighting.

There’s two oval scars now too. One in his stomach and one on his chest. Those are from the worst day of her life.But none of those scars compare to the ones he carries on the inside. The self-inflicted cuts he makes to his soul never quite healing over. He blames himself. It’s not his fault.

There’s a scar on her soul now too. One he left. A piece of her heart forever missing.

Rating: Mature (mostly for language)

A/N: Guy, I suck so hard core. I don't even know how I let so much time lapse between chapter 2 and now, and then to really top off my suck-o-meter, I realized that there's going to have to be a chapter 4 because I can't fix what I've done so easily. Not realistically at least. I promise, and happy ending is coming though, and it won't take me another 8 months to get it up. I hope to have it up and finished by the weekend.

The AO3 version

It’s been a hell of a night. She’s not sure where exactly it falls on her list of worst days ever, but it’s in her top five. It has to be. It’s not the worst, that honor is saved for the night she almost lost Killian, but it’s still up there. She’s spent hours now going through all of the details over and over again with Graham and Lance, her story never changing. Getting poked and prodded by EMTs, despite telling everyone that she’s fine.

She’s not, but they can’t stitch up her insides.

David, her partner, on the other hand has a bullet hole in his leg. Better than his head though.

She’s not even sure if she can fully reconcile everything that happened. She and David were investigating the death of a low profile importer, a nobody, interviewing some dock workers that had found the body. Some gruff looking men who easily blended in with the usual fishmongers and cargo sorters.

But they weren’t. She realized it just a second too late, right before a bag was pulled over her head. She fought like hell, but she was at a disadvantage. From what she heard, David had put up a fight as well, but in the end, it was useless, and she lost consciousness with a sharp blow to the head.

She woke up strapped down to a chair with David the same a few feet beside her. She shouldn’t have been surprised, Jefferson had always given her a bad feeling, but she never actually thought he’d go dirty. She certainly never expected to be facing the wrong side of his department issued sidearm.

Even now, everything is still a blur. Graham assured her it’s the shock, that it’ll fade once the adrenaline wears off; that everything will clear up after a good night's rest. She’s not sure about that though. It’s four in the morning now and the adrenaline seems to be hanging on for dear life still and she knows she's not going to rest any time soon. Humbert offered to drive her home but she declined, choosing to wait for August to finish wrapping up his report.

She’s not sure what time it is when they finally arrive at her apartment. The battery in her cell phone died ages ago. Neither of them even make a move for the fridge, choosing to bypass the beer she keeps stocked for the hard nights. Instead, the two of them move in silence to her room. She plugs in her cell before crawling in bed next to him, like when they were kids in Ingrid’s foster house. She’s not sure who’s comforting who at this point, but she knows that she just needs to be with family.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She doesn’t, but she knows she needs to or it’ll eat her alive. She’s tried that once already and it ended up with her almost having a complete nervous breakdown and a three week leave of absence with daily Archie sessions.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

It’s true. So much has happened in the last twelve hours, there’s no one easy to pinpoint place to begin. So August goes first. He fills in the blanks that he can, so that she might be able to piece together the rest. He tells her about Killian sending him undercover, about Jefferson and missing drugs and money. How Jefferson was helping to conceal evidence that would link Walsh and the Nikko empire to a wide distribution of pixie dust.

Some of it is just speculation, that Jefferson must have figured out they were closing in on him and that’s why he went for Emma, and David was probably just collateral damage. How he most likely picked Emma because he knew how much she meant to him , and while he didn’t say Killian’s name specifically, the implication hung over her like a heavy cloud.

“Before you got there, he told Killian to choose. Between me and David I mean. To pick which one of us would live and which one would die. And then he just started laughing and screaming in this crazed voice that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget.”

It was the single most terrifying thing she’d ever heard. The mania that accompanied it. She already knew that it was going to haunt her for months to come, if not longer.

It’s a real Gracie’s choice. Gracie’s choice Killian. GRACIE’s CHOICE!!!

She felt August shift next to her.

“Gracie was his daughter. She died while he was undercover with a Southie Gang. Killian was undercover with Cruella at the time. It was a freak accident, a gas leak and the house went up in flames, but he was convinced that she was killed by one of the De Vil boys. He told me once that he knew Killian had given him up as a snitch to prove his worth. The De Vil’s had nothing to do with the Southie boys, but he’d twisted it up in his mind. I never thought he’d do anything about it though. It was just crazy drunk venting one night.”

She knows August. Knows that he’s blaming himself for what happened tonight, but she ignores it. Nothing she says will stop him from tormenting himself, and she’s not done.

“I told him to choose David. He has this whole perfect life, you know. An adoring wife and a new baby, all of these people that would miss him if he were gone. I told Killian to save David, and I-” She hates how small she feels when she cries, but she can’t hold back the tears. “He gave me this look. He’s been cold, but this was something different. There was just so much anger in his eyes.”

And that’s when she breaks. Knowing that hated her was one thing, but watching him train his gun on her. Seeing the pure darkness in his eyes. She doesn’t know how to voice it to August, but she knows that if August hadn’t arrived when he did, she knows he would have done as she asked. That he wouldn’t have had to think twice about it. And it’s that knowledge that sliced open the last piece of her heart that had been hanging on by a thread, even after all that time.

August holds her through the tears, until she finally exhausts herself enough to sleep. And so she drifts off, completely unaware of the new voicemail alert waiting for her.

________________________________

The February air is cooler on the water and he kicks himself for not bringing a heavier jacket. It’s been ages since he’s been out on this boat, and time has helped him to forget everything except for the things he wishes he could. Liam always used to tease him, so much so that Killian would reject any offers of warmth from his brother just to prove a point. He wasn’t some silly kid that needed to be minded anymore. He was capable of doing everything on his own, except for bringing an extra coat. He forgot everytime, and today was no exception.

Luckily for Killian, the spare that Liam kept on the boat just for him is still in its place, folded neatly in a small storage locker below deck. It hits him in the gut a little, that Liam could be so right about some things and incredibly wrong about others.

It’s eating Killian alive, not talking to his brother. Not being able to express himself because despite everything Emma has done for him, Liam still doesn’t approve of her. Liam often still thinks of him as the teenage boy, awkward and desperate for approval from anyone that will give it to him, even if it means getting taken advantage of.

He’s not that kid anymore though. He isn’t letting his crush steal his essays and letting her claim this as her own. He isn’t using all of his hard earned money to buy her jewelry that she’s just going to pawn for cash later. He isn’t following after Emma like a lost puppy dog.

He’s in love with her, and he has a sneaking suspicion that she feels the same way. But at this rate, he’s never going to get Liam’s blessing, the only approval he needs anymore.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this now. He really shouldn’t. Not when he and Liam are sitting in a rented dilapidated loft across from an abandoned fabric warehouse waiting for the Canal Street Cutter to emerge. There had been a lot of chatter that morning about where he might be hiding and Liam assembled teams throughout South Boston hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Emma and August were stationed about eight blocks over. Lance and Arthur were on the edge of South Boston and Waterfront. Other teams were scattered, but too far away to get to if they needed assistance.

Killian had tried to tell Liam that it was a bad idea to spread everyone so thin, but the elder Jones brother had been instant and headstrong as ever. It would have been a career making arrest, and Liam, ever aspiring to be more just wouldn’t let that chance pass him by.

“I just think that you have other obligations that require your attention right now.”

“If this is the bros before hoes speech you can just save it.”

“Killian,” The exasperation evident in his brother's tone, “you know I detest such vile language. It's crude and you are better than that little brother.”

“What obligations?” He has to quash his desire to correct his brother’s description of him.

“I just think that you are meant for so much more in this life and I worry that you gave up so much when you left the narcotics division to follow her into homicide. You were a rising star there and now you’re having to cut your teeth all over again.”

“It’s not as if I’m starting all over. For God’s sake Liam, I just made Lieutenant. But there’s more to life than a job.”

His brother takes his gaze away from the binoculars to turn to Killian.

“Look at father and all of his vices. It strayed him from the path. But you, Killian, you persevered and now everything you've wanted is in your grasp.”

“This isn't the same thing and you know it. Emma isn't some pathetic man’s addiction. Liam, I'm in love with her.”

“Killian,” Liam pauses, taking a deep breath. “She's a distraction. Think of all that you’ve accomplished in the year that you were undercover. You brought down an entire crime syndicate. You did that without her taking your attention away.”

“I didn't bring the De Vil family down because ‘we’ were apart. I did it because we were ‘apart’ and I knew the only way I'd be able to see her again without putting her in harm's way would be to find the evidence and make the arrest.”

“Fine, if you need another reason, have you thought about working directly with her, or even over her in a supervisory position? Have you considered how your personal relationship with a subordinate could affect your judgment?”

“It’s not-”

Liams sees movement in the distance, cutting off Killian’s rebuttal, but his view is obscured so he motions for Killian to follow him, to leave the safety of their little room. They stay silent as they walk downstairs and head out a propped-open door leading to an alleyway. They had to wind through hallways to get from the loft outside and now they’re further away from the warehouse with no cover.

Killian even tries pointing out how visible they are, but Liam shuts him down, determined to close the case. He’s halfway sure that Liam’s trying to prove a point about how Killian can’t be successful and be in a relationship with Emma. He’s seen it before, the way professional jealousy destroys couples. But Emma’s not like that. She wouldn’t see his success as her failure.

They try to skirt the perimeter and he knows he should keep his mouth shut, this just isn’t the time, but he’s just so frustrated that he can’t keep holding it in.

“Please don’t make me choose between you.” It’s an angry whisper, more to himself than anything, and even though he did his best to keep his volume low it’s still enough that Liam’s heard and turns back to him, missing sight of the empty beer bottle at his feet.

The glass battering against the gravel echoes through the night as they both stay silent, waiting to see if they’ve been heard. The air is still around them, and Killian thinks they just might have lucked out.

And then he hears the gunshots ring out.

Liam is on the ground before Killian has time to register what’s happened. He runs to Liam, but gets knocked to the ground before he can get to him. His body hurts and he can see blood covering his hand from where he just touched his abdomen. He’s always heard people say that the shock blocks out the pain, but they must all be liars, because the longer he lays there, the more the pain intensifies.

It takes everything he has to pull himself behind a dumpster, half crawling, half slithering like a snake.

The shock eventually did kick in though, because even to this day he has no memory of radioing in for help. Just the vague memories of Emma leaning over him. The look in her eyes as she tried her best to hold back tears.

The same tears he fought back the night he left Boston, like the coward he was. But Archie was right. He needed to get his head on straight, to distance and center himself. He had to leave, for her.

He’s still wrestling with the guilt. He talked about it with Archie, how she begged him to kill her and save David. And that he actually considered it for about two full seconds. Not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t want her feeling the way he did. The burden of knowing that someone else was dead, and knowing that no matter how good you are, how hard you try, that you’ll never live up to them. He didn’t want her hating herself the way he did. Didn’t want her to destroy herself like he had.

But then something snapped inside of him and rage bubbled up. The audacity of her to beg him to kill her. For her to try and force that decision on him, with no regard to him or his feelings.

It was at that moment that he finally realized what he’d been doing to her ever since Liam had passed away. He finally understood the choice she’d been forced to make that night. And he knew - he knew that despite it all - he could never live with himself if he’d chosen anyone but her. That he couldn’t let her go just like she didn’t with him.

The only thing that saved him was Boothe. In the moments that passed after August arrived, while the two of them tried to wrestle the gun away from Jefferson, he felt the weight of Liam’s death wash over him. And then he heard a shot ring out and there was nothing but panic. Panic and guilt.

It felt as though ages had passed as he searched for Emma in the smoke filled room. The SWAT team had moved in at some point, but he’d been too focused on fighting off Jefferson to notice. He pushed through the sting in his eyes and the tightness of his chest as he looked for her, but all he saw through the haze were armored cops everywhere.

It wasn’t until he was forcibly escorted outside the building that he saw her, saw that she was safe, and then his stomach turned. He ran around a corner away from all of the prying eyes, and for the first time in his career, he gave in and let the night overcome him.

It’s been nearly a year since that night and he’s been running ever since. Some days are better than others. The anger is mostly behind him, but some nights he still wakes up in a sweat clutching his bed sheets, ready to fight. But there’s never anyone around to take a swing at, because he’s all alone. He’s pushed away anyone that ever mattered and isolated himself on that damn boat.

He thinks of Emma, wonders if she’s moved on or not. He’s too cowardly to call her, partly because he has no idea what he will say if she answers, but mostly because he’s terrified that she won’t answer. So he broods. He takes to the local bars as he sails the coastline and drinks a little too much before stumbling back to Liam’s boat alone. It’s a wonder nobody’s robbed him yet for what a careless sot he’s been.

Tonight is one of those nights. He’s made his way down to Florida and back, only a few hours away from Boston, and his demons are screaming again. He’s hoping against all hope that the rum in the tumbler across from him will help quiet them. Just holding the small glass in his fingertips helps a bit. A placebo of sorts. He doesn’t want to be this man anymore though. This pathetic lonely human. He doesn’t want to feel this way anymore, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. Archie said that him realizing it was a good first step but he’s not sure if he agrees. He’s called Archie a lot over the last year. Somehow doing therapy over the phone as the boat sways back and forth under his feet has helped to ease his hesitancy. There’s something about knowing that he can hang up at any time if he wants, and that no one knows. No one will judge him.

They don’t talk about Emma, not in present tense at least. They’ve had conversations about the way he’s treated her in the past, about his complicated feelings for her, the way it’s all shaped him, but they never talk about her now. He’s not sure if it’s because Archie doesn’t know if he’s ready for that, or if Archie knows something that he’s absolutely not ready for.

Archie is here tonight though, the rum is.

He’s still twirling the amber in his hand as he hears the familiar scraping of a nearby barstool against a wooden floor. There’s a scent that follows, a floral perfume that doesn’t match with the musk of the dive bar. He doesn’t look at her directly, doesn’t need to when he can see her from the mirror behind the bar. Her top is low, flashing more skin that it’s covering. She’s closer than he thought.

“Is that for me?” She’s bold.

He’s reminded of those early days on the force, when he wouldn’t even have to talk to a woman. When he could just flash her a smile and she’d be on his arm heading out the door to her place. He’s not that guy though, he’s salty and cynical, and the look he flashes her is closer to a smirk.

“Excuse me?” “Well, you’ve been toying with it for almost twenty minutes. I just thought maybe you were waiting for me to walk into your life.”

Was he this bad at picking up women?

“Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m not in the mood for woman.” “So you’re gay?”

It’s a good thing he hasn’t started drinking yet because he damn well might have chocked otherwise. He doesn’t get a chance to respond though. The bubbly blonde that served him his rum has returned with a spray bottle in hand. “Mary of Mothers. Didn’t I already have you escorted out of here tonight, Teresa?”

“Bite me, Tinkerbelle.”

The girl behind the bar might be all of five foot tall but there’s a beast inside her that towers over any man in that bar and before he knows what’s happening the bartender is drowning the girl in what smells like stainless steel cleaner and the words coming out of her mouth would make any Navy man blush.

The girl ends up running away and Killian isn’t sure what to make of any of it. He’s broken up bar fights before, but he’s never seen anything quite like that.

“Sorry about that. I know this little bar might not seem like much, but it’s all I’ve got and I’ll be damned if I let the likes of her selling her body in here.” “Oh, she wasn’t-” “Trust me, where you had agreed upfront or not, you would have been light whatever cash you have left in that wallet before the night was up. And I’ll bet you dollars to pennies you would have had a lovely little itch or two down there.” She nods her head towards his crotch before switching the subject like she hadn’t just implied the poor woman from before was an STD ridden whore. “So, I haven’t seen you here before. Where you from?”

He’s not sure how she’s disarmed him so quickly, but he finds himself telling her all about himself over the next hour. Business has slowed down and her other barmate seems to be more than capable of handling the few strays still walking in.

She makes him laugh too with her feisty spirit. It’s been far too long since he’s felt at ease like this. They talk and talk. Not about much in particular, just random conversation. She bought the bar about six years ago, and tells him about how it’s let her build the family she always wanted and never really got. She’s carved out her own little place in the world and he envies her that. The way she can just lay her whole life bare to a complete stranger while he can’t even talk to the people that know him best.

The night rolls on and it’s time to close up. He half expects that she’s going to invite him upstairs, to the little apartment she mentioned earlier, but she surprises him. She’s done that a few times tonight, but this one hits him in the gut. “So, what’s her name?”

This time he actually does chock on the water she’s poured for him.” “I’m sorry, what?”

“Killian, in the last few hours, you’ve told me your entire life story, everything from your shitty father to your arrogant brother, your job, your leave of absence, but you haven’t mentioned a girl one single time. You’re holding back, which means there’s something to hold back.”

“You don’t know that. I could be gay.” “Um, ya, I saw you check out Teresa’s rack earlier, definitely not gay. So what’s the deal.” He doesn’t want to talk about it, but he doesn’t want to be rude either. So he gives her as little as possible, but she sees through him. In fact, she actually asks him what the hell he’s waiting for as she pushes him out the door.

He doesn’t really know what he’s waiting for to be honest. He’s wanted to go back to Boston, but there’s just so many threads he left unravelled when he left.

#These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal #Captain Swan #captain swan ff #CS fanfics

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slashersins-abandoned · 3 years

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loves me , loves me not

michael liked to follow you . to keep tabs on you . to stalk you . he knew you didn’t like it , and he knew you understood that he didn’t exactly care whether you did to not . he was possessive and … to a degree ( a large unspoken degree ) protective . so he watched you like a hawk , eyes dark and narrowed as a male he hadn’t seen you with before walked over and hugged you . touched you . he had to get closer . had to memorize his face . had to slaughter the man who touched what was his . closer and closer , grip white knuckled on the hilt of his blade , quite predatory , until he was just out of reach .

“ i know he doesn’t love me . it’s - i’m such a mess . ”

“ hey , y/n , it’s okay . take a breathe , just talk it out , yeah ? ”

“ i - i know . i just . i can’t - it hurts too much . i love him . i love him so much . i - i get so lonely when he’s gone and - and when he comes back i just - i’m so happy . i’m always so scared he’s not going to come back and … and i know he doesn’t feel the same . i don’t mean anything to him . i’m just a pass time and - it hurts . sometimes i - i think i’d rather die and him leave me for good and i hate it . i hate feeling like this . and i can’t tell him . i can’t - i can’t risk it . i’d do anything for him to stay close and i - god , he’s a terrible person , he’s a mess and - and he’s - i just want him to be mine . and i want to be his . but not just for - for food and sex and a place to sleep i want - ”

fury and rage and loathing and pain and twisted dark agonizingly crushing emotions welled in his chest . a perfect storm that had him unable to move as you shook . was this … fear ? was this pain ? was it loss ? he’d never experienced this . no , he had . he’d felt this once . a few months when he’d tried to quit you . when he tried to convince himself that you weren’t something he needed in his life . he’d felt this feeling every time he ate food that wasn’t yours , slept in a bed that wasn’t yours , saw a smile that wasn’t yours . but it hadn’t been this terrible . and there hadn’t been such a hatred towards himself . this feeling . he didn’t want it . and the longer he watched you the stronger it grew . so just as quickly and quietly he’d made his way over to you , he left .

michael sat , lost in thought for hours . trying to figure out if he could feel love , trying to figure out what you meant to him . he … couldn’t imagine you dying . not from anyone’s hand . not from his own . he’d tried , multiple times to cut into your chest while you slept peacefully , but each time something stopped him . something within him . was that love ? was that care ? he considered you his . and the sight of anyone close to you , anyone touching you , anyone encroaching on his territory made his blood lust sing . he came back to you time after time after time . even when he didn’t need to by why ? and how could he convey that he was … that he …

“michael , what - michael , stop ! what are you , i don’t - i’m not going to hurt you michael , this isn’t a game . i don’t - no . michael stop , let me go ! ”

but he knew that you were his . he knew that he was yours . and he could only hope that you knew it too as your fingers dragged over the your name carved into his skin .

#michael myers #michael myers imagine #michael myers x reader #slasher #slashers #slasher imagine #slashers imagine #slasher x reader #slashers x reader

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nicknellie · 3 years

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Anonymous requested: While on a walk to clear his head, Alex is attacked by Caleb as a warning to him and his friends. Shaken, he refuses to tell the band what happened, but he does tell Willie who is furious and protective. Fluffy ending. (This was edited/simplified just to make it shorter.)

Oooh, this was a really good request! All the details were really helpful too, so thank you for that. I really enjoyed writing it, especially the fluff at the end. I really hope this is the sort of thing you were after. Thank you for requesting it, I hope you like it!

TW: injury, blood.

Tripwire

It was safe to say that since Alex and the boys had left the dark room there had been a lot to process. Being dead, for a start. Adjusting to being a ghost had been a whole other ordeal too. Meeting Julie, forming the band, everything that had gone down with Caleb. Willie. Throughout those few months it had been non-stop, one thing after another, and Alex hadn’t had any time to slow down or take a break, not one single moment to really think about what was going on.

Now, somehow, all the difficult stuff was over and done with. Nobody had seen Caleb in weeks, Alex had managed to free Willie from the stamp, and the band had five more gigs lined up, plus a record deal on the horizon. While things were still definitely busy, it wasn’t so constant anymore. Alex finally had the time to just take a breather – or whatever the ghost version of a breather was, seeing as he couldn’t actually breathe. He had settled on his tried and tested method of going for a walk to clear his head to take the time to wrap his mind around it all.

The freedom of teleportation was nice, but it was definitely one of Alex’s least favourite ghost abilities. He couldn’t help but worry he’d somehow end up in the wrong place every time he did it, or that he’d poof out and never reappear anywhere else. It didn’t have the safety of walking through walls or being heard and seen when the band played together. And it might have been freeing, but it wasn’t nearly as freeing as just walking. Walking was slow and repetitive and methodical, rhythmic in a way that was relaxing. When Alex walked he didn’t have to think about where he was going – he could just let his feet take him there while his mind wandered elsewhere.

So that’s what he did. As he walked through the streets of Hollywood, Alex let his mind wander. He thought about everything that had happened since they came back, everything that might have happened in the twenty-five years before that, and everything that could happen in the future. Alex didn’t often think about the future; he didn’t like dwelling on things that were out of his control and the future was certainly that. But as he thought about it then, it didn’t seem quite so daunting – after all, nothing bad had happened in weeks.

As he was nearing the Orpheum, Alex suddenly felt as if something was wrong. It was an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach, a bad feeling that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Dread, maybe. Or perhaps just the intuitive feeling that something was coming and it couldn’t be anything good.

Ahead of him, no more than ten feet away, a mist was gathering, a light lilac cloud spinning faster and faster until it was so thick that Alex couldn’t see through it, growing taller and taller, wider and wider. The cloud spun so fast that Alex could feel wind rush past him from the movement of it, but it was gone as soon as it had come. The cloud dissipated with a soft whoosh, leaving behind a few sparkles drifting on the breeze it had created, and stood where the cloud had been was Caleb Covington.

While he wasn’t happy to see Caleb again after so long, Alex was glad to see he hadn’t lost his flair for the dramatic.

He knew he wouldn’t have time to get away, but he still considered it. Maybe if he ran instead of walking he could get away. He considered poofing out, but his mind had gone completely blank of places to poof to – all he could think of when looking at Caleb was the Hollywood Ghost Club, and going there was nothing short of the worst idea he could ever have had. So he stayed put, staring Caleb down, trying to stop the shaking of his hands and the hammering of his non-existent heart.

“Hello, Alex,” Caleb drawled. His hands were folded atop his cane and he wore a purple suit so dark it almost looked black, his cape wafting ever so slightly in the breeze, his top hat perched neatly on his head. Childishly, Alex wondered if he had the courage to walk up to him and knock the hat off his head. “Long time no see.”

“What do you want?” Alex demanded, trying to sound as if he wasn’t desperate to run away. He was aware that Caleb probably knew just how scared he really was, but if he didn’t show his nerves then he might have been able to convince himself that he wasn’t really frightened.

Caleb tutted. “Come now, is that really how you greet an old friend? I might have expected it from Luke but certainly not from you, Alex. I’m only here to see how you’re getting on without me!”

It felt like a trap, but Alex didn’t know what tripwire he was supposed to avoid.

“We’re doing fine,” he said firmly. “We don’t need you.”

“So you keep telling me,” Caleb replied. He flexed his hands, still grasping his cane. “Tell me, Alex – how did you and your little buddies manage to free yourselves from my stamp, hm?”

“Why should I tell you that?” Alex spat. It was a braver way of saying ‘we have no idea’.

“Oh, I don’t think you should,” Caleb admitted. “If you told me how you did it there would be dire consequences for you and your friends, but it would be extremely helpful to me. If you want to keep this newfound freedom with your silly little band, you shouldn’t tell me how you got the stamp off.”

“Then I’m not telling you,” Alex said.

“But,” Caleb continued, a malicious twinkle in his eyes, “if you want to walk away from this little chat unharmed then I suggest you tell me everything.”

Up until then, Alex thought he had been doing a very good job at standing his ground, maybe even looking a little intimidating. But the threat broke him. He felt himself freeze, his mind halt, and suddenly he was far weaker than the man in front of him.

“Unharmed?” he repeated. “What do you mean ‘unharmed’?”

Caleb cocked his head to the side like he didn’t understand the question. “Isn’t it obvious?” When Alex didn’t say anything, Caleb chuckled darkly. It sent shivers down Alex’s spine and made his stomach twist sickeningly. “Alex, if you refuse to tell me exactly how you got my stamp off, I am going to hurt you. And let me tell you, you’d be surprised just how much you can make someone hurt even after they’re dead and gone.”

Alex’s mind was spinning. There was no good option here, no way out. Caleb had trapped him in yet another impossible situation. He cursed himself for not poofing out while he had the chance.

But it didn’t matter how scared he was now, he would not let his friends suffer just to stave off his own pain. He had to take one for the team, even if he was dreading it. The smirk on Caleb’s face said that he knew he had won this round no matter what, smug and self-satisfied. Alex wanted to slap the smile right off his face, but he refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight.

He steeled himself, set his jaw, tried to look like as much of a threat as he could. “I’m not telling you anything. Nothing you do can make me talk. Do your worst.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow, looking almost amused, but he nodded. “Alright then. You’ve made your decision. I can’t say I’m surprised – you’re not as weak-willed as you look. But you’re still weak. I can still hurt you.”

He tucked his cane under his arm and stalked towards Alex. Too late, Alex wondered if he could have taken that brief opportunity to run away, but he would never know because Caleb grabbed his wrist. It was just like how he’d put the stamp on, a quick touch and a slight sting. When he let go, Alex looked at where his hand had been – there was a blood red mark there, swirling on his skin. Its shape constantly changed, but Alex was sure he picked out a blade before it twisted and morphed into something else.

“What is it?” he asked Caleb.

“You’ll soon see,” he replied, already walking away. He threw the words over his shoulder as he left Alex alone. “Consider this a warning to you and your friends. Willie, too. It isn’t over. There is plenty more I can do to make you suffer. It’s up to you to decide whether you’re willing to put yourselves through all of this just to stay away from me. I’ll see you soon, Alex.”

And he was gone.

For a moment, Alex was confused. This stamp, whatever it was, didn’t seem to be doing anything. It was just moving about on his skin, as fluid as water, like a cool tattoo. He wondered – hoped – if Caleb’s spell hadn’t worked.

But then it hit him. It felt as if he’d been struck by lightning and hit by a bus at the exact same time, unimaginable pain slamming into him and knocking him right off his feet. It was infinitely worse than the pain of the jolts Caleb had inflicted on them before which should have been impossible because those felt like death. And yet there he was, lying on the ground, winded and light-headed, pain surging through his body, unable to move.

Another one. This time it felt like he’d been kicked in the temple and had his face stamped on. He was sure his nose was broken even though that probably shouldn’t have been possible. He lifted a weak, shaking hand to his face and touched his upper lip – when his hand came away, his fingertips were drenched in blood. Alex had been sure that ghosts didn’t have blood, so he wondered whether he’d been wrong or if this was some sort of sick illusion Caleb had created. He decided it didn’t matter, not when he was vulnerable and hurting, in agony worse than dying.

Again, like being stabbed in the gut.

Again, like he’d broken his legs.

Again, like a knife twisted in his back.

It went on and on, attack after attack, pain after searing pain. It hurt too much for him to even scream for help, not that it would have done any good. All around him, lifers walked by without a care in the world, not knowing that he was right there, a snivelling wreck, bloodied and bruised. He curled in on himself and waited for it all to be over.

Eventually, it finished. The last jolt came like a punch to the jaw and when nothing else happened for fifteen minutes, Alex began to come to his senses. He opened his eyes and eased himself up into a sitting position. Even that hurt like hell. He studied his body – his legs, even though they felt like they had been snapped in half, seemed fine; there were a few bruises on his arms, but nothing major; every aching joint was killing him and his head was pounding; again, he touched his upper lip and felt blood crusted there, but none of it was fresh enough to be wet.

He could only imagine how pathetic he looked.

How was he going to explain all this to his friends?

Never mind an explanation – he needed to warn them.

Slowly, he picked himself up off the ground. He regretted it immediately as his head started swimming, he swayed on his feet, almost slumping right back down to the ground. He wouldn’t let himself be beaten by this, he wouldn’t show anymore weakness. His vision blurred (by pain or unshed tears, it was impossible to tell), he focused as much as he could on the studio and forced himself to poof back there.

The feeling of teleportation was uncomfortable at the best of times, but in such a state Alex couldn’t have imagined anything worse. He landed in the studio, his feet hitting the floor with such force that it sent shockwaves up his spine, nothing compared to what he’d just been through but still unbelievably painful. Distantly, he could hear his friends stop talking, muffled and indistinct voices crowding all around him, their faces swimming in front of his eyes.

“Alex,” came a voice. Maybe Julie’s, maybe Luke’s, maybe Reggie’s, maybe none of them. “Alex, buddy, you alright? Come on, speak to us, Alex. What happened? Alex? Alex?”

There was little strength in his arms, but he used it to push them all away and staggered his way to the couch. He collapsed onto it, suddenly feeling weak, somehow more vulnerable than he’d felt lying on the ground as Caleb’s stamp beat him bloody. He checked his wrist now – the stamp was gone.

He came back to himself a little at that; if the stamp was gone, he couldn’t be hurt anymore. He was alright now, he was with his friends, Caleb was nowhere to be seen. But knowing that didn’t stop the tears pooled in his eyes from sliding down his cheeks or his hands from shaking so intensely they might fall off his body. Someone – no, not just someone, it was Julie – crouched down in front of him and gently laid a hand on his knee.

He jerked away from the touch like it burned him.

“Alex,” came Julie’s soft voice. “Alex, please look at me. What happened?”

All he could do in response was shake his head and curl in on himself, body heaving with every sob he was too weak to suppress.

“Alex,” Reggie tried. Alex felt the couch cushions depress next to him as Reggie sat beside him. “It’s alright, man. You’re safe here with us.”

“You’re not alone, Alex,” came Luke’s voice. “Just tell us what happened. Who did this to you?”

But still Alex could only shake his head.

No one said anything for a while. The only sound in the studio was Alex’s laboured breathing and ragged sobs. He’d never felt so pathetic in all his life and death – he could make it through torture without crying like this, and yet just being around his friends after the fact was enough to set him off. He felt useless, he hadn’t even tried to stop Caleb in any way. He’d let this happen, he was the reason he was hurt. This was all his fault.

After a while, he heard the sound of one of the boys poofing out, presumably Luke because Alex could still feel Reggie sat beside him. Only a minute or so later, there was the sound of someone poofing back in, but Luke wasn’t alone now.

“Alex?”

His haggard breathing stopped altogether as Alex opened his eyes to see Willie in front of him, crouched down where Julie had been before. There was a soft smile on their face, reassuring, but Alex wasn’t blind to the tears in their eyes. Alex timidly reached out a hand to him and Willie interlocked their fingers.

“I’m here,” Willie said, his voice wavering. “I’m here for you, hotdog.”

At that, fresh tears began streaming down Alex’s face. He pulled Willie to him, wrapping him in a fierce embrace, holding them so tight that it made his new injuries sear with pain, but he never wanted to let go. The pain was worth every bit of comfort that simply holding Willie provided, every moment, every second, everything.

“We’ll give you guys a minute,” Julie said quietly.

“What?” Luke protested. “No way, I want to find out who hurt Alex and I want to hurt them.”

“Luke,” Julie said, gentle but firm. “That’ll come later. I’m sure we’ll find out everything, but right now we shouldn’t surround him.”

Alex, still holding Willie like his afterlife depended on it, heard the three of them reluctantly leave him and Willie behind. He was grateful for the most part, but a little bit of him still wanted them there. It would have been harder to tell them all what had happened at once, but he would have preferred not to repeat the story.

Willie just held him. They didn’t press for him to talk, didn’t let go before Alex was ready, he just held him in his arms and occasionally whispered, “I love you. You’re safe. I’m here.”

Alex couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have someone like Willie care for him.

Eventually, he pulled away. It hurt to see Willie’s face streaked with tears, especially knowing it was because of him. Alex softly tucked a lock of hair behind their ear.

“I was out for a walk,” he rasped, his voice strained from crying. “Clearing my head. Like the day we first met. Same place and everything. Then there was this weird cloud and Caleb appeared. He said if I didn’t tell him how we got the stamps off then he’d hurt me.”

“Oh, Alex,” Willie breathed. Alex could see their heart breaking.

“I wouldn’t tell him. It’s not like we know anyway. So he… he put this other stamp on me – it was like, red and swirly and it looked like…”

“Death,” Willie finished for him. Alex nodded, looking at the ground, trying to still his breathing again. “It looked like death.”

“It felt like it too,” Alex said dryly. “Or worse.” He choked on his words, remembered it all, broke again.

He fell limply to the side, but Willie caught him, pulled him into a hug as he cried. There were images racing through his mind, one after the other – Caleb’s mirthless laughter and sly smirk, the stamp dripping across his skin, himself lying on the ground covered in his own blood. He still hadn’t figured out if that blood had been real or an illusion, but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore because right that moment he felt as if he couldn’t breathe and his legs were numb and the walls were closing in and he was losing his grip on reality and losing his grip on Willie and–

“Come back, Alex,” Willie said, his voice cutting through Alex’s hopeless thoughts. “You’re not there anymore. It’s over. You survived. You are in Julie’s garage, I’m holding you, nothing can get to you. Come back, Alex.”

Slowly, Alex dragged himself down from his thoughts. He focused on the feeling on his hands clutching Willie’s hoodie, the tickle of Willie’s hair against his cheek, the warmth of Willie’s hands on his back. He focused on Willie and it brought him back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t apologise,” Willie told him, sounding almost outraged. He watched as Willie took a moment to collect himself, and when they spoke again their voice was much calmer. “You have nothing to apologise for. None of this was your fault. Please tell me you know that.”

Alex couldn’t have truthfully said so, and he wouldn’t lie to Willie. Bottom lip trembling as he held back yet more tears, he remained silent.

“Alex, this wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known Caleb was going to attack you. You couldn’t have predicted any of this. And it could have happened to any one of us. We all would have done the same thing. You made it through, Alex. This wasn’t your fault and you’re not weak for getting hurt.”

After a moment’s pause, Alex weakly repeated back to them, “This wasn’t my fault.”

Willie pressed a kiss to the top of Alex’s head. “Good. Please remember that. You don’t need to feel guilty about this, alright?”

All he did was nod, closing his eyes and resting his head on Willie’s chest.

“I can explain the stamp if you want,” Willie said, carding his fingers through Alex’s hair. “It has some fancy Latin name that I can’t remember. When Caleb uses it on someone, it takes the most pain they’ve ever been in, and it multiplies it by a thousand. It’s a good thing he can’t use it on lifers because if he did it would kill them with the first jolt.”

“I’m not surprised,” Alex deadpanned.

“The first time he used it on me I thought he was trying to kill me. Again. Or force me to cross over somehow.”

At that, Alex sat up and stared at Willie, wide-eyed. “The first time?”

Gently, Willie pulled Alex back to his lap and laid him down again. “He would use it on me if ever I stepped really out of line. The last time was the day you guys performed at the Orpheum. But I’m free now, so as long as we avoid Caleb it’ll never happen again. If we all avoid him – me, you, Luke, Reggie – then none of us have to get hurt.”

“I don’t think we can avoid whatever he’s got planned,” Alex mumbled.

“Maybe not,” Willie admitted. “But let’s not think about that now. Right, hotdog? I mean, you made it out today. Let’s focus on that. Is there anything you want to do?”

Alex thought for a moment but all he came up with was: “I just want to sleep. And I want you to hold me.”

He could hear Willie’s smile in their voice. “Of course. Whatever you want, Alex.”

Alex felt his eyes drifting closed, sleep catching up with him all at once, the exhaustion being a by-product of the agony. He didn’t mean to say it, but he heard his tired voice breathe, “I love you.”

And just before he fell asleep, he heard Willie whisper back, “I love you too, Alex. Sleep well.”

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blazichu · 3 years

Text

Mystery March Day 13: Relax

I misremembered this one as ‘rest’ which kind of colored the tone/content, but I still dig it.

It started with a death curse.

Or, well, maybe it wasn’t a death curse specifically-- Vivi didn’t pretend to be an expert, but she knew how it made her feel, even from a distance, and from that she could extrapolate that it was bad news.

The point remained: there was a curse being levied, and the two people who might have any indication what it did reacted harshly to it. Those reactions, however, were on polar opposite ends of the spectrum. While Mystery bristled and visibly weighed his options, Lewis decided on a more proactive approach. In an unerring, deceptively fast glide, he made his way toward the caster and seized their raised hand by the wrist.

Startled by the unexpected contact and the skeletal phantom suddenly looming over them, they immediately lost their concentration-- and, for good reason, went into a panic. They tried to backpedal. When they only made it a step away, they tried to wrench the arm away.

Lewis’s grip on it tightened, and he rumbled something inaudible from their distance.

The spell in their hand popped-- exactly like a soap bubble, in spite of the fact that it didn’t technically exist yet-- and Lewis flinched in its wake, hair flickering wildly for half a second. Just as quickly as the disruption came on, though, his demeanor and form settled; he raised his free hand to gesture lackadaisically.

“Still dead. Imagine that.” He leaned in, as if to confide in the caster, but the phantasmal force behind his words carried them across the gap between himself and the rest of the group, “Be grateful it was me tonight; if you raise this hand again, toward any of them,” His grip tightened, and they renewed their struggling, teeth grit against the pressure on their wrist, “It’s the first thing you’re going to lose. Do I make myself clear?”

Something must have passed between the two, because Lewis dropped their hand, sending them skittering backwards blindly. He straightened up to his full height-- plus an extra couple of inches, due to his lack of contact with the ground-- and made as if to follow. The caster whirled around and booked it as fast as they could.

For several seconds, he stayed put-- tracking their progress until he deemed them too far away to bother with-- and then turned to rejoin the group, absently flexing the hand that had interrupted the curse. He looked completely unruffled, though, admittedly, it was pretty hard to judge when the only metric was a skull with resting bitch face.

It was off-putting, if Vivi was honest-- not the skull, but drastic behavioral shift. Lewis had always been loathe to use his stature to his advantage; he may have loomed, but it was always an accident, and on the rare occasion he’d seen fit to intimidate someone, it had always disturbed him after the fact. Maybe he was just leaning into the fact that it was hard to be a reassuring presence when one was very obviously dead, but it was hardly an isolated phenomena.

She still loved him dearly, but times like this, she worried for him.

Belatedly, Vivi realized that Arthur had frozen up somewhere in the middle of things. Lewis, as he drew nearer, seemed to notice the same thing, sighed, and gave him an absent pat on the shoulder.

And that was that.

Until later that night, when midway through a discussion on Scottish folklore, Lewis fell asleep at the table.

Thinking nothing of the sudden silence, Vivi stabbed a couple more penne, giving Lewis a few more seconds to consider his stance on kelpies. When there was no answer forthcoming, though, she glanced over, and immediately dropped her fork.

“You’re seeing this too, right?” Arthur asked, bemused.

Bizarrely, even though there was no gentle rise-and-fall of the chest, it was immediately obvious that Lewis was asleep, and nothing more sinister. And if there was something more sinister than dead Vivi wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it was.

She scooted forward in her seat, leaning over her plate to get a better look without uprooting herself.

“I… didn’t realize that was an option.” She said after a moment passed. Then, with the blunt end of her knife, she nudged Lewis’s jaw. Arthur fussed at her for it, which was fortunate, because Lewis didn’t wake up to do it himself. She set it down and frowned, “Think we should be worried?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Vivi hummed to herself and stood up, moving to shake Lewis’s shoulder; skull still resting on his arms, he didn’t stir in the slightest. Chewing thoughtfully on her lip, she looked at Arthur. “I realize now’s not the time, but how do you s’pose his skull’s staying in place if he’s not actively keeping it there?”

Arthur, who’d gotten to his feet the same time Vivi had, flicked both of his hands up in something that wasn’t quite disbelief, “You’re right, it’s not the time.”

He made a circuit of the table, and the slumbering ghost thereupon, then came to a halt at Vivi’s other side. “He… looks fine? There’s nothing up with his anchor, anyway, so…?”

Vivi nodded, thoughts racing-- and then, both as a test and in search of answers, hollered, “Mystery!”

Nothing from sleeping spooky, but after a moment, Mystery appeared, grumbling all the while.

“You bellowed?” He asked, face twisting in displeasure as he padded onto the wooden floorboards.

With a wide wave, Vivi gestured in Lewis’s general direction, “Do you know anything about that?”

“I believe that’s your boyfriend.” He said, irritation creeping into his tone, “Should I identify Arthur for you, too, while I’m here?”

“We think something’s wrong.” The Arthur in question cut in, before they could get off track, “He’s, uh, asleep? Probably?”

Mystery shot him a look over his glasses, “He’s what.”

He offered a much more subdued wave toward the still form at the table.

Perhaps realizing that, through all the shouting and sassing Lewis hadn’t said a word, Mystery tensed minutely and trotted over. As the others before him, he nudged the ghost. And, as the others before him, he received a complete lack of response.

“That’s… unusual.” He said, somewhat unnecessarily, and propped himself up on his hind legs, front braced against the edge of the chair. It took a bit of craning, but he managed to nose his way against Lewis’s chest and prod at the golden heart sandwiched between its owner and the table.

That, finally, got a rise out of Lewis. He made a soft, inhuman noise akin to whine and flapped the nearest hand, as if to shoo Mystery away. As subdued a response as it was, neither Vivi or Arthur had expected anything, and it was enough to make one start, and the other jump.

Snout scrunched in thought, Mystery hopped down from his perch, “It seems you were correct, he’s asleep.”

In a silent bid for more information, Vivi turned her palms upward.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. My best guess is that it’s a product of the spell he intercepted earlier, but, as that’s the only variable at play here, that seems rather obvious.” His cocked his head, deliberating, “I suppose we could try to agitate his anchor, if you’re that worried, but he doesn’t seem distressed. Personally, I don’t see the harm in letting him sleep it off.”

At that, Vivi gave a short, wry laugh, “Well lookit that, Artie, you managed to stay up longer than a dead guy.”

Arthur stuck his tongue out and made his way back to his place at the table, eyes briefly resting on Lewis’s slouched form. “Should we move him somewhere else? You know how he gets when I fall asleep at my desk.”

“I think it’s less that he objects to the tabletop, and more that you should go to bed before you get to that point.” Vivi said, flopping back into her chair, “Kinda funny that he passed out here though, after all the talks you guys have had. What do you think, is it gonna take magic backlash to beat your all-nighter-recovery record?”

–

It took another two days for Lewis to wake up. There was some debate as to whether or not that technically broke Arthur’s record; Arthur was relatively certain he’d never taken that long to bounce back from a tinkering binge, and Vivi begged to differ. Mystery wisely stayed out of it.

Up to that point, they’d just resigned themselves to having haunted decor on the table while daily life went on around him, so it was a welcome surprise when Lewis showed signs of waking.

Vivi eyed him from over the edge of her laptop’s screen as she collated her research into parasomnia. He briefly buried his face deeper into the crook of his arm, then sat up and pressed the heel of one hand into an eye socket. As his open eye landed on Vivi, he blinked, dropped his hand, then glanced to the empty seat across from her.

She grinned at him and, without thinking, announced, “He lives!”

It was followed by a confused beat of silence and then a sheepish, “Oh shit, sorry.”

Lewis simply stared at her, uncomprehending.

“How’re you feeling? That was a pretty serious nap, but I guess that’s the worst you can do to someone who’s already dead, huh?”

“A nap?” He echoed, voice distorted either from sleep or confusion.

Vivi turned in her seat to gesture to the brightly-lit kitchen window. “I was trying to be nice, but I could try something more festive, like ‘short coma’.”

“Vivi. Since when do ghosts sleep?”

She shrugged, “Since two nights ago? Mystery thought there was a way to wake you up, but if a curse is anything like the flu, you were better off sleeping through it.”

“Oh,” Lewis said, voice unusually soft, “Right, the spellcaster. That shouldn’t have done anything, though…?”

Vivi shot him a sideways look, and gestured widely to the table. “You tell me, boo.”

Lewis did no such thing. Instead, he got up and floated away, body language troubled.

Things went back to normal relatively quickly thereafter.

On this particular night, Vivi was still pulling together notes for their next case, and frequently called out random trivia about bog bodies to whoever was available to hear it. Mystery would have been underfoot in the kitchen, had its other occupant not been hovering a good six inches in the air, floating around or through him in an effort to ignore his well-meaning nagging, whilst cleaning up for the day.

And then there was Arthur, who had disappeared after dinner. He had the next day off, which was a double-edged sword-- more often than not, he took it as an excuse to stay up until dawn and then crash.

There was a loud clang from down the hallway, and Lewis automatically turned to consult the nearest clock. Simultaneously, Vivi’s eyes flicked down to the digital display on her laptop. 1 am already. She saved her work and stretched, deciding her fifteen remaining tabs could wait.

While she shut things down for the night, Lewis tucked a new towel into the oven’s handle and started toward the hall, goal clear in mind.

Vivi stared after him and, after some thought, did a little skip-hop closer to catch his arm. “Maybe you should try to get some sleep, too.”

“I… don’t need to sleep.” He said, in the tones of one who’d been made to explain something very simple to someone who should know better.

“Not technically, no, but you can.” Vivi tilted her head as she considered whether or not to voice her next thought. “I get that you didn’t really have a choice in the matter before, but you-- after you woke up, you seemed a lot happier, and it made me think. We sleep because our bodies need it, yeah, but it’s important for us mentally, too. Even if you’re dead, you’re still a dead human-- what if you’ve just been cranky because you don’t have a body to tell you you’re tired?”

Lewis was quiet for several long seconds, and then sighed, “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll try.”

A slow smile worked its way across Vivi’s face, and, with some doing, she craned high enough to press a kiss to his cheekbone. With a gentle bump of his temple against hers, Lewis floated off-- and, as he left, Vivi caught a single word muttered into the darkness:

“’Cranky’?”

–

Though she’d told herself she didn’t have any specific expectations, Vivi found herself slightly disappointed when she spent the night alone. At first, she assumed it meant Lewis had decided against resting after all, but when her alarm went off and she made to start fumbling around in the kitchen, she realized what had happened: for whatever reason, he’d decided to sleep on the couch. She told herself not to speculate why; he had to have his reasons, and there was no point in humoring the wriggling doubts when she’d just be able to ask.

She was a little surprised, though, when her futzing with the coffee pot failed to disturb him. Maybe he was just that tired. It wasn’t unthinkable; if her theory held any weight, he’d only slept three nights over the course of a year.

With the coffee brewing and toaster at work, Vivi wandered over and braced an elbow on the back of the couch. As before, it only took a glance to recognize that Lewis was asleep; unlike before, his anchor was in plain view to confirm it, dusted a mellow gold that didn��t pulse so much as draw in and out, keeping the same pace as the low, even breathing of true sleep.

It seemed he’d curled around it out of habit, protecting it even in unconsciousness.

Vivi lingered a bit longer, without any particular reason for doing so; thoughts came and went, and she didn’t try to hold onto any of them. It was soothing leaning there, absently matching her breathing to the lazy thrum of Lewis’s anchor.

Then the toaster went off and she started upright, slapping her cheeks in anticipation for the day ahead.

She never asked why he chose the couch, and he never offered her an answer.

---

Something about that brief respite must have convinced Lewis that he was better off taking the occasional nap, because he didn’t speak a word of protest from there on out. And as he accepted it, the less Vivi worried for him; he’d never been unrecognizable-- not counting, you know-- but he started acting more and more like himself, rather than the new, spooky version where you had to squint to make out his original personality.

That wasn’t the only benefit, either. Arthur might have foregone sleep for his own sake, ignoring any number of pointed reminders while he worked, but this discovery seemed to change things. If it got too late and he realized Lewis was still hovering around, he’d shut things down on his own and shoo the ghost off to bed, using himself as an example.

It was an incredibly sweet gesture, but Vivi had a suspicion that Lewis might have engineered the chain of events in the first place; he may have urged Arthur to sleep in the past, but he only started loitering when he realized he could make himself the impetus to follow through. But at the same time, the longer this went on, the gentler the reminders became, the more it turned into something he considered ‘for Arthur’s benefit’ and less a naughty, if mutually beneficial, game.

The compromise didn’t always mean they slept at a decent hour, or even went to bed properly, but it did mean that they slept every night, at least for a little bit, and that was better than the alternative.

(It also meant that Vivi got up one morning, further into this arrangement, and found them asleep on the couch: Arthur’s good arm dangling off the edge, Lewis half-sunken into the back of said couch, loosely curled around his anchor-- but also, as a consequence of where he was laying, Arthur. If it hadn’t been for the phantasmal tail his lower body melded into, ‘cute’ was all it would have been, but as things stood, that also bumped it into the ‘fascinating’ camp.

She hadn’t forgotten the fact that his skull stayed firmly in place while he slept, so this unconscious modification was an object of intrigue for her.)

“It’s because you weren’t getting your beauty sleep,” Vivi joked, then moved her hands in a rainbow’s arc and put on the ‘I am interacting with a young child’ voice, “And we all know real beauty is on the inside.”

Lewis sighed a laugh, but didn’t argue. In fact, after a moment’s thought, he said, “It’s strange. Obviously I know I’m dead, but I didn’t realize how awful it was to feel like a ghost until I felt like a person again.”

And to that Vivi hummed, unsure what to say, thoughts racing.

Then there was Thursday.

On one particular Thursday, where Arthur couldn’t stay asleep and Vivi had an especially early shift, the commotion throughout the kitchen roused Lewis from wherever he’d settled the previous night. Nothing unusual there, and Vivi would hardly begrudge his help as she blearily went about putting breakfast together.

There were no footsteps as he rounded the corner-- there never were, regardless of whether he walked or floated-- but something was audibly off when he greeted them.

Vivi waved without looking over, intent as she was on the coffee pot.

It would have taken her a few more minutes to notice, if it hadn’t been for Arthur’s uncertain, “Uh, Vivi…?”

She glanced up, and then automatically followed the pointed tilt of Arthur’s head, failing to process the look on his face until several seconds after the fact.

Where he’d emerged from the hallway, Lewis was shooing off a Deadbeat that seemed determined to get in his face. Frankly, it was hard to blame the Deadbeat; as soon as what she was seeing clicked, Vivi bounded across the kitchen and got in his face herself, reaching up as far as she could. Her hand brushed his cheek. Not his cheekbone, his cheek-- and despite herself, she felt tears welling up.

“Vivi?” He asked, and there was no overt reverberation. As dark-- as dead-- as his eyes may have been, his concerned gaze on her was a balm she hadn’t known she needed, and she gave up on holding back the sniffles as she flung her arms around his neck.

She’d known. She’d known he was still there, even in his roughest moments, and now she had him back.

#Mystery Skulls #MysteryMarch2021 #blazy's stuff

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buckyskorpion · 4 years

Text

11 hours - part six

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: so i was gonna leave this on ANOTHER doozy cliff hanger but i genuinely thought i would get lynched so i decided to just leave it at a baby cliffhanger. a lot happened in this chapter and a lot of seeds have been planted for future chapters..... so lemme know what you think hehe. predictions?? angry letters?? pitchforks??? lemme know!! i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | please donate to my ko-fi!

masterlist

“You’re very calm for someone with a gun to their head.”

Honestly, you had been thinking the same thing. Sure, your stomach feels like a snake pit and your hands are sweating and you don’t think you’ve ever been more aware of your own heart beat, but other than that - you don’t understand why you aren��t panicking more. There are three men standing in front of you, one behind, all with guns. They’re wearing matching leather jackets with an octo-head patch on the sleeve, and they all look very scary. Briefly, you wonder if Bucky has a jacket like this, with a patch on to match his family. It’s an irrelevant detail you can’t help but fixate on right now.

Bucky. Hopefully listening on the other end of the phone you have tucked in your back pocket which your kidnappers haven’t been bothered to check yet, thankfully. You flex your wrists against the zip ties holding you to a chair and ask, “Where am I?”

“You should know,” your stalker turned kidnapper says with a condescending sneer. “You followed me here.”

“The Lerna?” you clarify, for the sake of hopefully someone on the other end of your mobile picking it up. You glance around at the old-style bar; chipped wood and beer stains, a rickety pool table one of your stalker’s friends is using as an arm rest. You curl your nose up at it - a little proudly, you note it has nothing on Sam’s bar.

“Do you recognise the place?” your stalker asks. That throws you. You want to ask what he means by that, why you would recognise this gross bar you’ve never stepped foot in, but you clench your teeth and school your face.

Once your dad sat you down in a chair much like this one, in his office at the house you grew up in. You were eleven, maybe, and you didn’t quite understand why he was tying your hands to the back with a necktie but you went along with it. He did this, sometimes - would orchestrate some strange lesson when his nightmares got really bad, his ghosts chasing him inside the house until he saw enemies in lampshades and kitchen cabinets. To keep you safe, he would say, and then he sat opposite you and asked what you would do if anyone ever put you in this position against your will.

“Kroshka, they will use anything against you,” he had said, and you see that now with the way these men are looking at you for any weakness. But you didn’t understand then, you were a kid thinking your dad was spiralling again, so he had cast around until he found a beer bottle on the coffee table. “See, like this. When the label is flat it’s fine, but as soon as one little corner lifts you can’t help it - you have to peel it all the way off. Don’t give them any corners, kroshka.”

You blink, once. The man in front of you scowls when you don’t answer, presses forward into your space in a show of intimidation. You try not to flinch, but that fear you were missing before is starting to set in real fast. What did he mean, do you recognise it? And why the hell are you so prepared for a situation like this, almost as if your dad has been training you for it since you could remember?

“Fine,” your stalker says, his breath fanning over you with how he’s leaning into your space. “Maybe you can answer something else, about your boyfriend.”

“Dunno who you’re talking about,” you say. It’s not a lie - technically, you hadn’t had the ‘boyfriend-girlfriend’ chat with Bucky yet. This man is not appreciative of your loopholes. He grabs your hair and yanks your head back, pressing his glock into your neck. You shiver, both at the pain and the cold of the metal. Through gritted teeth and mild hyperventilation, you say, “As a matter of fact, I dunno who you are either. That’s kinda weird, dontcha think?”

You can practically hear Bucky in your head telling you to shut up, but he’s not here right now. No corners, just like your dad said. Doesn’t mean you can’t try and find some corners of your own.

What you meant as a question to buy some time, with a bit of attitude on the side, sends your stalker reeling back from you. He’s confused, eyebrows drawn down low and his friends behind him look to each other with the same expression. Now, you’re confused as well. Everyone in the room stands (or sits, in your particular predicament) in a pure state of what the fuck is going on. It would be funny, if there wasn’t still a gun to the back of your head.

“You don’t know the patch?” the man asks, gesturing to the sleeve of his jacket. When you don’t respond he continues, slowly, reiterating his question from before but as a statement, “You don’t recognise this place.”

You have zero idea what’s going on, but whatever you’ve said seems have thrown your kidnappers for a bit of a loop, so you decide to roll with it. You say, and hope to god the man standing behind you doesn’t shoot you for it, “I’m starting to think you’ve lost control of this situation, pal.”

From the corner of the room behind you, a familiar husky-toned red head says, “Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

Shots ring out, shattering the windows as one by one your stalker’s friends drop like dominos. Someone crouches behind you and cuts you lose with a knife, and you hear it clatter to the floor as they launch over the back of your chair feet first into your stalker. Natasha. The flash of her red hair over your shoulder as she sends him flying is unmistakable. You scramble from the chair, fumbling for the knife she dropped but your hand slides through something thick, wet. The man behind you with the gun lies dead, throat slit, his blood now all over your fingers. It mesmerises you in a sickening way, making your stomach turn and your vision go fuzzy.

You’d never seen a dead body before. Now they are all around you, the bar smelling like blood instead of beer and the sound of bullets pinging off glass the only noise other than Natasha grappling with your stalker. She’s so small compared to him but she has her thighs clenched around his throat and he gasps for breath, clawing at her legs. You watch, stunned, as he gets a grip on her and throws her off, sending her crashing into the wall with a groan.

She hits the floor and you see red - all you can think is that’s Bucky’s family and that man is walking towards her, his gun trained on her body as she tries to pull herself to her feet, so you stop thinking at all. You picture the back of your stalker's neck like the dartboard at Sam’s bar and you throw.

Bullseye. Just like your dad taught you.

The man drops, knife buried in his neck and haemorrhaging blood. He gurgles this awful, awful sound as he clutches at his throat, trying and failing to push the blood back in. Natasha looks from your still outstretched hand, trembling in place, to meet your gaze. You can’t begin to decipher her expression, nor do you want to. You feel like you’re going to throw up, or choke, or scream, or all three. The man you just stabbed in the neck groans in pain, eyes rolling, coughing blood from his mouth in thick clumps. You can’t feel your hands anymore.

The door bangs open and you flinch, stumbling back until you trip on the chair you had been tied to and fall to the floor in a crumple of limbs. It’s Bucky, eyes wild and larger than life with a rage you’ve never seen before. He has a huge sniper-rifle slung over his back as he strides into the bar, stepping right over the writhing body of your stalker.

“I’ll deal with you in a second, Rumlow,” he practically growls, kicking aside the man’s hand that tries to grab for him. You scramble to your feet, practically tripping over yourself to get to Bucky. Doesn’t it say something about you that you run towards the man responsible for the death all around you?

You crash into Bucky hard, the force of the impact knocking the breath right out of you and once it’s gone you can’t get it back. It feels like his arms encompass the entirety of you as he holds you so tight your feet leave the ground. His chest rumbles with words but you can’t hear him, your ears are ringing and your chest is tight because panic attack, you dumbass. You press your face into Bucky’s neck and hope that’s enough to escape the scene unfolding around you.

“Get her out of here, I’ll deal with this,” you hear Natasha say somewhere behind Bucky but you refuse to lift your head to see.

Bucky attempts to pull away from you to look at Natasha, you can feel him try and twist his head but the inarticulate whine that rips from your throat stills the both of you. It’s mildly embarrassing, the sound you’ve just made, but it’s out there now. Bucky shifts his grip so one big palm rubs soothing strokes up and down your spine and you feel yourself becoming boneless with every pass of his hand.

“I’m not fucking lettin’ him get away with this,” Bucky says, low, threatening - if you were this Rumlow guy bleeding out on the ground, you would be afraid.

“And he won’t,” Natasha says, and then like she has to remind Bucky of his own thoughts, “but you have other priorities right now. Get her out of here.”

You feel Bucky nod, his scratchy chin moving against the top of your head. He kisses your temple and holds the back of your skull with one big palm, pressing your face further into his neck. It means you don’t see the carnage of the bar when he moves to place an arm around your shoulder and steer you out the door, stumbling under his guidance on shaky, cotton-fuzzy legs. He’s hurrying you, but as gently as he can. Once you feel the bright burn of sunlight on your skin you pull back from Bucky’s neck, blinking in the now empty street and Bucky’s piercing gaze as he looks down at you.

“Are you with me?” he asks, his hand dropping from your skull to squeeze the side of your neck. You still feel like you’re sipping each breath through a straw but you nod. You can see in his eyes he needs you to be with him right now, to get out of here, so you try and blink away the fuzzies in the corners of your vision and focus on his face.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and christ, now is not the time for that stinging pressure behind your eyes you hate so much. You hope Bucky understands - sorry for not listening to him, sorry for getting you both into this mess, sorry for not being strong when he needs you to be.

Bucky shakes his head vehemently, tugs you in harsh and strong by the grip he has on your neck to press a bruising kiss to your forehead. Your eyes flutter close at the fierce way he holds you, presses emotion into your skin like the tattoos littering his skin - a brand of your own, in the middle of this eerily empty street with the blood of strange men on both your hands. The thought makes you shake, so you twist your fingers in the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt and breathe him in deep.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he says, then pulls away from you. He grabs one of your hands from out under his shirt and links your fingers, beginning to drag you down the street. Looking back over his shoulder, he says with a grimace, “We gotta go.”

He leads you to his bike, squeezed between a brick wall and a dumpster in a side alley a block away from The Lerna. It roars to life before you’ve properly swung yourself on the back, and you aren’t bothering with helmets this time as Bucky eases the bike out from it’s tight spot with unsettling ease. All you can do is hold on tight and close your eyes as Bucky leads you away, weaving through the city in nonsensical loops before you feel the air open up around you and the familiar sounds of Brooklyn.

Bucky takes you to Steve’s tattoo in Red Hook, the first time you’re been back there since that fateful run-in with Natasha. You’ve checked out completely by the time Bucky parks - he has to lift you off the back of the bike because your legs won’t work, and he all but carries you inside. Steve is quick to rid the shop of the two customers looking at designs out front as Bucky settles you on the couch by the tattoo beds. You sink into the faded red leather without feeling a thing. Distantly, you notice the kid who usually mans the tills looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you suppose you deserve that.

“Stevie, I think she’s in shock,” you hear Bucky say, and the childhood nickname makes you smile. You watch Bucky’s face crease up deep concern at the dreamy look on your face, so you suppose you should stop smiling like a crazy person. A giant blonde head swims into your view, just as concerned, and he drapes a blanket around your shoulders.

“Bucky,” you say, your eyebrows drawing down as you fumble for his hand. He squeezes your fingers and mumbles something to Steve who leaves you again, his voice mingling with the kid’s somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder but you can’t focus on that. All you can do is swim in the back of Bucky’s too-deep stare and say, “I killed him.”

“No, no,” he says, shifting closer between your thighs as he kneels on the floor in front of you. This would be funny to you in any other moment, something to tease him for as he takes both your hands in his and squeezes them together, silently imploring you to stay looking at him. He says, “That’s not on you, sweetheart, it ain’t. You didn’t kill him.”

You’re crying now, properly, which you suppose is a good sign because you don’t think people in shock can cry. You watch as something cracks in Bucky’s eyes as he watches you break apart, but you can’t stop now you’ve started. You say, “I did, I killed him. How do you do it? How do you just- I feel like my throat’s gonna close up. How do you live past this?”

Bucky’s face darkens, smoothing out to something stone cold and frightening. You don’t feel scared, though, as he leans into your space so close you almost feel cross-eyed trying to stay glued to the blue of his eyes. He searches your face for something and says, no room for argument, “You did not kill that bastard, you hear me?”

“But-“

“No,” he says, simply, and that’s that. “The only reason you were in that position is because of me, doll, so no. You didn’t kill him. It’s on me, and I live with that so you don’t have to. You got that? You don’t ever have to live with that.”

You don’t know how he makes you feel like he’s physically reached into your chest and pulled out your guilt through your throat, but he does. You can see it clenched tight in his fist, his eyes shuttering down dark as he shoves it between his own teeth to hold. It’s too soon for the feelings clawing at your ribcage but you feel them just the same, that cigarette burn he left on your heart aching so bad you could scream from it. You extract a hand from his to run down his cheek, along his jaw, cupping his face in your palm. He closes his eyes, shudders as though swallowing down the guilt for the both of you.

I love you for that, you think to the soft flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks. I’ll love you forever for that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Natasha returns to the shop, and Sam bundles in not long after that, the four bikers sit around Steve’s prematurely closed tattoo shop and have a family meeting. You can’t help but feel like the kid who’s stayed up past their bedtime to try and hang with the adults, the words flying over their head and sleep pulling at their eyelids but they fight to stay awake anyway. Bucky pulls your head into his lap as he sits on the couch beside you, so you lie there and let him stroke your hair while they discuss what happened over the past two hours.

Two hours, and that’s all it’s taken for your whole world to spin on it’s axis. You’d learnt to throw knives at tree trunks with your dad as a fun, albeit unconventional after-school activity. And now you’ve buried a knife in someone’s neck, you’ve been kidnapped and tied to a chair and watched Bucky gun down men from a rooftop with his sniper rifle. He pulled the trigger with the same fingers he’s carding through your hair now, nails scratching at your scalp in a way that makes your toes tingle. How is that at all ok?

“We’ve started a turf war with Hydra, now,” Sam is saying, sitting backwards on a chair facing Bucky and spreading his hands out in a placating gesture as Bucky bristles. “It was unavoidable, alright, I’m just saying.”

“Not necessarily,” Natasha says. “Rumlow has had a vendetta against Bucky for years. He could’ve been acting alone.”

“It is strange we haven’t heard anything from Pierce,” Steve says thoughtfully. He is pressing an icepack to Natasha’s back, already bruising from where this Rumlow guy threw her into the wall. She’s lifting up her t-shirt and you can see a glimpse of a back piece standing out stark against her pale skin. Giant, feathered wings and a talon, a mosaic piece of what looks like a large hawk spanning the length of her spine.

“When Pierce finds out it was us that shot up his bar, though,” Sam says, making meaningful eyebrow movements to the group. They all nod thoughtfully and fall into silence.

None of these names make much sense to you - Hydra, Pierce, even Rumlow who you’ve gathered by now was your stalker. Was, because he’s dead now, and the thought turns your mouth dry and rusted. You shift in discomfort, drawing Bucky’s attention down to you as he gives you a concerned once over. He had done a thorough analysis for any injuries, even after you’d assured him you were fine, but you can tell he’s still unconvinced.

Unfortunately for you, all your wounds appear to be mental. They’re getting deeper by the second.

“I keep thinking,” you say to Bucky, “why was he so surprised I didn’t know where I was? Or who they were?”

“Hydra is our biggest rival,” Bucky says, and huffs a laugh at your crinkly brow so he clarifies, “They’re another gang, one we’ve had a lot of run-ins with. Rumlow especially. He wasn’t our biggest fan.”

“So he expected you to have told me about him, and Hydra,” you say, the name unfamiliar on your tongue. He nods, and you have to ask, “Why didn’t you?”

Bucky frowns at that. “I already told you - the more you know, the more dangerous it is.”

“And I already told you, no secrets,” you say, frowning just as deep. A beat passes and Bucky doesn’t budge, just glares down at you like he can physically bore his opinion into your brain and make it yours. Exasperated, you say, “Bucky, it didn’t matter anyway - the danger found me. Telling me things like that isn’t going to make a difference.”

“It would’ve if you’d listened to me and not done the stupid thing,” Bucky says, raising his eyebrows. He may have a point, but you aren’t going to back down that easily. Bucky knows you, he knows if you see a loose thread you’re going to pull it. The fact he thought you’d listen to him tell you what to do at all is laughable.

“This gang is your life,” you say, and you don’t bother to hide your frustration now, “They’re your family. I’m no safer not knowing what’s going on - I got stalked and kidnapped regardless. Clearly, it’s dangerous no matter what, so just tell me, Bucky. Whatever it is.”

Bucky stares at you for a long time. Steve, Natasha, Sam - they cease to exist in this room with you. Those first few weeks, when you refused to stay the night in Bucky’s bed and would only see him to fuck - you used to be scared of looking into those eyes for too long, for fear of getting lost. Now you dive head first, a part of you hoping you do get lost so you never have to find your way back out again.

Eventually, Bucky clenches his jaw tight and says, “You’re right.”

You blink, surprised. You hear Sam whisper to Steve, “did you record that?”, and honestly, you wanna ask the same thing. Except the way Bucky is look at you- dread curls thick and choking in your gut. You look up at Bucky and he seem so far away, out of reach even though you feel him all around you. He continues stroking your hair but it’s absentminded, his mind far away too.

You are drawn back to the tattoo shop by Sam saying, “I gotta say, Barnes, your girl is smart as hell. Keeping your phone on you and out-smarting Rumlow in a hostage situation? Pretty badass.”

Bucky smiles briefly down at you, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. You turn to Sam and say, “I got the impression out-smarting Rumlow isn’t really that hard.”

Everyone laughs at that, even Bucky, and it clears away some of the dread eating away at your stomach. But it’s still there, acidic and bubbling no matter what you do to smother it.

Eventually, they grow tired of talking in circles about Rumlow and Hydra and the possibility of the feds showing up (Bucky assures everyone the cops will find no rifling on the bullets and won’t be able to pin them to the crime scene, but Sam mutters heard that before and an argument erupts about some debacle in Bucharest so you tune out). Bucky takes you back to his apartment, tucked securely in his leather jacket in the best kind of shock blanket you could ever ask for.

For the first time, you noticed the tiny embroidered star on the sleeve of his jacket. You wonder if all Bucky’s friends have the same star on their jackets, because they’re not just friends, they’re a gang. One you feel suddenly, irrevocably intertwined with since they’re the only reason you aren’t sitting in a jail cell for murdering someone.

You feel jittery as you walk into Bucky’s apartment, almost nervous. It looks the same as this morning, the coffee cups you used for Steve and Bucky still in the sink and hoodie of his you’d worn last night draped over a chair. But everything is different, now. It’s all changed, there’s weird new shadows over everything long after Bucky turns on the light. You linger in the doorway to Bucky’s bedroom while he rummages around for sweats and jumpers, laying out a pair for you before he begins changing himself. He shucks off his t-shirt and you see his tattoo sleeve, the mottled scars hiding underneath, and your heart flies out of your throat before you can stop it.

“So do you guys have a fun, spooky name like Hydra or what?” you ask, closing your eyes with a grimace as soon as you ask the question. What are you, twelve? Bucky doesn’t answer and you’re too afraid to open your eyes too see the look on his face.

You’re startled when you feel him kiss your cheek, sensing his large frame towering over you and blocking out some of the soft bedroom light. You open your eyes to find him smiling down at you, laughing at you with his eyes as he says, “Not so spooky. Steve named us, he called us the Howling Commandos. The HC, for short.”

You crinkle your nose up at him and he flicks the tip with his ringed fingers. You say, “That’s very old-fashioned.”

“Nat teases him for it all the time,” he says, “She calls us her barbershop quartet.”

You smile, imagining Bucky in suspenders playing the accordion, and say, “Now that I like.”

The longer Bucky looks at you the more sober he becomes, mouth becoming pinched and jaw muscle ticking. He holds you soft by the biceps and walks you back until you hit the wall, still gentle, but bracketing you in now so all you can see is the weight of whatever complicated thing is running across Bucky’s face.

“You scared the fucking shit out of me today,” he says. He shifts, grips your jaw tight so his rings dig into your skin with none of the gentleness of before - he means this. “Never do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, twisting in his tight grip to press a kiss to his fingertips. He softens, allows you to pull him in flush against you by his waist, his bare skin so warm under your hands. “And, thank you. I don’t- I guess I’ve never had someone come save me before, I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t thank me,” Bucky says, shaking his head. He kisses you, a rough press of chapped lips against yours and is gone again before you can react. Says, “I’m sorry, too.”

“Come back,” you say with a pout, and you have just enough time to see Bucky smirk down at you before he’s kissing you again. It’s just as fierce, almost painful, but the rough slide of it distracts from the burn in your chest and your racing thoughts like razorblades. You lick into his mouth, chasing away the ghosts nipping at your heels, and he presses you back into the wall with a thunk hard enough to leave a bruise on your tailbone tomorrow. You don’t care. It feels good to hurt in a way that’s physical.

The ease with which Bucky picks you up makes your head spin. It’s all you can do but pepper kisses along his stubbled jaw as he carries you to the bed, lips suddenly ripped from his skin as he dumps you on the covers. He is quick to follow, squashing you down with his tongue in your mouth before you can take another breath. This, you know. All the messy feelings and heartache and fearfearfear that beats in time with your heart, that maybe you’ll lose him or he’ll lose you and you came so close today, is unfamiliar to the both of you. But arching your back off the bed so he can take your shirt off, scrubbing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck as he peppers kisses across your tits with a trail of goosebumps left behind - this is how you know Bucky best.

He makes quick work of your clothes and you fumble with his jeans, laughing into his mouth as he bats your hand away to do it for you. Bucky bites your bottom lip in playful admonishment and you chase his mouth as he tries to pull away. He places one big palm on your clavicle and pushes down, holding you against the bed. He shakes his head at you with a smile.

“Stay,” he says like he would to a dog, grinning wide as you glare at him. But you do as you’re told as he leans over you to grab a condom with his left arm. Maybe you bend the rules a little to trail kisses up the bits of his outstretched forearm you can reach. Over a shadowy skull, the stem of a rose, what looks like military windings near the crook of his elbow and tiny handwritten letters that spell S N S. Sam Nat Steve, because Bucky might be a tough guy to most but he’s a giant sap deep down.

Bucky shudders at your touch, and it makes you wonder if the scarring under his tattoos is extra sensitive. Or maybe he is just sensitive to anyone touching him in such a vulnerable place. You flick your eyes up to watch him watch you, lip drawn between his teeth and a dent between his eyebrows you ache to soothe if he wasn’t still holding you down. You don’t stop, even though he looks physically pained with every brush of your lips against his skin. You trace the edges of another small wolf with your tongue, like the ones on his chestpiece, and watch as his eyes flutter closed when you get close to the paper-thin skin of his inner wrist.

That hits Bucky’s limit. Suddenly his hand on your chest slides up to your neck and he’s leaning over you, left arm braced by your head and his mouth swallowing yours. You groan against his lips at the rough drag of his hands down your sides, gripping your waist tight enough to bruise. He makes your brain go fuzzy, the only coherent thoughts being Bucky and touch me more. He seems to understand. His fingers find your clit, smoothing slow circles which spark embers in the pit of your stomach. Bucky’s mouth falls open as yours does, as if to breath in the whine he draws from you.

“Fuck, you always sound so good,” Bucky groans. He buries his face into the side of your neck, taking advantage of your thigh trapped between his legs to rut against you while he continues playing with your clit. Every time Bucky gets filthy with you it’s like the first time, shocking and almost embarrassing in the sexiest way possible. Heat floods your cheeks and makes you lightheaded, unable to stop the moan he draws from you. You’re rewarded by Bucky’s teeth in your neck, the sensitive spot just over your pulse point, and if you’re being honest you could come just from this.

Bucky’s cock growing harder against your thigh, as his hips shift in rhythm with the circles he draws on your clit, becomes too difficult to ignore. To gain his attention you twist and nip at the closest piece of skin you can find, Bucky’s ear, and he engulfs you in a kiss which steals the breath right out of you. You buck your hips, hoping to nonverbally convey the demand get in me right now, and Bucky doesn't need any more hints than that.

He fumbles with the condom for a second and you take the time to sit up on your elbows and look at him. Bucky is so beautiful, drawn in harsh lines and stark contrasts. Tan skin turned paler against the opaque black of his tattoos, colour swirling in-between and it should be jarring, but you think he just looks like art. Bitten red lips, startling blue eyes pinning you to the mattress as he catches you staring - such bright, primary colours because he is a statement piece, and one you could look at forever.

Bucky grins almost bashfully as you stare at him, leaning back over you to kiss you soft and sweet in a sharp juxtaposition to the rough tumble which got you here. Again, he sends your head spinning when the tender kiss is punctuated by the unexpected push of Bucky’s cock in your cunt. He bottoms out before you can blink, throwing your head back out of the kiss with an untamed groan - both pleasure and pain, in the good way. Bucky drags his teeth from your lips down your chin and neck, biting a mark into your collarbone to set the tone for the bruising pace he creates as he pounds into you.

He doesn’t do anything in halves, you think. You gaze up at him with an almost dopey smile while Bucky fucks the literal breath out of you. You lift your hips to meet him as he bottoms out with every thrust, watching in awe as his face creases up in ecstasy - it’s you who brings him there. He palms your tits like he can’t help himself, loses control in your pussy because you make him feel that good, and the thought makes you giddy. Drunk, almost, as you drag your nails down his chest and nearly come once again just from the moan you draw out of this brilliant, dangerous, gorgeous man.

“You take it so well, baby, fuck,” Bucky pants, eyebrows creasing as the pleasure gets almost painful in its build. You know the feeling. Bucky’s mouth is always your undoing, rolling your eyes back into your head and the sounds you’re making turning positively feral. He kisses you again, more a slam of mouths than anything finessed, and says, “Never gonna get over this, never gonna get over how good you feel.”

“Bucky, you gotta-“

“I gotta what, huh?” Bucky grins at the pleasure-addled panic he brings you too, not wanting to come too fast but also needing to let go before you actually explode. He knows exactly what he’s doing, balancing on one hand to thumb harshly at your clit as he says, “You want me to stop? I don’t think so, sweetheart, I think you wanna come on my cock just like this, wanna hear me tell you how good you are, how sweet you are for me all laid out like this-“

Everything whites out as you come, hard, all your muscles spasming like crazy with the orgasm that rips through you. Bucky’s voice is drowned out, but it doesn’t matter what he’s saying anymore, he’s made you feel like you’ll never catch your breath again. Bucky thunks his forehead against yours, collapsing on top of you as the fluttering clench of your cunt around his cock becomes too much. His thrusts turn sloppy, his breath hot and ragged across your face as you press lazy, barely-there kisses to his cheeks - all you can muster in your fucked-out haze.

Bucky comes with his eyes closed, eyelashes tangling with yours, and you cling to him with all four limbs as he shakes through his orgasm. The release was so needed for the both of you, the events of the last twenty-four hours frying your nerves to the point where it was either fight, cry, or fuck. It feels so good to have Bucky on top of you, inside you, all around you in every single sense and it warms your heart in a way you didn’t know was possible until now. Until Bucky.

Maybe that’s the afterglow talking, and you should stop. But you can’t help but press another kiss to Bucky’s cheek, and another, over his nose and across his still-closed eyelids until you reach his mouth and he can kiss you back just as soft. You hope he gets it. You hope he feels it too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You go to see your dad, eventually. The chaos of yesterday kept you attached to Bucky’s hip - you showered together in the morning, and he allowed you to pretend it was just the water and not tears soaking your face. But he made you cuddle with him on the couch and fed you an omelette like you were incapable of feeding yourself, and maybe you were, because the reality of what happened in that shitty Manhattan bar was starting to eat away at your executive functions. It took all of your strength to convince Bucky you would be ok and that you’d come back to him as soon as you were done, but it was time to pull on a thread you’ve been ignoring for far too long.

It turns out, that paranoid over-questioning part of your brain doesn’t turn off even during a traumatic event. Your dad lets you in without a word, tugging you into a side hug as you both walk to the kitchen to make tea.

The house you grew up in has taken on a different light since the Lerna. The kitchen chairs aren’t the same, reminding you too much of ziptied wrists and a gun in your face. Why can you superimpose the memory of Rumlow holding you hostage to one you have of being eleven and tied to a chair by your father? You shouldn’t be able to do that.

He nudges your hip, jerking you out of your staring contest with the dining chairs, and offers you a mug of tea. You both sit at the table, either end, the fruit bowl a mediator between you. He looks tired, old, like he always has somehow in your memories from childhood. He’s still your dad, the same man who always been there because he’s all you’ve ever had. He loves you, you know does. Ya lyublyu tebya, luna. But he has always been the first to say your paranoid streak runs a mile deep, and once you find a thread-

Well. Everyone knows how that ends.

“Do you want to talk about it?” your dad asks, and it’s like he knows you aren’t here to ask for boy advice or moan about a case or your skyrocketing rent.

There’s a lot you want to talk about. Why did I learn to throw knives instead of joining the soccer team, like normal kids? Why did I learn how to survive an interrogation instead of going to sleepovers, like normal kids? Why did you train me to question everyone and everything in this world, but I’ve always blindly believed you? Like a normal kid would, you suppose, the only normal you’ve ever really gotten. Always believing your dad is the superhero of six-year-old dreams, someone who would never keep you in the dark.

“No,” you say, taking a sip of tea. It burns your tongue to numbness, but you can’t bring yourself to care. We had the secret language for only us - why did I never think you might have secrets from me as well? You grimace into your tea and say, “Not right now, I’m sorry.”

“Tayny budut presledovat tebya vechno, malysh,” he says. Secrets will haunt you forever, little one.

You don’t dare look up from your tea as you say, “Ya dumayu, ty by znal vse ob etom.” I guess you’d know all about that.

He gives you leftover curry in a carry bag when you leave. Kisses you on the cheek and lets you go, but you can feel him watching you the entire time it takes you to walk down the street and out of sight. As soon as you round the corner you retch into the nearest bush, a well-manicured rose which you silently apologise to as it gets covered in your bile.

This guilt isn’t something Bucky can save you from - it feels like it’s eating you alive. You had never, ever thought you would get to the point where you’d be leaving a bug stuck to the underside of your dad’s kitchen table, but you suppose you never thought you’d be stalked and kidnapped either. You wipe the your mouth with the back of your hand as your stomach finishes emptying itself of tea and betrayal, and try to tell yourself you won’t find anything, you're just being paranoid. But you know you will.

Maybe you always have, and that’s why you’ve been too scared to pull on the thread you’ve known has been dangling in the back of your mind since you were a kid. Just one secret you wanted to leave, one dark corner you didn’t want to shine a light into. That’s never been in your nature. You spit the foul, acidic taste from your mouth onto a poor, innocent rose bud and think with just as much bitterness as the bile coating your throat, that’s not who my dad raised me to be.

Part 7

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