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sinkovia · 5 months

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Riley

Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

Angst

As you stood in the presence of Ghost, your boyfriend who had been missing for a year and two months, a heavy sense of disbelief washed over you.

"Ghost?" you gasped, your eyes widening as you stared at the man standing before you in the rain. His once warm and gentle gaze now appeared distant and cold, his grip on the combat knife, a gift you had given him two years ago, seemed unnaturally tight.

"Simon, it's me!" you yelled, trying to get through to him, but the look in his eyes was chilling. It was as if he didn't recognize you at all. The man you had loved, who had become your partner in life, now looked at you like you were a complete stranger. In his silence, he lunged at you with the knife, and you realized with a sinking feeling that something was terribly wrong. It was as though he had been brainwashed, transformed into a weapon, a threat that couldn't be reasoned with.

Trying to reach him, you spoke softly but with determination, "Simon, it's me. Do you remember? It's Y/n. You know me!"

But he remained unresponsive, his eyes locked onto you with a deadly intensity. He lunged at you with the knife, aiming to strike, and you managed to parry the attack, your years of training and reflexes kicking in.

You continued, your voice pleading as you tried to break through to him, "Remember, all those missions we went on together, the late-nights in the rec room, all of soaps shitty jokes?!"

Each swing of his knife was met with your skillful deflection, but it was clear that he had been brainwashed. He wouldn't stop until he struck you down.

"Simon, please!", your heart aching as you dodged and blocked his attacks. "Think about everything we've been through, all the memories we've created. I'm not your enemy. Please remember who I am!"

But there was no sign of recognition in his eyes, only a relentless determination to eliminate the perceived threat. You were in a battle against the very person you had missed so dearly, and all you could do was hope that some part of the real Simon remained within. The battle continued and you desperately parried Ghost's relentless attacks. You kept yelling at him, trying to get through to him. You had managed to hold your own against him, deflecting every strike he sent your way. Your balance faltered when you stepped in a puddle of mud, and Ghost seized the opportunity to strike. His combat knife found its mark.

The blade cut into your arm, a searing pain shooting through your body. You hissed as you tried to regain your footing, but it was too late. Ghost's knife plunged deep into your stomach. The irony of the situation didn't escape you; you had given him that very knife as a gift, and now it was embedded in your abdomen. He ripped the knife out of your stomach and raised it again, his next target, your chest. Your teary eyes went to his and in one final attempt to get through to him the word spilled from your bloody lips as his knife was stabbed deep in your chest.

"Riley"

Only you had called him this, whenever you were lecturing him, nagging him about something, you had always called him by his last name. It seemed to break through the fog that had clouded his mind. His eyes, once cold and distant, softened as he gazed at your face, and a flicker of recognition danced in his eyes. You smile knowing you finally got through to him.

As he took in your injured state, his gaze dropped to the knife he held, buried deep in your chest. Horror washed over his face as he realized what he just did. Your knees buck and you fall to the ground, bringing him with you. With tears in his eyes, he pulled you close, cradling you in his arms, the blood from your chest staining his clothes and mingling with the rain-soaked ground.

You were dead before you hit the ground.

"Love?" He pulled you closer to him, holding your lifeless body against his chest, his tears falling freely as he begged, his voice trembling with desperation.

"Y/n? Look at me," he pleaded, his voice shaking.

"Look at me, love. Baby please, please just look at me." his voice broke as he continued, unable to accept the reality.

"I'm so sorry."

He tightly clung to your body but your lifeless eyes remained far away, and you were gone, lost forever to a world where his words couldn't reach you.

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singing-to-me-now · 8 months

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I knew you,

stepping on the last train, marked me like a blood stain, I-

I knew you, tried to change the ending, Peter losing Wendy, I-

I knew you, leaving like a father, running like water, I-

but when you are young they assume you know nothing

#taylurking #swiftie #taylor swift eras #taylornation #taylor swift #folkore #betty #the last great american dynasty #tlgad #cardigan #the 1 #my tears ricochet #illicit affairs #Taylor swift #taylor alison swift #the eras tour #eras tour #folklore era

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holdfastperseus · 7 months

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You drew stars around my scars

And now I’m bleeding

Cause I knew you, stepping on the last train marked me like a blood stain

I knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss I knew you’d haunt all of my what ifs

I knew to love would be to lose my mind

And I knew you’d come back to me

When I felt like I was an old cardigan, under someone's bed. You put me on and said I was your favorite

- Cardigan by Taylor Swift (2020)

Next part

#loki #lokius #loki season 2 #mobius #owen wilson #tom hiddleston #taylor swift #taylor swift lyrics #back on my bullshit #they’re in every song i listen to

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lumosandnoxwriting · 5 months

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he loves me not || Fred Weasley

Title: he loves me not Pairing: Fred x Reader Warnings: talking about periods/breast development. Fred is kind of a shit head. Summary: my friends from home don’t know what to say A/N: here it is, the next part in the anthology!! Honestly i actually really love this one even though the structure of the storytelling changed as i wrote, i feel like this ended up just how i imagined it!

Fred is the last person she expected to be standing there when she walked into her favorite bar after the world’s longest day at work.

Y/N does a double take, her steps faltering as she watches him laugh. His head tips back, exposing a pale stretch of skin that she used to imagine pressing her lips to as she daydreamed about what her future might look like. Now it just makes her sick to think about.

He notices her then, his hooded eyes opening wide as they stare at each other across the crowded room. His gaze keeps Y/N rooted to the ground, forcing the people coming in to step around her. Fred seems just as shocked to see her, and his friends start to nudge him, noticing the strange look on his face.

Less than twenty feet separates Y/N from the person she used to know best in this world. The person she’d thought would always be by her side, who’d follow her no matter the path life steered them down. Her best friend in the entire world.

Now they’re just two strangers, staring at each other in a bar.

How the hell did they end up here?

Summertime always smells like freshly cut grass and the lemonade Mrs. Weasley seems to be constantly stirring up to refuel the brood of kids that flit in and out of her house all day - and there is no place in the world Y/N would rather be.

She’s wading through the creek in the Weasley’s backyard, her brand new sneakers so thoroughly soaked and muddy she can practically hear the way her mum will yell when she gets home. But she doesn’t even care about the trouble she’s sure to be in, not when Fred is by her side, laughing wildly as they chase frogs and small fish through the shallow water.

When the school year ended last month Y/N was afraid that this summer would be different than the others. Because when they started Year 8 in September she thought it would be like any other school year - but boy had she been wrong about that.

It seemed overnight all of the girls in their year stopped looking at boys as friends and started to look at them as something more. Crushes is the word they’d used. In between lessons and during lunch girls would crowd around each other, watching the boys with rose tinted cheeks as they whispered about who they thought was cute and who would make the best boyfriend.

Y/N sat with them more out of obligation than anything, since she’d much rather be goofing off with Fred and George and whatever other male classmates decided to join in their games. So instead of playing with her friends she’d sit there and nod along as they whispered about Fred’s eyes and George’s hair and Thomas’ smile, all while the only thing Y/N was thinking about was how things had changed.

Year 8 also brought a lot of personal changes in Y/N’s life.

Suddenly the elastic on the soft cotton training bras her Mum had purchased before Year 6 was digging into her sides hard enough to leave deep red marks on her skin, and at one point she could barely get them over her chest. She’d had to upgrade to an actual real bra before school even began, and by the Christmas holiday she’d already needed to change size twice.

And that year Santa didn’t just bring her a few bras for her newly grown breasts, but it seems her period was packed away under the tree as well. What she thought was a stomach ache leading up to Christmas Day evidently turned out to be the arrival of her so called “womanhood” if the blood staining her Christmas PJs was any indication.

She spent the week between Christmas and New Years carefully waddling around, afraid that too much movement would cause the pad stuck to her underwear to slip and she’d end up bleeding all over herself.

When school started up again in January she no longer knew where she belonged. On one hand she still wanted to be out there with Fred, running amuck and causing trouble when the teacher wasn’t looking. But on the other hand she didn’t quite fit in with the girls in her class either - even if she agreed with Marci Joe that Fred is by far the cutest boy in their Year.

So when school got out for the summer, Y/N had worried that things would be different. Worried that Fred would look at her like the other boys seem to now, that instead of seeing Y/N the girl they grew up playing with they’d see Y/N, the girl who’s boobs they like to stare at. (Even if deep down Y/N really did hope that Fred had noticed her boobs at least a little bit.)

And okay maybe things are a little different.

Like how her cheeks heat up when Fred grabs her hand to help keep her balance as they jump from rock to rock through the creek. And how sometimes she can feel her tummy flip upside down when Fred laughs at something she’s said. And maybe, just maybe, her smile was a little bit too big and she felt a little too proud when Fred turned down Marci Jo’s invitation to the movies to grab some ice cream with Y/N instead.

But none of that matters as long as Fred is still her very best friend. (Even if Y/N hopes in her little heart that someday he might be more than that too.)

“Hey.”

Y/N’s head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and she prays the flush on her cheeks isn’t obvious as she slams her journal shut. She knows there’s no way Fred would be able to read what she’s writing from where he leans against the entrance to her room, but just the thought of him recognizing the scrawl of his name with little hearts doodled by it is embarrassing enough to have her shoving the book under her pillow for good measure.

“What are you doing here?”

The smile that appears on his face causes a surge of butterflies to rock through Y/N’s stomach, and she practically holds her breath as he steps further into her room.

“Is that any way to greet your best friend?” Fred teases.

His easy going demeanor instantly soothes her nerves in a way that only Fred ever seems to be able to, and she rolls his eyes at him.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. Molly said you and George were spending the night at Thomas’ when I called earlier, I was just surprised to see you here, that’s all.”

Fred waggles his eyebrows at her as he takes a seat on the end of Y/N’s bed. “You called the house looking for me? Y/N I’m blushing.”

Y/N leans over to punch Fred on the arm, desperately trying to cover up the giddy feeling she gets from Fred being here in her room.

Because of course Fred is her best friend in the entire world and he has been since they were four years old. But at some point in the last twelve years she’s started to look at Fred in a different way, and in the last few months she’s decided to stop lying to herself.

Fred will always be her best friend, but she’s no longer afraid to admit that she wishes someday he’d be more than that too.

She remembers thinking how it seemed like a switch flipped overnight when all the girls in their year stopped looking at boys as friends and started having crushes on them, and now it seems another switch has flipped and suddenly everyone now has boyfriends.

Well, everyone except Y/N.

And it’s not like boys haven’t been interested in her. There was Thomas and Lee, and even Danny in the Year above. Turns out once boys grow out of that immature phase where they call boobs flower buds and laugh as they jiggle awkwardly during gym class, they’ll do just about anything to sneak a peek at them.

But when Thomas and Lee had asked, Y/N didn’t even hesitate when she shot them down - giving them both a generic excuse that they’d been friends for too long for her to see them any other way. She’d thought about saying yes to Danny, mainly because at sixteen she’s the only girl in her year who hasn’t been kissed outside of a round of truth or dare or spin the bottle. But then Fred had invited her over to watch a Star Wars marathon and by the time Y/N decided to circle back to the raincheck she’d asked Danny for, he was already dating a girl in his Year.

And it’s not even as if she really wanted to date Danny. It just felt nice to have someone see her as more than just a friend. It felt nice to feel pretty and feminine. To be noticed.

Even if she wasn’t noticed by the boy whose attention she really craves.

“So you never answered my question,” Y/N starts after a few moments of silence. “What are you doing here?”

The wicked grin she gets as a response tells her everything she needs to know.

They’re at the party for an hour before Y/N loses Fred in the crowd. She’s feeling loose from the lukewarm beer and shots that tasted more like ethanol than vodka, and somewhere in the back of her mind she had the hope that tonight would be the night.

Their night.

Sober Y/N is not brave enough to take that next step to push them past the friendship stage, but drunk Y/N is ready, willing and eager to take one for the team. It doesn’t help that Fred had been so sweet and attentive since the moment they arrived at Thomas’. The party was already in full swing, and Fred had held her hand tight as they weaved through the crowd. Every drink she consumed had been given by Fred, each one handed off with a wink and a promise that he’d always take care of her.

Like an idiot she’d let go of his hand, trying to shout over the music that she was going to run to the loo and Fred should wait right there. And to no one’s surprise when she finally found the spot where she left him twenty minutes later, Fred was nowhere to be found. She’d searched the ground floor and the first floor already, and as she stumbles down the stairs into the basement Y/N is sure she’ll find Fred hanging out on a couch ready with some stupid joke about how she finally found his hiding space.

What she doesn’t expect to find is Fred sitting on a couch with Marci Jo, his arms around her waist as they attempt to suck each other’s faces off. She’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the heartbreak that makes her stomach turn, but suddenly the only thought on her mind is getting the hell out of there as soon as possible.

Turns out tonight was the night. Just not their night.

Things haven’t been the same since the party.

Fred had been everything to Y/N, and now she could barely stand to look at him. It wasn’t just that he’d broken her heart that night, it was that he completely changed after that night. It was no longer just Fred whenever they hung out, it was Fred and Marci Jo. She didn’t even know Fred gave a second thought about Marci Jo, and suddenly she was taking over every aspect of Fred’s life.

Trips to the park, to get ice cream, movie nights at the Weasley’s - anything that Y/N and Fred used to do together now had to include Marci Jo. And Y/N wouldn’t mind her tagging along as much if they weren’t so absorbed in their own little bubble to notice her existence. Too many times she’d left their hangouts early, the two of them too busy making out or whispering to each other to even notice Y/N had gone home.

Losing Fred as a potential romantic partner had been sad, and she shed many tears over that lost possibility. But losing Fred as a best friend had been absolutely devastating. Fred had been the one constant in Y/N’s life, and suddenly without him there she had no idea what she was doing anymore.

“Hey stranger.”

Y/N looks up from the fire, giving Fred a nod. “Fred.”

Today was their last day of college, and of course Thomas had to throw a huge party to celebrate. Y/N hadn’t even wanted to go, she’d planned on spending the night up in her room, writing until she finally felt exhausted enough to fall asleep. But this would probably be the last time all of them would be together, before University and adult life took over, and some yearning for the way things used to be coaxed her out of the house tonight.

“That’s how you greet your best friend?” he teases, taking a seat next to Y/N on the bench.

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Okay, sure.”

They’re silent, both of them focused on the way the flames dance to avoid having to look at each other. It’s been a little over a year since they’ve been alone together, and Y/N feels a pang in her chest at how awkward it is to be sitting with Fred, when it used to be as natural as breathing.

Fred is the one who breaks the silence.

“I overheard my Mum talking with yours’ on the phone this morning. London, eh?”

Y/N shivers as he bumps their shoulders together. “Yeah. I leave for my summer program next week.”

“Wow, already?” he blows out a breath. “I can’t imagine this place without you, but I always knew if anyone could make it out of this shithole, it’d be you.”

“Oh fuck off,” she blurts out, shocking them both. Even with them drifting apart Y/N has never been anything but polite with Fred during their short interactions so the anger in her voice is a surprise. But she lets it build, too tired of pretending that she’s okay with what happened between them.

“The only reason I ever thought about sticking around is you, you moron. You love this stupid shithole too much to ever even dream of doing something else with your life. And even though I never had the same dreams as you, my need to leave never outweighed my need to have you in my life. But now I can’t wait to get the hell out of here, and please don’t pretend that you’ll be shedding a tear over my absence.”

“Don’t do this,” Fred seethes, tearing his eyes away from the fire so he can look at the one brewing in Y/N’s eyes. “You’re the one who pulled away, don’t put this on me.”

“And you’re the one who kissed Marci Jo and blew everything up! My heart used to beat for you Fred Weasley, and everyone in this town knew it except, apparently, for you.” She stands up then, the yearning for nostalgia that brought her out tonight fading fast. “You prioritized getting your dick wet over our friendship, so do not blame me for pulling away. Have a nice life, Fred.”

Y/N ignores his calls of her name as she storms away, letting everything she’s lost go with every step away she takes.

Her editor told her not to do it. So did her agent. And her Mother.

But as she stands in the middle of a busy bookstore, seeing her debut novel sitting on a shelf for the very first time, Y/N does not feel an ounce of regret as she takes a copy into her hand and flips to the dedication page.

Fuck you, Fred Weasley - you know what you did.

Y/N can tell the moment Fred decides he’s going to approach her. Even though it’s been years since they last spoke she can still read him like a book, and his thoughts are written across his face in the look he’s giving her.

Watching him take a step towards her breaks Y/N of whatever trance she’d been in, giving her the forethought to step out of the entryway and over to the wall. Whatever conversation she and Fred are about to have shouldn’t be taking place as people shove past them to enter or exit the pub.

The smile on Fred’s face as he approaches is cautious, and Y/N silently wishes she’d at least had the chance to grab a drink before this confrontation. She has a feeling she’ll need it.

“Hey stranger,” Fred greets, knuckles white from how hard he grips the bottle in his hand.

Y/N nods in greeting. “Fred.”

“That how you greet all of your best friends that you haven’t seen in a while?” he attempts to joke, a fleeting smile on his lips. When Y/N does nothing in response but quirk an eyebrow, he lets out a nervous chuckle. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “Just not sure I’d describe us as best friends.”

“Really?” Fred asks, but the tone in his voice suggests he’s anything but surprised at her rejection.

Yes really, Y/N wants to spit back. There’s an anger bubbling in her stomach, a feeling she hasn’t felt in the longest time. A feeling she thought she’d gotten over in the years it’s been since she left her hometown and all of the people in it behind. But it roars back to life, so full of life that she thinks it may have never been dormant.

“Yeah.”

She stopped thinking of Fred Weasley as her best friend a long time ago.

“Guess I deserve that,” Fred admits after a moment of silence. “And I’m not really that surprised considering you dedicated your first book to telling me to fuck off in front of the entire world.”

Y/N snorts a laugh. “Yeah, well. You deserved that too.”

They both just stand there in silence, and while Y/N feels nothing she can tell Fred feels awkward. His jaw twitches, a telltale sign that he’s trying to figure out what to say next. She lets him struggle for another minute before giving him a brief nod.

“Well then. It was,” she hesitates, not wanting to say that it was good to see him again. Because it wasn’t. Y/N could have gone the rest of her life, fully content with never seeing or hearing from Fred Weasley again. “Have a good rest of your night.”

Fred’s mouth opens as if he’s going to say something else, but after it hangs there for a few beats he snaps it shut again. With another curt nod Y/N joins the stream of people heading towards the bar, finding that walking away from Fred Weasley the second time is just as easy as it was the first time.

#fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley fanfic #harry potter #golden #fw #fred weasley fic

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sequinsmile-x · 8 months

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Stained Glass Windows - Chapter Forty Nine

Life was complicated, but they wouldn't have it any other way.

-x-

Hi friends,

As ever, thank you for the love on this story! It truly means the world. I cannot believe this is chapter 49!! Next chapter will be up on Thursday to mark Emily's 40th birthday in this universe <3

On a separate note, my next one shot is my 250th(!!!) fic, and I am working on something special for it. Please keep an eye out for it at the end of the week!

Please do let me know what you think!

-x-

Words: 3.4k

A full list of warnings for the fic can be found on the Series Master List and will be updated as we go along.

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

“Family of Aaron Hotchner?”

“I’m his girlfriend, Emily Prentiss,” Emily says, her hands tightly clasped together in front of her, “I came in with him and I’m his medical proxy.”

She’s over-explained it, and she knows it, the soft smile on the doctor’s face is the only evidence she needs, but she doesn’t want anything to stop her from seeing him. Happy to flash her gun and badge if she needed to. Or donate as much of her trust fund as it would take to fund a new wing of the hospital, anything to sit by his side.

The doctor swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looks at her, and everything stops. Her training her biggest curse as she knows what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth. She steps backwards, the heat of Dave’s hand burning into her shoulder as he steadies her.

“We did everything we could, but he lost too much blood.”

The walls start closing in on her, the air becomes thick, too thick to breathe and she stutters as she speaks, “You have to say it.”

“Agent Hotchner died on the table.”

___

Emily gasps as she sits up, her lungs burning as she desperately tries to breathe. The hot brand of her friend's comforting hand on her shoulder still burning, a lasting imprint from her nightmare that she knows will take a while to shake.

She wondered if she’d ever stop dreaming about that night. If she’d ever be free of the image of Aaron being attacked by Foyet. Of the sound of the knife as it was pulled out of Aaron’s chest, the grunt he made as it happened, involuntary and primal like he was a wounded animal. She wondered if she’d ever forget how close she came to losing him, or if her subconscious would always remind her, that the dream that had just torn her from sleep would always follow her wherever she went.

She blows out a slow breath and runs her hand over her face, taking a second to feel the cool metal of her wedding rings, allowing herself to remember it wasn’t true. She hadn’t lost him. She wasn’t frozen in place in that hospital hallway - she was in their home, in their bed, with their infant daughter just a few feet away.

She turns to check on Lily, and the panic her dream had sparked sets fire when she sees the bassinet is empty. Her half asleep, and overall sleep deprived brain, jumps to the worst-case scenario, something that only continues when she turns to her other side to find Aaron’s side of the bed empty. She gets out of bed, almost tripping over the blankets that had tangled around her legs as she stands. She’s about to call out, to shout for Aaron, when she spots the light seeping out from under the nursery door. She blows out a breath and presses her hand to her chest, logic finally taking back over as the panic subsides.

Emily is careful to be quiet as she pushes the door open, and she smiles at the sight she’s met with. Aaron is in the large rocking chair they kept in there, a sleeping Lily against his chest and an empty bottle of milk that she’d expressed earlier that day on the table. Sergio was curled up in the crib Lily hadn’t slept in yet, the cat never too far away from the baby he’d clearly dubbed as his human.

“Hi,” she says softly, walking across the soft carpet, “Is this a party anyone can join or is it just daddy/daughter time?”

He smiles at her as he kisses the top of Lily’s head, “We’ve finished everything we needed to talk about.”

She chuckles softly and walks over, stopping as she reaches the armchair, “You have room for one more?”

He shifts, making sure Lily is settled against one side of his chest and opening up his arms for his wife, “We always have room for you.”

She climbs into his lap, careful not to disturb her daughter as she rests her head on Aaron’s other shoulder. She reaches out and runs her fingers over Lily’s soft hair, “She got hungry?”

Aaron nods and kisses Emily’s cheek, “She woke up and I thought you could do with the sleep.” He explains, and she hums in response, “Did we wake you up?”

“No,” she replies, shaking her head before she tilts it to look up at him, “I had a dream,” she presses her lips together tightly before she looks down at Lily again, finding the same peace and comfort she always did when she looked at her little girl, “About Foyet.”

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against her temple, well aware that she would have panicked to realise she was alone. He’d done the same before, had torn into the living room to find Emily there sitting with Jack and Lily, a curious look on her face that would slowly transform into concern as she figured it out.

“The usual?” he asks, using his foot on the ground to rock them back and forth, both of them well aware that it was more for her benefit than their sleeping baby’s. She nods in response, something he feels more than sees, “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” she says, “I don’t,” she snuggles in deeper into his embrace, wanting nothing more than to forget about her nightmares, to put it behind her until she inevitably had another one, “Can we talk about something else?”

“Of course,” he says without hesitation, never able to say no to her, “What do you want to talk about?”

She sighs as she tries to think of something, to remember something about their upcoming day that they could discuss, and she finally lands on what she wants to talk about, only briefly wondering if it was the right time.

“You’re seeing Haley in the morning, right?” She asks, and he nods.

“Yeah, I’m going over. The school needs us both to sign paperwork for a few things so it makes sense for me to go,” he replies, looking at her, “Why? Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine,” she assures him, “I had an interesting conversation with Jack when he was here at the weekend. He brought up spending more time with us again.”

It would be lying to say it wasn’t something Aaron had thought about a lot in the months since Jack had last raised it with Emily. He wanted more time with his son, something that had been true since he and Haley had broken up, but it had become all the more apparent to him since Lily had been born. His daughter’s constant presence made his son’s absence sharper, and made him want to see the two of them together all the more often. Jack had never mentioned being with them more again after the one occasion he had when Emily was pregnant, and they had put it down to sibling jealousy that had never sprouted further than that. So Aaron had shaken it off, let the hope flutter away, not wanting to disrupt his son’s life if he was happy with it.

“What did he say?”

She shifts so she’s looking at him properly, “He said he misses us when he’s with Haley, and he misses her when he’s here. But he’s with her more so he misses us more.”

He sighs and runs his hand up and down Lily’s back, dropping a kiss on her dark hair. Despite the fact he was happy, that he loved his life and his family, he knew he’d always feel some kind of guilt that he wasn’t able to give Jack what he had given Lily. Her parent’s under one roof, their love and understanding of each other deeper than anything he thought he’d ever get to experience. Jack had been so young when he and Haley broke up that Aaron knows he wouldn’t even have memories of them all living together.

“You think I should talk to Haley about it?” He asks, and she blows out a breath, reaching up to push his hair from his forehead.

“I think you should,” she replies, “It’s not my place to make the decision for you though,” she says, smiling softly at him, “But we’d like him here more, he’d like to be here more. My new job will mean it will be easier to make it work,” she looks down at Lily, who was still asleep but shifted, grunting as she frowns in her sleep, and Emily smiles, “And Lily will have her big brother around even more. Haley may even welcome it. It will give her more time to do things just for her.”

She hopes that Haley will take the opportunity to tell Aaron about her boyfriend so that she’d no longer have to keep it a secret from him, the weight of it heavy on her chest even though, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t a big deal.

He smiles and leans in to kiss her, a quick thing stamped against her lips, “I’ll mention it to her, see what she says.”

Emily yawns, and Aaron chuckles at her, “We should get back to bed, try and get a little bit more sleep.”

Lily cries out and they both look down to see she’s awake now, her tiny hands reaching out for Emily, and they both shake their heads.

“Is it bad that part of me misses our sleep being disturbed by serial killers?”

___

Aaron puts off speaking to Haley about their custody arrangement until the paperwork for Jack’s school is all signed. Jack was with Haley’s sister for the afternoon, delighted to spend time with his only aunt, so it was just the two of them in the house they’d once bought together. It felt strange when he looked back on the person he’d been when he first walked through these rooms. Young and sure his life would turn out how he’d planned, beautifully unaware that nothing would go as he’d envisioned.

“I don’t remember there ever being this many forms when we were in school,” Haley complains, signing off the last form and pushing it over to him over the dining table. He smirks as he signs next to her name.

“That’s because we went to school in the 70s and 80s,” he quips, looking up at her from the now finished paperwork with his eyebrow raised, “They used to have that commercial ‘do you know where your children are’ to remind our parents we existed.”

Haley chuckles and leans back in her chair, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, “That’s true,” she says, shaking her head at the thought of it, “Poor Jack, if he ever misses curfew he’ll have half the FBI after him.”

He laughs and nods, “Emily always jokes she’ll be that mom waiting outside the parties Lily goes to just to make sure she’s okay,” he says, and their laughter quietens around them. The friendship they’d fallen into over the last couple of years was nice, but there were moments for both of them, fleeting and rare, when it would feel as if they were who they used to be. He clears his throat and folds his hands together, his fingers tight around his wedding ring, a nervous habit he’d picked up from his wife, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Oh,” Haley says, leaning forward, her clasped hands on the table, “That sounds serious.”

“I was wondering if we could think about changing the custody agreement,” he says, watching her expression carefully, using his training in a way that always drove her crazy when they were still married, “Emily’s new job will have more regular hours, and Jack is older now and I think-”

“I think it’s a good idea,” she replies, putting him out of his misery, a wry smile on her face, “He always talks about you guys when he’s here, it’s obvious he wants to spend more time with Lily,” she shrugs nonchalantly, putting all the arguments he’d practised in his head on the way over firmly to bed, “We’ll figure it out, but I don’t see why it can’t be 50/50.”

He sits back and runs his fingers through his hair, the tension he’d felt building in his shoulders since his conversation with Emily in the early hours of the morning finally dissipating. “Thanks, Haley.”

She smiles and shakes her head at him, “Of course, he’s your son Aaron. And you and Emily love him. Why wouldn’t I want my son around that more?” She says and they exchange a smile. She looks at him for a moment before she sucks in a breath, “Whilst we’re talking about things…I wanted to mention something to you,” she pauses as he nods, encouraging her to carry on, “I’ve been seeing someone, and I’d like to introduce him to Jack at some point.”

His breath catches in his chest. He knew it was coming at some point, that she wouldn’t be single forever, but he didn’t expect that the news would make his stomach twist.

___

Emily can tell Aaron is in a bad mood when he comes home.

There’s a tension in his shoulders, in his jaw, that he rarely had in their house. She knows better than to push, than to pry it out of him. So she pretends she doesn’t see it, acts as if it’s a normal afternoon, and it’s only after she’s fed Lily and put her down for her nap, that she realises she’s doing exactly what her parents had always done. As she looks at her daughter’s face, her long lashes fluttering as she sleeps, her rosy cheeks and pursed lips, she reminds herself why she refused to do that, why she wanted to do better.

She makes sure she picks up the baby monitor had heads downstairs, well aware she’d find her husband in their home office. She knocks on the door and walks in, smiling tightly at him as he looks up from his desk. She walks over and leans against the desk and she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Honey,” she says, reaching out and putting her hand over his, “What’s wrong?” She asks, raising her eyebrow when he opens his mouth to protest, her hand squeezing his even tighter, “Don’t say it’s nothing, you came home from Haley’s in a mood. Did she…did she say no to the change in custody?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head as he assures her, “She was fine with it,” he chuckles humourlessly, “She actually said yes before I listed off all of my reasons.”

She feels relieved, only realising how much she’d been worrying about it at that moment, “That’s good,” she says, squeezing his hand again, “Then what’s going on?”

He sighs, briefly closing his eyes as he shakes his head at himself, still unsure what he’d been so unsettled by what Haley had told him.

“She has a boyfriend,” he says, blowing out a breath, “And she wants him to meet Jack.”

“Oh,” Emily replies, nodding as she clears her throat, “That’s good though, isn’t it?”

He looks up at her, his eyebrows furrowed as their eyes meet, the complete lack of surprise in her expression making the pieces fall into place. “You already knew?”

She tries to ignore the accusation in his tone, how it sparks a fire in her belly that she stamps out with a slow breath. She takes her hand from his and crosses her arms, her fingers digging into her triceps.

“She mentioned it to me when she picked up Jack a few days ago,” she says, keeping her tone even, “She asked me not to say anything so she could tell you.”

He feels irritation he knows she doesn’t deserve flood through him, “I’m your husband, you should have-”

She scoffs, cutting him off as she stands up and puts some space between them, “Surely you know me well enough to know that no one tells me what I should do,” she says, gritting the words out between her teeth, “And I am not getting involved any more than I already am in your and Haley’s relationship. She shouldn’t have asked me to keep it from you, but you also don’t have a right to be mad at me for it,” she shakes her head, “Do you have any idea how complicated this is for me sometimes? How aware I am that I’m your second wife?”

He clenches his teeth and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself down, well aware that she was right, “I know, sweetheart,” he says, standing up but not closing the gap between them, “I’m sorry…I just,” he sighs, “Finding out she’s with someone else hit me harder than I thought it would.”

She stares at him, wrapping her arms even tighter around herself as she lets his confession wash over her. It stings, but she knows he doesn’t mean he loves her any less, that he wants to abandon their life and go back to his ex-wife. It was a shadow of his previous life with Haley, a ripple effect of the love he still held for her, something Emily knew he’d always have. It was part of their relationship she’d made peace with long ago, well aware even in their first few months together that he’d loved someone else before her.

Something that often felt as much of a blessing as it was a curse. The lessons he’d learnt from his first marriage something he’d brought into theirs which helped it flourish. But in moments like this, whether it was selfish or not, she just wished it was all a little simpler.

“Aaron, we got together just months after your marriage ended,” she says, her tongue peeking out to wet her lower lip, “In the time it’s taken her to meet someone she wants to introduce to Jack we’ve got married and had a baby. And she’s mostly been okay apart from the odd initial reaction. So take whatever time you need and give her the same courtesy.”

She’s out of the room before he can respond, the baby monitor tight in her hands.

___

He seeks her out not long after.

She’s on the couch, her book in her hands and the baby monitor next to her as she pretends to read her book. He clears his throat to get her attention and holds out two hot chocolates, his eyebrow raised as their eyes meet.

“I come in peace,” he says, as he steps towards her when she rolls her eyes, a hint of a smile at the corner of one of her lips. She takes one of the mugs from him and curls her palms around it as he sits next to her, the burn of the ceramic against her palm oddly calming, “I did consider bringing you wine, but it’s barely mid-afternoon and you’re still feeding Lil.”

She hums and shifts so she’s facing him, her toes digging into his thigh, “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He smiles at her, “Usually I’d protest at being called cute,” he says, placing one of his hands on her foot, holding it in place on his leg, “But I’ll take it,” he adds and they exchange a smile, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have got mad at you.”

“No,” she replies, taking a sip of her drink before she places it down, “You shouldn’t have,” she says, placing her hand on his arm, “But I forgive you. It’s not an easy situation. You’re allowed to react like a human, seeing as you are one.”

“Don’t let the team know, I’ll lose all credibility,” he jokes and she shakes her head before she shifts, her legs curling underneath her as she leans towards him, her head on his shoulder.

“Your secret is safe with me,” she replies, linking their fingers together and kissing his knuckles, “So, are we going to meet him before he meets Jack?”

“Yes,” he says, pulling her closer, his chin resting on top of her head, “It will probably be the world's most awkward double date.”

She hums in agreement, her nose scrunching up at the thought of it, “Remind me to make sure I pump before that so I can drink some very expensive French wine.”

-x-

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fallenwhumpee · 9 months

Text

"Did I do good?"

Day 1: Mentor whumper | Young hero | Blood loss • Masterlist •

Warnings: Abuse(in the form of training).

"This is enough," Mentor finally ordered. Whumpee tried to stand on attention, but they couldn't push their shoulders back, a hand pressing to the wide cut at their side.

"Did I do good?" Whumpee stuttered between breaths. They had held their ground a lot longer than they could last time. But looking at Mentor, they regretted it instantly.

"I'm disappointed. How can you expect to be accepted to the agency when you can't even defend yourself?" Mentor got closer, towering on Whumpee. "You will fall apart in the first fight. You will never be more than a child trying to play the hero."

Whumpee took the insults as they always did, head bowed and staring to the floor. They couldn't bear to look at Mentor's eyes, not when they knew they were a black mark on the records. A failure Mentor never deserved.

They wanted to beg for a second chance. Beg for forgiveness, as if it was going to change anything. Whumpee was just a waste of time. They weren't fast or strong, even if they were pointed as the best among their generation. They were not enough for Mentor's attention, not enough to be the hero they always dreamed of.

Their vision blurred, black dots appearing as Mentor turned their chin up with one hand.

"You must do better."

Whumpee tried to even their breath, but failing that too. They were looking pathetic and weak. Them being out of breath meant only one thing. They weren't strong enough.

"Clean around and get yourself checked. I expect you here sharp in the morning."

Whumpee nodded.

"Answer me loudly."

"Yessir." They breathed out. It earned a scoff, but Mentor didn't say anything else as they left.

Whumpee took a moment to blink their blurred vision, walking to the cleaning supplies at the end of the room. They dropped to their knees with a whimper, starting with the blood on the floor.

As Whumpee continued to clean with trembling fingers, each swipe of the cloth sent a sharp twinge of pain from the wound at their side. The cut seemed deeper than they had realized, and the blood kept flowing, staining the cloth and dripping to the ground despite their efforts.

Yet another thing they were messing up.

Their vision blurred further as tears mixed with the sweat on their cheeks. The pain was becoming almost unbearable, but Whumpee pushed through, gritting their teeth as they tried to finish the task. With each passing moment, their breathing grew shallower, and they felt light-headed.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they managed to clean most of the blood. Clutching their side, Whumpee staggered towards the infirmary, their steps unsteady. The world around them seemed to sway, and their legs threatened to give way beneath them.

Gasping for air, Whumpee's vision darkened as they pushed themselves to reach the infirmary. With each step, it felt like their body was screaming in protest.

But just as they reached for the doorknob, their strength gave out completely. Their legs buckled beneath them, and with a weak, pained groan, Whumpee collapsed against the doorframe. They didn't remember if they knocked the door before darkness consumed them.

#whumptember2023 #whumptember day 1 #day one: Did I do good #day one: mentor whumper #day one: young hero #day one: Blood loss #abuse #tw blood

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writingmysanity · 2 years

Text

Quiet Cries

Prompt: Lullaby

Pairing: Eskel x Reader (Kit)

Word count: 549

A/N: some blood mentioned- death mentioned but nothing on screen. cannon level. also, i am sorry that I am not consistent in my writing. take this as a sacrifice. tis soft and a bit sad.

A sharp cry startles you out of your sleep, Eskel already on his feet and alert. Grumbling groggily, you look around at the expanse of trees darkened by shadows nestled around you, the flicker of the fire carving sickly shapes up their bodies, as nothing else seems to move.

“A… baby?” you ask confused, eyeing Eskel as he sniffs around, listening intently. He nods slowly.

“There were others near, you stay here,” he states gruffly as he hauls his swords over his shoulders before stepping into the shadows. Frowning, you rest back, staring at the lick of the flames in the air, mesmerized by the brilliance as it begins to lull you back to sleep. Just as you're about to doze back off, Eskel steps back into the small clearing with a snap, his mountainous frame freezing looking down at his arms, eyes widened like a startled deer. Head lifting to meet his gaze, you realize that he isn't alone- the bundle of cloth wiggling in his arms, gentle whimpered cries escaping from its restraints.

“The baby?” you ask sleepily, opening your arms for it. He lays it gently in your arms, moving slower than you've ever seen him, hesitation in every movement until it is fully in your arms. Cooing gently, you smooth the blanket from its face, softening at the reddish tinge still fading from its outburst just minutes ago, shushing them gently. “You are safe, little one.”

Eskel just sits on the other side of the fire, shifting rather uncomfortably. They don't teach baby handling in their training, you assume, offering him a gentle smile. He tries to match it, staring at the small body in your arms.

“Its mother?” he just shakes his head sadly, lifting his hands. The reddish stain marking him from palm to finger.

“It looks like bandits, they probably left the child knowing it wouldn't last long in the wild.” His voice is soft. The baby seems to settle a tad as he speaks, gurgling sleepily.

“We will drop them off at the next town.” you offer, knowing it is only a day's ride more. He nods, sighing.

“What… Can I help?” His voice is slow, eyebrows pinched, unsure. Grinning, you nod.

“Can you sing to us?” you rarely ask, the request always catching him off guard, but he nods, settling back against a tree trunk, peering off into the shadows. A pause, as you assume he is listening to the forest to make sure that you are indeed alone before he starts singing. He sings in a language you don't know, his baritone echoing through the emptiness between the trees, the sound haunting and beautiful, his eyes sliding shut as he continues. The vibrations of his voice melt away your fight to stay away, the baby's eyes having already shut once more as you finally succumb to the darkness, too. Once he is sure you're both asleep, he regards you gently, how you cradle the child, arms wrapped protectively around it as you sleep- the sight is one he has thought of often. A pain, an ache he has resolved himself to feeling in the past. The need for a family. Softening, he shifts to make himself more comfortable.

“Goodnight Kit,” he pauses, smiling in spite of himself. “Goodnight, Kid.”

_____

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womanexile · 1 year

Note

Is Cornelia Street a love or friendship song- of combination? For some reason it made me think of You are in Love, Cardigan, NYD, 'Tis the Damn Season, & Maroon. So many...

Lol, DBM line: "If it doesn't, you ain't doin' it right" made me think of Zayn- he has tee that says "I do it right" on '13 Midnight Memories album cover. Also he used to have lips/kiss tattoo on chest before he covered it ("But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss").

Sidenote: Is the folklore structure a based on a salthouse design that includes a catslide roof. Lol, probably on purpose. When thinking of streets & maps for some reason made me think of the line "Your heartbeat on the High Line". I guess High Street in the UK is equivalent to Main Street in US. Or maybe ref NY tourist stop- "The High Line is an elevated freight rail line transformed into a public park on Manhattan's West Side." Idk. Lol, trains, roofs, cats, etc.

Cornelia street is definitely a love song. It’s another one that Harry has seemed to claim. He added a Cornelia rose to this hat.

In cardigan “your heart beat on the High Line” is about that park in NY & there is also a High Line Hotel. Maybe that’s where they would meet up? Makes since with all the talk about trains. “stepping on the last train marked me like a blood stain”. “Tattoo kiss” the original lyric was “stolen kiss” so I don’t think that has anything to do with zayn.

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sacredsanguine · 1 year

Text

5 Times Amer Doux Dreamt of Killing Nicholas Remington, and 1 Time He Didn’t

Little wonder that later that night, he dreams that Remington blood is as bitter as that chocolate.

Thank you @saviolum-sanguineus for beta-reading this fic for me! @kittenishdelights hope you're onboard the Nicholamer train too! Your pistachio chocolate scene suggestion was so scrumptious, lol!

He haunts Amer’s dreams: a figure of spectral black trailed by the cloying, metallic scent of blood. Nicholas Remington is a reaper whose scythe swings with the flash of his teeth, bared brilliant, searing white after softly swung whispers to a faceless throne. The blood spills whether Nicholas smiles or shouts—and his hands never bear the stains themselves. In his dreams, Amer steps out of the invisible, shadowed line that staff exists in, forces the Imperial Advisor to look at him with that poison-green gaze (not through him, at), feels his blood boil in his veins, and squeezes that black-collared throat until the poison flickers and fails. His scar stings like it’s been torn open when Amer wakes, breathing hard. His hands are clenched into fists in the sheets, crescent moons marking where his nails dig into the swell of flesh. The roar of the kitchen fires is never enough to drown out the screams of his past or the souls he knows will join it soon.

2. Lord Daddano always tests Amer’s patience, but (unfortunately for the chocolatier) he’s grown too accustomed to the sight of Andrey’s tongue swirling wetly around sticky fingers and the sound of entirely too enthusiastic exclamations of gourmet appreciation. It’s the sound of the Imperial Advisor’s voice and his sudden, unexpected appearance that makes Amer wonder if he’s finally tipped over the edge into hallucination.

He’s never known if the presence of Nicholas makes his dreams nightmares or the other way around. Either way, Amer has to lean into the familiar exasperation of watching nobles ignore him in favor of indulging in each other to ground himself. It’s a struggle not to pick up the sweet little knife beside him and drive it into the Advisor’s heart, exposed as it is; instead Amer clenches his jaw and rearranges his features into a smile he knows neither Nicholas nor Andrey will take notice of.

His palm is flat and pointed as the blade he wishes it were when he motions at one of the new pistachio-nougat confections. Its layers are robed in dark, glossy chocolate that’s almost as bitter as Amer feels when he lets himself think too much. Nicholas nods at the recommendation and Amer imagines that pale throat flexing under his grip as Andrey presses the little bite to Nicholas’s lips. Exposed heart indeed.

Nicholas watches—studies—Andrey with a singular intensity that makes Amer’s scar itch. It’s almost enough to make Amer believe his station’s invisibility would last if he lunged across the table and tore Nicholas’s throat out with his teeth.

Little wonder that later that night, he dreams that Remington blood is as bitter as that chocolate.

3. The macarons come out beautifully: smooth, evenly domed tops and tiny, clean feet, not a single crack to be seen in the airy pastel shells that hug rings of velvety buttercream and jam. They take two and a half hours to make, bake, and fill, and a day to mature in a temperature-controlled resting room before Amer hand-wraps them individually in pastel tissue paper and totes them over to the Remington estate in an enchanted silver box worth more than his rented room and the few possessions that fill it.

The cats enjoy them almost as much as Samael does. Amer, robbed somewhat of the perpetual invisibility of his station by his responsibility to introduce each course, despairs quietly in the corner of the room as the friskier of the little white kittens manages to dye himself and half the table pink with ruby chocolate sauce.

He half-expects Nicholas to be as harsh on his son as he is to everyone else in court; the Advisor’s unexpected, radical gentleness is so jarring it slips somehow back into the realm of terror. The same hands that have turned living beings into shapeless, broken bags of blood and bone wield a silver dessert spoon with the careless elegance of a hummingbird feeding from honeysuckle. Samael beams up at Nicholas, showing him some silly thing that the kittens’ pawprints have melded into on the tablecloth, and Nicholas smiles back with the fond, indulgent expression of a stained glass saint.

Amer focuses on the ruby chocolate pawprints until the light makes them gleam red as blood and he tastes his own from where he’s bitten his tongue.

That night, he pins Nicholas to the floor of his own dining room, hands tight around his neck and growing tighter; Amer realises it’s a dream not when green light bursts around him and his blood begins to flow backwards in his veins, but when Nicholas meets his eyes and croaks, “You’d murder a father in front of his son? Very righteous.”

Samael’s eyes are huge and watery, green just as piercing as his father’s magic as he stares at Amer from the doorway. His lip trembles first, followed by his shoulders as he wails, fat tears rolling down his thin face. Amer’s grip loosens, but Nicholas doesn’t move; instead, he begins to laugh—harsh and mocking, more crow-like than the songbirds his son takes after.

Amer’s stomach churns. Beneath Samael’s sobs he can hear the cries of children with dead eyes, the ones he tries to lay out extra blankets and smuggle a few sweets from the kitchens for at every meeting in the teaching hospital basement. Some of them cry at night, others scream in their sleep, and every single one of them would have a fuller family tree if the man laughing on the ground beneath him hadn’t whispered something in the monarch’s ear. He doubts Nicholas doesn’t know—he just doesn’t care.

It isn’t fair. It never has been. It never will be.

Good chocolate snaps when broken, with a loud, clear crack and a clean edge; Amer could identify it in a heartbeat. Maybe that’s why the wet crunch of Nicholas’s neck snapping wakes him up screaming.

4. The Ward trial is a catastrophe. Amer reads the summary of events in the morning paper, launches it into the wastebin furiously, and almost immediately fishes the crumpled ball back out to reread the article in a desperate bid to convince himself that the Butcher of Seraphine Estate would face more than a tap (calling it a slap is too generous) on the wrist.

His despair follows him like smoke billowing out of burnt sugar; it’s only when he shouts at Kezia for a split ganache undeserving of such wrath that he realizes the rest of his kitchen is staring warily at him much like he’d stared at any noble when his scar was still a wound. Amer sets his bowl of frangipane down—it smacks harder than he intended on the counter and he winces—and wipes roughly at his face with the towel at his waist.

“I’m sorry.” Amer can feel the heat of the kitchen fires pressing sweat from his skin, but the pounding dizziness in his head comes with a sensation of being frozen in place. “Send the commis and the dishwashers home for the day—”

“Already did, Chef,” Kezia says flatly; her face is taut with understanding straining at its limits. She’s already chopped the chocolate to fix the ganache; it scrapes off the board and hits the oil layer with a quiet rustle. “Figured it’d be worse for you to see them cowering.”

Amer exhales noisily and nods. Kezia is a better sous-chef than anyone could ask for. Her voice is quiet when she speaks next, still carrying the clipped urgency the kitchens demand. “Go home, Amer. You’re a danger here.”

She could mean anything: distraction around knifes, fires, and the latter two in crowded spaces is all too easy to trip into greater injury, but Kezia pins Amer with a gaze that’s just this side of knowing. She’s a better sous-chef than anyone could ask for, and a better observer too. He’s lucky they’re on the same side.

Amer walks home feeling like he’s fallen into a pale waking nightmare. When he finally falls asleep on a pillow that can’t take much more punching, he sees Nicholas on the stand in the courtroom. There’s blood everywhere; the judge is a headless thing slumped and oozing over a gavel.

There is a sword in Amer’s hand and he can wield it as easy and precise as a dowel spinning sugar for croquembouche; he flies from the benches up to Nicholas, screaming names of people who will never answer him again. The sword finds its target like a lost child running home; there’s a breath of startled resistance before the flesh and muscle parts for Amer’s blade, length sinking in with a wet squelch.

The taste of bitter chocolate interrupts Amer’s litany for the fallen; there’s a moment of silence, sweet as raw sugar, before those green eyes flutter back open and Nicholas bares those scythe teeth at him. It’s soulless, the Advisor’s polished face of personal war, and it burns in Amer’s chest like it’s going to tear him apart—Nicholas clenches his fingers and Amer stumbles forward as the hand buried in his chest rips aorta and vena cava asunder, then plunges deeper and bursts from his back, bloody heart clutched like a pearl; there’s a soft grunt that Amer only knows is his because of the way his lungs ripple around the air driven from them, and Nicholas smiles. It’s a soft in the way moonlight off even the deadliest of poisons is soft, and fixated in a way Amer recognises by the itch that prickles along his scar.

The sword in Amer’s trembling hand sinks in to the hilt, grinding against some fragment of rib when Nicholas squeezes his hand again; Amer’s face is close enough to his that the wet plop of Amer’s heart as Nicholas drops it to the floor is drowned out by his raspy whisper: “My beloved spoke the truth. I’m holding everything else against you.”

Amer wakes violently, hands pressing frantically at his chest as he sucks in air.

5. It would be wise to get to sleep early the night before the Day of Metamorphosis Parade, but Amer’s obligations are apparently dedicated to folly. He isn’t able to leave the kitchens until nearly two in the morning, visions of pastry cream and chocolate butterflies blurring over his vision as he stumbles home through dark streets. He falls into bed and sleep almost instantly, but the peace of a dreamless night escapes him.

It begins in the kitchens: cocoa butter melting while he scrapes pigments into powder with a curved knife, the smell of chocolate making his mouth and eyes water as he works. It tempers easily, eagerly popping out of the molds in glossy, perfect curves, and Amer smiles.

Nicholas is leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, when Amer turns around; the tray of quenelles clatters to the ground, painted white chocolate shells rattling like chips of bone. Nicholas doesn’t so much as blink at the mess, boredom carved harsh and haughty into his face.

“Two dozen dolorosas,” he says; his voice is as strident as ever, demanding in the way of a man who’s seldom been denied and accustomed to making examples of those who do.

He watches Amer work, green eyes hovering over his shoulder like the fangs of a beast as he whisks and melts and whisks again. It’s enough of a reminder of Daddano that Amer’s dream shifts around him for a moment, melting into slick shades of grey and pearly white before he finds himself at the dark, cool shelves of extracts and herbs kept away from the fires. Nicholas hasn’t followed him; Amer’s heart pounds in his chest as his fingers close around an unmarked, dark glass bottle. The liquid inside glimmers clear; even in his dreams, Amer knows that poison is rarely as obvious as storybooks make it out to be.

It will do nothing more than perfume the air with almonds until the chocolate crystallizes and turns its fragrance into fatality. This Amer knows in the watertight, ineffable way of dreams; it’s that same logic that presses him forward against Nicholas, holding the open bottle up between them as fire burns in his gut. He will slip his hand into the mouth of the beast to watch it choke; dignity is a small price to pay.

“Does this please you?” Amer asks, voice low and raspy—partially a conscious attempt to mimic Andrey’s forwardness but mostly thanks to histamines.

Nicholas’s face is still, a mask sculpted out of ice and disdain; he doesn’t bother inhaling before his words are sliding over Amer’s skin like the burning thaw of icicles. “You’ve forgotten yourself.”

But he doesn’t push Amer away; Nicholas raises a hand, looking rather like a cat toying with some bird trapped in a corner, and lets his fingers crawl up the edge of Amer’s jaw, gripping a little too tight for comfort. His eyes are clear, green boring into green like a candle held between two mirrors. “Get back to work.”

The hunger in his voice is cold enough to raise goosebumps on Amer’s skin, even with the heat of the kitchens.

Death, it turns out, dreams of itself wrapped in the delicate scent of almonds and a glossy coat of chocolate so dark it’s nearly black. Amer rolls out twenty-four perfect spheres of bitter chocolate—how fitting, that they’re already in mourning colors—and holds one up between thumb and middle finger.

Nicholas doesn’t part his lips; he raises a brow imperiously until Amer lifts the dolorosa to his mouth, then smiles that scythe-like smile, malicious in the way of a beautiful thing meant to hurt. His tongue is warm, teeth blunt but unforgiving as he holds the tip of Amer’s finger between them and rolls the chocolate deeper into his mouth; the tip of his tongue flicks against Amer’s fingertip, oddly whip-like, and for a moment the dream imagines that the skin there splits, blood sizzling.

Amer draws his hand back and smiles at the sharp crack of chocolate; there will be an instant of smooth pistachio and salt on the Advisor’s tongue before the bitterness blooms into eternity—Nicholas lunges forward, one hand curling harshly around the back of Amer’s neck, dragging him down so Nicholas can slant his mouth over Amer’s, fingers digging in enough to force a gasp out—

His tongue is hot, slicked with chocolate that tastes of blood or blood that tastes of chocolate; Amer bites down and tastes bitter iron and smoke, swallows down Nicholas and his death as they fall together to the floor, hunger and rage twitching between them.

Green holds its reflection captive until both mirrors shutter, emerald candle between them snuffed out as suddenly as waking from a nightmare—Amer jolts upright in bed, every breath and muscle in his body throbbing hard.

That afternoon, when he crunches the detonator in a sweaty fist, he can’t help but think of the way Nicholas laughs—sharp and splintered.

+1. Amer has never been particularly devout, but it does strike him as a sign that it was the third dream of his in which Samael appeared, and that it’s Samael who saves him, even if his life is paid for by the blood of those he’s torn from and a batch of pastel macarons. Kezia’s mutterings about what kind of man names his child “Poison of God” flash through his mind and Amer’s scar screams from its silent throne beneath the curve of his eye.

He pours himself into work as much as he can, hoping that exhaustion will be the end of the specter in his dreams: Amer’s nights know no such kindness. Every night, he finds himself on his knees with the taste of blood in his mouth, looking up at Nicholas and Samael like some corrupted version of La Pietà in Kezia’s church. The scent of gore holds him down, green burning into green; Amer finds himself in a wretched loop of looking up and meeting Nicholas’s dry gaze—to be seen by him in waking life carries only a dilute cousin of the satisfaction it does in dreams, the majority of its power turned to the induction of pitiless, fathomless rage.

Samael gazes down at Amer but does not speak. Amer is impaled by matching green gazes, his own rendered useless in the face of destruction; Nicholas is impassive as he looks down the bridge of his nose at Amer, and for a moment, monstrous, ravenous hunger roars above the pounding of blood around them. Amer cannot move. He cannot speak. All he can do is wait for the reaper to bring his scythe swinging down.

It never comes.

#nicholamer #s2g formatting this post was harder than writing the fic #written in nectar

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akamikazae · 1 year

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Love me Mercilessly 🍁Kakashi x Akami🍁 Chapter 32: Loose toothed and tight lipped word Count: 19k tw: mentions of blood/suicide, sexual content, previous chapters: Ao3 or under my tag ‘Love me Mercilessly’

Kakashi struggles with what he wants and what he thinks he deserves, his internal conflict causes him to revert to old behaviors. Sasuke looses the last piece of his childhood and Akami doesn't want to let it go. But it also comes with a sudden, jarring unexpected realization, one she won't admit to.

Kakashi stopped by Akami’s office, she wanted him to see it now that she hauled off all the junk and dusted out the cobwebs. Her very own office with a desk and a window with a view. She even had a cup filled with loose mismatched pens perched on the corner of the desk. The back and side walls were a muted emerald green, offset with a warm beige that paired with the rich natural floors and mahogany furnishings. It felt more like a library than an office.

“Look!” Akami said, “I’m a real person now, with a real job and a whole desk!” She hopped up to sit on the edge of said desk. “And I don’t get blood under my fingernails or nothing!”

Kakashi smiled, he wouldn’t know—she painted them now, she didn’t before because the nail polish would chip off an hour into training. Now they’re nice and trim and her cuticles are clean, today they were painted a cool shade of red. Sometimes red nails looked a little trashy but it was a color that suited her skin, she looked especially pretty when she tucked her bangs behind her ears or scratched the side of her nose, red made her eyes shine and the mauve markings around her eyes pop.

It was crazy how varied one single color could be, like the vivid incredulous red of his fathers blood. The blood he scrubbed out of his own living room floor. That stained his fathers shirt and dripped from his famous blade. That red seeped into the weave of the tatami and spread out turning a putrid pink. And when he came home from the hospital that once rich gooey blood dried on his hands in crumbly burgundy flecks.

The red of her nails was pretty, not grotesque or trashy. It made him happy that she didn’t have to have blood build up in her nail beds and that her hands weren’t dry from washing out stains with bleach and peroxide. She was a normal person with a normal person job. (As normal as Shinobi jobs got anyway). He didn’t know how he’d fit into her normal life. Would he sit in a framed photograph on her desk beside the one of Sasuke? Or would he be another case file, stored in the tall black cabinet by the door. And Kakashi wondered—right as she leaned back on her palm and crossed one leg over the other—if he’d feel like a normal person inside her.

His eyes followed the curve of her legs, accentuated by the fit of her normal pants, not at all suited for combat. He closed the distance between them two steps at a time, she uncrossed her legs and invited him in. Akami unzipped his Jonin vest, he wore it all the time, just because everyone already knew he was Anbu didn’t stop him from pretending he wasn’t.

Kakashi leaned in enough that he could still look at the pretty golden yellow of her eyes, and the parting of her lips as she sighed softly. Her knees braced over his hips. He slipped his mask down to feel her breath fan across his face and brushed his thumb over her plump bottom lip. “Fuck me on my whole desk” she whispered to the hand cupping her jaw, her secrets felt safest there.

Kakashi leaned in, taking her lip between his. “Yes Ma’am,” he spoke into her mouth. He felt her lips curl and he cradled the back of her head, angling it back to deepen the kiss.

She ran her hands up under his shirt to feel his chest. She loved and also hated how broad and full he was. It made her feel safe in a way she didn’t think any one person could ever make her feel—she splayed her fingers over his pecs and worried for a minute that Kakashi and that feeling would slip away, oozing through the space between her fingers.

He kneaded the edge of her hip and he pulled away from her lips with a pop. He hoisted her legs over his sides and laid her back. He swatted the cup of pens to the floor with the back of his hand not breaking eye contact. It made her laugh, and Kakashi wished she had another cup of crap he could unnecessarily swat away just to hear it again. Akami buried her smile into his jaw, nipping and kissing at his neck.

He ran his hands up the sides of her waist and beneath her shirt, hiking it up over her bra. He mimicked her and placed small pecks from her collar bone to her stomach—It was strong like the rest of her except for a tiny part just below her bellybutton, beside that giant sweeping scar. The scar that crept up over her high waisted pants, she helped him shimmy them down. He kissed the jagged pink flesh wet and tender, scraping her skin with his teeth and soothing it with his tongue. She hummed her approval and combed her fingers through his hair. He could smell that she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her. Kakashi hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pants and tugged them all the way off.

He kissed her over her panties, they were sleek and red–not silk but a material a lot like silk–silk wouldn’t be practical and it made him like them even more. She whined from the back of her throat when he did it again, the bright red satin turned a shade darker from his lips. “These are awfully pretty to wear to work,” he said.

Akami could feel the thrum of his voice between her legs, it fluttered around her stomach. “Who said they were for work,”

He smirked as she struggled to keep her voice composed and he got down on his knees. He pulled her hips to the edge of the desk and hooked her knees over his shoulders. Kakashi slipped her pretty panties to the side. He put his mouth on her and felt stupid for imagining that it would make him feel normal.

Her painted nails raked through his hair and she tugged when he dragged the flat of his tongue from bottom to top, gathering her arousal and sealing his lips to her clit. She made this gagging gurgling sound so he sucked harder and slipped a finger–and then a second inside her. Her hips jumped and he dug his other hand into the meat of her thigh. “Fuck..” he panted, “You taste so good”.. .being normal was overrated.

Akami’s orgasm started just behind her belly button then hit hard against her pelvic floor.

Kakashi curled his fingers and she whined soft and high pitched. She felt his tongue, his lips and teeth. She swore she could even feel that mole she loved, the mole beneath his lip, the mole only she knew about… my mole.

He sucked and kissed and lapped at her clitoris and Akami felt like he was sucking her up with a straw. The pads of his fingers found that spot that made her moan loud and lewd, her fingers twisted into the edge of the desk and the hair on the nape of his neck.

Kakashi kissed the inside of her trembling thighs, giving them his undivided attention and stroking his fingers into the fat of her hips. Akami opened her eyes which had been screwed shut since she moaned like an animal, Kakashi was looking up at her from right between her legs. It felt like hours had passed, or just mere seconds, time stopped congealing into this single moment. He wanted her to watch as he pulled another orgasm from her. He leaned down to kiss her there, it was soft and sickly sweet. She whispered his name like it meant something more.

He felt superhuman when she writhed against his mouth. He curled his fingers once–twice, she tried to close her legs around his head. Her orgasm oozed out of her all over his mouth and hand. It seeped into her vital organs and degraded her liver.

“Fuck…” Akami whispered, her eyelids fluttered telling. He laughed, kissing the soft part of her stomach, she could feel it vibrate up her spine.

Kakashi crawled back over her. The sheen of sweat on her skin made it look as if she were glistening, like the surface of the ocean in the moonlight. He liked a stripe up the side of her neck to see if she tasted as glimmery as she looked.

He nibbled on the skin beneath her ear, and she could feel how slick his lips were. She chuckled–a faint and breathless sound—and wrapped her hands around his neck and tucked her feet into the bottom of his butt to hold him there as long as possible.

Akami’d been wondering if her stomach bug had actually been a parasite–and she gave it to Kakashi, because since that day he’d been a completely different person. He always left with so many words unsaid. Akami could feel it but she didn’t know what it was he wanted to say. All she knew was that she wanted him to be her best friend and to have the soul shattering sex they had. She knew she couldn’t have it both ways so she let him say nothing. Because she worried that she’d said too much, and pushed him too fast, ‘I love your hands.’ Maybe he’d heard the private confession meant just for his palm, ‘you make me feel seen.’ And he was trying to tell her he wanted to go back, or maybe he was trying to pull away completely but didn’t know how. So she was abundantly pleased that him coming to see her office escalated the way it had…with two necrotic orgasms.

Akami sat up and slipped her panties off all the way, she thrust them in her pocket. She stepped back into her pants when she saw that Kakashi was satisfied by just satisfying her.

He opened the door and she pulled his mask up over his face, sliding her thumbs down either side of his nose. Akami didn’t want him to leave. She wouldn’t say as much so she settled for walking him out of the building.

They stepped out of her office into the hallway, he wrapped his hand around her ass and squeezed. She laughed and leaned into his side.

Akami moved her balled up red satin panties from her pocket to her other hand. They turned the corner and Akami walked him back into the wall, he smiled beneath his mask and moved his hands to her hips.

“If you can wait until tonight,” She spoke against his jaw, “I’ll return the favor,” and she traced her fingers over his half-erect cock, he took in a sharp breath. “Think you could hold on to these for me until then?” Akami tried to slip her panties into the front pocket of his pants, she glanced up at him beneath hooded eyes to find he was staring over her head, wide-eyed. Kakashi let go of her immediately and the rest of him went as stiff as his dick…And that was when she felt it.

Shikaku was sitting on the other side of the third floor lobby chewing on one end of a pen and wearing his slyest grin. Akami turned around and was as dumbstruck as Kakashi.

Shikaku looked like the big bad wolf himself… My, what big teeth you have. And she swore she saw him think right back with his pitch black eyes…Better to sneer at you with, little lady.

Akami and Kakashi were so accustomed to being extra cautious at her house that having sex in her office–on the abandoned third floor of the intelligence building–that neither of them considered that Shikaku could swing by his office–sharing the same wall as Akami’s—at any time. They didn’t even sense his chakra…though that was probably intentional on his part.

It would have been better if he had just gone into his office—and heard all her desperate and depraved moans— and saved them all the embarrassment. But it wasn’t in Shikaku’s nature, not only did he get one over on her, but he had managed to catch two of the highest ranking Anbu operatives in the Village red handed…Quite literally red handed, Akami followed Shikaku’s eyes as they trailed down to her hand, still clutching the red thong half hanging out of Kakashi’s pants. She hastily shoved them as far down in his pocket as they could go.

The second she did Kakashi shunshined away leaving her to get scolded by herself. She glared at the spot he once stood and promised to make him pay for it later… there will be zero! reciprocation.

Shikaku snorted and Akami turned her glare to him. She wasn’t worried for the security of her job but only for the complete and total loss of her dignity. She didn’t even know what to say. She was too proud to apologize, not when Shikaku could have left and come back later if he heard things he didn’t want to hear. It was her office, the door was shut.

Akami opened her mouth to try and say as much, flip it so he looked like that creep who got caught, but no words came out.

“That good huh?” Shikaku grinned as her mouth hung open.

Akami snapped her jaw shut, and scoffed–though if you asked Shikaku it sounded more like a growl—She stuck her nose up and marched back towards her office like she didn’t care what he thought. She shut the door with a slam, and threw herself into the chair behind her desk putting her feet up. She lost her dignity but she still had her pride…what little pride remained when she heard his croaky laugh as clear as if she’d been in the room with him. Akami sank lower into her seat and groaned… he probably heard everything.

read the rest on Ao3

#smut #hatake kakashi #kakashi #kakashi smut #kakashi x oc #naruto #naruto fanfiction #naruto oc #oc: akami #kakashi hatake #yes I know I wrote way too much #especially for just one chapter #slow burn #love me mercilessly

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mentalfirealarm · 1 year

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nonono y’all aren’t HEARING HER— but i knew you. playing hide-and-seek and giving me your WEEKENDS. i knew you. your heartbeat on the high line, ONCE in TWENTY lifetimes. and when i felt like i was an old cardigan under someone’s bed, you put me on and said i was YOUR favorite. to kiss in cars and downtown bars was ALL we needed. you drew STARS around my SCARS but now i’m bleeding. ‘cause i KNEW YOU! stepping on the LAST train, marked me like a blood STAIN. I KNEW YOU. TRIED to change the ending. peter LOSING wendy. I knew YOU! leaving like a FATHER! RUNNING like water. and when you are young they ASSUME you know nothing. but i KNEW you’d linger like a TATTOO kiss. i knew YOU’d haunt all of my what-ifs. the smell of smoke would hang around this long ‘cause i knew EVERYTHING when i was young. i knew i’d curse you for the longest time. CHASING SHADOWS in the GROCERY LINE. I KNEW you’d miss me once the thrill expired and you’d be standing in my front porch light. and i KNEW you’d come back to me.

#THIS SONG IS FUCKING INSANITY #my favorite pastime is just. posting lyrics. and screaming about them.#in my betty era fr #taylor swift #cardigan #folklore #cardigan by taylor swift #lyrics

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tiredandangryaboutit · 2 years

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Short ficlet about Hubert facing his father. But for what purpose was the Marquis truly killed?

Hubert steps into his father's study, a wicked smile on his face. His father is doing some paperwork, but when he looks up he puts down the pen. Carelessly, like he was interrupted mid-writing. Hubert smiles wider.

"Hubert," He says in greeting. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Hubert can't deny that there's a part of him that feels gleeful. Everything, everything is finally happening.

"I think you know why I am here, father," he says. "Marquis Vestra. I hereby declare you guilty of betraying the Emperor, the Empire an the people you swore to serve." He extends his hand, a hidden stiletto emerging from his sleeve. "Your sentence is death," he announces.

His father looks at him for just a moment. Smiles for a fraction of a second. Then he moves, swiftly, and Hubert has to narrowly avoid a knife being thrown at his face. When his father and teacher charges at him, he's reminded of every training session he's ever had with the man. The man who molded him into who he is. A weapon. A blade. A tactician. And now, his final exam has come.

Vestra against Vestra charges, parries, ducks and weaves. Blades and spells both fly, missing and hitting as student and master both show just how much they know. The battle isn't long. Like most battles between power it just comes down to the fraction of differences. Strength, conviction, cleverness.

Hubert knows none of those won him this battle as he plunges his dagger into his father's gut.

Gently, a stark contrast to the fierce and quick fight, he lowers the defeated master to the floor. His father still clings to life, but Hubert knows he has accepted his lot. With a grimace, Hubert can't help but to wish he actually won for his skill.

"You fought well," he says quietly, confident that right now, right here, he can speak freely. The fallen Marquis chuckles wetly, a speck of blood coming from his lips and staining his cheek. "Had to... make it convincing," he points out.

Quietly, and weakly, he whispers the thing Hubert always knew. "I am proud of you, son. Well done."

"My work is not over," Hubert points out.

"No. But mine is," the older man coughs. "I taught you well. Now I must leave our task to you..."

Hubert nods, suddenly finding his throat tight. "We can see the end, son. The last stretch of the road. Now it is up to you to finish this. Our crimson path we have laid for centuries, that our ancestors started..." Another cough. "I am proud... of the role I played," he laughs weakly.

A weak and bloodied hand reaches up to Hubert's face.

"But before I finally return to the darkness from whence I came... Might I see your eyes, as my last vision?"

Again, the words get caught in his throat but Hubert nods and pulls his bangs behind one ear. Even here, in the safest place they've made in this viper's nest, he is reluctant to drop his disguise.

But his eyes shift, going from pale green to bright yellow. His markings resurface, for the first time since he was a boy, and the roots of his hair bloom white as his face reveals itself. A reverse mask, the rest of his body still hidden.

His father always said that keeping himself pale was both risky and genius, hiding in plan sight beneath the open sky. A open challenge to the Fell Star. Come at me, he had said. I am not afraid of you any longer.

"My boy..." His dear father breathes, and Hubert feels him grow heavier. "The cycle... must... continue..."

As the marquis passes, Hubert sits with him for a few moments. Then he carefully lays him down and stands up. His men, his true and loyal men, will care for the body. He will go and report to her. Their puppet who has begun to pull at her strings.

He doesn't wipe the single tear from his face. It will help the charade. Now, once and for all, she will see how far he is willing to go for his mission, and once again he will admit that his mission is her victory.

"The cycle must continue," he affirms.

#fire emblem three houses #fire emblem three hopes #hubert von vestra #minor character death #you can't stop me from making Hubert more interesting #ficlet #I take no criticism

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ofpineapplesanddawns · 2 years

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For anyone who likes Peter and Arthur as a possible ship, here’s a second part to this one-shot.

Warning: injury, blood, drinking, Peter flirting

On with the fic!

Arthur had come to notice a new pattern in his otherwise dull life.

Every few days, could be from every three or four, depending, he’d get a very late night visit from Las Vegas entertainer, Peter Vincent. And every visit he’d come in a bit roughed up, smelling of dirt, smoke, and sometimes of a strange, old blood scent.

He’d always come in grinning, thanking Arthur for leaving the lights on and the doors unlocked, and take a spot at the bar. At this time of night, Arthur was typically closing up, but now he spared time in his duties to tend to his last customer of the evening. He also noted that none of his other coworkers ever seemed to have him come in when they are on shift.

One pointed out that they’d see him look in, but then walk away, as if he were expecting Arthur.

How curious, Arthur would think as he took in this information, was he really that interesting enough for the mysterious entertainer that he’d only bother coming in when Arthur was on shift?

Impossible, Arthur was a simple man, he lived a simple life. Which was surprising, for a place like this, but Arthur enjoyed his life. He was a bit old fashioned, he liked things done in a certain way, he liked order and neatness, but Mr. Vincent was his opposite. He was a modern man in his way, he always seemed like a disaster on long legs, but that clearly didn’t seem to bother him.

Mr. Vincent fascinated Arthur.

Arthur wanted to know more about him.

But he didn’t dare take the steps to actually ask him things, outside of simple conversation starters. He’d let Mr. Vincent talk and talk while he had his drinks, sometimes putting in his input, but he never asked anything that would truly quench the thirst of his curiosity.

Until tonight.

Arthur nearly dropped the bottle he was placing on the shelf in his restocking when the doors slammed open and there was a loud thud, a curse. He turned sharply, eyes wide at the sight of his special customer, collapsed on the floor, trying to lift himself up, but biting out a string of angry words as he laid back down.

“Mr. Vincent!” Arthur set the bottle down and rushed from behind the counter, kneeling down next to him. Mr. Vincent groaned and looked up, his smile was pained.

“Heeeeey, Arthur..! Ya mind, uh... helpin’ a guy out?”

Arthur frowned deeply and did his best to help Mr. Vincent up, rushing him as quickly as he could to a booth. Mr. Vincent groaned and sat back, clutching at his side, where Arthur could see a dark stain against his black shirt. The stain was marking his hand in red.

“You’re hurt.” He said, staring at the wound, then looked Mr. Vincent over.

He had a black eye, a mark on the side of his head that looked a bit like he had scrapped it against something. His shirt was torn at the stain, clearly something attacked him there. The back of his other hand was scrapped as well, dry blood and dirt on it. His clothes were a mess and he looked exhausted. It seemed to bother him a little to put his foot on the ground. “Let me call you an ambulance.”

“No!” Mr. Vincent exclaimed. “No, just... do ya have a first aid kit or somethin’? Please, no... no hospitals.”

Arthur didn’t like the reluctance, but he would see what he could do. As someone working in a service like this, he had decided to train himself in case of emergencies, one could never be too careful, especially when surrounded by glass and such.

He found the first aid kit under the bar, where he always knew it was kept, than he set about preparing a makeshift ice pack for the black eye. Once he had that ready, Arthur removed his work jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and approached Mr. Vincent with the kit, ice pack, and a bottle of scotch. Mr. Vincent looked at the bottle and raised an eyebrow.

“To help with the pain, a distraction.” Arthur explained as he handed him the ice pack, then opened the kit. He got out the cleaning items, the small medical sewing kit, and gloves.

“Good man.” Mr. Vincent said and started to drink, it wasn’t a full bottle, just about three glasses left, Mr. Vincent would be fine to finish it off.

Arthur got the gloves on and had Mr. Vincent lie on his side, letting Arthur see the damage on his other side once he lifted up the shirt. He winced, it looked to be claw marks, rather deep, but still something he could sew. He didn’t like the idea of having to do this, but he had a feeling Mr. Vincent would be more distraught with a trip to the emergency room than if he did this.

“How bad is it?” Mr. Vincent asked.

“Bad, it will scar, but I will clean it and patch it up as best as I can.”

“Mmmm, didn’t know you were a doctor.” He chuckled. “Should’ve had you examine me a bit sooner then, got an ache I’m sure you’d be able to help heal.”

Arthur paused in getting a gauze soaked with rubbing alcohol, and looked at the actor, who had a rather ridiculous grin on his face. “Are... are you flirting?”

“Mmm, maybe?” He was still grinning and Arthur sighed, shaking his head, before he placed the cloth to Mr. Vincent’s side, hearing his hiss in pain.

“Sorry, but I need to clean the wounds, you have... stuff inside, it looks like.” Looked like a bit of gravel.

“I wanted your fingers in me, but not like this...” Mr. Vincent groaned at the pain, but Arthur was blushing at how forward the comment was.

He bit his tongue and continued with focusing on his task, cleaning the wounds and making sure the damage wasn’t any worse. He grabbed for the needle and thread, turning to Mr. Vincent. “Now, this might hurt a bit, are you ready?”

“That’s what they all say.” He laughed at his own terrible joke and Arthur decided not to comment.

He quietly worked on stitching up the wounds, with Mr. Vincent hissing in pain or cursing under his breath, taking long drinks from the bottle. Arthur looked at him, then at the wounds. “When you come in, you always seem a bit of a mess, what is it that you’re doing to end up like that? Like... this?”

Mr. Vincent laughed bitterly, then yelped when Arthur pulled on the string before he tied it off. “You’d never believe me...”

“We’re in Las Vegas, a city where any strange thing could happen. I’m sure I can handle whatever it is. Was this an animal attack? A stage act gone bad?”

“Ehhh... no? Yes? Not really? Sorta in the ballpark, I mean... would you consider a vampire an animal?”

Arthur paused, raising an eyebrow. Then he remembered what Mr. Vincent did for his shows. “Oh, accident on stage?”

The man looked back at him, then away. “Yeeaaahhh... a vampire hunt went wrong, but, ya know, I won. I mean, I’m still alive.”

The bartender wasn’t sure what to say to that, there was clearly more to all of this, but he had a feeling that Mr. Vincent wasn’t ready to tell him the truth. Arthur sighed, nodding. “You need to be more careful then, Mr. Vincent, this could have been worse.”

“Peter.”

“Hm?”

“You, uh, you always call me Mr. Vincent, you can just call me Peter.”

“I... alright, I shall call you Peter then, if that’s what you’d like best.”

Mr- Peter nodded, seemingly pleased with this, then returned to trying to drain the bottle without taking a breath. Arthur returned to his task at hand, his worry over his late night customer seemed to be worse, along with having more questions he wasn’t sure he should ask.

Arthur is too good for my au sometimes.

#john's drabbles #good omens extended universe #arthur x peter vincent

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