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#on my desk and my blanket feels like the lid of a coffin
shelobussy · 3 years
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ASH’S TMA HURT/COMFORT/FLUFF REC LIST 
For the gays. (And @damcrows who’s been dead for the past 24 hours. Rest in peace babe. Read some gay fic. Deny the inevitability of canon. <3)
___
the end, but the start (of all things that are left to do)  by @ajkal2
Jon wakes up.
aka. mag200 tore out my heart
(Very smol, very short, very spoiler. Def recommend for anyone who just finished the podcast.)
remind me how to smile by @tamerofdarkstars
Jon is probably fine, just hiding out somewhere while the whole murder thing blows over and that's... fine. Martin is fine with that explanation. Really. He's got plenty to distract himself - like listening through the entire What the Ghost episode library, for example. Or watching Georgie Barker's Instagram livestreams.
(Yea this was in the last rec list, but you don’t understand THE ADMIRAL GIVES CUDDLES)
Chamomile by Dribbledscribbles
Whatever the ex-tea was, if it really had ever been that last bag of chamomile Martin claimed he’d found tucked in the back of the cupboard, it was fast now.
Martin had tried catching it, chasing it, blocking its way with shoebox lids and plates and an upended footstool, but the thing was just too quick. Jon knew as well as Knew that he might have left off the attempts completely if not for the creature’s preferred game.
The game was, See How Many Times I Can Push Martin Towards Cardiac Arrest Before He Comes at Me with The Broom.
(Scottish Honeymoon Era. Adorable and weird. A vampire gets harassed.)
hey stranger by @ennuijpg
It’s a late night Tesco run, how eventful could it be? It’s not like Martin is going to run into his boss who’s wearing something absurdly different from usual and get the most acute form of whiplash possible from seeing him, right?
(Martin runs into Jon at the grocery store and has an existential crisis.)
roses roses, roses. by @judesstfrancis
Rose scented laundry detergent. Running into Jon in the breakroom. Running into Jon on his way back to his desk. Rose scented detergent. Running into Jon. Roses. Jon. Roses, roses, roses. 
(Canon enemies to friends to lovers au-ish. Martin POV. Very pining much sweet.)
go softly by doomcountry
And there is nothing else besides this. 
(More hurt/comfort than fluff. Scottish Honeymoon Era. Mild eye mutilation.)
Not Alone by @backofthebookshelf
After the coffin, Daisy and Jon are both fragile. They hold each other up. 
(Post-buried Jon&Daisy starter pack. Very hurt/comfort.)
trust my love by antlsepticeye
“you… you’re real, aren’t you?” jon whispers, the fog slowly dissipating from his mind. “it is not a trick?”
“i’m here,” martin says softly, reaching up to grab jon’s hand that was resting on his cheek, intertwining his fingers with jon’s and squeezing. he moves jon’s hand to martin’s chest, resting it over his heart. “you’re alright. i’m alright. take your time, love. let’s just take some deep breaths, okay?”
(TOUCHSTARVED JON HAS ENTERED THE CHAT.)
reaching out by Athina_Blaine
By the time things settled, when Martin had finally managed to crack through his cold shell, feel some of his old self returning to him in bits and pieces, they had found their little routine.
One that had the two of them sleeping in the same bed, making breakfast, going to the mart. Where Jon reached for his wrist while they slept, and Martin luxuriated in the gentle warmth of his fingers.  
But not one where Martin reached back. One that had Martin kissing Jon awake or taking his hand over the breakfast table, because ... Martin never had the courage to try. And then it never became a part of the routine.
And Martin desperately wanted it to be.
-
Martin and Jon have an important conversation.
(More Scottish Honeymoon Era for the soul. Hurt/comfort/fluff.)
Belabor by @janekfan​
Jon's given the position of Archivist and is falling apart at the seams. Tim and Sasha are upset and playing games. Elias is overbearing and manipulative.
And poor Martin is stuck cleaning up the mess.
(THEE first fic I ever read for tma. Season 1, hurt/comfort/fluff, and hints of Jmartin. janekfan is the absolute master of seasons 1-3 hurt/comfort. This is my favorite, but pls check out the rest of their fics.)
tea, blankets, and a damnable stubborn attitude by ivelostmyspectacles
“Are you really gonna stay here and pester Jon all evening?”
“I’m not pestering him,” Martin retorted, sounding vehement if not busy going through the cupboards. “I’m heating up soup.”
“Oh, you might as well make him another cup of tea while you’re at it.”
“Oh, good idea.”
Jon shot Tim a withering look.
(The one where Jon is ill, Martin makes tea and they watch doctor who together. Fluff 1000%.)
A Kind Hand by @voiceless-terror
Jonathan Sims was adjusting just fine, thank you very much.
In which a minor workplace spill causes Jon to realize that he might have friends.
(Ah yes, the other master of seasons 1-3 fic aka voiceless-terror being my other fav author in the fandom. This one is also season 1 hurt/comfort/fluff.)
A Weather In The Flesh by @cuttoothed
"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."
*
Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.
(More touched starved Jon! Much hurt/comfort!)
Something Old, Something New by @cirrus-grey
Months have passed, and everyone is doing better than they were. Daisy and Basira are getting married, Melanie is feeling her old self, Georgie is as much herself as she has ever been, and even Jon has stabilized on his wild fall away from humanity. Everyone is doing better.
Well. Almost everyone.
(Daisy/Barsira wedding! Melanie is a bitch and we love her! Jmartin dance! Post-canon (almost) everyone lives!)
The Weight of Love by @voiceless-terror
Jon is a restless sleeper. Martin attempts to adjust. 
(The fic where Jon is literally me and Martin attempts to sleep for 1k words.)
The Art of Conversation by @voiceless-terror
"Do you ever stop talking?"
Jon has a complicated relationship with words. Difficulties come and go.
(Jon has adhd and Martin is in love.)
Novelty by @backofthebookshelf
Jon experiences A Sexual Attraction; Martin has A Concern. They figure it out.
(Any fic that explores the ace spectrum is a 10/10. We stan all ace interpretations of jon on this blog.)
Half a Hug by Dathen
I know you weren’t going to hurt me, I trust you, he said again and again. And then a different kind of fear shone through, hollow and echoing: “Please don’t stop touching me."
-
Or: Life is hard when you're touch-starved but have trauma related to your closest friend.  Spoilers through TMA 132.
(Honestly bless every author who saw jon&daisy and was like. They’re siblings. No I will not elaborate.)
the loneliness never left me (but i can put it down in the pleasure of your company) by Athina_Blaine
It was about Martin making Jon feel safe, treasured, and loved. And it had been so, so long since anyone made him feel that way.
And, in the face of it all, Jon was starting to flounder.
(At this point I just need to make separate rec list for Scottish Honeymoon Era.)
you can watch me corrode by scarletfish
"So, how long have you been pulling this shit then?"
"I… excuse me?" Jon’s indignant, certain she can’t mean what he thinks she means.
"When was the last time you ate?"
(Georgie decides Jon and Melanie need a normal day off. Jon learns that he and Melanie have more in common than he thought.)
(Look, Melanie isn’t my favorite person in tma, but she and Jon are like THE SAME PERSON and I adore fics that elaborate on their relationship.)
Out of the Wind, In From the Cold by @ostentenacity
There are two bedrooms in the safehouse, and two beds.
For a moment, Jon considers asking to share, but decides against it with a wince. “I really loved you,” Martin had told him. Loved. Past tense. And Martin doesn’t exactly have a lot of choices right now in terms of company; it would be cruel to demand he play at feelings he no longer has just to make Jon happy.
(For a moment, Martin considers asking to share. But he dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. Jon has already done so much for him. Martin isn’t about to ask for more, especially not when it’s something he doesn’t really need. He has his right mind back, and he has Jon’s friendship. That should be enough for him. It’ll have to be.)
---
Jon thinks that Martin doesn’t love him. Martin thinks that Jon doesn’t love him. They do not, of course, discuss this. Unrequited love is already awkward enough, right? No need to dwell on it.
(THEE SCOTTISH HONEYMOON ERA FIC. IT’S ABOUT THE PINING, BEING MUTUALLY OBLIVIOUS AND FALLING IN LOVE. 10000/10.) 
I Do by @voiceless-terror
“I, um- this was supposed to be a lot more romantic, I swear.” Martin looks down at the dirty bar floor. “I had it all planned out, I-I was going to take you somewhere nice, and then we’d go for a walk in the square- I’ll still do it!” He hurries to explain, as if that’s the most pressing part of this situation. “It’ll be really nice, I’ve already hired a photographer-”
In a fit of protectiveness, Martin proposes to Jon.
(Everyone lives, Martin accidentally proposes and Jon is crying in public.) 
________
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fairestwriting · 3 years
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title: piece of my world
word count: 1562
summary: Phoebe shuts off the game before she goes to bed, but it doesn’t seem to end there.
commissioned by @invaderphoeb ! hope you enjoyed it and thanks so much for the support <3 also available on ao3 here !
guidelines for commissions are here, in case anyone else is interested
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That game had an interesting prologue.
Phoebe chuckles when she switches the phone off, letting her face meet the mattress for a second, smiling. She had fun with it, there were more chapters to look into later, but for now the prologue would have to be enough — It was that long already, all of its parts stretching far into the night.
She yawns, turning around on the bed, now laying on her back instead of her stomach. It had been her friend’s idea to have her play it, knowing her love for Disney movies and its villains, and she’s grateful for the recommendation. It had been a fun night.
But naturally, everything needs to come to an end, and this far into the night, Phoebe really needed to get some sleep.
Hopping off the bed, they leave their phone on the nightstand and dig into their closet for a couple moments before retrieving their favorite pajama set, changing without thinking about much of anything. They hang the clothes they’d been wearing previously on the chair near the desk, then get under the covers, snuggling up until they’re comfortable.
Pip, their dear teddy bear, had been resting on the nightstand, next to the phone, but soon enough it’s in their arms again, squeezed tightly as they nuzzled it with a small smile.
It’s funny seeing how the personalities of the villains translated into these characters, how they held that sort of familiarity she felt when she watched the movies, but turned into something new and refreshing. She didn’t know exactly who was who yet, just a handful of scattered names her friend had mentioned to her, but seeing some elements on the character’s designs, she had a couple of guesses here and there.
It was an interesting game, really. Phoebe was excited to play some more in the morning, she thinks, and drowsiness began to cloud her mind.
That cat, Grim, with his blue flames a boasting, prideful dialogue, and the headmaster Dire Crowley, with that mask and flashy blue clothing, stay in her mind for a bit. Kind of like they’re staring at him through water, Phoebe sinks into the pool of her thoughts, slowly fading away as sleep takes over, and they don’t leave.
What a funny game. She wonders which characters she’d get to know in chapter one — Which villains were personified there, and how. Crowley’s words, in that specific tone of voice he had, echo along incomprehensibly, and she thinks of this one red haired boy who had chased after Grim in the story.
In Phoebe’s blurred vision, he’s running like that, in those robes. She wonders where he was headed, briefly.
. . .
“What happened here?”
“Where the hell did this come from… who is this person?”
“Are they conscious? Everyone, step away…!”
The world blurs and unblurs, everything darkened with the still not faded unconsciousness of Phoebe’s brain — Not many thoughts run through her mind, is she dreaming? The place around her can barely be seen, but it doesn’t look like her room.
No, it doesn’t look like her room at all.
It’s purple all around, odd lighting comes from a chandelier and hanging lamp lights in a sort of lavender or reddish tone. There are windows on the walls, decorated with intricate framing that looped in all sorts of arabesque-like designs, long dark purplish curtains covering their corners, mirrors all around.
Near those walls, coffins floating ominously, emanating glow from a circle on their very centers that kept fading in and out, with all those people around him too, Phoebe notes vaguely, but he can barely move. He feels something poking at him, first at his wrist, then on his face—
“What are you doing? Don’t touch them like this, or it’ll be off with your head…!”
What…? Phoebe tries to open his eyes, but it’s difficult. The voice is eerily, slightly familiar, the line definitely so, taking her way back to watching the classic Alice in Wonderland in a rainy night, curled up in blankets and holding her—
The teddy bear. Where was it?
“Oi, it looks like they’re waking up…” A rougher, deeper voice comes into play after a couple of steps, Phoebe still can’t see right, but she knows there’s a man looming over her, intense eyes that stand out between darker skin and hair.
Her vision unblurs slightly, for a moment. She sees the slash of the scar across his eye.
“This looks strange…” A faraway mutter by an analytical voice, quiet yet it calls for Phoebe’s attention, she sees another tan man on the borders of the crowd, long hair cascading over his shoulder. A shorter one with white hair and red eyes standing by his side. “Kalim, stand behind.” He says, it comes out commanding, misplaced when it came to the image he got through
“Ehh, Jade, what’s going on? Did the entrance ceremony just get interesting?” Another faraway sound, a giggle among many other mutters.
“Mm, it seems so, Floyd.”
Blur again, but it doesn’t last too long before it leaves again, and the faint shapes of other people come back into Phoebe’s field of vision. The voices around Phoebe don’t stop talking, gawking at them like they’re some sort of lab rat to be experimented on, they want to stand up and tell them to back off, to ask where the hell they are, what sort of dream is this? But they can’t move at all, every limb feeling like it’s been cemented onto the floor.
Despite the way their eyes kept darting around, not even their lids could stay fully open—
“What the hell is that…” Someone else is giggling, leaning forwards, a sly smile with orange hair and red eyes.
“Shush, you’re gonna get into trouble, and we didn’t even get sorted yet..!” A person nearby, short dark hair and eyes of the same color, scolds them.
Phoebe is mostly trying to move. Wiggling fingers or toes, squirming, but it’s like they’re trapped into their own body, fading in and out of consciousness, only one foot into the bizarre dream, and the other…
“Has the headmaster not said he’d check where that person came from?” The voice near the one Phoebe could link the name Floyd to asks, just a tad closer, had he taken a couple steps towards them? “I don’t believe I see him anywhere.”
“Super weird, huh. I like it.” That Floyd drawls, sounding just on the edge of a giggle. “Hey, Jade, d’you think they’re from anywhere we know? Maybe some first year who just passed out here?”
“What are you… you two, get away from them, what excuse would you tell if they found you hovering over an unconscious body?” A new, unfamiliar voice perks up. Looking around drowsily, Phoebe finds the source of that duo, two tall teal-haired young men, a third, smaller and silver-haired one popping up between them through the crowd. “Keep away. This is not our problem to solve—”
“Eh, but Azul likes getting up on other people’s businesses, doesn’t he.” Floyd laughs.
“Now’s not the time for this!” A new voice scolds — the boy who’d said that familiar phrase, off with your head, she finds out he’d been small, red haired, and…
Realization hits even through the haze. Was that the game’s prologue?
“Really, where is that headmaster…”
“You know you can’t trust that guy, all he cares about is…”
“But it’s more interesting like this, right? Entrance ceremonies are so boring…”
Murmurs and more murmurs around them. Phoebe resigns herself to the dream. Maybe she’d wake up. Maybe she’d tell her friend about it tomorrow morning, laughing about how easily the game had trickled into her head, turning into this weird frenzied fantasy.
Because it wasn’t real, right? There’s no way something like this could be!
“Silence!” Another voice — One easily recognized, even before the eye-catching figure of a man in flashy garments and a bird mask steps in hurriedly. It’s that headmaster Crowley, his eyes glowing slightly in the dim light. “Don’t crowd around the unconscious person like this—”
“But do you know where they come from?” The scarred man with a deeper voice says, but takes a step back anyway. The headmaster looks around, frantic.
“Of course! Of course I do, perhaps they’re a student, just…”
“Is that… is that teddy bear glowing?”
The headmaster gasps, Phoebe feels a spark of energy hitting her mind again — Her teddy, she pleads in the back of her mind, trying to move, to look around, and she finally sees Pip, laying right next to her, who would now, but a soft glow emanates from the plush of its body. Phoebe’s efforts go towards stretching her arms to grab it, just hold it again, but it’s still impossible.
“This doesn’t look good.” The headmaster says in an uncharacteristic, quiet voice. “Students! Kindly do step back, I’ll be taking them to the infirmary?”
“But are they a student?” The bossy red-haired boy questions. “Headmaster?”
The voices begin to melt and muddle together like ingredients stirred into the same strange syrup — Phoebe sees glowing eyes through a mask very clearly as her body is picked up, internally panicking before the teddy bear is also taken from the floor and placed within her arms.
It doesn’t take too long for everything to go black again.
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composereggwrites · 4 years
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Oh hold me close, there’s nothing here which Chokes
Fandom: The Magnus Archives Rating: T Characters/Ships: Alice “Daisy “Tonner & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims Additional: Non-Sexual Intimacy, Shower Sharing, Hurt/Comfort, brief panic attack, Fluff, sharing a bed Author’s note: Written for a gift exchange! This is for @osirisjones!
Summary:
It starts after the coffin. After the nightmare of TooCloseICannotBreathe. Finding yourself pressed against another is far more comforting than the rough rock and stone, or grime of dirt.
Showers remind Jon a bit too much of what it's like to not be able to breathe.
Daisy understands. Martin has his own issues with the feeling of mist in his lungs.
Ao3 or Below!
It starts after the coffin. After the nightmare of TooCloseICannotBreathe. Finding yourself pressed against another is far more comforting than the rough rock and stone, or grime of dirt.
It starts with Daisy declaring that she's going home to shower now because it's been a week since she's done so, and the sensation building up on her skin is a bit too much like being buried. It starts when she looks at Jon and says, "You look like you could use a shower too."
He grimaces, looking at her from his seat at his desk. "Probably. Hard to take one at the institute, though, and I haven't gotten around to getting a new place. I got uh... Evicted, during the whole six-month coma thing," he says, sheepish smile on his face as an explanation.
An eyebrow raises, as she gives him a Look. Which is probably fair, considering she’s got her stuff and a place already, even though she was gone longer than he was. Jon never claimed to be functional. “Yeah, and what have you been doing all this time, then?”
“It’s remarkable how well you can keep clean, given some no-wash shampoo, body wipes, and time alone in a bathroom here. Plus, there’s a laundromat not too far away,” he says. It’s true, he can manage just fine like this. He has to, as his life spirals ever more out of control, less time and mental energy able to be dedicated toward tasks such as cleaning. Even if he prefers it that way.
A familiar hand joins his as Daisy rolls her eyes, and pulls him out of the chair. “Well, that won’t do. You’re coming back to my place and taking a proper shower, Jon.”
She doesn’t give him a choice. No chance to protest as she drags him out of the institute. In a way, that’s easier than having to confront the idea that he wants this.
Everything is fine. He keeps repeating that in his head with each step. Daisy’s warmth bleeds into him from their connected pinkies, a pinpoint prick of security as they walk to her apartment.
(Neither of them take the trains through the tunnels nowadays, if they have the choice to avoid it.)
It’s a silent walk. Jon keeps his eyes on Daisy, and she keeps hers on the path they follow. The hunter knows the way home, and the watcher knows better than to let his eyes stray to targets, to food, with her so close by.
“Order some food while I take my shower. You’re crashing here tonight, and don’t think about trying to argue your way out of that,” Daisy says, as she unlocks the door and bustles around. He diverts his eyes as she grabs fresh clothes and steps into the bathroom of her single-bedroom apartment.
It’s…
Not as utilitarian as he expected, in all honesty. Photos of her and Basira hang on the wall, blankets draped over the couch. It’s not warm or cozy, but neither is it barren of signs of life. He can hear sounds of the Archers coming from the bathroom, indistinct through the walls.
Jon sits on the couch, and orders pizza. Tries desperately to distract himself with mindless phone games. Tries to ignore the lure of the owner of a shop they passed on the way here, who has a statement fresh for the picking. Tries not to Know about anything in this apartment, what stories and fears might lie under the false comfort of a quilt. What the pictures might hide.
When Daisy emerges precisely ten minutes later, hair still damp and looking far more refreshed--though she still has bags under her eyes, like all those who work in the archives--she’s wearing casual sweatpants and an old t-shirt for the Archers.
“Got us pizza, since I know what you like on it. Half and half, because you refuse to accept pineapple on it.” A grin flickers on his face, and he gets one on return.
“What blasphemy, putting fruit on a pizza! I’ll stick to my pepperoni and extra cheese, thank you.” She rolls her eyes as she speaks, and steps into her room, door left open so they can continue speaking.
“It’s really quite good. You just can’t grasp the intricacies of it!” he shoots back. An argument they’ve had a hundred times before flowing freely from his lips. He knows all the lines, like they’ve rehearsed.
The fun in arguing dies on his lips.
She tosses some old clothes at him, and he knows (not Knows) that they’ll be slightly too big and baggy, because he’s stolen clothing from all his assistants at this point. The resident laundry thief’s work is never done.
(It’s grounding, having pieces of the others to carry with him. His favorite is Martin’s hoodie).
“Go shower, Jon.” Daisy slides down onto the couch as he stands. No doubt she’s tasted the shift in his mood in the air, bitter on her tongue.
He takes the clothes and walks into the bathroom. Small, yellow walls. There’s a fresh towel on the rack already, so he sets the clothes on the counter and slips in.
The spray of water is a blessed relief compared to the days of rubbing and scrubbing away at the dirt building against his skin. Heat seeps into his aching muscles and world-wracked soul. Washing away the damage wrought. The layers of soil walls crumbling down.
It’s humid. It’s hot. The room is small. The steam makes breathing hard.
Jon huffs, and focuses. He just. He needs to ignore the unsettling feeling growing in his stomach, the fear that lingers like mint, there no matter how hard you try to kill it. Invading where it is not meant to be.
The mist coils around his lungs. Damp skin sticks as he bumps against walls. The shower is so small, how does Daisy survive it all?
A knock at the door is what makes Jon realize he’s knocked over the bottles, crouched on the floor. Hands embedded in his half-shampooed hair.
“I think I might actually get in trouble if you die in my shower. You alright in there?” she calls, door opened a crack so he can hear, though the curtain is still solidly in place.
Daisy’s voice washes away the suffocating anxiety better than any water could, and he takes a breath. “Yeah, I-- Ah. It felt… small. Difficult to breathe. You know…”
And she does know. She must, because she slips into the bathroom, and he can hear the toilet lid being set down so she can sit. “It’s why I play sounds on my phone.”
He snorts, and manages to get his legs back under himself, standing again. “Harder to lose yourself to the fear of choking when there’s a soap opera to listen to?” he asks, tone wry.
“Oh hush. You ought to try it.” She’s laughing, and he can picture the roll of her eyes as he washes out the shampoo. It’s easier, with another presence here. The heat is less oppressive, not trying to pierce his skin. Instead, it simmers and soaks, driving out the icy cold.
“I--I think I’m good now.” It slips out of his mouth, even as he wishes to swallow the words, to beg for company until he’s done.
“Well, I think it’s rather fitting. Soap opera for when you’re all… soapy. So I’m going to start the next episode you were on, since you’re so woefully behind.”
It’s hard to not laugh when Daisy makes a bad pun, and he doesn’t try to hold it back. Doesn’t stop himself from listening to the absurdity, talking with her about the drama and plot as he works to scrub his body clean.
When he steps out of the shower, smelling of her lavender products, Daisy politely averts her eyes until he’s dressed. Then she links their fingers together once more, and they trot out in time to catch the pizza man.
Jon Knows later, as they sit and eat their pizza with dramatic flair, held loftily above their mouths sprawled out on the couch and each other, that the delivery person thought they were a couple. When he mentions it to Daisy, she cracks up, and he joins her, pausing the episode they were on.
“Us? A couple?” she repeats, for the tenth time. “Like, no offense Jon, but even if I were into guys, you’re not my type.”
“Some offense taken,” he replies, free hand held to his chest. “Oh how scorned I am by your rejection! You like Basira well enough, and she’s good at being a stuffy academic.” The air quotes are audible, dripping from his tongue as he takes another bite.
“She’s an academic who knows how to shoot a gun. Got more muscle than you could ever dream of, bone boy,” she shoots back, elbowing him in the side. Taking care to hit where there’s still ribs.
“Ah, I see. With my bountiful eyes.” She snorts, because if he actually had extra eyes, she’d be the first to know. “You like someone who you have a chance of losing to in an arm wrestle. No wonder I’m so woefully disqualified.”
“I’d let her do more to me than win an arm wrestle.” Daisy waggles her eyebrows.
When he processes what she means, Jon lets out a long, drawn out sigh. “Every day. Every single day I am bombarded by innuendo. When shall I be freed from this curse?”
“Whoa there, no need to bring the Sahara into my apartment with that dry tone, Mr. Sandman.”
“Wrong entity. How dare you accuse me of being aligned with the Dark?” He has to set his paper plate down, or risk dropping his food at this point, with the amount of laughter going on.
“Whatever, eye guy. Let me braid your hair once we’re done eating. Maybe now that you’re cleaned up, your prettyboy looks will lure your man out of the fog. I bet he’d love to win an arm wrestle against you. He totally could, too.” She gestures at him with the pizza slice, smirk across her lips.
Jon stammers, hiding the blush creeping up his cheeks behind his hand. “I--uh. Ah. Daisy-- Even if... Even if you’re right, I--”
She softens into a smile, and puts a hand on his arm. “I’m sure you can ace your way into his heart.”
Two seconds of silence.
Then giggles, as he covers his mouth with a hand. “That was-- That was awful. That’s the type of joke I’d be making in uni!”
“Unless my puns are bad enough to drive you out of my apartment, I stand by the offer. The only condition is that you’ve gotta braid mine, too.”
He takes another bite as he ponders it. Really, the answer he wants to give is on the tip of his tongue, but-- Denying himself what he wants is habit, ingrained in himself by now.
Still, it’d be nice.
“Sure, why not,” he says. “Hair braiding and listening to The Archers. Sounds like the perfect night.”
The couch is comfier than the Archives, that night. Daisy’s apartment warmed with the small spark of vanilla candle friendship.
In the coming months, it’s easy to make a habit out of this.
----
Collapsing into bed at the safehouse the night they arrive is one of the easiest things Jon has ever done, and that’s counting the amount of time it takes to get Martin to join him. They both still smell of sea salt and taste of fog, but he pulls Martin into bed with him despite the ever-constant protests.
“Martin, it’s fine,” he murmurs. “We’re both tired, we can share the bed. Hell, Daisy and I have shared a bed before, at her place.” It’s out of his mouth before he can think to stop it, and one hand goes up to the messy braid of his hair, from just two days before.
“O-oh. You and-- and Daisy?” Martin asks, paling a bit in the moonlight. Eyebrows scrunched together in the most adorable way that makes Jon want to reach out and run his fingers through Martin’s hair. “I didn’t know?”
“Because there’s nothing to know.” It dawns on him that he can do that. So he reaches up, and cards his fingers through the messy strands of reddish brown. “It was-- it was a friend thing, nothing more. A couple times a week she’d drag me to her place, and really, it was-- It was easier in the end, to just share the bed. Rather than have me sleep on the couch. Helps me deal with the nightmares, if I have someone there. I figure… If you have any, it might be the same.”
It’s enough for Martin to soften, and stop looking so jealous (which, now that Jon can recognize that, he finds it touching). He slides into bed without any more fuss, and soon enough Jon finds himself wrapped up in Martin’s arms. All pretenses of pretending to not want to cling immediately dropped.
Sharing a bed with Martin is different from sharing one with Daisy, he discovers that night.
With Daisy, they link hands, arms intertwined, and lay back to back. Neither of them were inclined to spoon, and he knows suggesting it would’ve gotten a joking threat with a knife (nothing like before, no real danger in her words, and she would’ve grumbled but wrapped him in her arms like she did when the nightmares got too bad, and they needed more contact).
But with Martin…
Martin is full of warmth, despite the wisps of fog that still want to encroach. At some point in the night, between becoming an octopus and clinging right back, Martin rolls over on top of him in his sleep, and Jon melts.
Martin is a solid, heavy weight against him. Grounding him to the mattress. Jon still catches bits and pieces of nightmares, but the pressure isn’t oppressive, not near as much as he feared. A spark of terror in his heart, at first, but all he has to do is open his eyes and see Martin there. Another person, not the dark-dirt pressing-walls of Choke. He thinks, perhaps, that the fear has receded, if he can handle this.
It’s only on his way to shower the next morning, that the terror comes roaring back. Gripping his heart and making him pause outside the bathroom door. He can hear Martin singing in the kitchen as he bustles around, cleaning up the breakfast mess.
But will it be enough?
He takes a breath, steels himself and turns the handle. Prepares to face this.
And then stops, turns his head, and calls, “Martin?”
Martin must hear the waver in his voice, sense the way Jon is a rubber band pulled taut, because he immediately drops what he’s doing and comes to Jon’s side. Sees the way he’s shaking, ever so slightly in his skin (skin that still doesn’t feel like his after what Nikola did), and places a hand on his shoulder. Soft, tentative, as he asks, “Are you alright?”
“I-- I’ll be fine, it’s just…” He could still turn back, say it’s nothing, though Martin would still worry. And…
He’s safe with Martin. Just like he was safe with Daisy.
Safe enough to ask for help.
“The uh-- The reason I went to Daisy’s so often was because I needed to shower, but the feeling. I hate cold showers, but the steam made it harder to breathe. And I needed-- It helped if someone was there, with me?”
He looks up at Martin, and confusion-fear bubbles in his stomach when Martin laughs a little, but it’s quickly abated by his words. “I was actually thinking of asking you for the same thing? It’s just, for me… Being alone in a room full of mist doesn’t seem like a good idea?”
Jon chuckles, though it’s quickly cut off when he slaps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, sorry, that was-- You’re right. I’d be glad to be there for you, Martin,” he says, and it’s amazing how a few simple works make Martin light up. The blush against his cheeks is something Jon feels he can be proud to put there, now.
“Might be best to take one at the same time. I don’t know how much hot water this place has,” Martin says, before immediately backtracking. “If you don’t want to though, I understand!”
He shakes his head, and pulls Martin along with him into the bathroom. “It’s fine with me. It makes sense. Amazingly, this place has a bigger shower than Daisy’s apartment. And I’m thankful to find that there are no bloodstains on the tub here, either.”
Martin snorts, and Jon smiles. He takes out the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash from his bag of toiletries as Martin undresses, making sure that there’s a clean washcloth as well.
It’s a bit cramped, but they have enough space to navigate. The bump of their bodies against each other is reassuring too. Silent moments of I’m here and you’re not alone, you’re not going to choke on your own fear.
At some point, he finds himself helping Martin clean his back. Slow, methodical scrubbing. At another, Martin’s hands are in his hair, combing through the strands as the conditioner makes it silky. When Jon starts to sing a song, Martin grins, and sings along. As they sing loud and offkey--which is part of the fun--Jon thinks there’s no place he’d rather be.
 (Later, curled up in Martin’s lap, in front of the lit hearth, he’ll have that thought again, as he presses a kiss to Martin’s lips.)
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flutteringphalanges · 4 years
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Summary:  “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”
((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))
Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula
Rating: M 
Read on FFN and AO3
A/N: Thank you for all of the comments and reblogs! This was a much darker chapter to write! I hope you guys like it! Feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen
                                         Chapter Nine
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." -William Congreve, 1697
The rain had stopped long ago, but the puddle from the aftermath collected at the bottom of her feet and up to her very edge of her dress. She ignored the numbing feeling it brought on by the cold air, her mind still reeling from before. As the sun finally broke through the clouds, offering with it a little warmth, she finally stood up. Agatha ventured towards the edge of the balcony and looked out. It was a beautiful sight to behold if she was to be honest.
For the briefest of brief moments, a part of her wondered what would happen if she merely flung herself off the edge. Down, down, down to the solid ground below. But the bigger and better part of her waved away that feeling. That same urging need to fulfill her grandfather's dying wishes. Her family's pact. So she turned around and strode with purpose back into the dark castle.
"Emotion is a weakness, Agatha. It kills. Murders. If you allow yourself to feel, you allow yourself to be vulnerable. Look at where it got me. Your father. Be hardened. Don't let yourself become a victim. Love leads only to pain. Save yourself the trouble. There is no happiness at the end of a rainbow."
Abraham watched as Agatha cradled the dead rabbit in her arms. It had been a pet she'd kept hidden from the older man. But he had found it and did what he claimed was best for his granddaughter. The girl looked up at him with a tear streaked face, anger fierce in her blue eyes.
"I hate you!" She snapped. "I hate you! I hate you! I HATE you!"
"You'll understand with time what I did for you was in your best favor." He said quietly, turning his back on the girl. "Now drop it and come inside. It's getting dark and it isn't safe to be out in the opening when it is."
It was quiet. The air still around her. The only sound that broke the silence being her wet feet as she walked across the stone floor leaving damp footprints in her wake. Agatha's eyes scanned the area around her. No sign of Dracula. Good. Maybe he had turned in for the morning. That would make things easier. Not that the idea of a good, solid fight wasn't overly tempting.
Descending the staircase, she made her way over to the table where the stake still lay untouched. She picked it up, examining it closely. The wood was carefully carved, free of splintered. Agatha couldn't ask for a more perfect weapon. Had the Count really been that reckless as to leave something like this out? Perhaps he no longer worried that she was a threat. The idea of such a thing only made her blood boil even more.
"Don't you have any family Anyone who cares for you?"
Agatha stood outside of the infirmary as they lay a blanket over Abraham Van Helsing's corpse. The only other person in the world she knew was gone. Perhaps she had an extended family, but she knew not where they were or had any means of contact. Her grandfather had made sure of that. Separation was safe. Something he'd taught her.
"No." She answered quietly, finally addressing the young woman who spoke to her. A nun of all people. "I don't."
"Oh," the nun said softly. "That must be very lonely. Surely you need someone."
"I don't mind it." Agatha said with a half smile. "Sometimes it's better that way. You don't get hurt. Or broken. Perhaps being by myself was what life always had in store for me." That and her mission to end Count Dracula. "I'll manage."
"But you don't need to." And the woman rested a hand on Agatha's arm. "Come with me to my convent. You'll be welcomed there. You don't have to be alone. God always has room for another."
Religion. Christianity. The young Van Helsing gazed down at the nun's hand. To be somewhere. Maybe able to find herself. Maybe able to study more in the process. Had she much of a choice? What money had Abraham left anyway? Barely a cent to his name. Agatha thought long and hard before inhaling deeply.
"Okay," she finally decided. "Okay."
What exactly would happen when she struck him deep within his chest? Would he immediately turn into dust? Burst into a flaming pillar? The possibilities seemed endless as Agatha traveled down the all too familiar path towards Dracula's coffin. She'd be quick. No hesitation. If she should show the slightest amount of pause, he'd be able to take advantage of the situation quickly.
Her still mending hand began to sting from how hard she was gripping her weapon. But she ignored the pain. Ignored how chilled her wet feet were against the stone. She was hellbent. Ambitious. Abraham would be proud. But the further she walked, the closer she got to the cellar, the more she began to wonder if she was really doing his bidding. Doing it in his honor. No. No, it was something else. Something Agatha was forcing herself not to think about.
"A nun's heart belongs to God and God alone. We embrace those around us, but our true love is to the Lord and his teachings."
Agatha sat on the opposite side of Mother Superior's desk, hands folded tightly in her lap. She hadn't been at St. Mary's Convent for very long, but already she was being assimilated in. The head nun wasn't as old as she had anticipated. A round face with a firm voice that still held some friendliness to it.
"I hold no intentions of romance," Agatha assured her. "I never have. You needn't worry about that."
Mother Superior smiled. "I'm not worried about you, Sister Agatha. There's something different about you. I'm not sure what, but I think you'll do well as a nun." She straightened up in her chair and held out her hand. Agatha took it without hesitation. "Welcome home, Sister. Welcome to your new family."
Slaughtered. Just like her rabbit. He'd slaughtered them all. Her family. Mother Superior. Each and every nun. Why had she allowed herself to forget that? Ignore what he had done. The horrors. The hatred. He hadn't batted an eye. So many lives lost and she forgave it. Or rather, from her actions, acted as such. She swallowed thickly. What was wrong with her? Agatha Van Helsing. Protector. Altruistic. Supposed to guard all those around her. A failure. Laughing stock. A singe on the Van Helsing ancestral lineage. Not anymore.
Her name was Mina. Frail. Blonde. Tiny little thing that had stumbled upon their convent in desperation. Agatha knew why. Jonathan Harker now in their care. Or what was left of him that was. The girl knew nothing of what vampires were. Sheltered from such tales. And yet, here she stood before the nun of all people. The woman who knew Count Dracula like that back of her hand. At least that is what she had convinced herself.
"I...I don't understand." The young woman stammered. "Johnny was attacked by a...vampire? But how could someone be so...cruel?"
"Not someone, something. A beast so vile has no heart, Mina. He's poison. Venomous. Count Dracula literally drains you dry. Takes away your life as if it were a mere scrap of spoiled meat." Agatha felt a little guilty for her words. For how timid the girl looked. But she needed to know the truth. "You are Christian, yes? Despite my status, I do not hold the same beliefs as you. But I swear to you, what attacked your Jonathan is the literal Satan."
"I cannot lie to you, Agatha." Mina murmured, nervously playing with her hair. "I'm frightened."
Her eyes were wide. So round. For a moment, Agatha thought she was gazing into her own reflection as a little girl. But immediately, she snapped back to her senses.
"You should fear him. Be terrified. Because the emptiness within him, any prospect of empathy or sympathy has been smothered." She finally answered.
"What must I do?" The girl asked, staring at Agatha as if she knew the answer to every question in the world. "What do I do?"
In that moment, Agatha really hadn't an answer. But she said what had been spoken to her so many times as a nun. "Pray, Mina. Pray for Jonathan. Pray for us all. And maybe, maybe someone above will listen." She paused before exhaling slowly. "Though, I can't say He's heard me yet."
Agatha approached the coffin that sat in the center of the room. No longer did boxes occupy it. Just the single casket. Fist still clenched around her weapon, the former nun managed to heave the lid open. There he lay. Still. Pale. Count Dracula in a deep slumber one might mistaken him for being dead. He was technically.
"End him."
The words rang in her head as if Abraham was speaking to her from beyond the grave.
"Do it!"
She raised the stake, positioning it over his chest. Over his heart. Her hands were trembling. Why was she shaking? Agatha sucked in a breath, trying to collect herself. This was it. Her life's work. Just one fluid motion and everything would be finished.
"Now!"
But before she had a chance to bring it down, Dracula's eyes flew open. In a matter of seconds, Agatha found herself thrust backwards. She collided with the stone, the wind knocked out of her by the motion. She panted, now face to face with the Count.
He had her pinned against the wall by the wrist, her hand still gripping the stake. Dracula's fingers tightened around her with such force he could have easily snapped the bones in two. But he didn't. Instead, he stared into her eyes. Expression still. Mouth pressed into a thin line. There was no malice. No resentment. Humor. He just stood there, holding her back.
"Abraham taught you well." The vampire stated. "Well. But not well enough."
"I sure as Hell plan to get farther than he ever did." Agatha spat back causing a small smile to cross the Count's features. "I don't plan on letting you live."
"Oh?" Dracula said, cocking an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
Much to Agatha's confusion and alarm, he brought the fist that held the spike to his chest. Applying pressure, she could almost begin to feel it give way into his skin. Her eyes flickered from her hand, to the spike, and then his gaze. But instead of any reaction she'd expect, he merely gazed back at her emotionless.
"So do it," Dracula challenged. "End me, Agatha Van Helsing. If that's what you truly desire." He smiled and began to push harder. "End me."
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basketofverbiage · 4 years
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Sick for Christmas
Sick, sad Jiminie at Christmas. 
Jimin was extremely frustrated. He had spiked a low-grade fever two days ago but hadn’t said a word to anyone. He honestly just thought he was just over-tired from their packed schedule until he woke up with a fever of 103 two days before Christmas. He had decided he was just going to power through until he’d walked into the kitchen to have breakfast. Seokjin had taken one look at him and sent him back to bed.
“You have two options, Park Jimin. You can march your happy ass back to bed, or I am taking you to the hospital. You’ve been sick for 2 days and it’s obviously getting worse,” he’d said.
When Jimin tried to argue that he’d be okay, Seokjin yelled so loudly that the others came into the kitchen. To Jimin’s surprise, Namjoon and Yoongi took Seokjin’s side. But honestly, it was Taehyung, his own soulmate that nailed the proverbial nail in the lid of the coffin of his leaving the flat.
“That’s it, Jiminie. I love you, but I’m calling Noona. You won’t listen to us, but you’ll listen to her.”
Jimin groaned and went back to his room. Instead of changing into comfy clothes, he laid down on the bed with his face in the pillow and kicked his legs and punched his mattress like a toddler having a fit. After a few minutes, he felt too tired to keep it up though, so he turned over on his back. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep until someone called his name.
“Jiminie? Baby wake up for me. Let’s get you out of these skinny jeans.”
He groaned but opened his eyes to see Y/n perched on the edge of the bed. The light in his room was shining behind her head and she looked like an angel, with a fluorescent-light halo.
“Did Tae call you?” he croaked out.
“No. Yoongi did. He was worried. He didn’t say that specifically, but you could hear it in his voice. So I came to keep you company,” she replied with a soft smile. “But seriously, let’s get you out of those tight pants. You can’t be comfortable.”
He didn’t say anything. He just lifted his hips after snapping open the button and let her slide them down his legs. Any other day the motion would be incredibly erotic, but he felt nearly delirious with fever. He whimpered when his pants were off because he instantly felt way too cold. Jimin squirmed enough to be able to pull his blankets over top of himself.
Y/n had slipped out of the room to the kitchen to make him some tea. He needed to get some fever reducer into his system, but he needed to have a bit of sustenance first. Seokjin had put soup on before having left this morning. He had known that it would take Y/n about a half hour to get there, and the soup needed to simmer for at least an hour before it was ready. When she’d arrived, Y/n had popped in to check on Jimin immediately; in the time it took to get Jimin more comfortable, the soup finished. She put some into a bowl on a tray along with a mug of hot tea and a bottle of water. He had fallen back asleep when she walked back in the room and she had to wake him up again.
“Come on, Baby. You have to eat a little bit so we can get some medicine into you,” she encouraged him as she helped him to sit up.
“Y/n, I feel so bad,” he whined.
“I know you do, Minnie. Eat a bit and drink some tea and then you can take some medicine and go back to sleep.”
She ended up feeding him the soup, and Y/n was immensely proud that he was able to consume half the bowl before he tapped out. He took the medicine without complaint and was sipping on the water when she took the tray back to the kitchen. She had just put the leftover soup in the refrigerator when she heard Jimin call for her.
“What do you need, my Love?” she asked.
“Will you just hold me for a while? I know I’m risking getting you sick, but I feel so bad. I just need you.”
She didn’t say anything, just shedding Seokjin’s apron into Jimin’s desk chair and climbing into bed with him. He immediately snuggled up to her and put his head on her chest. He was asleep within minutes.
Y/n hadn’t intended to sleep alongside Jimin, but she fell asleep with him. She actually woke up to the flash of a camera as Taehyung snapped a photo of them.
“I’m sorry to wake you, Noona,” he whispered. “You guys just looked so cute.”
She just smiled softly, then shooed him out of the room. Jimin moved a little before his eyes opened and he looked at her as she gently soothed her hand across his forehead. He was a little sweaty, but it seemed like his fever had finally broken.
“You feeling any better?” she asked before kissing his forehead.
“Yeah. I am. Thank you for taking such good care of me. I’m sorry for being sick this close to Christmas.”
“Minnie, you didn’t make a choice to be sick. And you’d take care of me if I were the one sick.”
He was infinitely thankful for his brothers and for his beautiful girlfriend. Maybe it was the fever talking, but maybe being sick for Christmas wouldn’t be so bad.
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griffinsandpeacocks · 4 years
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Loony Two Writing challenge Week 2 Prompt
  I keep waking up to silence filled with soul deep dread.It’s been like this for almost a month now. Everyday I wake to the eerie silence that’s blanketed the castle with a winter like chill. Yet there’s still hope within the silence, everyday I wake up to the silence without it being split by my mother’s grief stricken wail I know father is still fighting. It should have been me laying in bed life draining away from some incurable poison. The attack was aimed at me. The crushing guilt has been festering and slowly gaining weight as the days stretch by. I drag myself out from beneath the royal purple sheets and dress in one of my more formal suits of dark purple accented in gold and silver.
  I take a last glance in the mirror as I place my circlet on my head. The dread comes back in a harsh flood and I shiver. Even having been raised to take the crown it feels wrong; just thinking about father’s crown feels wrong. Even if I’d had longer would I ever fill the throne like my father had? He was touted as one of the greatest Kings of Griffin’s Keep History. Even if my namesake was the first King,I felt like a failure already. What kind of King would I be? I couldn’t protect myself, I couldn’t protect my father, how was I supposed to protect an entire Kingdom? A knock sounds at my door, as I walk over I know who it is even before opening the door.
  “Good morning Sir Oberon I’ll assume it’s time for me to meet with... The councilors.” My discomfort at the idea they’ll soon be my councilors must show through because he reaches out and pats my arm. His demeanor rarely softened though since he had saved my life many years ago we had been close, and he had quickly risen as a prominent Knight within my father’s service. I’d thought myself invincible thanks to Oberon I was spared the harsh fate that awaits most who foolishly flaunt such beliefs when faced with a forest. I’ve been grateful he followed me into the forest when as a moody teen I tried to run away. He was only ten years my senior yet still had much more martial skill than I could hope for. If the recent assassination attempt had anything to say it was my incompetency.  
  “Aye it is.” He says tone as neutral as it can be given how close he is to my family. I feel sick and guilty as a quite insidious voice in my mind asks why it wasn’t Oberon who had taken the dagger instead of father. He must have similar thoughts... Me in my father’s stead.
 “Let’s be off.” I say faking a smile though it feels brittle as glass on my face as I step out and shut my door. The click of the lock sounds ominous in the heavy winter like silence that’s fallen over the entire castle. Oberon matches my stride as I head for the Council Chambers, which must be easy given our almost matched height. The silence bears down with the weight of a mountain, so it was a near thing I didn’t startle when Oberon breaks it.
  “No matter your doubts or anyone else’s you shall make a fine King. One that I, at least, will gladly serve.” Oberon rarely spoke, he was a man of action, however, he was no dolt. He carefully weighted his words before speaking, it was a quality I had admired him for often, one that my father praised him for frequently. I pause mid step blinking at him in shock.
  “I am delighted that makes at least one person who believes I can be a good ruler.” I reply and look away and keep walking certain the council will be much less supportive as it was my fault my father currently lay dying in his own chambers. We step into the room and the hushed whispers all suddenly cease and silence envelops the room like a sickly fog. One of the higher ranking councilors stands and gives me a sympathetic look as he bows his head and clears his throat.
  “My liege, it is regretfully we must inform you King Corvus has passed. Last night in his sleep he simply slipped away, our condolences for your loss.” He says and my vision blurs as white noise fills my ears. No, this can’t be right. I fall to my knees not caring about the harsh impact into cold stone, my emotions cut my strength into shreds as the pain pulls me into the abyss. I feel hands on my shoulders and it snaps me from the stupor I shake them off standing and tripping over myself as I turn and run out. No, this can’t be right, I would have heard mother’s scream. I run as fast as I can breath tearing at my lungs as I tear through the halls I see knights lower their heads as I pass all of them moving if they’re in the way none making attempts to stop me as I run to my father’s room.
  “Mother!” I cry bursting into the room and she sits by my father’s side she looks up tears still falling down her cheeks and she holds an arm out for me keeping one hand over my father’s hands that rest over his chest. I break again stumbling over and collapsing into her side. I look at father whose eyes are closed the dark circles the only thing making him look less than peacefully sleeping, albeit he’s been sickly pale for days now. I reach out and he’s cold I look to mother and she nods, confirming my worst fears.
  I thought my father would never die, he had been King for so long a running joke of the Kingdom had been to say ‘Long live the King!’ King Corvus the Immortal he had been called. He was Immortal no more, I choke trying to force the saying one last time and I can’t I collapse over my father with a cry of anguish. I can’t do this! Mother rubs my back hugging me as she sobs.
  “Long live the King.” Oberon says softly, he must have caught up but I can’t move I never wanted to be King, I feared I would never fill the hole my father would leave behind, he was beloved and wise, and had years of experience I was lacking. He was a skilled warrior while I was just a well studied fool.
  It is several days before I can summon the strength to leave my mother’s side both of us shut within the Royal chambers. When I do leave Oberon is at my side. I prepare the rights and ceremony with the help of the advisers and councilors closest to me and mother. Mother and I wear matching black attire and I wear my heir’s circlet for the last time, my hair is pulled into a high tail and my golden eyes are stark against my pale skin and all black attire. My golden circlet bearing two griffons holding aloft an amethyst moon feels heavy as lead as I bear the lantern through the dark town as we carry father to the tomb in the gardens at the back of the castle. Many of the citizens had gathered from beggar to noble and all bowed their head as my mother and I passed followed shortly after by those carrying my father’s body on a pallet.
 “With crown and sword we send you on, may you serve the Gods as faithfully as you have served us in life.” I say and I set the lantern upon the head of the coffin as he is lowered into the coffin carved with a life like relief of him upon it’s lid. As they seal it I lead them out locking the gate and leaving the lantern to burn out. I look out over the sea of faces sharing my and my mother’s grief.
  “We stand still. The line is unbroken, and I swear upon my father and every King before him back through them unto my name sake King Griffin, I will stand as resolute as he did and I will serve this Kingdom till my dying breath, to defend it’s interest, your interests. For Griffin’s Keep, For it’s people, From the mountain to the Skies!” I have practiced this in my head since I woke up but the shouts that answer of the Kingdom’s service motto is still deafening the crowd all raise their fists to their hearts in salute cheering back the line to me, and I bow my head tears falling as I place my hand over my own heart and bow to them.
 As I rise Oberon unsheathes his sword and raises it and all the knights around follow suit and call the same oath, For Kingdom, for it’s people, from our humble starts to greatness. I steel my resolve and as we reenter the palace I feel weight easing off my shoulders as Oberon smiles at me and inclines his head and Mother though sadness lingers around her smiles at me proudly. Perhaps I can be a proper King. It is not might or wisdom that makes a King, my father once told me, it is his heart.
  “Your coronation will be held in the main square the preparations shall be complete within the week, Your Majesty.” The Chief Councilor says simply as I walk past I nod and go to the office Oberon staying with me as a personal guard and this must irk him. Often he and my father would ride out with a handful of other knights upon hunts or scouting parties and yet the best I could offer was him watching as I hunched over a desk and poured over finances and supply reports making sure that the city would run properly. It’s late when Oberon pulls me up despite weak protests he drags me to the balconies that overlook the city. The skies have darkened to indigo and the stars glittered like far off diamonds.
  “This kingdom looks up to you. Not just as their protector and ruler, but because they’ve seen you walk the same streets they have and seen your grief at loosing a loved one, the same grief all of them know or fear. You are so much more than you fear Griffin. You are the King we need, for within your heart burns the desire to see us all safe above all else.” Oberon speaks softly hardly disturbing the peace this sight bears and the city he looks out to with candles and lanterns softly illuminating it is the home I’ve known all my life. He’s right I want nothing more than the safety and happiness of my people. It was the lesson my mother and father taught me well. The needs of the many shall always outweigh the needs of the few.
  “Thank you.” I say just as softly he hasn’t looked away from the city below but he looks to me as I step closer. I kiss him softly feeling a rush of so many years of fought back emotion and I feel him stiffen and pull back fearing the reaction. He pulls me right back into a deeper kiss and I melt into him. I hardly remember the hurried walk back to my rooms feeling his gaze bore into my back like two ruby fires. When I enter my room he presses into me and I give in, I don’t want to fight though I was trained in combat I never liked fighting. I especially don’t want to fight in this. He wraps his arms around me which is simple as he’s easily two of me side by side though roughly my height.
 “Submitting already my King?” He teases and I look over my shoulder to him admiring his pale skin which matches my own alabaster, where I am sleek elegance he is rugged power, his hair is pulled back in a lose tail showing the soft waves in the white hair. He was albino, but that was never seen as a flaw to my family, merely a curious trait.
  “I don’t wish to fight. I yield to you.” I say softly praying he understands and as he pulls me to bed I smile knowing it does. I forget a moment everything that troubles me and perhaps a moment I’m flying with my name sake through the heavens. It’s early when I feel him leave I open my eyes and he looks back at me when I touch his back not wanting him to go. He turns and sighs he dresses slightly before coming back to bed and curling around me.
  “You know you’ll have to marry to produce an heir?” He cautions softly and I shake my head the though churns my stomach. A King is not made by blood.
  “A wise man once told me it is a King’s heart that makes him. Not his blood, his power, or his wisdom.” I reply and Oberon chuckles softly.
  “Aye.” He agrees and the next few days are a blur of preparations and meetings and I do my best to keep up a front that I am fine. It hurts and I’m plagued with doubts that I will fail. I wasn’t able to defend myself. I train when I have spare time with Oberon I used to only train enough to keep sharp now I do it to improve my skills. I don’t want to just be competent with my sword, a light saber that’s as elegant and sharp as it is deadly. Oberon is a master at the long sword and he gives me no quarter driving me hard as I asked him to do.
 At the end of the week I am dressed in the kingdom’s colors, black, silver, gold and royal purple. My circlet has been placed in a box and my crown waits with the Chief Councilor at the foot of the main square fountain. It’s a design I remember on King Griffin’s crown but with a few variations. Two golden griffons reach up cupping the silver moon and they’re wings arch out and around highlighted gold and silver. The eyes are amethysts. My Black boots and pants lead to a dark purple high color shirt and a black trimmed over coat that bears the Kingdom crest upon the back. They’re elegantly embellished with silver and gold depicting the mythic beasts we bear on our crest. I stare at myself not sure I can see me in my own reflection.
 “Are you ready?” Oberon asks and I shake my head and look at him my mother waits with the Chief Councilor so it was just me and him.
  “This doesn’t feel real. I imagined father would hand over the crown not... Never this.” I say in pain and he comes close to hold me and he looks me in the eyes holding my face steady.
  “You are not at fault Griffin. You never meant to hurt a soul.” He assures and I take a deep breath nodding and we walk down the knights flanking the roads leading to the city’s main square draw their blades and raise them over head as an archway of steel I pass under as flowers rain over me from balconies and those upon the streets. I keep calm though I want nothing more than the safety and quite of my rooms. I step up the steps that lead to the fountain that my mother and the Councilor wait at.
  “You have come far young Prince, yet a Prince you are no longer, are you ready to accept your role as the rightful King?” The Councilor asks voice carrying over the crowd that has grown silent. I pause uncertain the words feel like venom on my tongue. Can I do this?
  “I object! I am the King’s rightful heir!” A voice calls and all eyes go to the man striding out of the crowd. He is strangely familiar and I pause looking to the Councilor about to abdicate to the stranger. Then I look back a small crest on the hilt of his sword catches my eyes I knew it well, after all the blade had been close to me though it had been the dagger no doubt in his boot. Pure rage fills every fiber of my being as I draw my own saber and stand in the way of the crown and my mother.
 “Come no further liar!” I shout and he pouts smiling as he stops cocking his hip and tilting his head as he crosses his arms over his chest.
  “What a shame! Whatever gave me away?” He asks and I shake with the emotions coursing through me.
  “Your damn crest! I know it from that cursed night! How dare you come here spouting such filth a mere few days after my father’s death! This will be finished.” I snarl and he laughs drawing his own blade he bows and has the gall to move a hand behind his back.
  “Indeed it shall... You’re move first... You’re majesty.” He sneers and I lunge in the clash of blades and shrill scream of the crowd and the knights shouting to create a ring to protect the crowd and all I focus on is him. Silence reigns as tension builds and we dance dangerously blades clash and we pivot and step again and again.
  “You fight well for someone who needed Daddy to save them.” He says and I don’t take the bait an uppercut slash sending him back.
  “Big talk from someone trained to kill before the target can fight back.” I spit back both of us circling before lunging back towards each other.
  “Looks like the fledgling’s growing in their feathers!” He barks and I smirk at him as an idea unfurls it is dangerous but if it works... I spin creating an opening he lunged for I step away and back bring up my blade and this time it meets flesh instead of steel. He drops his blade crying out in pain but I give no quarter coming up for the kill I lunge burying my blade through his leg I draw back as he falls my blade at his throat dripping crimson beads on his skin.
  “This ‘fledgling’ has long left it’s nest. If it weren’t for the fact you won’t give me a name or the antidote to the concoction you used I’d let you live. Instead you will die here and now for your crimes against The Crown.” I say voice steady despite how much I feel sick though there’s this strange glee at seeing my father’s killer at my mercy. He looks up wide and crazed eyed.
  “Wait! I can give both!” He cries and I pause I gesture a guard closer, Oberon answers and he grabs the man’s sword.
  “Sir Oberon, this is now your problem to solve. Once he gives you the information be sure to throw him in the dungeon.” I am filled with anger but I will keep my word. I wipe my blade with the cloth another knight offers and I sheath it back at my side.
  “But, you said-” He tries and I pivot on my heel walking back to the Councilor and mother I look over my shoulder down at him with contempt.
  “I said I would let you live. I said nothing about you going free.” I state coldly as I kneel to the councilor who places the crown on my head as I stand and turn out to the crowd I hear him chuckle softly.
                                              “Long live the King.”  
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Another tag to 4x17, this time from Kurt’s POV. Can be read as a stand alone, or with my oneshot ‘Faith’.
@lurkingwhump, you’re my rock :)
Managed to fill another @badthingshappenbingo square as well.
Please excuse any errors.
I hope you enjoy this :)
A frustrated grunt escaped his lips.
They had been searching by torch light through the woods for over an hour now. The temperature had plummeted, freezing the ground and making progress even slower.
It had been over four hours since Jane's comms had gone silent. It had taken a further three to get Madeline to crack on Jane's whereabouts. It had taken every ounce of Kurt's strength, not to throttle the woman once he had found out what she had done with his wife
Buried alive.
They had buried her alive.
Even now, thinking about it, he couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief.
He knew that Jane was running out of time. If the cold hadn't got to her by now, the lack of oxygen surely wouldn't be far behind…
Maybe she was already…
Kurt winced, not allowing himself to finish the thought. There was no way after surviving the ZIP poisoning, which was meant to be fatal, that she would be taken from him now. He couldn't let himself think that way.
“Kurt!” Zapata's desperate call came from behind a tree, not too far from where he was. “I think we've found something!”
He raced over to where her voice was coming from, taking in the scene in front of him.
The soil was different here, still overturned and unsettled enough that it hadn't frozen solid like the ground around it.
Kurt didn't even hesitate. He strode over to the mound, sinking to his knees. Desperately, he started digging through the dirt, ignoring the bite the nearly frozen soil had on his hands.
Tree roots and stones cut up his fingers and palms, but still he didn't stop.
“Kurt… hold up!” Reade called, taking in the bloody mess Kurt was of his hands. His words were spoken on deaf ears though, Kurt was a man on a mission. Nothing was going to stop him.
Reade and Tasha both shrugged, before falling to their knees beside him, helping him dig.
“Jane?!” he called, hoping - praying that she would answer him. If not only to ease his mind while he got her out of there.
His desperate pleas were met with silence.
An agent appeared, having heard the commotion, carrying a couple of shovels. Kurt scrambled to his feet, yanking the shovel from his hands, before returning to digging his wife out of the ground. Reade grabbed the other shovel and Tasha moved out of the way, standing to the side, hoping that they were in the right place.
“Jane!” Kurt called again. Again he was met with nothing but a silent grave.
After another couple of minutes of digging, Tasha spoke up.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” she asked, fear gripping her heart. If they were wasting their time digging in the wrong spot, they could be wasting Jane's final minutes.
“I'm sure.” Kurt ground out. He wasn't sure how he knew, but his gut was telling him he just needed to dig a little deeper.
Zapata shared a look with Reade, who merely shrugged and continued digging. She started tapping her muddy finger against her thigh. It was her fault Jane was in this mess to begin with. Madeline had clearly had this trap laid out for her… but she had captured her... and Dominic had taken the next best thing as leverage. She couldn't help the tear that tracked down her face. If Jane died… that was on her.
She was broken out of the thoughts, by the sound of metal on wood.
Reade and Kurt quickly cleared more chunks of frozen dirt off of the lid, before Kurt bent down, brushing the rest off with his bloodied fingers.
In an act of pure desperation, he reached for the edge of the lid, pulling with all of his might. The wood cracked, then splintered, exposing two feet, one bare, one socked and both unmoving.
“Jane? Can you hear me?” he called, reaching for another board, ripping chunks off the roof of her makeshift coffin.
There was no reply from within the grave.
Kurt's desperation turned to fear, almost paralysing him. He almost didn't want to get the lid off, too afraid of what he might find.
Reade appeared beside him, a crowbar in tow. Upon a silent agreement, Kurt heaved himself out of the shallow grave, watching as his friend wrenched the rest of the lid off.
Kurt's breath caught in his throat when he finally saw his wife's face.
Her eyes were closed and she was lifeless. Her lips were blue and her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. There were tear tracks running through the dirt on her face and cuts on her knuckles where she had struggled to get free.
His heart broke completely. He couldn't move. Knowing what she had went through, right up until her final moments… he would never be able to forgive himself for not finding her sooner.
He was broken out of his tear stricken thoughts but Reade calling out.
“Kurt! She's alive!”
Kurt frowned. There was no way someone could look so dead, and still have a pulse. He stood frozen on the spot, just staring down at Reade trying to get his attention.
“Kurt! Jane needs you! Snap out of it man!”
He blinked. Could she really still be alive? He watched Reade gently pick her up, moving to pass her to Zapata. Kurt dropped to his knees, his brain finally coming to terms with the fact that maybe there was still hope.
He and Tasha pulled her out of her frozen grave. Kurt cradled her to his chest, before putting his fingers on her icy skin. His heart leapt when he felt a weak pulse, fluttering beneath his fingers.
His stillness from before disappeared instantly at that confirmation of life. He knew if he didn't act fast, she wouldn't survive for much longer.
He picked her up off the frozen ground, sitting against a tree with her secured safely in his lap, his body shielding her from the frozen ground. He opened his jacket, situating her so her chest was against his, her head tucked firmly under his chin.  
Wordlessly, Zapata helped him bundle blankets around the both of them, making sure that Jane's head was covered. Reade had gone off to call in an emergency medivac.
Her clothing was damp, as was her hair, and Kurt could only imagine Dominic had had her lying on the damp ground while he had finished making arrangements on her grave.
He tightened his grip on her, murderous rage coursing through his veins. If he ever manage to get his hands on him…
He took a deep breath, looking back at the bundle that was his wife. She was still lifeless, her body frozen, her lips still blue. Though he wasn't sure if that was due to the severe hypothermia or the lack of oxygen. She wasn't breathing properly, her breaths coming out in short shallow gasps. He couldn't allow himself to feel relief just yet, the medivac was still ten minutes out and even if they got her to the hospital on time, there was still a chance she wouldn't wake up the same person.
Her core temperature was too low, her brain starved of oxygen… there was a large chance that when she did wake, she would be brain damaged.
Kurt shook his head. He couldn't allow himself to think like that.
Tasha approached them, placing heating packs into the folds of the blankets, hoping to provide Jane with a bit more heat. Between Kurt's body heat, the blankets and the heating packs, it should be enough to keep her alive until help got there.
The minutes ticked by and Jane showed no sign of waking. She still felt frozen in his arms, despite all they were doing to try and warm her.
Finally they heard the telltale sound of the medivac, landing in a nearby field. After another five minutes or so, the rescue team emerged through the woods, carrying a stretcher.
Kurt reluctantly handed her over to them, watching as they quickly stripped her of her damp clothes, before covering her in a foil blanket and cocooning her from head to toe in thick blankets. The had placed a first aid warm compress to the side of her neck and groin, in the hopes that would help elevate her temperature.
They placed an oxygen mark over her face before lifting the gurney and carrying her out of sight.
They were gone before Kurt could really register what had happened. He knew from the start he wouldn't be able to accompany her in the medivac, as there wasn't enough space, but he couldn't help but feel empty as he watched them carry her away. Soon the light from their headlamps had disappeared and before he knew it, the sound of the rotors echoed through the forest.
“Come on Kurt.” Zapata urged. “I'll drive you to the hospital.”
She shared a nod with Reade, knowing he would stay and secure the scene.
She took him gently by the elbow, steering him out of the woods, back to where their SUV was parked. The drive to the hospital was long, both agents completely on edge. What would they find when they got there? Would Jane still be alive? And if she was alive, what kind of condition would she be in? They sat in silence, neither one sure how to comfort the other.
A part of Kurt was seething. He knew Jane would never be in this mess, if it wasn’t for Zapata. But he also knew that Tasha had just been doing her job. He had told Reade when she first returned that they needed to treat her as one of the team, and he needed to follow his own advice here. Besides, he knew that the guilt would be eating her up enough without him adding to it.
Silently, he reached out and took her hand. If they were going to be able to get through this, they needed to lean on each other. He watched as she brushed a tear off her face with her free hand, before focusing on the road again.
When they finally made it to the hospital, Kurt strode straight up to the desk, slamming his badge on the counter.
“I’m here for Jane Doe.” he ground out.
The receptionist jumped a little at his abruptness, before looking at him with a questioning expression. She typed in the name anyway and was mildly surprised to see a registered patient under that name.
“She’s still being seen by the doctors, Sir.” she said sympathetically. “You’ll need to wait in the waiting room. Someone will be along shortly to update you.”
Kurt gritted his teeth, but nodded all the same. There was nothing he could do to help Jane at the moment, and getting himself escorted off the premise wouldn’t help either of them. He and Zapata made their way to the waiting room, sitting down in the hard hospital chairs. Again neither one made a move to start a conversation, both too jittery and wrapped up in their own thoughts.
Kurt wasn’t sure how long they sat there, before he finally noticed the state his hands were in. He took a moment, excusing himself to the bathroom.
He winced as he washed the dirt and blood away, unable to stop his hands from shaking. He looked up into the mirror, staring at his distraught expression.
He couldn’t lose her. Not after everything they had been through.
Sighing he made his way back to the waiting room, taking his seat next to Zapata. They waited together in silence.
Sometime later, there was a commotion behind the double doors of the ER. He could see doctors and nurses all rushing to one cubicle, shouting to one another. He slowly got to his feet, something not quite sitting right with him. The way they were yelling, this wasn’t due to a medical emergency. He made his way to the door, before he heard the familiar voice of his wife. Though she was screaming. Clearly in distress.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!” she yelled.
“Open this door.” he ordered the receptionist, flashing his badge again.
The receptionist complied and he and Zapata ran into the room.
Kurt’s heart broke.
Jane was leaning against a bed, a scalpel in her hands, threatening staff to get away from her. There was a dangerous look in her eye, the same a trapped wild animal would get if it was injured. She had been changed into a hospital gown and had a nasal cannula up her nose and an IV in her arm. She was still incredibly pale, and Kurt knew that her behaviour was caused by the hypothermia, causing her to act irrationally. That and the fact that the last time she had closed her eyes, she had literally been buried alive and on the verge of death. It was enough to make anybody go a little insane.
His heart broke for her. The distress on her face made him want to just take her in his arms, but he needed to calm the situation first. She would never forgive herself if she were to hurt someone, especially him.
He moved through the team of doctors, his hands up in a placating gesture.
“Jane?” he asked softly, not wanting to scare her further, should she not recognise him. He still hadn’t forgotten the potential brain damage from her ordeal. She may have woken up with partial amnesia.
Her eyes flicked to his, her face crumpling the moment she saw him. He breathed a sigh of relief as recognition flooded her features.
“Kurt?” she squeaked. It was almost as if seeing his face had caused the irrational faucet in her brain to shut off. Her eyes darted around at all of the faces staring at her, to the scalpel she still held in her hands. “Oh God.” she threw the scalpel onto the tray in front of her, taking a few steps back, fear and remorse evident in her eyes.
Kurt took that moment to close the gap between himself and his wife. He pulled her into his arms, steering her back towards the bed. Her skin was still cold to the touch, and he knew she still needed emergency medical treatment. But he also knew she was scared. She had been through a massive ordeal, along with her already frayed mental health, he knew she was a ticking time bomb from losing her cool completely.
He helped her lay on the bed, being mindful of the cords snaking out from under her hospital gown. He was just about to start laying the blankets back over her, when she let out a small “Kurt.”
She grabbed his arm, and he could see that she was remembering where she had been. She looked up at him with wide eyes, her chin wobbling, before she shattered, her breathing coming out in harsh painful gasps.
“Hey hey hey.” Kurt murmured, lying on the bed beside her. He pulled her against his chest, before bringing the blankets back up to cover both of them.
The medical staff, now that the crisis had been averted, had chosen to give him a little room. Clearly he was in control of the situation. Zapata had moved back to the waiting room, knowing that giving them space was the best thing for both of them at the moment.
He stroked her hair as she cried into his chest, not sure how to respond, other than to hold her tightly. He let himself finally feel the relief in that she was ok. Damaged, both physically and mentally, but ok. She was alive.
He felt his own grief choke the back of his throat, and before he knew it, silent tears were rolling down his own face. He stroked the back of her head, holding her to his chest, both in comfort for her, but also for himself. He needed that physical contact. After seeing her practically dead, there was no way he was going to be able to get through this unscathed.
She continued to sob into his chest, unable to stop the tears and the anguish from flowing from her body. All of the emotions from the past couple of days, resurfacing and hitting her with a vengeance. She had only been able to hope that she would make it out of this one alive, and that relief played on her emotions, just as much as the fear did.
He sushed into her ear, slowly rocking her back and forward. She needed to try and calm down if she had any chance of getting the rest of her vitals under control.
“It’s ok baby, I’ve got you. You’re ok.” he whispered. “Just breathe for me, my love.”
Jane took a few ragged breaths in, knowing she needed to calm down. She brought her nose up to the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. He was her rock. The only thing in this world that truly mattered.
“That’s it.” he said softly, feeling her relax against him. “Just breathe.” he said again. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He pulled the blankets more securely around her shoulders. It was going to take a lot for both of them to come back from this. Her body was going to heal physically, and he was relieved that she seemed to have full mental functionality, but emotionally… the scars would probably never heal.
He kissed her cold forehead softly, knowing that it was just another bump in the road on their journey. They would get through this, just like they did everything else. 
It would just take time.
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