#and it was like wading through molasses | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

acourtofmishapandmistakes · 22 days

Text

Bumps, Blunders & Baby Kicks

Azriel & Reader Fluff Fic

Summary: As she enters her eighth month of pregnancy with her mate Azriel, the reader struggles with relentless discomfort from perpetual warmth and frequent need to pee. The story is filled with moments of tender comfort and delightful fluff.

Content Warning: Pregnancy, kissing, and accidental punching.

The bedroom sweltered like a furnace, suffocating despite the windows thrown wide open. Outside, the Sidra usually whispered cool breezes that now seemed to have lost their way, leaving only what felt like the heat from a scorching oven, clinging to your skin.

At eight months pregnant, with the weight of your unborn child pressing relentlessly from within, each movement felt like wading through molasses. The thin sheet that once promised some semblance of comfort now lay discarded by your feet. You shifted from your side to sit up, letting out a slight groan. Your hand swept over the curve of your belly. With the other hand, you brushed back the damp tendrils of hair that had glued themselves to your forehead, each strand saturated with sweat.

You let out a frustrated humph, struggling to take a deep breath, a task that had become increasingly difficult these days. You glanced at the empty space beside you on the bed. In the first few months of your pregnancy, Azriel had been almost inseparably attentive, hardly letting you out of his sight. He doted on you endlessly, always touching you, constantly checking if you were okay. By the third month, his constant vigilance had nearly driven you to smother him with a pillow while he slept. While you cherished the increased presence of your mate, his overprotectiveness had begun to feel suffocating, and you had gently nudged him to resume his duties at the Night Court, though with less risk involved.

You had returned to your work in the library after overcoming your morning sickness, determined not to be treated differently just because you were pregnant. The idea of being seen as weak or fragile irked you deeply. So you resisted, sometimes pushing yourself too hard, often ending your days exhausted and spent.

Azriel was reluctant to spend nights away, he valued these evenings with you, cherishing the time before your new babe arrived. However, it didn’t seem right for him to skip the meeting in the Summer Court, especially when that relationship was still in its infancy. Azriel had given you a long, passionate kiss, promising to return home as soon as he could. He then gently cupped your belly, whispered something too soft even for your fae ears to catch, and kissed your stomach. With that tender gesture, he winnowed away to the River House to meet with Rhys.

You gently ran your hand up and down the curve of your stomach. “Is it as hot in there for you as it is out here?” you murmured to your babe. As you fluttered your fingers across the top of your belly, the babe responded with a lively kick. Azriel had thoroughly enjoyed discovering all the ways to engage with the babe, from talking to them to gently pressing your belly to feel them push back. Each time you felt a kick, you’d call out to him, and no matter where he was, he’d appear in moments, eager to place his hands over yours and feel the movement too. He had been so disappointed when he missed the first of those tiny, internal kicks.

At the tiny kick, a smile spread across your face. Then, abruptly, you felt an overwhelming urge to pee—a sensation that seemed to dominate your days lately. Sighing, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and carefully stood up, arching your back in an attempt to ease some of the persistent ache. You stretched your arms high above your head, trying to loosen the tightness that gripped your body.

You ambled into the adjoining bathroom, the soles of your feet gently padding on the hardwood floor—a gracious gift from Feyre and Rhys when they learned of your pregnancy. The townhouse was your sanctuary. While Cassian had insisted that you and Azriel stay with him and Nesta at the House of Wind, you had joked that two pregnant females under one roof might leave only one male mate standing. Besides, you cherished the privacy of your own space with Azriel, and he seemed delightfully committed to "christening" every surface of your new home.

You paused by the large bathroom mirror, taking a moment to admire your side profile. Gently, you ran your hands over the curve of your stomach, tugging at the oversized t-shirt you'd claimed from Azriel after your own clothes had become too snug.

That’s a nice image, Azriel's voice echoed softly in your mind, his words a warm mental caress that brought an instinctive smile to your lips.

What are you doing up? you sent back to him, your mental voice tinged with a mix of surprise and warmth. Normally, you kept your side of the bond open when he was away, though his was often shielded due to his duties. Every now and then, you'd send him mental snapshots of you and the babe whenever he could receive them.

We just got back to our rooms, Azriel replied, his mental presence flickering like a comforting candle in the dark.

You glanced out into the deep, dark night. It has to be close to like 2 in the morning. What kept you out?

Azriel’s chuckle, rich and warm, flowed through the bond. Cassian got into a drinking contest with some of the Summer Court guards. Given his history, neither Rhys nor I thought it was a good idea to leave him unattended.

You couldn’t help but laugh. Fair response. Did he win?

Does anyone win in that situation? Azriel mused. He’s going to have a killer headache tomorrow morning, and I’m going to have to hear him complain about it. Also, I learned he can belch his ABC’s. Which he did. Four. Different. Times.

Oh good, you replied, already picturing the next gathering, I’ll have to ask him to demonstrate next time I can get a few beers in him.

I don’t think you would need to coax him, Azriel responded, amused. He seems pretty proud of himself. A beat passed. Are you doing okay? babe okay?

You stood up, having finished what felt like the longest pee ever. We’re both fine. Your babe just finds it hilarious to sit on mom’s bladder at night. That, and I’m just constantly hot.

Well, we knew that, came Azriel’s cheeky retort, and you could almost see his teasing grin.

I mean because of the pregnancy, you heathen.

I’m sorry my babe keeps making you have to pee. I’ll be sure to address it with them at our next meeting, Azriel joked, his voice soothing even across the distance.

I would appreciate that, you responded with a light laugh, exiting the bathroom and returning to the bedroom. Needing a break from the oppressive indoor heat, you stepped out onto the patio to catch what little coolness the night air could offer. When are you coming home?

Does my beautiful mate miss me that much? Azriel's voice was soft and playful.

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn't see it. Your mate misses the foot massages and back rubs, that’s for sure. And your babe misses your voice. They’re quieter tonight.

His warmth enveloped you through the bond, a comforting embrace from afar. I’ll be home soon, he promised. Just a few more things to wrap up here.

Get some sleep, my love, you urged, feeling the heaviness of your own eyelids as a testament to the late hour.

I’m not the one carrying an unborn child, Azriel teased back.

The babe and I are both heading back to sleep, you responded, settling the conversation toward a close.

Goodnight, my love, and goodnight, my sweet babe. Dada misses you so much. His words were tender, filled with longing. Though no one knew for certain if unborn fae babes could sense their parents through the bond, you felt a heightened awareness from your babe whenever Azriel spoke like this. Perhaps there was something to the old tales after all.

You ran a hand over your stomach once more, a gesture both comforting and connective, then closed your eyes, letting the cool breeze from Velaris ease the persistent warmth enveloping you. After a moment savored in the night's gentle caress, you made your way back to bed, your heart and mind a little lighter, carrying the goodnight wishes of your mate with you into dreams.

Later that same night, you felt the warm caress of a hand pushing your hair from your face. In a flash your eyes open and you punched one hand out into the stomach of whomever was touching you. You jolted up, kicking your way to the other side of the bed, arms drawn in a fighting stance. Azriel doubled over, the air knocked from him.

Azriel sucked in a pained breath, managing to straighten up slightly as he held a hand to his stomach. His shadows fluttered around him, mirroring his surprise and discomfort. "I was just trying to be sweet," he wheezed, a forced grin not quite hiding the sting of your reflexive punch.

Your heart sank a little, guilt mixing with the remnants of your adrenaline rush. "Oh, Az, I'm so sorry. I thought—I didn't realize it was you," you stammered, the initial fear dissipating as quickly as it had surged.

He took a few more deep breaths, regaining his composure, his smile becoming more genuine. "It's alright. I should have known better than to sneak up on a warrior—even one who's eight months pregnant."

You lowered your arms, your stance relaxing, your expression apologetic. "I didn’t mean to hit you. It just... it happened so fast. But also, by the Cauldron Az!”

Azriel finally chuckled, the sound a bit strained but filled with affection. "Trust me, love, I've learned my lesson. Next time I'll make sure I'm not within striking distance when I come to give you a midnight kiss."

"Maybe just stick to verbal greetings from now on—at least during the night," you suggested, half-joking but also serious, not wanting to risk another misfire.

"Protective mom instincts, huh?" he chuckled, his shadows settling back as his breathing eased. “Can I touch you now without getting maimed?" he joked, his tone light but his gaze searching for reassurance.

You nodded, opening your arms in a peace offering. "Come here, you. Just maybe announce yourself next time, especially in the middle of the night.”

“Fair point,” he responded. “Alright, I am going to hug my mate now, and maybe kiss her, depending on how the hug goes,” Az announced.

“I am accepting the hug and aware of what is to come,” you joked back.

Azriel's embrace was a sanctuary of warmth and familiarity, his presence alone soothing the ambient heat that had been your constant companion these past months. The subtle change in his scent—a richer, earthier tone—seemed to ground you further, drawing a deep, content sigh from your lips as you nestled into his hold.

“I thought you wouldn’t be home till tomorrow?” you queried, tilting your head back to look up at him, curiosity lighting your features.

He responded not with words, but with a tender kiss, sealing his lips to yours in a brief, loving gesture. When he drew back, the smile on your face lingered, eyes fluttering open slowly. “I couldn’t sleep, kept thinking about you,” Azriel confessed softly, the hum of his voice vibrating against your skin. “So I left a note for Rhys, letting him know I’d come back early. If he needs me, I can always go back tomorrow.”

“You know, next time you have to go to the ocean side, maybe consider bringing your heavily pregnant wife who currently runs at about ten thousand degrees so I can get some of that ocean air,” you suggested playfully, your lips puckering slightly in anticipation of another kiss.

Azriel's laughter melded into the kiss, his breath mingling with yours in a dance as intimate as the touch. The kiss deepened, and his hand found its way to your belly, thumb caressing the life within with a reverence that had grown over the months. His connection to both you and the babe deepened in these moments, a bond visible in his every gentle touch and loving glance.

The babe responded to his touch with a small kick, a tiny but sure presence making itself known. You placed your hands over his.

Azriel broke the kiss to lower his head toward your belly. “Hi little one,” he murmured affectionately, his lips pressing a soft kiss there. Another kick met his greeting, a silent echo of recognition. “Were you good to your mama while dada was gone?” he asked, voice playful yet filled with genuine curiosity.

“They were fine, a little restless earlier today when we were out on a walk, but other than that, they’ve been quiet,” you answered, running your fingers through Azriel's hair, anchoring him close, his head cradled against your stomach.

Azriel wrapped his arms around your hips as you stayed there together for a moment. He pressed another kiss to your stomach before resting his chin atop your swollen belly looking up at you. You leaned forward and gave him a soft peck on the forehead. “Az,” you started.

“What, my love?” He asked back, smiling.

“I have to pee.” You said, pushing him back from you.

You hauled your body from the bed and scooted into the bathing room, hearing from over your shoulder, “You always have to pee.”

820 notes · View notes

mrsbuckybarnes1917 · 1 month

Text

2: UNWELCOME DISTANCE

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Dinner with Bucky didn't go as well as you planned and now you're suffering from the outcome of being ditched in an autumn thunderstorm.

Word count: 3.2k

Warning: feelings of betrayal, shitty communications skills, illness (upper respiratory tract infection) description, Coney Island and cotton candy, jealousy, Bucky... Barnes is a warning

The following morning, you woke up feeling a little worse for wear. You buried your face in your pillow willing the tickle in your throat and at the back of your nose to disappear. A small groan left your lips as your attempt to sleep in was thwarted by the aching throughout your body. Sitting up did little to make you feel better, other than shifting the balance of mucus in your sinuses, making you sneeze and worsening the scratchiness of your throat. You looked up at the clock, you’d missed the breakfast time that you were expected to attend, but there weren’t any messages on your phone expressing concern from your friends.

A throb of self pity and doubt flashed through your mind. Did any of them even care? You had lost Bucky to another woman, but clearly none of your other friends had noticed your absence. You weren’t special, you’d only been invited to join the Avengers Initiative because of your powers. The thoughts were just forming, your mind ready to spiral into a storm of insecurity, when there was a knock at your door. Each movement felt like wading through molasses, and even sitting up seemed like an insurmountable task.

"Cricket?" Steve’s voice permeated into the room.

"Coming!" At least that was what you tried to say, your voice coming out as a small croak. You padded over to the door barefoot and opened the door to find Steve’s kind face looking down at you.

His concern was etched across his features as he took in your disheveled appearance. Dark circles clung to your eyes, and your skin had lost its usual healthy hue.

"Hey there, sunshine," he greeted, his voice gentle. "How’re you feeling?"

There was only one word that would succinctly sum up your emotional and physical state in that moment. "Shit," you mumbled, sniffing at the fluid that was threatening to leak from your nose.

He reached out, his hand cool against your feverish skin. His touch was comforting, grounding you in the midst of your misery. "You definitely have a fever," he confirmed.

As if to affirm his observation, your body pitched forwards in a violent sneeze, which you barely had the time to catch with the inside of your elbow. You ended the outburst with a pained groan, as the back of your throat burned.

Steve’s concern deepened. "You need rest," he said firmly, steering you back into bed. "I’ll make you some tea."

You followed his instructions without protest, not having the energy to argue. It would be best for you to stay in bed, you’d get better quicker with rest, and it was a great excuse to avoid seeing your best friend and his girlfriend. The practical side of you would use the excuse that you didn’t want to expose anyone to your germs. At least Steve would be protected by the serum, so you didn’t need to worry about him hanging around. So with a clear conscience, you snuggled back under your covers to wait for Steve’s return.

As he disappeared towards the kitchen, you sank back into your pillows. Maybe losing Bucky wasn’t the end of the world. Maybe having a friend like Steve was enough—a warm presence in the midst of your feverish chaos. And as the wind whistled outside, you realized that sometimes, friendship was the best medicine of all.

Little did you know that on his way to the kitchen, Steve ran into Bucky as he was leaving your room.

"Steve?" Bucky called after his friend.

"Hey, Buck."

"What’re you doing?" The real question he wanted to ask was ‘why are you leaving Cricket’s room?’.

"Just grabbing some things for Cricket. She isn’t feeling very well."

"What?" Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed with concern. "She was fine yesterday!"

"Well if you hadn’t left her alone to get drenched in that storm, she probably wouldn’t be so miserable." Steve hadn’t meant to be so harsh with his words, but you had interrupted his beauty sleep the previous night and he was feeling rather disgruntled.

"What’re you trying to say, Steve?

"You shouldn’t have left it so long to tell her." Steve was referring to Priya and how long he'd kept his relationship with her private.

"That’s my decision, Steve." Bucky countered, defensively.

"I know. But maybe you should think about why you were so ready to tell me, but not Cricket."

Bucky clicked his tongue against the roof of mouth, dismissing Steve's comments. "I'm gonna go and see her."

Steve thought about objecting, but decided against it, opting to fetch the things he had promised you.

Bucky’s footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway, each one a heavy reminder of his own recklessness. The storm had raged outside, rain pelting against the window panes like a thousand tiny fists. But he hadn’t been there to shield you from it. Instead, he’d left you alone, vulnerable, and now guilt gnawed at him like a persistent rat.

Your room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn shut against the gray morning. Bucky hesitated at the threshold, his knuckles grazing the wooden doorframe. He’d never been good with words, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But he had to try.

"Cricket?" His voice was soft, almost tentative. He stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight. There you were, cocooned in blankets, your face pale against the pillows. The storm had taken its toll on you, and he cursed himself for not being there.

You stirred, eyelashes fluttering open. "Bucky?" Your voice was a whisper, fragile like a spider’s silk. "What’re you doing here?"

He crossed the room in two strides, perching on the edge of your bed. "I… I heard you weren’t feeling well." His fingers brushed against your forehead, checking for fever. "Steve told me."

You managed a weak smile. "Steve’s a tattletale."

"He cares about you," Bucky said gruffly. "We both do."

"I feel bad for dragging him out of bed last night."

"Cricket, why didn't you tell me you didn't have any way to get back home. I would have brought a car instead of my bike."

You shrugged, “I didn’t think I had to.”

He had been so caught up in his plans to introduce you to Priya that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that you might need a ride home. He had assumed you would find your own way, and he was just starting to realize how selfish that had been. He should have been more attentive, more caring. He laid a hand on your arm, “I’m sorry, Cricket. I should have been more thoughtful. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Cricket, please, let me make it up to you. I was looking for you this morning. I made your favorite pancakes," Bucky continued. "Thought you could come and have breakfast with me and Priya, before I take her home."

"Sorry," you shrugged, hating this conversation more and more. Why was Steve taking so long to return?

"I was going to spend the day with her, but if you want, I can come back and we can watch some movies."

"Don't cancel your plans on my account." You rolled over, facing away from Bucky.

Your behavior stung, but he couldn't blame you for being angry. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. "I’m sorry," he whispered. "For leaving you out there."

"See you later," you mumbled and Bucky knew he had been dismissed.

Bucky couldn't shake the guilt that weighed heavily on his chest as he walked away. He had always been a good friend, someone who looked out for others and made sure they were taken care of. But in his excitement to introduce you to Priya, he had neglected to consider your needs.

As he walked away, Bucky couldn't stop replaying the conversation in his head. He had let you down, and he wanted to make things right.

Steve appeared a few moments after his departure, his arms laden with homely remedies and a bowl of soup which smelled incredible. Your stomach rumbled hungrily in response, making you blush.

"Here, take this first," Steve shoved a bottle of DayQuil under your nose.

Begrudgingly, you accepted the painkiller gratefully and then proceeded to slurp up the soup. "This is delicious," you hummed in approval.

"Hey, when you're feeling a bit better, I was thinking I could take you out somewhere… cheer you up a little." Steve stuttered towards the end as he saw surprise on your face.

You swallowed your mouthful of soup before cracking a smile. “Steve, I'd like that.”

Steve smiled back at you. But suddenly, he reached out, grabbing the bowI in your hands, having noticed the slight hitch in your breath. A sneeze rocked your body forcefully and you groaned.

“Thanks,” you accepted the bowl back from Steve.

"No problem. Don't want to make a mess."

“No,” you sighed, finishing the soup in a sad silence.

“Want me to stay?”

“No, it's okay. I'm just going to go back to sleep.”

Steve took the empty dishes and kissed your forehead, glad that it didn't feel as warm as it had earlier. “Feel better, champ.”

You sure hoped you would.

A few days later, you were back in fighting form. But much to Bucky's chagrin, he could never seem to catch your attention for more than a passing nod or wave. He wanted to make things right with you. He missed you, he wasn’t used to being so close to you but not being able to talk to you properly. He had the sneaking suspicion that your distance might not just be ill-timed schedules. Were you avoiding him? He wondered if you were still angry at him for not giving you a ride back home after your dinner with Priya. A feeling of melancholy settled over him as he speculated on all the things he could have done that made you take a step away from him. Every reason under the sun spiraled through Bucky’s mind except the real reason for your withdrawal.

Bucky had hoped that meeting someone else, someone who was interested in him would help him push away the feelings he had for you. Closure. That’s what they called it in the movies these days. But this didn’t seem like it was going quite the way he had anticipated. In fact, rather than feeling happier, he felt more tortured than he had before. Maybe going out with Priya would take his mind off things, so he decided to give her a call and schedule a date, she had a way of soothing his turbulent thoughts. Not as well as you did, no one understood him quite like you did.

Steve was true to his word, and had whipped up a surprise plan for the two of you to spend the day together. He had chosen a Wednesday, explaining that it was a good time as the place would be less busy. He made sure you had dressed warmly, in spite of the sunny weather.

"Don’t want you getting ill again," he smiled as you got into the car with him.

"Is that why we’re not taking the bike?"

Steve shook his head, knowing how much you loved riding motorcycles.

"So where are you taking me?" you asked. You’d been trying to get Steve to tell you for the last few days, but the tight lipped Captain had resisted all your wily techniques at information extraction.

"Coney Island."

"Ohh!" you exclaimed. "I haven’t been there for years!" You laughed before a thought popped into your head, a memory. "Are you sure you want to go there, Steve?"

"Why wouldn’t I want to go to Coney Island?"

"Well, I heard about… the… Cyclone Incident."

Steve blushed. "Bucky telling everyone that story, huh?"

"Afraid so." Your smile was soured slightly by the shadow casted by Bucky’s name and you turned to stare out of the window, letting Steve drive in silence.

Steve shook his head. He wanted nothing more than for both his best friends to be happy, and for the two of you to be happy together was the ultimate goal. He hoped that one day both of you would come to your senses, but until then, he would do his best to support you both.

The weather turned out to be fine and you had shed your top layer before even leaving the car.

"Oh come on! Stop being such a dad! We can always come back to the car if it gets chilly!" you responded to Steve’s disapproval.

"Come on then!"

It was a beautiful day filled with laughter and joy between you and Steve. He was glued to your side, treating you to all the rides, indulging you when you wanted to ride the Cyclone repeatedly. Every time you got to the end of the ride, you’d turn to him and make sure he wouldn’t spill his guts. Steve rolled his eyes dramatically as you laughed hysterically.

"What next?" Steve asked. "And don’t tell me we’re doing that again."

"Come on, the girl letting people in definitely has a crush on you! Why do you think we got on for free the last two times?"

Steve grabbed your wrist, "Come on!" He led you away from the rides, over to a cotton candy kiosk, dropping a few notes into the vendor's hand and selecting two cones. You took the liberty of grabbing the blue one from his hand and tucking into it before he had the chance to object.

"Bet I can eat this faster than you can!" Steve suggested slyly.

"Oh, bring it, Rogers!" You tore the stick out of the candy cloud and scrunched it up into a tiny ball, sticking it in your mouth and letting the sugar dissolve on its own.

Steve, who had taken several large bites, looked up in confusion and awe. He eyed your empty hands, then put his finger on your bottom lip, pushing it down and peering into your mouth.

You indulged his disbelief, opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue. "See, all gone! I win!" you smile with glee.

"Wow!"

"You forget, I was the youngest of five! I had to learn to eat fast or I’d lose out."

Steve chortled quietly at your story. "Fine, what do you want as your prize?" He waved around at all the game stalls, letting you pick your prize.

You gazed around, contemplating your options when you spotted a giant stuffed wolf. "That one!"

Steve was true to his word and threw every bean bag with perfect aim and you pointed at a white plushie which looked a little different to the others.

"Why don’t you take this one?" the vendor tried to shove a dark gray wolf into your arms, but you declined.

"No thank you, I’d like that one please." You selected one which had been stuffed on a high shelf, away from the others of its kind.

"Honey, this one’s going in the garbage, look at him, white body with one gray leg. It’s a defective product, they made a mistake in the factory. Happens from time to time."

But you were adamant, you wanted the white wolf with the transplanted leg.

"Whatever you want, miss." The vendor handed you the soft toy, which you hugged to your chest. There was something about him that you wanted to keep safe.

Unbeknownst to you, you had been spotted by someone unexpected. Bucky had had a similar thought to Steve, he had brought Priya to the ‘island’ on a quiet weekday for some harmless fun.

"Jamie, look!" Priya tugged at his sleeve. "Isn't that Cricket and Steve?"

Bucky's head whipped around so fast, he almost had empathy for whiplash sufferers. He frowned, eye searching the crowd in the direction of Priya’s outstretched hand. He couldn't believe that you would come here with Steve. He had often suggested a trip to Coney Island to you, but you'd never managed to make the time for it. So seeing you here with Steve made his insides burn with jealousy. Another part of him, his guilt-ridden conscience told him that he didn't deserve you. Naturally, you'd choose the classical hero, Steve. He was the golden boy, even when they'd been kids, Steve was the trouble maker, but somehow Bucky was the one his parents mistrusted.

"Yeah," he grumbled.

"Let's go over and say hi!"

"I'm sure they don't want us to interrupt them." Bucky vetoed the suggestion with a sulky expression.

"Fair, I mean I wouldn't want anyone interrupting our date either." Priya smiled, taking Bucky's hand, leading him away. Bucky stole one last glance at his two best friends, a deep ache settling inside him as Priya dragged him away from you.

Over the next week, you and Bucky drifted through the compound, both longing for the other but not quite able to find it within yourselves to seek the other out. For you, it was a simple matter of avoidance. You'd made the mistake of touching the flame and now you suffered the burn. But for Bucky it was different. He couldn't understand your absence and he knew nothing of your pain.

He could feel the frustration building up inside him, until one day he caught you returning to your room. And every one of his thoughts and accusations came pouring out.

"What is it? Why’re you upset with me?" Bucky demanded.

"I’m not upset… it’s not- I’m hurt. You hurt me. It’s not that you did something wrong. In fact you haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just that I thought you’d share something big, like dating, with me. But you kept it secret. For four months! I thought we told each other everything. I … I just expected-" you shrugged. "And that’s the problem here. My expectations were wrong, and I’m ashamed. But you didn’t do anything wrong. You have nothing to apologize for. But somehow I feel like I’m going to lose you."

"You’ll never lose me, Cricket."

"But Buck, I already have. Like she said… she’s your best friend now." Bucky opened his mouth to interrupt, but you put your hand out to stop him talking. "I just need some time to deal with that. Is that okay?"

"I didn’t mean to hurt you," he mumbled. The sincerity evident in his tone and face.

"I know, Buck," you sighed. "I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. Please, I want you to be happy. I’m happy for you."

"Please, let me make this up to you." Bucky grabbed your wrist, desperately.

"You can do that by making sure you take care of yourself. I’m always going to be with you, on missions and stuff, partner," you patted his upper arm. "I just think that our friendship’s going to change a little… and I just need some time to get used to that."

"Is this because of Steve?"

"Steve?" you repeated after him, feeling confused by the change in topic. "What does Steve have to do with this?"

"Are you together?"

"What? No! Bucky, why would you think that?"

"I just…" He shrugged, not quite able to bring up seeing you at Coney Island, or the moment of closeness you had had with Steve the night he had introduced you to Priya.

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Tag list: @samodivaa @scoonsalicious @literaryavenger @noonespecial90 @browneyedgrli @vicmc624 @cjand10 @capswife @julvrs @ordelixx @sashaisready @sebastians-love @thealloveru2 @belleofthebooks

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fan fiction #my best friend's girl

352 notes · View notes

loveinhawkins · 1 year

Text

Steve watches as Eddie drops the shield clumsily, just lets it fall into the grass. His hand—it’s not shaking, exactly, but there’s a delay to everything, to the way his fingers curl, like even the smallest movement takes so much effort.

Steve knows the feeling: when the whole world feels like wading through molasses.

Eddie comes to sit next to him, thunks the back of his head against the RV and winces. “Ow.”

Steve smiles. “We’ve got time, y’know.”

Eddie gives him a blank look. The shadows under his eyes are practically sunken in. “Time?”

Steve gestures out to the distance, where the kids are still playing, where Nancy and Robin are re-counting the supplies he’d noted down earlier. “Reckon you’ve got an hour or so, if you wanna get your head down.”

Eddie snorts. “Ah, sleep,” he says, with a wry smile. “What’s that?”

“Come on, man,” Steve says. “Gotta take any opportunity you can. Don’t want you collapsing before we flambé Vecna.”

Eddie mouths Vecna to himself a couple of times, blows out a breath. “God, my life… my life is fucking crazy.”

Steve chuckles slightly. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“You’re used to all of this shit, though. Lemme guess, you can sleep just like that?”

“Hmm, not always,” Steve says, which… well, Eddie doesn’t know enough, he reasons, to realise just what an understatement that is.

Eddie sighs again. He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the RV—doesn’t look comfortable at all.

Steve moves closer, gently nudges Eddie’s foot with his own. “Hey.”

Eddie’s eyes open with prolonged, heavy blinks. “Hmm?”

Steve pats his shoulder in invitation. Eddie lets out an exhausted laugh. “Oh, my life just got even crazier.”

“What? It’s a perfectly good shoulder, dude, I dunno what to tell you.” Steve grins when Eddie keeps laughing. “It’s not bony or anything.”

“That so?” Eddie says, rubs at his eyes with a lingering smile. “You got good reviews?”

“Glowing. Five stars.”

Steve thinks about all the times he’s been a pillow for Robin or Dustin—Max, too, on the seldom few times he’s wheedled until she just took a damn nap, even if it was only for ten minutes.

He taps his shoulder again, goes quiet, more serious. “You’re dog-tired, Eddie. Come on, just ten minutes. Then you can trash my stupid shoulder all you want.”

Eddie just looks at him, considering. Then he huffs, glances upwards as if to say Fine, you win. “You drive a hard bargain, Harrington.”

And with some hesitancy, he tips his head down to the side and settles on Steve’s shoulder.

He’s tense still; Steve can feel it.

“Y’know, one of the best naps I ever had was ‘cause of you,” Steve says conversationally.

Eddie makes a disbelieving noise.

“It’s true. Uh, Winter ‘84, the period just after lunch, I think? Damn, can’t even remember what class it… Anyway, you were giving the teacher shit ‘cause of some test result, you just kept going, it was incredible. No work got done; I just put my head on my desk and slept, and no-one even noticed.”

Eddie chuckles, slumps a little more. “That’s…” And he yawns. “That’s depressing, man. You saying me going on and on was relaxing?”

“Yeah, like one of those meditation tapes. Except, uh, more aggressive.”

Steve feels more than sees Eddie smile. “You’re so dumb.” He hums tiredly, his head resting heavier and heavier on Steve’s shoulder. Voice small, he says, “Keep talking?”

So Steve does.

He keeps up a constant, one-sided conversation, speaking softly. Talks about what they’ll all do after this—mostly nothing, because everyone deserves a goddamn extended Spring Break, he’s decided.

And Eddie sleeps. He doesn’t twitch like Robin, and his head doesn’t nod forward like Dustin—like he’s reached such a level of fatigue that he can only be still. His breathing is deep and heavy in a way that Steve knows only comes from a rare, utterly dreamless sleep.

Steve just sits there for way more than an hour, doesn’t care when his back begins to protest at how unmoving he is. It’s only as the sun begins to set, as the group just begins to head back to the RV, when he reluctantly nudges Eddie.

“Hey. Hey, Eddie. Sorry. Time to get up.”

Eddie mumbles something, barely lifts his head before returning it to Steve’s shoulder. “Hmm… five more minutes?”

Steve sighs through a little laugh. Feels suddenly emotional for reasons he can’t fully explain. God, I wanna give you forever.

“Sure, yeah. Five minutes.”

But Eddie rouses after just a minute or two. Sits up and stretches. His eyes look a little brighter, his face no longer quite as grey.

“You were right, man,” he says lightly, gives Steve’s shoulder an endearing little pat. “It’s a nice shoulder. Gotta take good care of that.”

And his hand lingers there, holds on like he did when they were huddled round the Lite Brite. Like he’s saying Take care of yourself, instead.

Steve feels the warmth of Eddie’s hand as he shrugs. “You get first dibs on it, when this is over,” he says.

And he means Come back.

#can u tell i love missing scenes before the battle ❤️ new chapter of you know what later ❤️#steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

2K notes · View notes

rookthorne · 10 months

Text

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

It was a curse, being so new to things Bucky could and would show you, but when it got the better of you, he was there to hold you above the waves — where you were safe.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ♆ Pornstar!Bucky Barnes x Innocent!F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ♆ 1.5k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ♆ Fluff, slight angst (anxiety attack), implied and referenced spice, use of the traffic light system, detailed aftercare, Soft Dom!Bucky ჻჻჻ KINKS: Praise, daddy

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ♆ This is a little bridge to tie y'all over for the sequel.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ♆ @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer ჻჻჻ Week 11 — Yellow — Masterlist

𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The fabric of the couch was sticking to your skin, and you grimaced as you moved and shifted, trying to sit up on your elbows. A strong feeling of restlessness had settled over your body – the pulse of it unable to be ignored, and it was beginning to overwhelm you.

Panic wasn’t a new sensation – you were well versed with the abrupt starts of fits and attacks, but this time it felt different.

“Hey, hey—slow down, doll,” Bucky soothed, his brow furrowed. You couldn’t feel the steady brush of his hands on your thighs, and your chest constricted. “Baby, hey, what’s goin’ on? Look at me.”

You met his gaze, his ordinarily bright eyes now stricken with worry. “Sorry,” you stammered, “I- I don’t know-”

“Oh, kitten,” Bucky sighed, and he moved his hands up to cup your face, each movement telegraphed. “You’re alright—I’m here. Can you tell me what’s goin’ through that pretty head a’yours?”

“Um…”

“Tell you what, baby, do you know the traffic light system?” Bucky asked, his thumbs brushing over the hot skin of your cheeks. “I use it all the time at work, and it’s really fuckin’ important. Makes us all feel safer. S’alright, if you don’t know it, sweetheart, can you tell me the truth—if you know it?”

There was no memory of such a term, but even now, you felt like sorting through thoughts and memories was like wading through wet cement or molasses. “N-No, I don’t know…”

Bucky smiled softly. “Alright, lemme explain it. Green means you’re good to go—you want to keep at the pace, or you want more. You would say this if what I was doing was workin’ for you, makin’ you feel good. Do you understand that one?”

You nodded slowly — there was no way you felt like you could keep going, not with the sudden, unknown panic lancing through in your chest.

“Yellow,” Bucky began, his gaze watching you like a hawk. You felt exposed. “That’s when you need to slow down or you want me to check in—you do not need to wait for me to ask your colour, not for any of these. But, yellow is the one you say when you begin to feel overwhelmed, or scared, nervous—y’know, all the not fun stuff.” His knees shuffled closer, and he kissed your forehead softly, and unbidden, you let a breath loose that you hadn’t realised you had held.

“Red, baby, means that whatever is happenin’ stops—no matter what or where we are, we stop. If you are restrained, I untie you and ask for permission to touch you. I have experienced this before, and I know how to care for you if you were to tell me red,” Bucky explained hastily at your widened eyes. “So don’t you worry ‘bout nothin’, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” you whispered shakily. The sudden urge to touch Bucky consumed you, and you ran a hand down his tattooed forearm, and the other hand you placed over his heart to feel the rapid, steady beat. Bucky’s warm hand covered yours, his palm pushing your hand harder into his chest.

“Follow my breaths, kitten,” Bucky ordered softly. “We’re gonna breathe in,” he inhaled deeply and held it for two seconds. “And we’re gonna let it out.”

You followed his order, and the faint, lightheaded sensation slowly started to disappear — you hadn’t even realised that you were hyperventilating… What the fuck?

“That’s it, good girl,” Bucky praised, smiling softly. “Do you think you can tell me what colour you’re feelin’ right now? Don’t think on it too hard, baby, jus’ tell me.”

“Yellow,” you whispered, blinking sluggishly. “I feel scared, and I don’t understand. This has never happened, and oh my god, I am so sor-” Your ramble was interrupted by Bucky’s hand over your mouth.

“None of that, kitten—no, I said none of that,” Bucky scolded as you opened your mouth behind his palm. “‘M gonna tell you what we’re gonna do now, okay?” You nodded and blinked at him, then his hand moved to cup your jaw again. “I am going to sit with you here for a minute. We’re gonna breathe and get you back to bein’ level headed. Then I will walk you to your bedroom, and we’ll lie together for a while—maybe watch another movie. Among all that, I will clean you up—bet you’re feeling a bit messy, huh, kitten?”

A small whimper left your lips, and you wriggled slightly, feeling the tackiness of drying slick between your thighs. “Yeah, baby. I know.” Bucky shuffled back on the couch and offered you his hand. “Yeah, okay,” he repeated before he bit his lip. “I know you wanna get cleaned up. Can you sit up for me?”

Bucky’s lap was sturdy underneath you, and you curled into his embrace, resting your head on his shoulder and tucking your forehead into his neck. His hand rubbed a steady line up and down your back. The other rested on yours where you fidgeted with his fingers — the very same deft and strong digits that had pulled you apart and brought you back together only moments ago.

“You alright there, baby girl?” Bucky murmured, kissing the top of your head. “Feelin’ better?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, brushing a finger up and down his palm. “Thank you, daddy.”

Bucky exhaled deeply at the honorific, and he kissed your forehead again. The embrace had done wonders for the panic that constricted your chest. The pressure of the band ebbed slowly like Bucky’s hand was effortlessly wiping it away.

Moments or hours later — you couldn’t tell — Bucky shook you slightly. “You awake, kitten, baby?” You hummed quietly and curled closer, content to stay in his arms. “C’mon, I wanna get my good girl cleaned up and restin’ in bed.”

“No,” you protested, your hand moving to grab his neck in an effort to move even closer. “Stay—’m comfy.”

“I know you are, baby girl,” Bucky chuckled, letting you pull his head down to rest on yours. “But we need to get you layin’ down. And I gotta clean you up, c’mon.”

You groaned and conceded. Lead had settled in your limbs, and they felt cumbersome to move, and you held onto Bucky’s arm as he guided you down the hall towards your bathroom. “Why do I feel like this?” you asked quietly.

Bucky hummed and pushed open the door to the bathroom, carefully leaning you against the sink cabinet. “You’re alright, sweetheart–it’s normal. I see it all the time.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he answered as he grabbed a washcloth. “While I admit that you took that a hell of a lot better than I thought you would, and I am so fuckin’ proud of you—it isn’t easy givin’ up control like that.”

Silence echoed as he brushed the cloth over your thighs and stomach, the soft fabric tickling your sensitive skin, and it made you giggle. “You ticklish, huh, kitten? Good to know,” Bucky teased, and you whacked his shoulder, frowning. “Alright, uncle—you win.”

“I’m so tired,” you slurred. The exhaustion crept and oozed through every last muscle in your body, and you supposed it made sense; giving up control, such as you had never done before, had been a relief, but dammit all, it was scary.

Panic began to set in once more, and your breath hitched. “Bucky, red—red, why am I-”

“You need to lay down, and then I am gonna hold you. This is normal.” He placed a soft kiss on your lips and then took your arms. “C’mon, lean on me, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

Slowly, Bucky guided you to your bed and placed you on the edge. “Here.” The covers drew back, and he moved you up the side of the mattress. “Lay down, that’s it.”

You shifted until you laid comfortably under the covers, and you watched Bucky round the bed, undoing the fly and button of his jeans. “But-” You hesitated, seeing the bulge of his briefs. “You-You’re hard, I don-”

“Shh, baby girl,” Bucky soothed, looking up at you from his jeans just as he kicked them off. He kept the briefs on and paid no mind to his erect cock. “That is not my priority–will never be my priority. You are my priority, and right now, you need someone holdin’ you.”

Your eyes welled with tears, and Bucky clicked his tongue. A quiet sniffle left you just as he slid under the covers. “C’mere, sweetheart–lemme hold you.” Warmth engulfed you as he pulled you close, and you rested your head on his chest, your ear right over his heart that still thumped in a slow, steady beat. “This better?”

“Yeah,” you answered softly, drawing patterns on his chest with your fingers. “Thank you.”

Bucky kissed your head, and his arms pulled you impossibly closer. “Always, baby girl. You’ve got me now, and like hell am I ever gonna let you go, alright?”

You smiled — even through all the uncertainty and fear of the past evening, you knew you could believe that. “Alright.”

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #hotbuckysummer2023 #rookthorne's works

445 notes · View notes

cosmicfunnies · 2 months

Text

Navigating Through The Storm - An Update On My Journey

Hello , dear friends and followers,I hope this post finds you in moments of peace and pockets of joy, despite the complexities we all navigate through in our lives. It’s been a while since I've shared a detailed update with you, and I believe it’s important to keep the lines of communication open, honest, and heartfelt.

The past few years have been a rollercoaster, to say the least. I’ve encountered personal challenges that have significantly impacted my ability to create as freely and frequently as I used to, particularly with my comics and creative projects.Depression has been a relentless companion on this journey, making everyday tasks and creative endeavors much more difficult to navigate.

The weight of it often dims the vibrant colors of life, making even the simplest steps forward feel like monumental tasks.Adding to this, the financial strain of losing my full-time job two years ago has cast a long shadow over my life. The search for stable employment has been both exhausting and disheartening, leaving me to juggle financial uncertainty alongside my other challenges.

One of the most heart-wrenching aspects of these years has been witnessing the progression of my mom’s dementia. Her condition continues to deteriorate, and the emotional toll of watching a loved one fade away cannot be overstated. It's a type of pain that words can hardly capture.

Despite the darkness, there have been slivers of light and progress. I’ve been slowly, but surely, working on new things. The journey back to creativity isn’t a straightforward path; it’s filled with starts and stops, especially with chronic fatigue making every step feel like wading through molasses.

But I am moving, nonetheless.I’m in the process of relaunching my store, which is both exciting and daunting. It’s a tangible piece of my hope for the future, a hope that creativity will once again be a full-fledged beacon in my life.Moreover,

I've taken a significant step towards a brighter future by going back to college to pursue my bachelor's degree in graphic design. This decision is not just about career opportunities; it's about reigniting my passion and opening doors to new possibilities and dreams.

Yes, things are moving slowly, but they are moving. The creation of new comics and products is underway, though the pace might not be what I used to manage. This process is teaching me patience and the importance of being kind to myself, recognizing that progress, no matter how small, is still progress.

To you, my dear readers, your support and understanding mean the world to me. Knowing that you are there, even in silence, gives me strength. I am hopeful for what the future holds, for both my creative endeavors and personal growth.

Your patience and encouragement as I navigate this phase of my life are invaluable.As doors begin to crack open, and I peer through to the possibilities beyond, I am reminded that every step forward is a victory. And I am grateful for the chance to share this journey with you.

Jackie

#cosmic funnies #astronomy #space #science #blog update #coming soon #coming back #blog post #blogger #depression #financial #hardship #dementia #support #support me

94 notes · View notes

oliversrarebooks · 24 days

Text

The Rare Bookseller Part 50: Frank's Mistake

Prev > Masterlist > Next

tw: hypnosis

July 1905

It was hot as blazes out, even in the dead of night, and sweat was pouring off Frank's brow and rolling down his back as he waited in the filthy alley. It was much too hot to wear a leather jacket, but he wasn't stupid enough to go hunting without some protection from fangs and knives, no matter how uncomfortable it was.

Going home empty-handed wasn't an option, not tonight. His gambling debts were catching up with him at a rate his part-time kitchen gig would never cover. He feared bookies more than he feared bloodsuckers. After all, he couldn't ram a stake through the heart of a bookie, not unless he wanted to end up in jail.

And so, here he was, pursuing the lowest of low hanging fruit -- the fledglings that tended to gather on Sparrow Road near the railroad tracks. The payout was small but practically guaranteed, as long as he waited long enough. He just had to stake some unfortunate freshly-risen corpse, pull the fangs, and plunk them down at the guild for a reward. Far less rewarding than staking an old vampire with a manor full of loot, but beggars can't be choosers.

He was leaning his head against the brick, looking up at the moon, wishing a cool breeze would break the sweltering heat, when...

...he heard something odd. Something like music. Something that pulled on his attention.

A drunkard or merrymaker singing, perhaps? But the music wasn't raucous or off-key, it was...

...beautiful...

Only the softest of alarm bells rang in his mind as he left his hidden post to go wandering down the street in search of the source of the song. There were no vampires around anyway. He'd go look, and be back to his vigil in a few minutes.

The beautiful music grew louder as he stumbled into an alcove between buildings, finally finding the singer. He was a young man, pale and handsome under the moonlight, with possibly the most gorgeous voice that Frank had ever heard, one that wrapped around him like a warm blanket and coaxed him gently forward.

He was a vampire.

Shit!

That's what that delicious feeling trickling down his spine was -- enthrallment. He'd felt it before, of course, but never this strong, never so thick in his mind that trying to think was like wading through molasses, never catching him so off guard that he very nearly fell for it.

Relax... don't fight...

He reached for his silver knife, his limbs already heavy and slow. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping him from being taken entirely by that maddening voice.

The vampire didn't seem threatened in the slightest, even once Frank's clumsy fingers managed to pull the knife from its sheath. He stepped closer, his song intensifying, with a placid expression and piercing blue eyes. Frank tried to raise the knife, to assume a defensive posture, to do anything, anything at all, but sway in time to the vampire's song.

Relax, relax... no need to fight... no need to resist...

Why... why was his enthrallment so goddamned strong? Why did it feel so... so... so infuriatingly good?

The knife slipped from his hands and clattered to the cobblestones as the vampire closed the distance between them.

"You can relax," said the vampire in a musical tone. "Just relax. I'm not going to harm you."

"Like hell," he said through gritted teeth, using all his willpower to resist. The vampire was so close. All he had to do was grab a stake and end it. If he didn't... well, he'd seen plenty of what happens to those enthralled by vampires.

He just had to... grab a stake...

"Relax, hunter. You don't need that."

The vampire had the stake in his hand, tossing it aside. When did he --

He was going to die here. No, worse. He was going to be hypnotized by a vampire, made into one of their blood bag slaves. It had happened so fast, his mind snared by the song in an instant.

He'd let his guard down, too focused on his desperation and assuming that the only vampires near Sparrow Road would be weak fledglings. This vampire was obviously one of their nobility -- despite his simple dress, his bearing and power made that all too clear. He'd pay for this mistake for the rest of his life.

"Shh, shh." The vampire ruffled his hair with something like affection, leaning in close. "Just relax now, and let your mind quiet. Quiet, so that you can listen to me."

"I -- I don't --"

The vampire tilted Frank's chin up to gaze into his eyes, so blue, so deep, like the ocean. His song was deep as well, rolling like the tides, Frank's mind floating on the waves of the vampire's will.

So this was what it was like. So this was why so many thralls they rescued were in dazed bliss. Despite the threat to his life, it felt incredible.

"You can rest, hunter. I swear I will not harm you. You can rest so safe and deep in my control."

"In... your..." His body had long ceased struggling, his arms heavy and hanging limply by his side, his head slowly lolling in time with the vampire's beautiful voice. Only the smallest of sparks in his mind remained. "You... you've hypnotized me," he said dumbly.

"Yes, I have. You're completely under my control now. But you have nothing to fear."

It was true, wasn't it? He couldn't move, could barely talk, and his ability to think was being stolen away by the moment. After all these years, he'd finally been caught. He'd be made a slave in this vampire noble's manor, his mind ensorcelled. His only hope would be one of his fellow hunters coming to destroy this monster and rescue him.

But who among the hunters could stand against this monster's voice, his irresistible aura?

Be still, the voice called to him, and he was so still, in body and in mind. Be still and listen. Relax and listen. Listen...

He blinked his heavy eyelids. Yes, he would listen. He'd listen to anything this vampire had to say. He'd listen to this song forever. He understood now why some thralls kicked and screamed to resist being rescued.

"Believe it or not, I actually wish to hire you -- but I didn't think the guild would take kindly to a vampire striding in among them with a job. I have a task that requires a hunter. Many hunters, in fact."

"I'll do it..." His voice slurred, thick with drowsy enchantment.

"That's a good hunter," said the vampire, and Frank's heart soared. "Your task is to kill a vampire, actually, one far more of a threat to humanity than I am. Does that interest you?"

"I'm good at killing vampires. I can kill a vampire for you."

"The vampire in question is far more powerful than I am -- that's why it will take more than one. As many as I can hypnotize, really, and the more experienced, the better."

Frank nodded slowly.

"You wish to serve me, don't you?" the vampire hummed in his ear.

"Yes..."

"This is all you need to do for me tonight. I want you to go back to your guild and let them know that there are several dangerous vampires preying on humans in Bellwood Park. I wish for you to gather two or three of your companions and bring them there in the next few nights. When you arrive at Bellwood Park, you will not warn your companions in any way when you hear the sound of my voice. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"You'll help make sure they listen, just as you are. You want them to be as relaxed and content as you are right now, don't you?"

"Yes... they need to listen..."

"You won't breathe a word of me or my powers to anyone between now and then. This experience will seem like a distant, hazy dream until you hear my voice again. But you'd do anything to hear my voice again, wouldn't you?"

"Anything..."

"That's right, hunter, you're doing so well." The vampire hummed gently in his ear, further melting his mind into bliss. "Now let's repeat that a few times to make sure it all sinks in..."

Be quiet and listen.

And he did.

---

When Lex opened the door to his manor, he found the windows open to the night air, the gas lamps cheerfully flickering, and bright guitar music coming from the music room. The smell of bacon and eggs still hung in the air from his thrall's breakfast, as did the delectable scent of human.

After so many lonely years, his manor felt like a home instead of a grave.

He wanted to rush to greet Fitz, but it wouldn't do with the hunter's sweat all over his hands. It was a sordid business, but a necessary one. There was no doubt that no matter how many hunters he bound to his cause, no matter how much information and advantage he gave them, many would fall by his sire's hand.

But wouldn't a vampire hunter wish to die nobly in the service of destroying a great evil? They wouldn't die by his hand, but the Maestro's, and many other humans would be spared by their sacrifice.

Truthfully, there was only one human whose safety concerned him.

Lex washed thoroughly to rid himself of the stench of fear and exertion, reflecting on the night's work as he splashed water onto his face. Tonight's find had been a lucky one, a seasoned hunter found by chance near a fledgling haunt, one who had connections to the guild. With luck, he'd bring more compatriots with him next time. It was a risky business to enthrall several trained hunters at once, but Lex was confident in his abilities. None had ever resisted his voice long enough to pose a threat.

Satisfied, he opened the door to the music room to find his precious thrall strumming his precious guitar, the gas light illuminating his golden hair. He looked up at Lex with that cheeky grin. "Well, good evening, sir, I was wondering where you were."

"I had some matters to attend to."

"Ah, yes, matters. That explains everything, sir." He laughed. "Is there anything I can do for you? I'm eager to serve, Master," he said, jovially sarcastic.

Oh, he was such a pleasure. So full of life. So blissfully unaware of how deeply he was ensorcelled. The perfect thrall, all for Lex to enjoy.

This was why. This was why he was going to risk himself consorting with hunters. This was why he had to kill his sire now, before he took Lex's precious thrall away and broke him, a treasure he'd never regain once lost. This was worth putting everything on the line.

His need was rising within him, spurred on by Lex's earlier expenditure of magic and the delicious aroma of blood that permeated the music room. "I think I would quite like to feed, if that's all right with you."

Fitz's hand dropped off the guitar strings, his eyes going wide and glassy on cue. "Yes, Master," he half-whispered, no hint of teasing in his voice now. "Please, Master, drink. I'm all yours."

"Yes," he said, taking the guitar away and settling it onto the stand. He sat down next to Fitz, cupping his chin in his hand. "Yes, you are. You're mine."

"I'm yours, sir."

Lex hummed in Fitz's ear. Unlike with the hunter, he didn't need to push obedience into Fitz's mind. It was already there, just under the surface, easily pulled to the forefront by Lex whenever he needed it. Instead, he gave Fitz the only thing he really seemed to want: to be wanted.

I want you, I want you, I want you.

Fitz gasped as Lex's fangs pierced the place where his neck met his shoulder, making truly indecent noises and gripping the back of Lex's shirt as Lex hungrily lapped at the blood. It was so impossibly delicious, like no other blood he had tasted, and Lex would do anything to be able to drink it for the rest of his days.

There was no doubt about it -- he was having feelings towards Fitz which were highly inappropriate to have towards a thrall.

As he drank, he could feel his memories and thoughts mixing with Fitz's, and welcomed the sensation, eager for Fitz to know how much he was cherished. In Fitz's thoughts, he could feel warm sunshine on his skin, the taste of a crisp apple in his mouth, the riotous colors of flowers in the spring. He could feel human. Almost human enough to love Fitz.

But he wasn't human. It was a fleeting illusion caused by their connection. He loved Fitz, but only in the ways a vampire could: the desire to possess, to control, to consume.

And Fitz would never love him in the ways of a human, either. He was hypnotized to feel pleasure and crave his master's feeding. Fitz's love was also nothing more than a fleeting illusion.

But the illusion of sunshine was far better than none at all, and Lex was tired of denying his cravings for so long.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Wow, I can't believe it's been fifty parts of The Rare Bookseller! Thanks for reading this far, and thank you so much for all the reblogs, comments, and appreciation!

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump

#whump #whump writing #vampire whump #vampire whumper #vampire hunter #hypnosis #mind control #vampires #rare bookseller #alexander #fitz #frank

100 notes · View notes

yellowkitkieran · 6 months

Text

To Have and to Heal (Part 14)

Masterlist

Read part 1 here

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Single working dad Martin Odegaard is navigating the ups and downs of parenthood all on his own, and he’s struggling. That’s not to mention football, life and... love?

Martin should be focused on today's match. In less than two hours, he'll be out on the pitch to captain his side. He needs clarity. He needs precision. He needs to stop thinking about you.

But everywhere he looks, he's reminded of you. He can't bring himself to delete the dozens of photos on his phone or the messages you've sent him. The note you stuck in his duffle one day still hangs in his cubby, shoved between the shelf and the back wall. Martin aches worse now than being plowed over by a defender. How is he expected to lead when he is a husk of who he's meant to be?

Martin runs a hand through his hair. At no point did he expect to become this attached, to have his mood so dependent on another person. He doesn’t like it, not at all.

"Mate, you giving this talk or am I?" Kieran's Scottish accent grates on Martin's ears for no good reason. Kieran has been doing that quite a bit lately; he talks quietly about the woman he’s started seeing, and is careful to avoid doing so in Martin’s presence, but it still stings. At least someone on his squad is happy.

Though grateful for the offer, Martin shakes his head. Team talks ahead of games are his responsibility, and he'll be damned if he misses it because you dumped him. Heartbreak aside, he needs to be the captain his team needs him to be.

So, Martin clamors to his feet. He forces his shaking legs to work, to remain steady, whilst his mind works through the fog surrounding it. Each step he takes towards the center of the sparsely decorated away dressing room feels like he is wading through waist-high molasses. But Martin has always been a fighter, and today is no different.

“Facing anyone away from home is tough," Martin starts a minute later. He sounds more confident than he feels, which he is grateful for. "Nothing we haven't won before, though. Their fans are harsh but we are strong. We've faced worse and come away with three points. I'm not saying this will be a cakewalk." Martin observes the faces of his teammates, noting which seem hesitant and which are hungry. There's fewer of the former thankfully, which bodes well for their chances.

"This will be both a physical and mental game. We haven't been challenged like this in over a month. Our last fixtures have been easy wins. No frills, nothing fancy- go back to your roots, the basics. Let's show our gunners what they traveled all this way for!"

Though far more brief than his usual, Martin's words have the desired effect regardless. The lads all clap and cheer, raring to go. Slipping into his matchday headspace is easier now that his teammates are here to lift him up.

Not that it matters- ten minutes into the match Martin knows they’re done for. Sevilla batters Martin's side, raking them across the coals. A 3-0 loss away in the Champion's League isn't exactly a morale booster. The changing room is quiet after the final whistle blows. Arteta doesn't bother to give any sort of speech. The gaffer lets the silence speak for his disappointment, which somehow hurts more than if he had screamed at them for hours. Martin himself is too caught up in his head; his loose passing led to the goal that sealed their fate tonight, and that's not something he'll forgive himself for any time soon.

On the ride from the stadium to the airport, Martin turns his phone over in his hand. In a perfect world, you would be at his house comforting Atla right now. The two of you would be cuddled up on his sofa, Atla probably insisting on being wrapped up in the duvet off Martin’s bed- that’s always her favorite on match day.

The worst thing about an away loss is knowing that Atla’s nanny, bless her heart, won’t be able to keep Atla from crying. She hates seeing Arsenal lose, especially when it’s in the Champion’s League. Her poor nanny is probably frantically attempting to soothe her, though Martin is certain Atla won't calm down until he is home early tomorrow.

If Martin is sure of anything, it’s that he needs to get his mind off of his lackluster performance. Because if he fixates on it, he’ll be lost in his head for who knows how long. Martin, as the face of his team, needs to be focused on the bigger picture. Arsenal still tops their group, regardless of tonight’s result; though even that knowledge cannot lift his heart enough.

Messaging you might possibly be the worst idea he's ever had. He convinces himself to tuck his phone away until he's on the plane. There, crammed between the window and a snoozing Aaron, he can no longer resist temptation. Martin connects to the onboard wifi and pulls up your contact.

He shouldn't.

It's a bad idea, right?

Fuck it.

I miss you. If I asked if you're free tomorrow night what would you say?

Delivered at 21:53. Martin stares at the screen until his eyes grow heavy. The 'no new messages' in the app hangs over his head. When Martin falls asleep against his will, he dreams of titans tumbling from their mountainous perches, crushed under the weight of unmet expectations.

*********

Leaving Martin's message unread is an exercise in restraint. Your fingers itch to click on it for multiple reasons, not the least of which is genuine curiosity. You know it starts with 'I miss you' and includes some sort of question, though you have no idea what he'd be asking. Maybe he wants the kit he gave you back, but he's too afraid to ask outright.

Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. It's Monday, which means your students are your focus, not your personal life. Throwing yourself into work has never been a problem; you find small tasks to keep you busy when your students are working quietly in groups. Things like testing whiteboard markers, sharpening pencils, organizing bookshelves. Anything that keeps you busy and on your feet is acceptable at this point. Motion means distraction, and distraction means you don't think about your phone sitting in your bag.

Your prep period comes and goes without incident, as you plan your entire week of lessons in the hour-long session. Your best friend is absent today, meaning she thankfully doesn't barge in to bother you about your day with Martin. Thank the stars, because you aren't sure you could have that conversation without a breakdown. At least you only have a few more hours until the final bell rings, and then you only need to get through after school care before you can flop on your sofa with a container of ice cream.

Your stomach ties itself in knots as you set up the gymnasium like you normally do. Coloring pages are laid out on the plastic picnic table, footballs are scattered around a child-sized goal, and snacks are set out for kids to grab as they come in. You keep yourself as busy as possible whilst they arrive. You recognize Atla’s laugh rising above her friend’s voices and force yourself to remain seated. After successfully avoiding speaking to Atla for nearly an hour, a glance at the clock confirms your fear: her guardian is late for pick up.

"Hey, Atla," you murmur, crouching down to her level and keeping your voice light. You're fully aware of how she bristles when you speak, her little shoulders going rigid. "Is your papa picking you up today?"

"I don't know." Atla turns her head slightly away, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. It isn’t her responsibility to know who is meant to pick her up, but if you can avoid calling Martin to clarify…

You sigh through your nose while offering the child a smile, "do you remember him saying anything about pick up today? If someone different was coming by, maybe your uncle Kieran?"

Atla shrugs, continuing to color her cotton candy bunny. She sighs, purposely not offering you a pencil like she normally does. You know why, of course. You can’t exactly blame her for being frosty.

Rationalizing with children is no simple feat. It isn't your place to sit down and explain to Atla what dating is, and why it isn't a sin for Martin to be dating her teacher. She's a toddler, and in her mind her mum will be coming back. Her mum would be devastated to find Martin with someone else, and that's all that matters to Atla.

Instead of talking, you communicate in Atla's language. You pick up a purple pencil on your own and leaf through the printouts until you find one of a frog, then set about coloring it in. Atla pauses, clearly curious about your design, and watches you with bright blue eyes. You let her, wanting to repair the relationship you have with her above all else. It doesn't matter that your heart aches when you look at her and see Martin's features in her delicate face; she is a student and you love her the same as the rest.

You draw bright polka dots across the frog, determined to communicate in an easy, stress free way. Atla is an artist and as such, regardless of her age, her mind is soothed by creativity. You allow yourself to relax as Atla shows no signs of rejecting your companionship. You are all too aware of her eyes on you, following each streak of color you lay onto the page. It is an effort to remain quiet, letting the soft music playing from your desk across the room fill the silence.

Finally, Atla squeaks out a question- "why were you kissing my papa?"

You mull the question over for a minute. You could lie, try and convince her that she had made it up. That would not be fair to anyone, especially Atla. No, the truth is best, especially because she will find out sooner or later. "Because I care about your papa very much. He means a lot to me, and that’s how I wanted to show him."

"You do?" Atla pauses to look up at you. “But I care about my friends a lot. I don’t kiss them! Papa said that’s only for people you love.” You afford her your undivided attention, setting your pencil down and sliding the page aside. Conscious of your body language, you refrain from crossing your arms to avoid closing yourself off. You have to be careful with what you say; the last thing you want is to admit your feelings to Martin’s tiny daughter.

"Yes, I do. I care about your papa. You know how sometimes in films, when the princess is really sad, the prince comes along and cheers her right up? That's what your papa is for me."

Atla's brow furrows like she's trying to picture it. She then sorts through the stack of coloring pages and pulls out one of Ariel and Eric, tapping the half-scribbled sheet, "like princess Ariel and her prince?"

You nod, thankful for her understanding. "Exactly. And I care about your papa so much that I'd let a sea witch take my voice," you lean over and pretend to grab at Atla, imitating stealing her voice from her throat like in the film. You continue when a delighted giggle fills the room, "and use it for her own plans. I'd be quiet my whole life if it meant I could be around your papa."

"I like when you talk. I don't want a sea witch to steal your voice."

"Well then I'll just have to protect it won't I? Can't have you getting upset!" You playfully tap Atla's nose, earning you another giggle. Her wide smile has her dimples on full display, a sight which you admit you’ve missed almost as much as her pa’s.

Martin clears his throat from across the gym. That funny feeling in your stomach reappears with a vengeance.

“Pa? Pa!” Atla's head turns and she immediately clamors over to him, her knee knocking the table in her haste to get up. Pencils roll to the ground and you bend to pick them up, forcing yourself to keep your eyes on your task and not on Martin. So studious are you that you refuse to look up even when a pair of black trainers edge into your view, followed closely by a pair of tiny white ones.

“Hello,” Martin murmurs. Your entire body tenses at the sound of his voice. You haven't realized how viscerally you've missed it until you hear it.

“Hello Mr. Ødegaard.”

Martin doesn't speak just then. He doesn't need to; the title you've used says more than a thousand words ever could.

Square one.

“I apologize for being late. Training ran long,” Martin says with perfect formality. Gone is the hint of flirting you had come to expect. There are no traces of fondness. Instead his words are punctuated by an undercurrent of mourning.

“It’s not a problem. Don't fret about it. Atla’s bag is on the coat hook- these are hers from today.” When you stand to hand over the drawings, you train your eyes on the crest on Martin's chest. You refuse to glance any higher. If you do, you know you won't be able to control yourself. One glance at his eyes and you'll crumble, and you cannot allow yourself to be so selfish.

“Atla, grab your things please.”

“Yes, pa.” Atla's little footsteps ring through the gymnasium, piercing in the silence. You and Martin both remain frozen, as your feet are glued to the polished wood beneath your feet. Your heart is an ocean in your ears. It pounds on your ribcage, begging and pleading to be set loose. Your fingers twitch at your side, joints aching to reach for him. You crave the familiarity of his lips, the burn that washed over you with each tiny kiss you shared.

“You got my message the other day, right?”

“Oh- yes I saw something from you. I didn't read it though. Just got so busy, I must have forgotten.” Your stomach flips when Martin's posture slumps ever so slightly. You nearly reach out to comfort him but stop yourself at the last moment.

“Right, of course.” Martin shifts on his feet, glancing at Atla quietly stacking cones. “I was trying to ask if you had some free time this week. Thought maybe we could do something.”

You think back on the conversation you just had with Atla. Though she is incredibly mature for her age, you still don't feel right about having anything other than a professional relationship with Martin. “Mar I'm sorry, I can't-”

“Of course, I understand. Just thought I'd try one more time.” Martin smiles softly. The gesture does not reach his eyes. Martin looks so unlike himself, so timid and small, that you scarcely recognize him. “Atla, are you ready søta? It's time we get home, uncle Kieran is coming by to steal your chicken nuggets. We have to get there first or there won't be any left for you!”

“I told uncle Key those were mine!” Atla screeches, stomping over to Martin and grabbing his hand. “Come on pa! We have to go!”

Neither father nor daughter glance at you as they make their way out. You remain rooted to the spot long after Atla's laughter fades. Cleaning up and locking the door upon your exit are the result of simply going through the motions. Muscle memory takes you home, barely remembering snips of the drive.

The emptiness in your heart remains long after you have sunk yourself in a warm bath, wine glass in hand. Not red, never a red anymore, because you cannot stand the color. Even a deep merlot reminds you of him, of sharing that bottle in front of his fireplace the first night he’d invited you inside to chat. Neither of you had wanted to leave, though you reminded him that you had to be up early in the morning.

The pinkish washcloth you run over your arms was once a vibrant cherry red. Even that stings more than you care to admit. More wine, another glass, anything to stave off the tears threatening to fall. Why did you have to say yes to that first date? Why did you cross that line, blurring the boundary between professional and personal?

It takes one more glass of wine before you find yourself reaching for your phone, splattering soapy suds across the tile.

Could we talk?

#martin Ødegaard #martin odegaard #martin odegaard fanfiction #martin odegaard imagine #martin odegaard fanfic #martin odegaard oneshot #arsenal fc #jac writes #thath #alt timeline lover

77 notes · View notes

wenclairly · 20 days

Text

of fainting spells and gentle hands | wenclair

wednesday addams x enid sinclair

description: enid's world has been tilting lately, and even her fencing can't quite steady the ground beneath her. when a dizzy spell turns into something more, an unexpected carer steps out of the shadows – and wednesday addams isn't one for leaving things unattended. tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, fainting, dizziness, sickness, post-canon. wc: 2.5k a/n: hi guys, so this is jes. i wrote this as a part of a new wenclair hurt/comfort oneshot series i'm going to be posting on my ao3 ('enidsunclair'), but we didn't want to leave you hanging with not posting yet... so i thought i'd post it to feed you all. enjoy.. hope it doesn't suck!

The blades clashed with a sharp ring that echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings of the Nevermore Academy fencing hall. Enid Sinclair’s usual grace and agility were noticeably absent this morning, her movements lagging as if she were wading through molasses. The metallic taste of adrenaline mixed uncomfortably with the hint of nausea that had been her constant companion these past few weeks. The dizzy spells had started as minor nuisances, easily brushed off as lack of sleep or perhaps skipping breakfast. But now, standing under the oppressive glare of the morning sun, Enid found the room tilting dangerously with each advance and retreat of her blade.

Her opponent, Divina, seemed unaware of Enid’s faltering state. She continued to lunge, and Enid’s responses were sluggish, her parries weak and off-center. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, mingling with strands of hair and plastering it to her skin. The weight of her saber felt tripled, and her grip on the handle was clammy.

“Enid, focus!” Coach Larue’s sharp voice cut through the muffled sounds of the hall, where the air was thickening with each moment. Normally, Enid thrived under the demanding gaze of their coach, her performance peaking when pushed. Today, however, each word felt like a leaden weight added to her already burdened shoulders. Divina paused, tilting her head with a frown. “You okay? You’re usually not this…” She waved her hand vaguely, her expression one of concern.

“Just didn’t sleep well, that’s all,” Enid lied smoothly, forcing a grin that felt more like a grimace. She adjusted the grip on her saber, determined to shake off the encroaching dizziness that blurred the edges of her vision.

As they resumed, Enid tried to concentrate on Divina’s movements, the predictable rhythm of attack and defense. But the room spun faster with each step she took. After missing another block, the tip of Divina’s saber tapped lightly against her chest.

“That’s a point!” Divina declared, though her voice was tinged with reluctance.

From the sidelines, a dark figure watched with an intensity that missed nothing. Wednesday Addams, usually detached from the exploits of her more athletically inclined peers, noted the slight tremor in Enid’s stance. The too-bright smile, the way her eyes narrowed slightly as if focusing took more effort than it should. It was unlike Enid to show weakness, to allow any imperfection in her performance.

Wednesday’s observation was interrupted as Coach Larue clapped his hands, signaling the end of the bout. “Take five, everyone. Hydrate,” he commanded, his gaze lingering on Enid a moment longer than the rest.

Enid nodded, relieved, and made her way to the benches where water bottles and towels lay scattered. She grabbed her bottle, hands shaking so visibly that she almost dropped it before securing her grip. The coolness of the water was only a small relief against the heat flushing her cheeks. She glanced around, hoping no one noticed her unusual clumsiness, but her gaze accidentally met Wednesday’s. There was something unsettling in Wednesday’s scrutiny, something that made Enid’s stomach twist—not from sickness, but from a strange, unwelcome vulnerability.

Taking a deep breath, Enid tried to muster her usual cheerful demeanor. “Just a bad day, right?” she murmured to herself, closing her eyes and leaning back against the wall. She could hear the other students chatting, and the clinking of sabers as they clattered to the floor, the normal sounds of a typical morning that felt anything but normal to her.

As the room steadied slightly, Enid opened her eyes, only to find the world tilting alarming once more. The warning signs she had ignored were now impossible to dismiss, and as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her, the fencing hall dimmed into darkness. The sounds fading into a distant echo as she slumped sideways and the world went black.

Meanwhile, Wednesday’s attention had been frustratingly divided during the break. Xavier had chosen this exact moment to regale her with a strange encounter which, according to him, had happened just the other night in an abandoned wing of the school. “And then, the temperature dropped, just like that,” he was saying, snapping his fingers for emphasis.

Wednesday’s response was a noncommittal grunt. Her eyes, under the guise of watching the general activity, remained subtly but unwaveringly fixed on Enid. Even as Xavier’s voice grew louder, a peripheral blur of motion caught her attention—the unmistakable stagger of someone about to fall. It was Enid, her body faltering precariously as she slammed to the floor.

Without a word, Wednesday abruptly left Xavier mid-sentence, her legs carrying her across the room with a swiftness that betrayed her outward detachment. As she moved, her face was set in an unamused expression, masking the surge of adrenaline that was sharpening her focus. Students milling around the fallen figure of Enid parted with both surprise and irritation as Wednesday’s elbow nudged them aside, brooking no argument.

She reached Enid just as others began to notice the seriousness of the situation. Dropping to her knees, Wednesday’s usually steady and precise hands trembled as she checked for Enid’s pulse. It was there, strong but rapid, a small comfort that did little to ease the unusual tightness in her chest.

“Move back,” she ordered sharply to the gathering crowd, her voice carrying a cold authority that had several students stepping back immediately. “She needs air,” Wednesday continued, her gaze scanning the surroundings for anything that might aid in her efforts. Spotting Enid’s water bottle, she snatched it up, pressing it into the hands of Yoko who appeared nearby. “Keep this ready,” she said, the command clipped and precise. Yoko nodded and clutched the water bottle.

The commotion had attracted more attention now. Bianca hurried over, her expression tense, with Ajax following close behind as he pushed through students, and Divina approached with a worried frown.

Wednesday assessed them with a critical eye. “Ajax, go fetch Coach Larue. He just stepped out. Move!” Her command sliced through the air. Ajax pivoted immediately, his footsteps a scurry echo in the now quieter hall.

Bianca knelt beside Wednesday, her eyes wide. “What should we do?” she asked, ready to follow any instruction.

“Just keep back and give her space,” Wednesday snapped, her usual stoicism fraying at the edges. Turning her attention back to Enid, she noticed the faint flutter of eyelids, a sign of Enid stirring, though still not fully conscious.

Wednesday’s hand, though trembling slightly, was surprisingly gentle as she brushed against Enid’s forehead and swept away damp strands of hair. “Sinclair, why must you choose now to be overly dramatic?” she muttered, the words tinged with a brittle veneer of annoyance that barely masked her concern. “If you don’t wake up shortly, I’ll ensure all your meals are accompanied by an excruciatingly detailed analysis of your medical state, along with a risk assessment of every historical plague for the next month.”

Divina, hovering anxiously, wrung her hands. “Is she going to be okay?” Her voice was barely a whisper, gaze fixed on Enid.

“She will be if she follows the sensible course and wakes up now,” Wednesday retorted, though her eyes remained solely on Enid’s face, watching for any sign of improvement.

As the infirmary nurse, whomst had been summoned by Ajax, finally entered the hall, Enid’s eyelids flickered more noticeably, her consciousness teetering on the edge. She mumbled something incoherent, eyes attempting to focus on the crowd of faces.

Wednesday’s voice softened imperceptibly as she leaned closer, her hand now resting lightly on Enid’s cheek. “Enid, this is neither the time nor the place for a nap. Consider the lack of comfort,” she said bluntly.

Yoko, still holding the water bottle, looked from Enid to Wednesday. Her expression was torn between concern and slight amusement at Wednesday’s unusual and sudden display of attentiveness.

Enid’s eyes fluttered open, her vision setting hazily on Wednesday. “Wha—?” she murmured, disoriented.

“Stay still. You fainted,” Wednesday informed her, the clinical detachment back in her voice as if she had never left it. She straightened slightly, allowing the nurse space to enter the crowd. But her gaze remained intensely focused on Enid, ready to intercede if necessary.

The nurse, a brisk no-nonsense woman named Ms. Thorn, knelt beside Enid, her hands moving efficiently as she checked her vital signs. “Pulse is a bit fast, but strong,” she murmured, mostly to herself, as she placed a cool hand on Enid’s forehead, then shone a small flashlight briefly across her pupils, which responded sluggishly.

Enid blinked against the light, her consciousness waxing and waning like the phases of the moon. Ms. Thorn straightened, turning to address Wednesday and the smaller crowd that lingered. “She’s stable, but I’ll take her back to the infirmary for observation and further treatment. It’s best we keep her under watch for the next few hours.”

Wednesday’s eyes followed every move. As the declaration settled over the group, she rose, her decision made in the span of a heartbeat. “I’m accompanying her,” she stated, the edge in her voice daring anyone to challenge her.

It was then that Coach Larue entered the hall, Ajax trailing behind him. The coach’s brow furrowed as he took in the scene—the nurse, the anxious students, and Wednesday’s stance. “Addams, you need to stay. We have drills—”

“I’m not asking,” Wednesday interrupted, her tone cold.

Coach Larue’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the authority he wielded so confidently seemed to waver under Wednesday’s intense stare. There was a tense beat before he finally nodded, a slight, reluctant jerk of his head. “Very well. But return once she’s settled.”

Wednesday’s response was a terse nod, her attention already turning back to Enid as the coach walked away.

Ms. Thorn, having witnessed the exchange, merely shook her head at the usual absurdities of Nevermore students. She spoke into a small phone, requesting assistance from the infirmary. “We need a stretcher to the fencing hall,” she announced crisply.

Wednesday remained by Enid’s side, arms folded, and watchful gaze never straying. The earlier tremor in her hands had stilled, replaced by a calm that seemed almost out of place in the chaos of concern.

Enid’s awareness flickered once more, her eyes opening slightly to the sound of distant footsteps and the approaching murmur of voices. She tried to speak, a faint whisper escaping her lips. “Wednes…day?” Her voice was a shadow, barely audible over the growing hum of the gymnasium.

“Quiet now. You need your strength,” Wednesday instructed softly, more gently than anyone might have expected from her. The corners of her mouth twitched, the ghost of a reassuring smile.

The arrival of two additional nurses with a stretcher broke the momentary calm. They moved efficiently, gently lifting Enid onto the stretcher. Wednesday stepped back just enough to give them space, but her eyes, those deep wells of guarded emotion, remained locked on Enid’s face; watching her every breath, every flutter of her eyelids.

She had to be there. The raven had to protect her wolf. * * *

After what felt like an eternity later, Wednesday was sitting beside Enid’s bed, looking the epitome of boredom. Beside her, on a small table, lay Thing, whom Wednesday occasionally whispered to. They were thoroughly discussing the symptoms of various diseases that could have caused Enid’s state.

But a faint groan from Enid broke the monotonous quiet, drawing Wednesday’s attention away from her morbid conversation. Enid’s attempt to sit up was feeble, her movements sluggish and pained.

“Don’t move,” Wednesday commanded softly, her voice low and unexpectedly gentle as she placed a firm hand on Enid’s shoulder and eased her back onto the pillow.

Enid complied, wincing slightly, brow furrowed in confusion. “What happened?” Her voice was weak, The events leading up to her current predicament were a muddled haze in her mind.

“You fainted during fencing. Dehydration, or perhaps something more sinister,” Wednesday explained, her tone matter-of-fact, stripping away any hint of the depth of her earlier anxiety. “You’ve been out for a few hours.”

Before Enid could process this information, the curtain around her bed rustled and a dramatic flair followed that only Yoko could manage. “That’s only half true, Enid!” Yoko proclaimed as she strode closer toward her best friend’s bedside. She flashed a conspiratorial grin at Wednesday, who merely raised an eyebrow in response.

Yoko continued, unabashed, “Wednesday was like a rabid dog protecting you, I swear! She was barking orders at everyone, and man, you should have seen her face when you were being wheeled away—like, you’d think someone had stolen her favorite knife or something.”

Wednesday's gaze on Enid shifted subtly, a flicker of embarrassment—or was it annoyance?—crossing her features. “Exaggeration is Yoko’s primary language,” she injected coolly, but the slight flush on her usually pale cheeks suggested otherwise.

Enid looked between Yoko and Wednesday, a slow smile forming on her lips as she absorbed the words. The image of Wednesday, so fiercely guarding her well-being, was both amusing and warming.

“Really now? Protecting me?” Enid’s voice carried a teasing lilt, her early discomfort momentarily forgotten.

Wednesday sighed, a sound of resignation escaping her as she met Enid’s gaze. “Perhaps I overreacted in my state of… unsettlement,” she conceded, her words clipped. “But let’s focus on your recovery. We wouldn’t want a repeat performance.”

Yoko laughed. “Oh, come on, Wednesday. Admit it. You’re all soft for E!” she teased, winking at Enid.

But Wednesday didn't reply, instead turning her gaze away to hide the ghost of a smile that threatened to betray her true feelings.

Yoko then playfully rolled her eyes. “I’m going to grab some juice,” she announced, already halfway past the curtain. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.” With a wink and a final laugh, she slipped past it.

The room fell into a sudden, thick silence. Wednesday, whose gaze had followed Yoko out, now found herself alone with Enid. She turned slightly, her eyes locking with the wolf. The atmosphere felt heavy with everything that remained unsaid.

Enid’s heart thudded uncomfortably loud in her chest. With a shaky breath, she shifted on the bed, the simple white sheets crinkling under her movement. Painstakingly, and mindful of her still-dizzy head, she sat up and edged closer to Wednesday.

Wednesday watched her, motionless, her expression unreadable. The usual barriers she erected, the walls that guarded her thoughts and feelings, seemed momentarily thinner, more translucent.

Reaching out with a tentative hand, Enid’s fingers brushed against Wednesday’s. Gathering her courage, she leaned forward and, with a gentle, almost reverent touch, placed a kiss on Wednesday’s cheek.

The contact was brief, a soft press of lips against cool skin. But it held more weight than any word could.

For a long moment, Wednesday remained frozen, her eyes wide. The mask that so often clung to her features had cracked. A flush, rare and startling, crept up to her cheeks and painted a bloom of color that was usually absent from her pallor.

The world seemed to hold its breath. Things were changing.

And Wednesday Addams, for once in her meticulously curated life, would not have it any other way.

#wenclair #wednesday #my fic #fanfic #writing #hurt/comfort #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #wednesday netflix #wednesday x enid #wenclair fic #wenclair fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 fanfic

41 notes · View notes

pillo-makes-art · 8 months

Text

Angeltober day 4: Sacred Heart

Prompts by @ultrainfinitepit

Okay, I’ve tried angeltober last year and I exploded, so this time I’m just doing the prompts I find the most inspiring and not thinking too much about it. Art challenges are fun but I’ve been dealing with horrible brain fog for the past month and drawing feels like wading through molasses.

#angel #angels #angeltober #angeltober 2023 #illustration #digital art #art challenge #artists on tumblr #angelkin #biblically accurate #biblically accurate angels #eldritch #eldritch art #eldritch angel #pillart

54 notes · View notes

kassandras-one-braincell · 2 years

Text

Sevika x Fem!Reader - Like Fine Wine

Contains: explicit content and a recurring theme of Sevika being an older woman (love me a childless milf amirite).

Word count: 1949

AO3 link here. Minors DNI.

She’s a menace. Arrogant, unapproachable, yet inexplicably inviting. And she’s mean, too. So fucking mean, but she butters you up with cocktails and pet names that sound like molasses in that deep, gruff voice of hers. A little too old for you, and you both know it. Neither of you care. It’s hot.

One humid, smoggy night was when it all began. You had plans with a woman, who said all the right things to you the day before, to go to the Drop for a couple of drinks and a good time. Wear something pretty, she said. Pretty as those pretty red lips of yours – that left you swooning. So you waded through the blinding kaleidoscope of neon lights, all dolled up for her, struggling not to cough on the smoke from a hundred cigarillos, only to find said woman grinding against a girl in an even skimpier dress, probably telling her the same old shit.

It affected you more than you cared to admit. Maybe that’s what drew Sevika’s gaze to you. A sweet thing in a shimmery little dress, nothing new. But one with a quivering lip, looking sorry at the bar in the middle of a chaotic mess, staring in dismay at two shadows on the dancefloor… Who wouldn’t take pity?

You couldn’t fight the hammering in your chest when she approached you, towering, suave and unbothered by the ruckus of the club. Dressed in a mulberry shirt, tailored to accommodate her daunting mechanical arm, half the buttons undone, giving you a tantalising view of the swell of her cleavage and a peek at a rock hard abdomen. If she wasn’t Silco’s right hand, your eyes would have drifted lower and honed in on the tightness of her trousers.

Her offer to buy you something fruity to take the sting off things didn’t register immediately. You were too captivated by her stern, sculpted face, those steel eyes and powerful nose and frown lines that looked so soft. There were so many little scars, some harsher than others, like the mesmerising web of aquamarine cutting into her beautiful dark sepia skin.

She chuckled at the distracted glaze coating your bleary eyes, gently repeating her offer, snuffing out her smoke on the bar countertop. It wasn’t tobacco; it didn’t smell like utter shit, instead fragrant with the aroma of spices you couldn’t quite place. Something fancy, imported. You could get used to breathing it in.

Your drink took priority over the long queue of patrons, courtesy of her status. Hell, you were still blinking back your surprise at such a woman’s sudden interest in you by the time she was guiding you towards a secluded alcove, sheltered from the thumping of rave music.

Alone in the cushioned nook, you chatted about everything and nothing, sipping on an electric blue beverage that made the tips of your fingers tingle. You were interrupted once, and only once, when Sevika held up her hand, signalling for the bar staff to fetch her a drink. At some point, your legs found their way onto her lap, with her huge calloused hand languidly stroking your exposed skin. Intoxicated by her scent, her attention, the way she shamelessly eyed you up and whatever that boozy syrup in your cocktail was, you couldn’t help but bite your lip when she asked you one simple question:

“You ever been with a woman my age, doll?”

No, was the answer you gave, slightly shaky at the subliminal suggestion woven into her words. She smirked.

Widening her legs, she welcomed you forward onto her lap until you comfortably straddled a bulky thigh, the leathery fabric of her trousers pressing into you snugly. Soft, warm lips that tasted of piquant smoke and ambrosial drink ensnared yours. You expected her kiss to be bruising. Not sensual and hasteless, dizzying, wholly dichotomous to the brute beneath you.

Nursing her whiskey glass in her claw, Sevika cupped your behind with her organic hand, inviting you to grind your heat against her leg as two fingers snaked downwards. They stroked your slit through your underwear, pushing in ever so slightly until the patch of fabric covering your modesty was all slicked through. She didn’t need to ask what made you twitch in wanting – her experience made her near telepathic. Breathy little sighs poured freely from your lips, swallowed by hers.

Her teasing – foreplay – grew unbearable very quickly. You started to push back against her fingers, hoping she’d sense your desperation and indulge you by…fuck, you’d really let her debase you in public, wouldn’t you?

Oh, she knew what filthy thoughts circulated your foggy little mind. She made a promise through smirking lips: you be nice and patient while she finishes her drink, and she’ll take you home, eat your pussy so damn good until you’re sobbing and you’ve forgotten all about the bitch you came here for.

Fuck, did she fulfil that promise. Tenfold. Her tongue had your back arching off the bed, and when your oversensitive squirming got in the way of things, she flipped you onto your front, and had you kneeling face-down so she could continue enjoying her meal while you drooled, moaned, cried into the pillows until your legs gave out.

As she wiped you down gently that night, she contemplated. It had been a long while since she’d fucked someone who wasn’t one of Babette’s whores. Knowing you fell into her bed of your own volition, no gold attached, did something for her psychologically. There was no obligation in spite of her status. Just raw attraction. Desire.

She could get used to that.

Thus began your little relationship, although there’s hesitation in the term. Emotions are hard for Sevika. But, while she never addresses them aloud, you know she cares for you. Otherwise, she wouldn’t hide her metal arm under a pillow at night so you can rest on her without hurting yourself. She wouldn’t keep a box of your favourite tea in her home for when you spent the night. Nor keep that alcove in the Drop where it all began vacant every night, giving you somewhere clean and quiet to relax in during your visits, away from the obnoxious music. She certainly wouldn’t be paying your rent to give you more time to focus on your passions.

While your attraction certainly extends beyond sex, that’s the foundation of things. That’s what she’s most comfortable with. She oozes confidence and dominion between the sheets. Before her, you thought the expression “seeing stars” was purely metaphorical, until she made you come so hard that white spots danced about your eyes.

No two nights are the same with Sevika. There’s always a new pattern, a new position, a new location. Some nights are slower, full of titillation and passion. Others are downright pornographic, but with boundaries in place and your comfort the top priority. It’s exhilarating.

Ruination is almost always her objective. The sex may last the night, the soreness the morning after, but the flashbacks…those last until the next time she fucks you, and then some.

You can still feel the phantom sensation of her from last night.

Wrists cuffed to the bedframe – the inside of the metal was padded with something soft, she isn’t a monster – you lay face-down in the pillows, knelt obediently, presenting your glistening wetness to her. An indent of her teeth sunk into the skin of your thigh from when she feasted upon you against the bedroom wall, insisting she couldn’t make it to the bed without a little taste. Her organic thumb ghosted over the mark as she hummed, your nectar still fresh on her tongue.

“Ain’t that a sight,” she purred, deliciously husky, her metal hand carefully gripping the flesh of your rear, spreading you for a better look. You heard her chuckle darkly from her stance behind you before letting go.

“You know, one of the goons I gambled against tonight had this topsider bimbo on his arm.” Two warm, rough fingers find their way onto your clit, pressing a circle into the nerves. “Helped me bleed his pockets dry even faster, but man, was she gripping that arm tight.” The tips of her claws raked feather-light up your back, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt her breath on your shoulder as she wove the augmented hand through your hair, expertly making a fist that didn’t leave you in any pain, only gasping in delight. “Made me miss how tight that little pussy feels around my fingers,” Sevika smirked.

In one swift, concupiscent motion, the devil of a woman tugged on your hair and sheathed two fingers in your drenched heat to the knuckle. The cuffs rattled as you gripped the bedframe tight, panting at the sudden fullness brought by her long, thick fingers. She adjusted her wrist, curling the fingers down, hooking them and giving a slow, rough thrust, ripping a moan from your lips. There was no need for exploration, no trial and error – she knew exactly where to press them against to have you thoroughly wrecked.

Lewd squelching resonated through the room as she began to drill her fingers into you, impossibly deep, at a steady pace. The position only did a favour for the brute’s stamina; she’d keep you there as long as she pleased. Her claw in your hair forced your back into an arch, letting her hammer your sweet spot freely, and stopping you from muffling your mewls of bliss in the bedding.

“Oh, fu-ck,” you whimpered, legs shaking under the force of her thrusts. Your sensitivity from her earlier ministrations only added to her onslaught. You felt so good, stretched around her relentlessly pounding digits. Pleasure welled up in your core alarmingly fast, a heavenly pressure forming on the verge of bursting, fire consuming your veins. Sevika never altered her tempo, never pulled them out far enough to give you a moment’s reprieve.

Wanton sounds spilled freely from your parted lips as you spiralled towards your precipice. “’Vika, fuck,” you gasped, knuckles turning pale from your clenched grasp on the bedframe. “Please, ‘Vika, please don’t st-op—”

“I know, baby, I know,” she grunted. “We’re not stopping until you’re dripping down my arm, princess.”

Someone had called you “princess” in the past, and you hated it. There was condescendence in the name. The underlying implication that you were spoiled, ungrateful and haughty.

But when she calls you “princess” – usually while she’s buried inside of you, or about to be, or you’re begging for her to be – it’s different. Sure, there are times where she uses the name to be condescending, cooing it when you’re trembling and split open on the thick onyx strap she loves so dearly, but there’s always respect to the title. A sweet undertone that you’re treasured, no matter often you succumb to debauchery in her grasp. Even if she spoils you with pleasure, keeping you dumb and cumming in the bedroom, you’re still important and valued.

And you love it. Whyever would you want to be with someone spritely with commitment issues and financial instability, when instead, you can have the affection of this tall glass of fine wine?

It might not be the healthiest disposition by societal standards, but you couldn’t give a shit. Society doesn’t see the way Sevika holds you at night. Doesn’t hear the way she laughs out a “dumbass” in the morning when you attempt to flip a pancake, only for it to end up decorating the kitchen floor, with an enamoured smile on her face. Doesn’t feel the delicate press of her lips to your temple when she has to leave.

She’s a menace, absolutely. But never to you.

#someone please end my suffering it's 36 degrees #sevika #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #smut

682 notes · View notes

vigil-antes · 2 years

Text

ok but speedsters being more than just physically fast:

the speed force doesnt just make them run at lightning speed, ALL of them, their mind too, moves constantly at ten times the normal speed to the point that on some days it's literally a torture.

Imagine going about your day but everything moves on slow motion, like everyone else is wading through molasses except you.

Barry not being able to sit through mission briefings not because of impatience but because it literally feels like hours to him.

Wally constantly interrupting people and trying to predict what they're saying because to him they are taking decidedly too long to finish

Bart rushing into missions without letting whoever is in charge finish giving out orders bc he feels like theyre wasting important time

Someone tries proposing power suppressors as a solution but they just make everything worse bc instead of slowing down the mind to a normal pace they just take away the ability to move on par with their thoughts and leave them feeling even more trapped in their bodies than usual.

After watching Bart get an anxiety attack before a mission while waiting for the go signal from their team leader, Tim developes a sedative that works only on certain receptors of the brain and can slow the speedster mind to a baseline human pace without hindering cognitive functions and physical ability.

The first thing Bart does the second he gets the sedative (after bawling his eyes out and hugging Tim for a good five minutes straight) is crash through three walls at superspeed, bc the sedative only affects the brain and not pysical capability. Tim hands him the power inhibitor through the hole in the drywall.

Wally spends his first day as a normal human in more than a decade just sitting in a park and watching people walk by.

#speedsters #speed force #bart allen #barry allen #wally west #tim drake #young justice #dc comics #the flash #kid flash #impulse #all speedsters have adhd but on steroids

226 notes · View notes

lightandheatao3 · 3 days

Text

The Bunker - Criminal Minds

Chapter 13: The Scar

Summary: Spencer Reid wakes up in a locked bunker to find half the current BAU and two of its departed members unconscious on the floor. The old team is back together but the reunion is not what any of them would have wished for. An Unsub from their past has decided it's time they all stop keeping secrets, even if it means exposing them by force.

Hotch and Derek have been pulled back into a world they tried to escape. Emily, Rossi, and JJ are doing their best to keep it together. Spencer is falling apart.

AKA a found family is reunited and forced to go through the most nightmarish version of family therapy imaginable.

Set months after the end of Criminal Minds: Evolution. Evolution referenced, but not necessary to understand the story.

Chapter Summary: The team has some catharsis, of a kind.

Read chapter 13 on AO3 or under the cut. Please check AO3 for content warnings. All comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated <3 I would love to know what you like about the story :)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

Nobody moved.

Not a twitch. Not a breath. Not a blink.

They stared at him like a ghost.

“Spencer,” whispered Emily, like she couldn't believe her eyes.

In a second, all of them were on him. Emily pulled him into a crushing hug that the rest of them quickly joined. He felt dampness dripping on his shoulder and didn’t know who it was coming from. He heard JJ breath out ‘oh my god’ again and again.

“Let me look at you,” demanded Hotch.

There was a hand on his arm. The group parted just enough to let Hotch get at him. Emily kept her arm wrapped around his shoulders and Derek put a hand in his hair and kissed the top of his head, kneeling behind him like a barrier between him and the rest of the world. Rossi knelt beside him with a hand on his arm.

“You’re all okay,” Spencer said, throat constricting.

“We thought you were dead,” choked out JJ. “You fucking bastard! We thought you were dead!”

Tears streamed down her face and she squeezed the hand on his uninjured arm tight enough that it would have hurt, if he wasn’t up to his gills on fentanyl.

“Jesus, Spencer,” breathed Hotch.

He knelt in front of him, holding his wrist and gently turning his arm over so his mangled forearm faced upwards.

A hush fell over all of them as they stared at the vicious scar. If it had disturbed them when they first saw his track marks, this was a hundred times worse.

The weight around his shoulders and against his side disappeared as Emily scrambled back from him.

“I need…” she breathed. “I just-”

She turned and darted for the bathroom, crashing through the door as if she didn’t realize it was there. A moment later he winced at the sound of her vomiting.

Derek turned away from him, looking very much like he was about to cry.

A short moment later, Emily came back into the room, struggling to compose herself. “I’m sorry,” she said shakily, kneeling beside him again.

“No,” he said. He tried to reach out to her, but realized JJ and Hotch still had a hold of both of his hands. Hotch let him go. JJ didn’t. He reached for Emily’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m alright. It doesn’t even hurt.”

Emily held his gaze, unsuccessfully fighting back tears. The haze over his vision made her skin look like it was glowing. Her cheek felt impossibly soft. She put one hand over his and stroked the other one softly over the scar.

“It doesn’t hurt because you’re high,” she said gently.

He looked away, then nodded. “I asked him not to,” he explained. “I tried.”

He tried and he failed. There was never going to be another end to this story.

“Him?” asked Rossi. “You spoke to the male Unsub?”

He nodded. “I-” he swallowed. “He said-” his breath hitched. He waded through his thoughts like molasses.

“It’s okay,” said Hotch, so close that their knees were touching. “You can tell us later.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Derek rubbed circles on his back. “It’s alright, Spencer. You’re alive. That's all that matters.”

In spite of the dampening affects of the narcotics, a deep pain welled in his heart. He clutched at his chest as a sob escaped him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I think there’s something really wrong with me.” He looked down at his butchered forearm, trying to understand it. “It all made sense at the time. I was trying to save us," he said, searching all of their faces desperately, hoping one of them could tell him the magic formula to stop being broken. Something opened up inside of him that he had being trying for so long to keep shut. “I think I wanted to die. I think I’ve felt that way for a while.”

How had he not realized that?

Emily had realized it. Derek had realized it. Did all of them know? How could they have known when he didn’t even know it?

Derek’s words rang in his ears. Happy people don’t do heroin.

He broke down.

The last time he cried like this, it was the first day back in his apartment after prison. He had collapsed on the shower floor and wept so long it caused a migraine.

Only this time, for better or worse, he wasn’t alone. Five sets of arms wrapped around him, holding him like he might disappear if they let go for even a second, and they all cried with him.

For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, they mourned everything that had been taken from them. Their families, their freedom, their safety, and their sanity.

They stayed like that until his head swam and he could barely tell up from down.

"You need to lie down," said Hotch, as they all finally parted.

He looked around like he was only noticing the changes to the room for the first time.

Following his cue, the others took in their altered surroundings with worry and confusion, enough to tell Spencer that this was all clearly new to them, too.

Derek and Hotch helped him over to one of the thin mattresses. He tried to fight it, but between the drugs and the adrenaline crash and the fathomless ocean of hurt, he couldn't hold onto consciousness.

He was in and out, not fully passed out, but not fully coherent. Eventually, after who knows how long, he must have fallen asleep.

When he woke up, he felt sick to his stomach and his head pounded. He was shaky and weak, a feeling he was getting far too used to. How long had he been in that room while they pumped him full of narcotics?

He couldn’t keep doing this so soon after his last withdrawal. His body couldn’t cope with it.

He tried to sit up and speak to the others, but a wave of intense nausea washed over him before he could make a sound. He scrambled up and rushed for the bathroom, where he wretched bile.

After a second, he felt a hand on his back, and another holding back his increasingly long hair, now down below his chin for the first time in quite a while.

Once he was sure he was done, he turned to see Emily. She smiled tightly at him, then helped him stand. He splashed water over his face and rinsed out his mouth, then took a long, deep drink.

“You good?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

His eyes wandered down to just below the sink. The missing bolt had been replaced with one that was shiny and new. It was welded tightly in place. The welding on all the other bolts had been redone, too.

When he looked around, he noticed the door hinges had received the same treatment. The Unsubs had gone to great lengths to ensure there would not be a repeat incident.

Emily was watching him, arms folded. He couldn't tell what was going on in her head, but she almost looked sicker than she had when they were starving.

The newly returned bathroom door was closed. He knew the others were just outside, waiting for them to exit, but it was close enough to alone. He had hurt all of them, he knew, but after everything with John Cooley, after he promised her he wasn’t going to do the same, he felt he owed her more than anyone.

“Emily-"

“Spencer,” she said, sniffing a little. “You don’t need to apologize. I get it.”

He looked at her a little longer, then nodded. Then he pulled her into a crushing hug and apologized anyway.

She didn't say anything, just hugged him back.

They exited the bathroom, and the others were waiting for them just like he thought.

“How are you feeling?” asked Hotch.

“Like I’m in the middle of the detox that never ends,” he said, clenching his hands to control the trembling, wincing at the sharp pain that shot up his left arm when he formed a fist. “They had me under almost the entire time I was gone."

“But not the whole time,” observed Rossi. “You said you talked to one of them.”

“Yeah,” he said. “The male accomplice. We spoke twice.”

“You need to sit down,” said Derek. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

He didn’t disagree. They all took a moment, rearranging the mattresses so they could sit in a circle, positioning themselves so that Spencer could lean against the wall. They knew they were settling in for a long conversation.

He had questions for them, too, but he knew they needed to hear from him first.

In all the brutal clarity and detail afforded to him by his eidetic memory, he told them his story. It was verbatim, not a single detail omitted.

After what he’d put them through with the drugs, the detox, the erratic behavior, the arguing and denying and finally… He rubbed at his scar. He owed them honesty.

Besides, every detail was vital to the profile, even if he didn’t yet know how.

He recounted the events to a rapt audience. When he got to the fag comment, a couple of heads tilted at him curiously, but they didn't question him. He pressed on. They could worry about that later.

He concluded with a description of everything he’d seen and deduced regarding the building itself based on what he could see from his limited perspective in the room. It was a relief to be able to give them a small morsel of hope.

"Whatever this place is," he finished, "it wasn't made for them. There's a paper trail somewhere that the others can find."

“That’s good,” said Hotch when he was finally done. “That’s really good, Spencer, thank you.”

“This completely changes our profile,” observed JJ. “This isn't a typical relationship between a dominant Unsub and a submissive accomplice, but an actual partnership. He has thoughts and opinions that differ from hers, which he feels safe to express freely. He respects her.”

"It's definitely an unusual dynamic," agreed Spencer. "I think she honestly believes she's helping us somehow. He's a sadist. He wants to cause pain. It's as if the whole thing was a joke to him, but he's holding himself back out of some sense of loyalty and obligation to her. Somehow, she's managed to get an intelligent sadist to not only follow her instruction, but to feel protective of her."

“I agree, it's strange,” said Emily. “He's clearly the one with the medical expertise, which is also unexpected given how she positions herself as savior. If I had to guess, based on the resentment he expressed towards Spencer, particularly regarding his honorific, he’s probably a nurse. Maybe someone who planned to become a doctor but was unable to attend or complete medical school for some reason."

“What if that's how they met?” posed Rossi. “She could have been one of his patients and they bonded. It might explain why he’s so fiercely protective of her, especially if she flattered him or made him feel powerful. If she's experienced significant health issues, it could also be contributing factor to her obsessive focus on cleanliness.”

“She said that if we had given up on her, she never would have met him, so their relationship postdates her presumed arrest,” said Derek. “Assuming we're right that she was incarcerated, he could have been a nurse in the prison medical center.”

“That tracks with his comment about dealing with junkies regularly,” said Spencer. “One study published by the Department of Justice found that 58% of state prisoners had substance abuse issues compared with just 5% of the general population. Drug and alcohol toxicity are the third leading cause of death in prisons behind serious illness and-” the word caught in his throat. Suicide. Behind serious illness and suicide. He couldn't bring himself to say the word. "Well, you get the idea."

It was for the best that he hadn’t been using while in prison, all things considered. He very likely would have ended up as one of those statistics if he had been.

"Are you certain you didn't recognize her voice?" asked JJ.

He shook his head. "I really don't know. I was pretty out of it, I'm sorry."

“Don't be. It looks like we have the beginning of a new profile,” said Hotch. “This is a lot more than we knew before. We can find a way to use this.” He looked at Spencer, eyeing him cautiously. Eventually, he said, “Don’t take this as encouragement to try anything like that ever again, but for what its worth, it worked. You forced their hand.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face, if only to not have to look at any of them for a moment. “Yeah,” he said, not able to summon a better response. When the awkward silence that followed got too much for him, he asked: "How long was I gone?"

The others exchanged glances.

"It's hard to say," said Hotch. "But there were fifteen deliveries prior to them hitting us with another round of gas."

"We think the deliveries are still operating at twelve hour intervals," said Rossi, "But it's difficult to keep track of time with any certainty, and we can't know how long we were unconscious."

They had all been dressed in a fresh set of scrubs at some point in their lost time, and he was far too aware of the short sleeves. He kept catching glimpses of the scar and each time, he had to fight the urge to puke again. He looked down at the scar intentionally for about three seconds before he had to look away.

It was enough to make an assessment.

"Judging by the progression of healing, I would put it at an estimate of two weeks minimum, which makes sense with the number deliveries and helps confirm that they are still working at standard intervals," he explained.

Two weeks, likely a little over. It hung in the air like smoke after a fire. Two weeks of him being pumped full of fentanyl.

Two weeks of the others stuck in this room thinking they had just watched him die by his own hand.

“I guess it’s time for us to fill you in,” said Rossi, breaking the tension. “Things got pretty nuts here for a minute.”

“What happened after I passed out?” he asked, anxiety creeping its way into his gut.

“You were right,” Rossi continued. “They didn’t risk the gas. It would have killed you for sure after the blood loss.”

“We never saw the woman, but the guy busted in about a minute after you lost consciousness,” said Derek. “He had a gun.”

His stomach dropped. Obviously, they hadn’t been able to overpower him or they wouldn't still be there, but he still found himself hoping that the story would turn in their favor.

“We tried to overpower him, but he pistol whipped Hotch pretty hard,” said Emily.

He looked at Hotch questioningly and apologetically, which Hotch waved off. “I’m fine." Spencer didn't believe that for a second, but he was hardly in a position to comment. Hotch continued, "He kept the gun trained on the rest of us and forced Morgan to leave you outside the door.”

The use of surnames was always a dead giveaway that Hotch was clinging to a facade of professionalism to stay composed, even though profiling hadn't been his profession for years.

Derek jumped in quickly, brushing right past the details of the event and into a impersonal analysis. “This all supports your theory that the bunker is part of a larger facility. The hall just led to a door, so I didn’t see much, but I’m certain he didn’t have medical supplies on hand. He would’ve had to get you to treatment fast.”

The scene unfolded in his head with far less clinical detachment than it was being described with. It melded with the bits and pieces he could remember. The screaming, Derek’s hands trying to stop him from bleeding out, a waterfall of crimson.

“We didn’t hear anything after that,” said JJ, staring down at her lap. Her nails were digging into the back of her arm. “No notes. Nothing. We kept getting food like nothing was different. We didn't think you were coming back.”

Derek wrapped an arm around her. She took a shaky breath.

“We kept on like that until the gas. Then we woke up, and you were back. Along with all the creature comforts that were confiscated after the last attempt at rebellion," said Derek.

“We used your wet cloth mask trick when the gas started,” said Emily. “Having to use my shirt for that is the first thing in my whole life that has made me sincerely miss wearing a bra.”

JJ snorted a laugh.

“If it’s any consolation, you looked great,” said Derek, holding up his fingers in the ‘OK’ gesture. JJ slapped him on the arm while Emily rolled her eyes. “Relax, I’m kidding,” he said, holding up a hand defensively. “Believe it or not I was too busy trying not to die to check you out.”

They way they glossed over the horror of those weeks was an act of kindness he was sure he didn’t deserve.

The looks on their faces when they first woke up and saw that he was alive would be burned in the forefront of his mind for a long time.

“Wait,” he said, remembering. “There was an alarm. After he left me here. Has that happened before?”

Hotch shook his head. “We checked it while you were still out of it. It looks like they’ve retrofitted a small speaker inside the camera housing. It definitely wasn’t there before.”

He looked up at the camera, blinking red light as infuriating as ever. When he squinted, he could just see it through the reflections that bounced off the reinforced plexiglass. It would be interesting to see how that new element of their enclosure came into play.

“There was also a paper bag,” he said, looking around the room and spotting it in a corner. “What was in it?”

They all exchanged glances before looking back at him.

“We haven't looked,” said JJ.

"What? Why?" he asked, taken aback.

“Whatever happens next, we’re all in this together,” said Rossi.

He felt a lump rise in his throat. Emily squeezed his upper arm comfortingly.

“Before we open it and have to focus all of our energy on whatever is in there,” she said gently, “we need to take a moment to talk.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. He'd figured this was coming. “I know,” he said, lowering his hands, once again catching a glimpse of the scar, still struggling to process that it would be with him for the rest of his life, however long that might be.

They all looked at each other again, and he was sure they’d planned this whole thing out while he was sleeping. Derek took the lead.

“What you said before, about wanting to die,” he said, looking like it hurt him as much to say it as it hurt Spencer to hear it, “We can’t ignore that.”

“I-” His instinct was to say ‘I was high, I was out of it, I didn’t know what I was saying,’ but instead he said, slowly and awkwardly, “I don’t plan on doing anything like that again.”

“That’s good,” said Derek calmly. “I’m glad to hear that. But we’re all conscious of the fact that we’re not exactly in an environment conducive to recovery. I don’t think any of us are exactly in a great place, psychologically or physically. And know that when I say this, I'm speaking from experience, not judgement; those feelings your having don't go away while you're still actively in a crisis situation. So even though I believe that you mean what you say, it's hard to trust that you won't change your mind later.”

If he'd needed another knife in his heart, the thought of a teenage Derek contemplating such a drastic escape from horrific abuse was sure to do it. This wasn't new information to him, but it never stopped hurting. How could it be fair that someone could survive what he had survived and still be made to suffer through something like this?

He learned a long time ago that fairness didn't exist and knew better than to ask those questions, yet the thought still came.

“We get it,” chimed in Rossi. “You already know I was struggling myself not long ago. You're not alone,” he said honestly.

"I hate that any of you know what this feels like," he said quietly. "I wish you didn't."

Derek shrugged helplessly. Rossi raised an eyebrow and said, "You and me both, kid."

A few of them nodded. “I think,” said Emily, “that right now, we can’t afford for any one of us to break. If we lose you, Spencer, or if we lose any of us, I don’t know how the rest of us are going to make it out.”

He nodded. “No pressure,” he joked, swiping under his eyes. Nobody laughed.

“Right before you cut yourself,” said JJ bluntly, “You said to Derek that it had to be you because you didn’t have kids waiting for you to come home. You know that’s not true, right?”

“It is true,” he said, shaking his head at her. “I’m not justifying myself,” he clarified, “but you all have family waiting for you. All I have is my mom, and at this point, she might not even realize I’m gone.”

JJ looked at him so sadly. “It’s not true at all,” she insisted. “Do you know what it would do to my boys if I had to tell them you were gone? Sometimes I think Henry and Michael love you more than they love Will and I,” she said with a sound halfway between a cry and laugh. “And when all this is over, they’re going to need you more than ever. I’m going to need you.”

“It’s the same for my family,” said Derek. “Don’t you ever think for a second that just because you’re not related by blood that we can afford to lose you. You are family. For all of us.”

They all nodded and hummed in agreement.

“I can cope with all the fucked up shit that’s happening to us,” said Emily, “But I don’t think I can cope without you. Speaking as the only other member of the no partner, no kids, fucked up relationship with their mother gang,” she said with a watery laugh.

“How about the adult kid you didn’t get to raise, dead wife, dead mother gang?” deadpanned Rossi.

Spencer laughed even as tears threatened to spill again. He forced them back. He already had enough of a headache from the last time. “Is this supposed to be cheering me up? It’s working, strangely.”

“Jack still asks about you sometimes,” said Hotch softly. He looked around the room. “All of you.”

It was the first time he had mentioned Jack since waking up in the bunker. They all avoided talking about their kids too much. It felt wrong to draw their captor’s attention to their families, even though they were obviously aware of them. But Hotch hadn’t so much as alluded to Jack’s existence.

“Henry asks about Jack, too,” said JJ. “What do you tell him about us?”

Hotch looked at the floor. “I tell him he’s an adult now. He can look you up himself if he wants.”

That hung in the air. After everything Hotch had been through, they could hardly blame him for not wanting to talk about the past he left behind, but the thought of him shutting them out so completely still stung.

“I can’t believe he’s an adult,” said Emily. “He must be in college by now.”

Hotch nodded. “Studying to be a psychologist.”

“Not forensic psychology?” asked Derek, likely picking up on the same tension that Spencer was.

“No, thank god,” said Hotch. “He's interested in child psychology, with a focus on trauma.”

Oh.

Clearly everything Jack had been through as a kid had played a big part in shaping the adult he was becoming. It was a bittersweet thing to hear.

“You must be so proud of him,” said Emily.

“I am,” said Hotch. “And I would very much like to see him again so I can tell him that.” He looked at Spencer. “For better or worse, what you did got us vital information, and a reason to hope we can get out of this. I’m not naive enough to believe that just talking with you about this is going to fix it. I also know that the longer we’re down here, the more likely it is for the rest of us to experience suicidal ideation or other acute mental health issues, if we aren’t already. Nobody is immune to the effects of long-term confinement.” He looked at each of them in turn. “What we need to do is make sure that if any of us start having those thoughts, myself included, we cannot keep it to ourselves.” He looked at Spencer. “It’s time we accepted that we might be in here for a while yet, and we need to do everything in our power to stay alive as long as possible and give the others the best chance of finding us. Can you do that?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I can do that.”

Hotch gave a single appreciative nod in return. “Good.”

“I guess that just leaves one thing,” said Emily, getting up to retrieve the unopened paper bag.

It didn’t look bulky enough to contain food, so he was expecting a note. When Emily picked it up, it sagged a little in the bottom, indicating that there must be an object of some kind in there. She walked back to the group but didn’t sit. They all looked up at her as she opened the bag.

She pulled out a note, and read.

“When a dog bites the hand that feeds it, do you put the dog down, or train it? I hope you have learned your lesson. Follow the rules or you will have to be taught again.” She scrunched the note up and tossed it on the floor. "God I hate this bitch."

She turned the bag over and dumped its contents onto the floor in the middle of the circle, then scrunched up the bag and tossed that on the floor too.

Six stacks of rectangular card, each bundled with twine, thudded to the floor with a dull thwack.

They each reached out and grabbed a stack, turning them over and examining them. They contained photos, around 20 to a stack.

The one at the top of the stack that Spencer had grabbed was a picture of JJ, sitting on her front porch having a coffee with Will. He undid the twine and saw quickly that each photo in the stack was of her and her family, her at the gym, even her entering Quantico, taken from a distance.

“This is insane,” breathed Emily. He looked over at the stack she was holding and saw a glimpse of Hotch and a young man he realized must be Jack.

They each laid their stack out on the ground in front of them, fanning them out so they could all see.

He looked across the circle and saw Hotch setting down photos of himself. At Virginia Tech where he teaches Criminology from time to time. Coming and going from his mother’s care home. Oh god. There was a photo of him at his dealer’s apartment door, looking entirely unwell.

One picture in particular caught his eye. He reached across and grabbed it. Hotch looked at him for a moment, before catching a glimpse of the photos of himself that Emily was laying out and cursing.

“If I ever get my hands on these fucking people…” he said to himself, icy and furious, reaching for a picture of his son.

Spencer focused on the photo in his hand. It was of him, standing in front of a small, but protected house on a block of land in rural Virginia. “Emily,” he said.

She jerked her head to him, having been engrossed in the pictures of herself that she had spotted. “What?” she asked worriedly.

He handed her the picture. At first she looked confused, but the moment of recognition came quickly. “Oh no,” she whispered.

“What is it?” asked Rossi.

They all looked between himself and Emily. He looked to her, not sure which of them should explain or how much he should even say.

“It’s a safe house,” said Emily eventually. “You know how Spencer was away last year doing confidential work for the Bureau? This is where he was. This photo looks like it was taken from inside the property line."

"That photo was taken right after I got there," he said gravely.

Emily blinked. "That was more than a year ago."

Whoever these Unsubs were, they had been preparing for this for a long time.

17 notes · View notes