#Specter (one on the left corner)

[whatisalive-if]

Things have been strange since your partner died. At night, there are footsteps in the hallway. Your dog has anxiously been shadowing you through the apartment. Your friends can’t help but feel nervous when they come over – feel observed and unwelcome. Sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, you see a dark shape. When you turn your head, there is nothing but the eerie stillness of a place that has been gutted of one of its inhabitants. There is a presence in your home, a memory so vivid it animates the shadows. Your brother calls it grief; you, however, know better. Unfortunately, the specter haunting you is not the worst thing intent on digging its teeth into you.

What is Alive is an interactive gothic novel developed in twine. It is rated 18+ for depictions of violence, stalking, murder, obsessive behavior, explicit language, and sexual themes. Customize your main character and try to make it out alive.

Characters

Elias/Eleanor, 26, RO

Your partner’s twin. Kind and steadfast, they are one of the few friends you have left after the tragic loss of your long-time partner upended your world. They have offered to move in with you, to fill the silence that now permeates your apartment, but you know they are struggling with their own grief.

The Ghost, ???, RO

It is always watching, always waiting. Attentive, adoring, deadly. The dead have nothing but time.

Demo: January 20 2025

[grugruel]

His Little Killer

Pairings: Cooper howard x f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: in reluctant companionship with a ghoul, which turns out to be exactly as dreadful as you'd thought. You find yourself in a shoot-out where–post battle–one of your usual fights end way more pleasurable than usual.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: (violence, blood, death, in typical fallout manners), enemies to lovers, choking, pinv sex, rough sex, fingering, creampie, pet names (darlin', honey, killer, sweetheart), praise, a pinch of degradation.

AN: not yet proofread! Hope yall enjoy! (Yes, I'm unwell.'

Wood shattering, explosions booming–and charging footsteps heading straight for me. 'At my right!' I shout, gesturing in the direction of the steps. My voice barely registering above the racket of the fight.

Nonetheless, he heard me, I knew he did. Because bullets suddenly whizz past my makeshift cover in every direction except to my right.

The ammunition creating sick squelching noises as they collide with their targets, bloodsplatter spraying the walls a horrifying deep red. Meanwhile, in my corner. The heavy footsteps were left wide open to plough through the old wooden barrels I was hiding behind, 'Holy shii-' I squeak as im tackled to the floor with enough force to knock the breath out of my lungs. I try to cough, try to make my lungs open up as the man grabs hold of me. I hit my chest hard, desperately hoping it would do something–

He grabs my boots, pulling me toward him and finally- I get a breath of air. 'Stupid, fucking asshole.' I mutter through clenched teeth as I lunge and wrestle my attacker, our quarreling bodies kicking up a cloud of dust to swirl around us.

The man was big and foul-smelling, maybe it would've been better refered to as an it, considering the animalistic growls, snapping teeth, and fraying lips that bit and lunged at my face. He attempted to pin my arms to the ground while aiming its teeth at my jugular, but I was quicker. My knee smashing into his balls before he had a single thought of defending himself. He cried out in pain and I took my chance to roll him over, pinning him down with my weight instead, and I began throwing a wave of punches to his face, over and over again. 'I said MY right!' I shouted over my shoulder, weeks of fury and frustration bubbling up inside me as it fueled me into beating the ugly mut unrecognizable–when a second force slammed into my back, knocking me onto the ground once again. Another man, now climbing on top of me, his dirty fingers slithering around my throat and-

Another splatter, this time it's his blood–the second man's, and its sprayed all over me.

'Finally. . .' I exhale heavily, thudding back against the floor, splaying out with relief.

'Were really polishin' up on our teamwork.' A gruff voice announced, words coming out slow and steady with that self-satisfied tone which never failed to get on my nerves.

I heaved myself up on my forearms, angling my body so what remained of the man slumped off of me, and the source of the voice appeared like a specter from the dead man's shadow. 'You're a real pretty sight when ridin' a man like that.' He said, nodding to the guy with a bashed face.

I rolled my eyes, unbelievable. 'You mean while beating the shit out of him?' I ask, my voice pitching higher as I couldnt quite fathom the nerve of that man, despite forcing myself to get used to it over the past few weeks.

He hummed. 'Mhm, really got me goin' for a sec.'

My face scrunched up in disgust. 'Fucking cowboys.' I spat, renouncing the idea loudly. But, quietly, inside my mind, the thought had my core purring unwillingly.

'I shot right, just like you asked.' He shrugged, stalking closer, the drawl in his voice washing through the barren and now battered bar.

'The hell you did!' I hissed. He stopped at my feet, looming over me with his tall frame, frayed coat swaying around his chins, and that stupid cowboy hat covering half his face just like always. We'd been forced travelling companions for a while now, and I could say a lot of nasty things about him, but it was hard to deny- he was a real fucking apocalypse cowboy. Pretty cool if you cut his personality out of the picture.

'I said my right, what the fuck else do you think I ment with "my"?' I kick the lifeless body with my boot, emphasising my point.

'Well. . .' He shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. '. . .my, right.' He smirked.

I shook my head, shooting him daggers. 'Not even you are moronic enough to get that wrong, ghoul.'

'Well, you're right.' He admitted, shocking me for a second. But then, the problem I've always had with him, inescapable and always the same–he never shut his damn mouth. 'You need to work om your phrasin', honey.'

I shut my eyes, screwing them together so tight I began wishing I could disintegrate from annoyance and seep through the cracks between the weathered floorboards like a corn of sand. But no, I was stuck with him, and had to lay there listening to his idiocy. 'How–?' I sighed a heavy, exasperated sigh. '–is it possible for a man to be so full of himself, yet- never talk about himself?'

'Tricks of the trade, sweetheart.' He winked, clicking his tongue while those forsaken eyes roamed my body like a predator sizing up it's prey, and extended a hand toward me as if it were no big deal.

Exhausted as I was, accepting his help seemed sorely tempting to my tired body. After a moments hesitation, I decided–once, wouldn't harm my morals. So, I grabbed his hand with reluctance and let him pull me to my feet. 'I could've died, I hope you realise.'

'Yes. . . But you didn't.' His lips pulling into a grin. 'I wouldn't let that happen'.'

'You're a real bastard, y'know that?' the words left my lips with an unintentional drawl, damn that man.

The ghoul cocked an inexistent eyebrow. 'If I didnt know any better, I'd say im rubbin' of on you, honey.'

Another scoff from me. 'The only thing you're rubbing–is me the wrong way.' I spat, this time making a point of speaking as plainly as possible.

His eyes lit up suspiciously, filling with mischief as his widening smile creased them. 'Well, tell me how you like it then and I'll do it the right way.' He smirked, his voice gravely as it scraped along my spine with a shiver. He always did this, He'd call me nicknames, flirt with me. All cause he knew I hated it. But now he's just bordering on harassment. It did however, not, stop the heat from rising to my cheeks, or for a blush to seep through my skin. He'd staggered me, I truly didn't know how to react. What happened next was purely instinctively driven–

The palm of my hand made contact with his cheek, a crisp slap sounding out through the room. I even confused myself for a moment, almost as I was the one who'd been hit. But I would've been furious, how he reacted, well. . .

'There you are. . .' He purred, his tone lethal. '. . .my little killer.' A grin spreading across his face as he took a step closer.

He was pure poison, somehow both hot and cold as he ran through my veins. 'I ain't yours.' He wss the only person- ghoul, who could get on every nerve I possessed, lighting it ablaze with frustration.

'No. . .? You ain't?' He chuckled, 'You're sure startin' to sound like it, sweetheart. I see the way you look at me, the way you blush when I call you pretty little names.' He nodded toward my eyes, his hat tipping with the movement as he took another step, gaining on the precious distance between us. I feared he was right, too, my cheeks burned in a way I'd never noticed before. Had I always reacted like this? Before I knew it–I'd flung my palm for his face a once again-

Only this time, he caught my wrist. 'Tsk tsk tsk, you can do better than that, killer.' He let go off me, forcefully shoving my arm back to my side with a scoff.

But now, I'm the one stepping closer, pushing him away by the chest simultaneously. 'I hate you.' I spit, taking another step and push again, but this time he doesn't budge, and I was left standing mere inches away from him, my hands pressed firmly against his chest as my own heaved with frustrated breaths, strands of hair hanging over my face from the ordeal.

'Good. . .' He whispered, brushing wild strands of hair from my face. '. . .Now, show me how much you hate me.'

I could've slapped him again, pushed him again, done anything else than what I actually did. But my body acted on instinct, again-

I crashed into him, my hands grabbing his face as our lips met in a battle for control. He released a breathy moan, his trigger ready hands finding my waist impossibly quick to pull me flush against him, our bodies clashing together in a thud. He hummed. 'That's right, killer. Show me.' He whispered in the air-swallowing gasps between our kisses.

I put pressure behind my hands, walking him backward while my fingers found the buttons of his vest. Undoing them along with the shirt, then slid his coat and vest down his shoulders in one go, right before his back collided with the bar top. My hands found themselves making their beneath his shirt, feeling the dents of his scarred chest as I sucked his lip between my teeth, and bit down. A sharp hiss escaped him, quickly being replaced by a wide grin. 'Naughty girl.' He breathed.

Smiling, I pushed myself off of him. 'You bring it out of me.' I panted, pulling my shirt over my head and unhooking my bra, letting it fall to the floor.

He leaned back against the bar, bracing himself on his elbows as his eyes roamed over my bare chest and flushed face. 'Those are the prettiest fuckin' tit's I've ever seen. . .' He spoke in a low voice, too filled with lust to allow him anything else. 'Now, would you mind.' His hand gestured below my waist, his index finger sliding through the air as he traced the buttons of my pants from a distance.

And an idea struck me, suddenly feeling like I wanted to indulge myself in a little torture. Turning around, I did as he told me and began unbuttoning them, slowly. Terribly, terribly slowly. Sliding them over my hips and down my thighs, bucking my knees and bending over slightly as I pulled my panties down along with them. Just as I stepped out if them and looked over my shoulder to give him a coy little look, perhaps revel in the feeling of his pained expression–I was in for a surprise.

Turning my head over my shoulder, I came fave to face with him, but he wasn't just standing there- no. He collided with my back, his arms already wrapped around ny front to catch me. His shirt bow nowhere to be seen. 'Enough.' He growled, one strong arm wrapping around my breasts as the other wrapped around my waist. He raised me off the floor, held tightly against his chest. I squeeked, giggling as I pulled my legs up. Completley overcome with the anticipation of what was about to befall me–then I all of a sudden found myself pushed over the bar top, chest against the smooth luke warm surface. The quality off it telling me it hadn't been bought when fitted into this weathered building.

Then, the clanging of metal, leather groaning, friction, and his belt hit the floor. Gruff hands ran over the swell of my ass and down the arch of my back, taking his time to feel all of me. 'Been thinkin' 'bout this, how you'd feel falling apart beneath me, on top of me–' he leaned over me, hand wrapping around my neck as he pulled me flush against him only to whisper in my ear. '–around me. . .' He breathed, dragging the words out. '. . . All wet 'n messy with my cum fillin' you up.'

A moan left my lips. 'Show me.' Was all I could get out, a silent pleading to make all those thoughts a reality–and so he did.

Before I knew it, a hand had disappeared to line himself up with my entrance, pushing inside me without as much as a warning.

'Fuck!' I cried out, my voice breaking as my breath left me. It felt never ending, he was huge. But oh, he felt so good.

He groaned, finally stopping as he'd sunken all the way into my core. 'So wet for me already.' His hand slid over my back and shoulder, molding itself to my throat as the other grabbed my hip. Already flush with my back, he inclined his head, leaving trail of kisses along my spine and neck.

'Fuck me, please Coop-' it was the first time I'd called him by his name, and I realised it the second it left my lips.

His lips curled against my skin, a smile-

He thrusted into me, again and again. My back arching into an angled I had no idea it was capable of, helping him hit my core at every rut of his hips–not that he needed it. The 200+ years of experience really showed, and they were definitely felt.

The bar was dead silent, no noise except for our joint breaths of pleasure and the sound of slapping skin. It was lewd and brutal, and It made me absolutely delerious. His low, pained grunting in my ear did nothing to ease the matter. He'd created an aching so strong within me I wasn't sure It'd ever be able to be tamed.

'Harder, harder, please.' I stuttered, the words barely coming out between my heavy pants. Fuck, he made me feral. Without even trying, that's just what he was capable of. It annoyed me, he managed to annoy me while fucking me senseless. Oh, how I wish I could hate him, but there was no going back now.

Coop left little love bites all along my shoulder, and up the side of my throat, nipping and kissing in equal meassure as his breathing warmed my skin deliciously. Doing it all with such precision I couldnt understand, his thrust were rocking my emtire body, his chest rubbing againdt my back, yet he could be so delicate. I side ive never seen before. 'Little killer ain't so tough no more, is she?' He whispered, placing a kiss behind my ear before biting the lobe, tugging in it gently.

'. . . Mmh- 'm not, I'm not.' I got out. I was whatever he said I was while he delivered this type of pleasure on a silver platter. I didn't care, my morals had been thrown out the window the second his lips touched mine.

'Well, look at that. Admittin' defeat already?' I could feel his stupid grin again, his pace slowing- still ruthless, but it did enough for that feeling of building pressure to wain inside me.

I shook my head, shutting my eyes hard as I tried to focus on his member moving inside me, desperate not to lose that red string that'd lead me to climax.

'Words, sweetheart. Use em'. .'

'Dont fucking care.' I cried. 'J- just- Fuck. Me. Harder.' I ground out, my teeth clenching real hard from a mix of desperation and frustration for the pressure to start rebuilding.

'That'll do.' He groaned, squeezing my throat. All the while his other hand slid down to my cunt, starting condensed circling around my clit. And just like that, he'd made me into a whimpering mess for him to steady, falling apart beneath him just like he'd thought. Then he simply took up right where he left off, without missing a beat he thrusted so ferociously I was sure I'd be bruising on every single part of my body from the vibrations that rumbled through my muscles alone.

The darkness of my lips were specking with white, a wall of pressure building brick by brick in my abdomen. 'Close, so fucking close.' I whimpered.

'Good- Good job sweetheart. Doin' so good for me.' He burried his face in my hair, nuzzling his nose into its scent, inhaling it as he too approached climax. And there it was, that sudden softness. It was almost unsteadying my senses more than his touch, more than his thrusts, but only almost. 'You sound so sweet for me, honey. Let me hear ya'. . .' He moaned, exhaling warmth against the nape of my neck.

I obliged, of course I did. 'Feels so good, Coop- so close. . .' I panted, tears burning my eyes as they began rolling down my cheeks.

He slid his hand upward, keeping it between me jaw and throat, still choking me as he angled my face over my shoulder, enabling him to kiss me properly. And I've never been more thankful because I was about to cry myself dry as the wall broke. Pleasure flooding through my body in tidal waves, my knees bucking beneath me. 'Good girl.' He praised, voice muffled against my lips. Fingers stopping to instead cup my aching cunt. 'My good fuckin' girl, my little killer.' He moaned softly, my lips vibrating from the roughness in his voice as he caught me, delivering a final few ruts of his hips before he too came. Doing just as he promised, filling me up with his cum.

He loosed his grip around my throat and slit, letting me depend on the counter for support while he held me. 'Still hate me?'

'Yes.' I didn't, but it'd be a long time before I admitted that to him.

'Good.' And then there was silence, our lungs catching up with our breaths. 'Still wanna see those pretty hips ride me.' He murmured as he hugged me from behind, his hand sliding lower, pinching my hipbone.

'Ow! Asshole.' I yelped, and he kissed my shoulder to make up for it. But the thought was alluring nonetheless. I wriggled in his embrace, looking around at the destruction we'd caused, at the- dead bodies. And a pang of guilt hit me. 'Fine, but not here.' I agreed, actually wanting nothing more than to get out of there and sit in his lap, maybe ride his thighs too.

We redress, and share a kiss before leaving. 'Can't wait to taste that cunt of yours, killer.' He murmured suddenly. Leaving me staggered once again.

Ugh, I'm done for.

[thewulf]

Bulletproof Bonds || Aaron Hotchner

Summary: Request - Maybe a husband!Aaron x Long Time BAU!wife and how there’s a new member to the BAU and she keeps trying to flirt with Aaron but he keeps turning her down🥲 but the new member doesn’t know that Aaron and reader are married, and new member just thinks of reader as competition to get with Aaron, eventually leading to reader getting really mad cause new member does something really stupid on a case that leads to reader almost getting seriously injured??... Read Rest Here

A/N: Really loved writing this one. Hope you all enjoy! Thank you for the request @viscade !

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader,

Word Count: 3.1k

TW: Yelling, gunshot (non wounded)

In the bustling chaos of the BAU bullpen, Aaron Hotchner sat at his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sifted through the multitude of case files scattered before him. A usual sight for the unit chief. The harsh fluorescent lights cast stark shadows across his features, accentuating the lines of exhaustion etched into his face by years of chasing monsters in the dark.

You sat by his side, a silent sentinel amidst the whirlwind of activity. Your own workspace dedicated beside him cluttered with documents and crime scene photos. The faint aroma of stale coffee hung in the air as you both delved into the intricate web of clues left behind by the latest serial killer to plague the streets. It was always so easy with him, your husband. The way the two of you were able to bounce ideas off each other was like none seen before.

The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on everyone present as they grappled with the enormity of the task at hand. Each unsolved case seemed to loom over them like a specter, a constant reminder of the lives lost and the justice yet to be served. Amidst all the usual chaos, Agent Sarah Miller made her presence known. Her arrival heralded by the soft click of her heels against the linoleum floor. She moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, her youthful exuberance a stark contrast to the world-weary countenances of her colleagues. She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

Sarah's eyes lingered on Aaron as she sauntered past his open aired desk, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips. She was young, ambitious, and hungry for success. Her gaze fixed on the formidable figure of the BAU's leader like a moth drawn to a flame.

Despite Aaron's cold indifference, she persisted in her attempts at flirtation, undeterred by his lack of response. Her tactics were shamelessly transparent, her words dripping with false sweetness as she sought to capture his attention. Agent Sarah Miller yet again walked past Aaron's desk, her gaze lingering on him for a moment too long before she turned her attention to you. There was a subtle flicker of annoyance in her eyes as she took in your presence, her lips curling into a barely concealed sneer.

"Hey, Hotch," she purred, leaning against the edge of his desk with practiced ease. "You must be tired of staring at all those files. Why don't you take a break and grab a coffee with me?" Her eyes kept looking back to you in brief flashes to gauge your reaction. You decided early on after her brazen attempts that you would give her none. A layer of disgust masked on top of the doe eyes she was attempting to give your husband was meant for you. She was very forward, you had to give her that one.

Aaron's response was polite but firm, his tone devoid of any warmth. "I'm sorry, Agent Miller, but I have work to do," he replied, his eyes never leaving the papers in front of him.

Undeterred, Sarah flashed him a flirtatious smile, her gaze lingering on him expectantly. "Maybe some other time, then," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness before she finally strolled away.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at her blatant display of interest, the subtle scoff escaping your lips as you returned your focus to the files sprawled across your desk. "Some profiler she is," you muttered under your breath, the sarcasm dripping from your words like venom. It was a small act of defiance, a way to vent the frustration bubbling just beneath the surface as you watched Sarah's failed attempts at seduction.

Your comment earned a small smirk from Aaron, his lips quirking up in amusement as he glanced up from his work. His eyes met yours, a silent acknowledgment passing between you, a shared understanding of the absurdity of the situation. In that fleeting moment, you found solace in the unspoken reassurance that he was not blind to Sarah's antics, nor was he unaffected by them.

As the tension in the room continued to get heavier, you exchanged a knowing glance with Aaron, the unspoken bond between you speaking volumes. It was a silent reminder of the unbreakable connection that bound you together, a tether grounding you amidst the disarray swirling around you. In that moment, you drew strength from the knowledge that no amount of flirtation from the new agent could ever hope to rival the deep-seated love and loyalty that defined your marriage.

But beneath the surface, resentment simmered, fueled by the blatant disrespect for the boundaries of your marriage. Each lingering glance, each flirtatious comment served as a reminder of the fragile line Sarah was treading, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the calm facade. Yet, as frustrating as her antics were, you knew that the true test of your marriage lay not in her misguided advances but in the unwavering trust and devotion you shared with Aaron. A bond that would withstand any challenge thrown your way.

You had to give the girl credit. She certainly didn’t stop. It was not even an hour later that the girl came crawling right back to him. In the dimly lit bullpen of the BAU, the seasoned agents huddled together, their eyes darting furtively around the room as they exchanged knowing glances. Reid, Garcia, Morgan, and Prentiss stood in a tight circle. Their voices hushed as they leaned in conspiratorially.

"So, who's going to crack first?" Garcia whispered, her eyes sparkling mischievously behind her glasses.

Prentiss smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. "My money's on Y/N. She's got that poker face down pat."

Reid nodded in agreement, adjusting his glasses. "And she's got a wicked sense of humor. I don't think she's sweating it."

Just then, Morgan, ever the observant one, interjected with a grin. "You know what, I'm with both of you on this one. Y/N's handling this like a pro. She's probably just waiting for the perfect moment to drop a witty comeback."

The others turned to look at you, noticing your bemused expression as you observed the scene unfolding with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. The new agent, eager to impress, leaned in a little too close to Hotch, her voice dropping to a suggestive whisper. "So, Hotch, any plans for dinner tonight?"

Hotch glanced up from his paperwork, his expression remaining impassive. "Just finishing up some reports, Agent. Nothing planned."

Undeterred, the new agent persisted, fluttering her eyelashes coyly. "Well, if you change your mind, I know this great Italian place down the street."

Hotch merely nodded, returning his attention to the file in front of him. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Agent."

Behind his back, the BAU members couldn't contain their laughter, stifling their giggles as they watched the new agent's attempts fall flat. It was clear that Hotch was immune to her charms, his focus unwavering even in the face of relentless flirting.

As Sarah retreated, finally somewhat defeated, the BAU members exchanged triumphant looks, their silent bet settled. Hotch may have been unflappable in the field, but when it came to dodging unwanted advances, he was truly a master of his craft. And you, well, you were just enjoying the show, your amused smile barely masking your annoyance as you watched the scene unfold.

The breaking point came during a particularly intense case, where the unsub's erratic behavior had everyone on edge. You felt the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you moved cautiously through the dimly lit corridors of an abandoned warehouse, every nerve on high alert.

In the heat of the pursuit, Sarah's impulsive decision shattered the fragile equilibrium you had struggled to maintain with your team. Ignoring protocol and disregarding the safety of the team, she charged ahead recklessly, her actions sending shockwaves rippling through your ranks. Bullets flew past you like angry hornets, the deafening roar of gunfire echoing off the walls as chaos descended upon you.

It happened in the blink of an eye, a split-second decision with far-reaching consequences. A bullet sliced through the air like a deadly whisper, its trajectory aimed straight for your chest. But thanks to the protective barrier of your bulletproof vest, the impact was nothing more than a forceful shove, the fabric absorbing the blow with a sickening thud. The impact knocked the wind out of you, pain searing through your body as you stumbled backward, clutching your chest.

As the adrenaline faded and the reality of what could have been sunk in, fury ignited like a wildfire within you. You rounded on Sarah, your voice a crescendo of anger as you unleashed the pent-up frustration that had been building for weeks. Each word was a dagger aimed straight at her heart. Your tone laced with a venomous ferocity that mirrored the intensity of the emotions raging within you.

Coughing up blood, your vision blurred as you struggled to make sense of what had just happened. Anger surged through you like a tidal wave, drowning out the pain as you staggered to your feet. With a primal roar, you lunged at Sarah, grabbing her by the collar with a strength born of desperation.

"What the fuck was that?" you yelled, louder than you ever had before. And certainly not in front of the team. Your voice raw with fury. Each word was a thunderclap, reverberating through the warehouse like a warning shot. "You could have killed me! Or them! Do you even realize what you've done?"

But Sarah's response was a defiant sneer, her gaze unwavering in the face of your righteous indignation. "I did what needed to be done," she spat, her voice laced with arrogance. "I'm not afraid to take risks to get the job done."

The words were like a slap to the face, a cruel reminder of the recklessness that had nearly cost you everything. With all your rage, you shoved her away, your hands trembling with anger as you struggled to contain the tempest raging within you.

"You're a liability," you growled, your voice a low, dangerous whisper. "And if you ever put my life, their lives,” You pointed to Spencer and Emily behind you, “in danger again, I won't hesitate to take you down myself."

As you stood there, trembling with fury and pain, the rest of the team made their way over. You still hasn’t seen Aaron yet but the rest of them looked on in shock and disbelief. Derek surged forward, his strong arms wrapping around you as he pulled you back from the confrontation. "Easy there Y/N," he said, his voice low and soothing as he tried to calm the storm raging within you. "Cool off."

Emily and JJ exchanged worried glances. Finally, Aaron found you after too many moments of losing it in front of everyone. His eyes widened in alarm as he took in the sight of blood staining your lips, his heart clenching with fear at the sight. "What happened?" he demanded. His usually calm voice was laced with urgency as he reached out to gently touch your arm. His fingers trembled against your skin, his touch a comforting anchor in the swirling chaos of the moment.

Still reeling from the confrontation and the shock of narrowly escaping serious injury, Spencer stepped forward, his voice calm but tinged with urgency. "Aaron, Sarah made a nearly fatal mistake," he said, his words cutting through the tension like a knife. "Her impulsive actions endangered everyone on the team, especially Y/N." You were thankful he was willing to step in because you weren’t quite sure if you had the right words.

Aaron's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching with barely contained fury as he turned his gaze on Sarah. The air around him crackled with palpable anger, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive. "Is this true?" he demanded, his voice cold and steely as he pinned her with a hard stare.

Sarah shifted uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny, her bravado faltering in the face of his unwavering gaze. "I...I was just trying to apprehend the unsub," she stammered, her voice wavering with uncertainty.

But Aaron's patience had worn thin, his temper flaring like a raging inferno. "You made a reckless decision that put the entire team at risk," he snapped, his voice echoing off the walls of the warehouse. "Until you can prove that you're capable of following protocol and putting the safety of your teammates above all else, you will not be back in the field."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the consequences of her actions. Sarah's expression fell, her defiance crumbling under the weight of his judgment. It was a harsh lesson, but one that she would need to learn if she ever hoped to earn back the trust of her colleagues and prove herself worthy of wearing the badge.

As Aaron turned away, his attention returning to you with a renewed sense of protectiveness, you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude for the unwavering support of your team leader and husband. But as you tried to catch your breath, a sudden coughing fit wracked your body, drawing Aaron's attention back to you. Concern flashed across his features, his eyes narrowing with worry as he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to steady you.

"Hey sweetheart," he murmured softly, his voice a gentle caress against your ear as he brushed a strand of hair away from your forehead. "Let's get you checked out, alright?"

You attempted to speak, but the coughing fit continued, leaving you gasping for air. So, you shook your head in protest. You were fine and you knew it, but the damn bullet hit you right in the lung leaving you gasping for air. Aaron's worry deepened, his brow furrowing with concern as he knelt down beside you, his hands hovering anxiously over your shoulders.

"Honey, just breathe," he urged, his voice filled with tenderness as he placed a comforting hand on your back. "We'll get you to the hospital, and they'll take care of you. I promise." It wasn’t usual that he dropped those sweet terms of endearment to you in front of the team, but he couldn’t really care. Not when he could’ve lost you.

Despite your protests, Aaron's determination remained steadfast. With gentle insistence, he scooped you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest with a strength born of love and concern. "You're going to the hospital," he declared, his voice unwavering as he carried you towards his SUV. “I’m not taking no for an answer sweetheart."

As Aaron settled into the driver's seat beside you, his eyes flickered with concern as he stole glances, his hand reaching out to brush against yours in a silent gesture of reassurance. But despite his unwavering determination to get you to the hospital, you couldn't help but feel a stubborn sense of resistance bubbling within you.

"I'm fine, Aaron," you insisted, your tone tinged with frustration as you crossed your arms over your chest. "This is incredibly dramatic. You’ve been hit in your gear too."

Aaron's expression softened at your words, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Maybe I am," he admitted with a chuckle. "I also know what it feels like honey. I’d rather be safe than sorry."

You shot him a playful glare, unable to suppress the teasing smile that danced on your lips. He cared for you, truly. Every inch of himself loved you more deeply than even you could have fathomed. You also knew that love bore stubbornness and there was no talking him out of what he knew he had to do. You were just along for the ride now. "You just can't resist playing the hero, can you?" You spoke up after a moment of silence between the two of you.

Aaron chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he glanced over at you. "Guilty as charged," he replied. "Always remind me never to get on your bad side," Aaron quipped, a lighthearted smile playing on his lips as he attempted to alleviate the tension that hung heavy in the air.

You managed a weak laugh trying your hardest to hide the pain radiating from your chest. However, so grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood. "You looked like you were about to take matters into your own hands back there," he teased gently, his voice laced with affection.

The image of you, ready to throw down with the new agent, brought a genuine laugh bubbling up from deep within you this time. "Well, she did have it coming," you admitted with a mischievous grin. "But I guess I'll let you handle the heroics this time."

As the laughter subsided, Aaron's expression turned more serious, a hint of regret flickering in his eyes. "I'm sorry things got so heated," he said softly, his voice tinged with sincerity. "I should have stepped in sooner. I thought she was harmless. Dealt with her type so many times before." He sighed, running a hand through his hair before finding your hand and lacing his fingers within yours.

You squeezed his hand, a warm smile spreading across your face. "It’s not your fault you’re such a silver fox," Tossing him a wink you couldn’t help but to tease him right on back. It’s how you knew everything was going to be just fine. The two of you had dealt with so much worse and come out even stronger, this would be nothing but a minor blip on your journey together.

Aaron laughed at your playful comment, a warmth spreading in his chest at your familiar banter. "Ah, so you're saying my charm is both a blessing and a curse," he retorted with a grin, his gaze softening as he looked at you.

You nodded, a fond smile playing on your lips. "Something like that," you agreed, feeling a surge of gratitude for the ease with which you could navigate even the toughest moments with Aaron by your side.

As the car glided through the streets towards the hospital, a comfortable silence settled between you, punctuated only by the gentle hum of the engine. Despite the events that had unfolded, you found solace in the quiet intimacy of the moment, knowing that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. With each passing mile, you felt the weight of the day begin to lift from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of reassurance that only Aaron could provide. His unwavering love and support was everything you needed. He guided you through the darkness, illuminating the path forward with hope and determination.

As you arrived at the hospital and Aaron helped you out of the car, you knew that this was just another chapter in your life together. You couldn't help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for the man beside you, your literal partner in crime, your rock, your everything. Together, you were truly unstoppable.

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[jellyfishsthings]

Hold Your Breath My Darling

WARNINGS: angst, like super angst, lovesick and whipped Spencer, earlier seasons Spencer, Hotch trained reader, Ex spy, fem reader, dying (or coming close to it), panic attacks, HOTCHNISS IS A THING bcuz i said so, typical criminal minds violence... there will be a part two soon, please let my know if I am missing anything else

requests are open

The ending was based on this fic by @nereidprinc3ss

part 1

It had been one month since the Incident—a term that spoke volumes without revealing too much. The Incident was the moment everything changed, the day the world they've fought to protect threatened to swallow them whole. One harrowing act of violence had almost stolen her from the living, leaving scars deeper than flesh, echoing through the halls of the BAU and private lives of those who cared.

For Aaron Hotchner, the air was thick with the weight of his own guilt. He wandered through days shrouded in shadows, each movement a reminder of his instinct to protect, to lead, to ensure the safety of his team. And how had he failed? He coped with drowning himself in whiskey after a long day's work—a futile attempt to numb the regret clawing at his insides. In the back of his mind, the echoes of her screams lingered. They came back to him every time he closed his eyes.

His office was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. He stared at a framed picture of the team at some holiday gathering, her flashing one of her radiant smiles, arms flung around Morgan and Reid. It should have been the happiest memory, but now it felt like a ghost lurking in the corner, reminding him of what could have been lost forever. Where there should have been laughter, the room was filled with an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the sound of ice rattling in his glass.

Then there was Emily, who wore her pain like a second skin. Each night, she gave in to silent tears that left her breathless. Hotch held her, wrapped her in his arms, wanting to lend strength but unsure of how to piece together the fragments of their shattering experience. It was during these quiet moments, swaddled in darkness, that they both recognized the fragility of their connection. What they had once built was now tempered by guilt and fear—fear of losing a woman, a kid practically, they had helped qrow and turn into the amazingAgent she was.

Meanwhile, in a sterile white room, Spencer Reid kept vigil at her bedside. He had transformed into a specter of the man he had always been. Days blended into nights, and he often felt unmoored. The memory of her laughter used to be a melody he longed to hear; now it haunted him. In the clinical light of the hospital room, he counted the rhythmic beeping of the machines, which stood stark contrast to the chaos within him. Every time he heard her heart, steady and strong, he found a flicker of hope. But hope was an elusive thing, dampened by the anxiety that had seeped into his bones.

Reid often found himself lost in thought, reflecting on the moments that brought them all together, the little things that made them a unit—a family of sorts. He remembered their case that had turned deadly, the precision of her instincts leading them into a dangerous trap. But he also remembered the resolve in her eyes as they fought, a fierce determination that now seemed barely a whisper in the sanctuary of her hospital room.

For a while, recovery felt like an unattainable vision—like a mirage shimmering just beyond their reach. It was a miracle she was still alive even in a sedated state. When she was admitted in the hospital the doctors wore horrified looks as they finally located her file, asking for goverment permission to unseal it and rightfully so. When Spencer himself read it he felt nauseous to his core and ready to lose his hold on reality.

Bones broken more than one time.

Broken back that function only with a chip insisted in the spine.

Various signs of abuse, which could be traced back to her childhood at eight years old.

Signs of sexual assault and rape to a terrifying degree.

She was covered in old scars.

Yet he knew that the worst damage must live inside her head. What a scary life she had lived. And she was only a few months younger than him. The memories that must haunt her ... he only felt sick at the thought, he could imagine how it would be like to live with them.

Still it made sense. How good she was at fighting, that she was an excellent shot, how quickly she adapted into this new lifestyle. He was filled with questions, how, why, are you well, I still love you you do not have to hide I promise. But he didn't have a choice and so he waited for what seemed an eternity.

Days passed, and with them came the wait. But her eyes still remained closed, and so did the door to their shared perception of certainty. A week turned into a month, and the seasons shifted outside like a clock wound down to a dim hum.

Then, one evening, under the flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital, a breakthrough came. Her eyelids fluttered, her breathing quickened, and suddenly—her eyes opened, revealing the storm brewing inside them. Spencer was at her side, gripping her hand gently, his heart hammering in his chest. Ready to fall down on his knees and thank every diety for bringing her back.

“Snoopy?,” he breathed out, the air catching in his throat. Using after what seemed the longest time the nickname he had for her, the one he only used because he was the only one who knew her crazy obsession with the cartoon.

Her gaze was unfocused at first, wandering into the corners of the room as if piecing together where she was. But recognition slowly dawned on her, and the corners of her lips managed a faint curve.

“Reid?” she croaked, her voice raspy yet threaded with life.

Spencer felt a swell of emotions. Relief surged through him, casting away the shadows that had clung tightly for weeks. “You’re back. You’re really back.”

She blinked, and as realization dawned fully, the weight of her condition pressed down on her. “What happened?”

The moment reverberated with unspoken understanding; the memories were shrouded yet defined by the pain they collectively held. But what mattered now was her presence, the warmth of her being returning to where it belonged.

Yet nothing would ever be the same again.

Her transition to get back to work was tedious and long, but she faced with extreme determination and stubbornness. But one bright Monday morning at the Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU), and the scent of hope lingered in the air like freshly brewed coffee. The team was abuzz with excitement—she was finally back after her traumatic injury. The office was a cacophony of cheers, “Welcome back!” and “It’s about time!” amid the clatter of keyboards and the rustle of paperwork.

She smiled brightly, radiating enthusiasm as she exchanged warm hugs and playful jabs. Despite feeling a little stiff, she was ready to jump back into the chaos that was the BAU. Her final physical test had gone splendidly, and she had passed with flying colors, much to the delight of her colleagues.

“Just don't overdo it, shortcake,” Derek Morgan chuckled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You wouldn’t want to break a sweat before lunch.”

“I think my stitches would disagree with you,” she replied, tossing her hair back and puffing out her chest, “but who needs stitches when you have determination?”

She winked, but even she could feel the tight twinge near her abdomen as she waved dismissively.

A few hours later, as the excitement faded into the hum of agents at work, she started to feel a slight tugging pain. Her physical test had been strenuous, and perhaps she had overexerted herself a tad too much. Dismissing it as minor, she continued her duties until, unceremoniously, during a particularly animated discussion with Spencer Reid, she felt something give way. Looking down in horror, she saw her bandage had opened—one stitch had given it all up.

“Oh, come on,” she muttered under her breath. “Not now.”

The bathroom was not far, but the urgency and pain propelled her into a sprint that was definitely not recommended for someone still healing. She burst through the bathroom door, clutching her midriff, and locked the door behind her.

Meanwhile, after Snoopy had vanished for a suspiciously long time, Spencer felt a tickle of worry. She had burst into action rather enthusiastically, but it had turned into hours of radio silence. Ever the nerdy detective, his mind began churning. What if she had passed out? What if the bathroom monster had gotten her?

Spencer stood up, adjusted his glasses, and awkwardly edged toward the restrooms, bursting into the first one. Empty. Next, he slammed the door of the supply closet, scanned the room, found it empty, and moved on. He was a bull in a china shop—he knocked on a few more doors before finally giving in and charging towards the ladies’ restroom.

“Snoopy?” he called out hesitantly. “Are you in here? Did you win a new Olympic event—like bathroom hiding?”

Inside, she was struggling for a fresh bandage, maneuvering between the threading of her clothes, still trying to maintain a semblance of dignity despite her predicament. “I’m fine!” she half-shouted. “Just dealing with some wardrobe malfunctions. You know how it is!”

“Are you sure? You sound a little… flustered.” Spencer pushed through the door—pride was overrated, and so was personal space when it came to friends in need.

There she stood, half-naked, staring wide-eyed at Spencer. She was trying to maneuver a roll of bandages across her back, struggling with the awkward angles as she attempted to wrap around her injuries. The moment was a whirlwind of awkwardness and genuine surprise that left Spencer rooted to the floor.

“Oh, uh…!” Spencer stammered, his eyes widening. “I—Sorry! I didn’t mean to—!”

She blushed, realizing the comedic irony of a boy who often got caught in his brain's overdrive now turning into a flustered mess. “Spencer, a little warning next time? I’m just trying to change my bandages!”

“Oh! Right! Of course! Bandages!” He shuffled awkwardly, racking his brain for something—anything—that resembled confidence. “Do you need help?”

“Help?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “With what? Watching me struggle or ensuring a full-fledged theatrical performance?”

Reid swallowed hard and stepped forward, grabbing the roll of bandages. “I have a PhD in cognitive neuroscience, but bandaging wounds shouldn't be too complicated, right?”

She laughed, a melodic sound that diffused the tension as he gingerly held the fabric ready to assist her. “You say that, but let’s just put your academic prowess to the test.”

As he meticulously began to wrap her wounds, their banter threw open a door to easy flirting. “You know, if you hadn’t decided to writhe around like a fish out of water, I wouldn’t have had to barge in here like a raging bull,” he teased, focusing on the bandages but stealing glances at her.

She snorted softly. “And if you hadn’t decided to play the role of ‘Spencer the Bull’ and barged in like that, I might have had a more dignified experience here.”

“Next time, I’ll knock,” he agreed. “But first, if I let you get hurt again, I’ll have to rat you out to HR.”

She feigned shock. “Spencer Reid! How could you? Aren’t we a team?”

He didn’t dare reply immediately, wrapping the bandages with precision while his own cheeks flushed. “They also say you can’t handle a little risk in the name of love—because that’s totally what HR deals with.”

She grinned. “Oh please, they’d love the gossip. ‘Reid and Snoopy engage in dangerous bandaging maneuvers!’”

“Right?” He chuckled. “They’d probably get the wrong idea, and we’d spend our afternoons dodging accusations.”

“Accusations? Of what? Excessive flirting under the guise of medical assistance?”

Their eyes met, and the emphasis was palpable—a line they’d somehow danced across during the cheerful mockery. As the gentle laughter enveloped them, both realizing they had easily slipped into a territory where playful banter morphed into flirty undertones, Spencer’s heart thumped against his chest as he finished the bandage and fought the impulse to lean in a little closer.

“So,” she started, cutting through the air of comfort, “do we have a pact then? No more HR rumbles if you keep barging in on me uninvited?”

“I think that sounds reasonable,” Spencer replied, a charming smile emerging on his lips.

As they shared another laugh, an understanding settled between them—one wrapped in bandages, hints of crushes, and adventure, leaving behind awkwardness and opening the door to a world wrapped in flirtation and camaraderie, all set against the delightful backdrop of the BAU.

Tags: @sturnioloenthousiast

[hpgal]

DC X DP: My Specter Roommate

CW: none

Tldr: Tim has a few odd experiences in his apartment only to learn he doesn't live alone.

Word Count: 417

Sometimes, it is easier to have space from everyone at the Manor. It is easier to decompress and take a breather from the madness the manors' halls can sow. That's why Tim got an apartment near Wayne Enterprises' main office.

It was well worth the investment and wasn't bad either. It was a two bedroom, one bathroom, close to the tower, cheap for the area and between him and all his siblings offering to help, secure.

No one would've bat an eye if he just used trust fund money or asked Bruce to pay for it, but Tim wanted to try to do this on his own. After all, he was old enough to vote, might as well act like an adult, and learn to live like it. The arrangement was kind of nice, however lonely too.

And that loneliness is why he didn't immediately call Constantine or some other magic user hero after coming to the conclusion his apartment was haunted. It took an embarrassingly long time for Tim to notice it, perhaps because he doesn't spent as much time here as he thinks he does between running WE and his night job.

The specter seemed harmless enough in Tim's opinion. He first noticed the strangeness when he was certain he left dirty dishes in the sink the night prior only to wake up and find them not only cleaned but put away too. He thought it was just his mind tricking him then so he carried on with his day only feeling uneasy if anything.

The next noticeable sign he was being haunted was when he set his coffee down on his desk and walked away to take a phone call. When he returned, the cup was significantly less and on the opposite corner where he left it. Maybe he mindlessly moved it or drank it while on the phone?

If it was a ghost, kind of rude, but ok, at least they didn't knock it over the case file he was reading.

His final confirmation was finding an envelope on the coffee table with a note and $100 in it.

Dear Tim,

I'm sorry for stealing your coffee, I decided I like it here and need a new haunt. Hope 100 is good enough for this months rent

DP

Not only was his roommate a ghost, but a polite one. Tim was so tired from his night job he didn't even care, just shrugged and decided it was tomorrow's problem and went to bed.

---

a/n: Found this in my drafts, don't remember where the plot was going so enjoy this little drabble. If I figure out where to go with this I'll make a part 2.

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Simon "Ghost" Riley, Reader

Summary: All the buildup, all the teasing, finally leads to this: Simon is back and ready to act on all those filthy things you two had been teasing each other with. Will you make it home before you both explode? Or will the car have to do to break the tension?

Word Count: 5.1 k

Warnings:

Part 2:

Unsteady hands gripped hard into the steering wheel, knuckles white as you tightly held on while headed straight to the military base. Your heart pounding furiously inside your chest, breath quick and short the closer you got, it was nearly impossible to keep your eyes focused on the road. Christ were you gnawing at the bit to get there and once again see that beast of a man, the one keeping you begging for release for the past three months.

Those breathtaking bits of personalized porn you two had sent each other had done nothing other than made that inconvenient ache into a raging monster that could not be quenched. Hours spent furiously working yourselves, silently begging for a little ease in the constant throbbing had gotten nowhere except to drain the battery life on your phones from the constant re-watching of videos.

…though that last photo he sent you of his abdomen covered in his milky white cum after having watched your little romp into amateur pornography had left you feeling on top of the world for a couple days.

And just as you were on that last leg of desperation, finally the light at the end of the tunnel that led up to you driving where you were today. It had been exactly one week from when you got the text you had been waiting on from Simon:

“I’m coming home, baby. Fucking finally; Christ I thought I was going to rub myself raw. Best not wear anything you want to remain intact, you hear me? Cause the minute I get my paws on you, that's it.”

Thank fuck, the suffering was almost over.

That entire week seemed to drag on endlessly, each day crawling through at a snails pace, but here you were now only a few more minutes away from your destination. Even as you checked in at the entrance to the base, antsy and squirming in the seat of your car, you couldn’t believe that you had actually made it.

You took Simon’s message to heart when you got ready that morning, choosing a simple, flowy dress that he could literally shred off of you and you wouldn’t give a shit. It was just long enough that it could easily conceal the fact that you had done away with the panties today, opting for ease of access over anything else, but low cut enough in the front that he could get a nice eyeful of your full chest; you had no idea what would happen the moment you saw each other again and you weren’t taking any chances.

This reunion was bound to be explosive after all the visual edging you two had been doing lately and having to waste even a second more of time before your bodies could be joined felt like a crime.

You walked through the base, heartbeat rapidly increasing with each step as you got closer to where you knew you'd find that hulking Lieutenant hanging around.

And then you turned a corner and there he was like a specter brought back to life, standing idly beside the outside wall smoking as he watched the privates of his troop find their families and suddenly the wind was knocked from you.

“Simon,” you called out to him and he turned to face you.

That instant connection of your eyes felt like a shock from a live wire; Simon could feel the electricity run through his veins and tingle its way up his spine until the first prickles of sweat dotted across his body as his cigarette slipped from his fingers. It felt like he couldn’t breathe and the closer you got the worse it became; you knew what you were doing wearing that pretty little dress.

Fuck did he want to take a bite of those thick thighs he could see just under the hem that popped out every time you took a step and if his hands didn’t get their fill of your breast spilling out of his grip soon, he might just keel over and die. You were more than tempting, you were a feast sent to make him completely lose his goddamn mind.

His entire body was sent into shock as that ache that he had tried to keep from ripping him apart all day as he waited for your arrival overtook him until his balls pulsed and he had to adjust himself or get caught sporting a stiffy that would instantly tent the crotch of his pants and make it even more painfully obvious to any curious eyes just how gone he fucking was.

Coming to a stop you stood before him, your stomach doing back flips as you struggled to form words that weren’t just pleas for him to just rip the waistband of his pants down and take you right then.

“Hey you,” you said through unsteady breaths, trying to keep calm. “Long time no see, huh?”

Simon nodded. “Too fuckin’ long sweetheart. Ya look...” he had to clear his throat, “incredible.” He had to keep it short, there were still too many people about and even his words would cause him to lose composure.

“Well, it is a special occasion after all,” you chuckled. “Got to remind you what you leave behind every time you go.”

The need to take your hand and give it squeeze, that customary greeting that you both did when in public, made him hesitate. If he touched you right now, any bare part that met skin with skin, he may not be able to stop, not once those weathered and brutish fingers got their fill of all that sweet softness. There as still a little time left that he had to be there and the agony was already eating away at him.

“Believe me, I fuckin’ know,” he said as he shot you a look; I’ve been in hell waitin’ to get back to it, it whispered to you.

Taking a few calming breaths, he risked lacing his broad fingers in between the empty spaces in your own. Simon could feel the rapid thump, thump, thump, of your pulse against his palm; good, you were just as excited for this reunion as he was.

Somehow that made it a bit easier, knowing that the feeling was mutual.

“Can we go?” you asked eagerly, hopeful that you were closer to the end of your joint suffering sooner rather than later.

Simon stroked the back of your hand with his thumb. “Gotta be here just a bit longer,” he muttered dejectedly under his breath. “God, I want ya so bad I can’t see straight.”

You squeezed his hand back. “It’ll go fast,” you assured. “And…I mean… no one’s looking this way if you wanted to touch me a little more. Maybe you’ll find something you’ll like.”

It was dangerous, but he took a chance with even more touch as he released your hand and loosely wrapped his arm around your waist, bring you in to him until your hips were touching. You were warm against him, warmer than the day would suggest, and the curve of your hip that he ran his fingers over delicately to retrace the lines he had dreamed about felt even better than he remembered.

Silently you peaked over at his face, watching as his head faced firmly forward to watch for any prying eyes, but it was clear he hadn’t noticed it yet. Not wanting to spoil the surprise, you kept quiet; he’d figure it out eventually. Those exploring fingers were beginning to stray more towards the back of you to the small dip at the base of your spine.

…and then lower still…

That’s when you felt it; he risked a lingering stroke over the contour of your ass when he noticed it. Where was that distinct seam of your panty line? He had grabbed your backside so many times over the course of your relationship that he knew the feeling of what should have been there. Quickly he ran his hand over the area again and still the same, there was nothing. Christ, you’d really prepared for today, hadn’t you?

Good fuckin’ girl.

His chest began to grow tight with his quickened breathing… along with that engorged appendage down below. He was in fucking trouble now; would he even be able to make it to the car at this point? The moan that desperately tried to escape through his throat he swallowed down, but who knows how long it would stay.

He was in the thick of it now.

Simon leaned down to rest his face against the side of your head, his warm breath still able to be felt against your ear even through the mask. “Fuckin’ hell sweetheart, no panties?” he whispered intrigued. “Christ, how the fuck am I supposed to hang on now?”

You smirked, trying to pick even though you were falling apart at the seams, a wetness gathering between your thighs as you pressed them together. “You complaining? Cause I can head back home and put some on real quick if you want.”

A harsh squeeze along the underside of your ass cheek made you gasp before he removed his hand and gave you your answer. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he warned, a playfully lilt to his tone. “That sweet little pussy is about to be filled and I don’t wanna waste a goddamn second havin’ to rip those fuckin’ things off ya.”

Dear God he was about to fuckin’ explode, say screw it and pin you up against the nearest wall right in front of the entire goddamn squad to plow into your tight, wet cunt with months worth of unrequited need that had built up to this monster of desire churning away inside of him. His teeth bit at the skin of his lower lip, his fists clenching and unclenching as he failed to calm himself while he again checked the time.

The moment that those amber eyes watched the second hand on his watch hit and the minutes change to the millisecond he could be released, his oversized mitt wrapped around your wrist, securing it in his harsh grasp, and quickly he began making his way to your car with you being dragged alongside.

“Where the hell are ya parked?” he questioned in a huff, that gruff voice nothing more than a growl, and you pointed towards the back of the lot in the corner.

You could barely keep up with his intense pace, nearly tripping over your own feet several times to match his long strides. It didn’t help that your heart was pounding furiously, nearly beating out of your chest the closer you got to being in a tight, secluded spot with him; could you even make it back to his apartment?

All signs were pointing to not a fucking chance.

Simon only released you so that you could both get inside, separating at the tail of the vehicle with you headed towards the driver side and him the other. The slam from the car door rung through the interior of the vehicle and before you could even insert the key into the ignition, Simon had moved in silent as a specter to place his large palm against the side of your cheek. The endless ache he had endured over the past months apart had been unbearable as you both edged each other to the brink of insanity and now that he was so close to you again it felt like he was in a dream.

The tension that suddenly filled the car was overwhelmingly electric as Simon closed what little distance there still sat between you both, his hand moving to the back of your head. Those bulky, calloused fingers that had missed having any part of you against them laced themselves through your hair with harsh abandon, pulling your face closer.

He held your head steady and pointedly at his face so that you had to stare into his intense, unwavering gaze; it made your skin tingle with anticipation of what was on the horizon and barreling down fast. Those sparkling brown eyes drew you in to hold your own captive as he drug his thick thumb across the length of your bottom lip as if to test that all this was actually real. His entire hand palmed the back of your head which left you completely at his mercy, not that you were complaining.

After all, you needed him just as badly.

Without warning he wrenched the bottom hem of his balaclava up over the top of his head and off his face before his mouth crashed violently against your own, hungry and greedy to steal kiss after fiery kiss from those soft, supple lips he had been eyeing with a burning desire to ruin since the minute he saw you again. Desperately his tongue parted your lips as he plunged it inside your mouth to reclaim it.

God it felt euphoric to finally be given the very thing you had been aching for for months, feeling as if your body had pined for his for an eternity, as it was finally released from it’s torture. And by the way his tongue was nearly shoved down the back of your throat you knew Simon felt that same kind of relief and it only spurred him on further.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your parted lips, nothing but hot, sticky breath being shared. “Ugh…fuck, baby, I’ve missed you so goddamn much I thought I was gonna fuckin’ die before I could feel ya again.”

Crawling over the small console in the center between the car seats, Simon shoved his body weight into you, making your smaller frame slam against the driver-side door. The raised panelling along the inside dug roughly into the muscles of your back as the backside of your head was shoved harshly into the glass of the window. There was no pause in his assault of your mouth until your lips began to burn from the constant contact and yet even the pain still felt like heaven.

He tasted so strongly of tobacco from the chain of cigarettes he must have smoked to calm his nerves until you arrived, but even through the distinct flavor you still drank every last drop of him down like you would cease to function without him.

Those thick digits of his free hand eagerly pawed at your supple thighs until he was able to divide them so that his hand could slip in between. There was a damp heat gathered near your unclothed sex and it only made him more wild to feel it. His palm cupped around your entire mound and you whimpered directly into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he hissed one of the only words he could recall in that moment as the damp heat filled his palm. “All for me?”

Words, what the hell were they again? You couldn’t remember how speech worked as you were far too busy try to simply breathe through the conquering of your body by him. All you could do was mewl like a kitten as he massaged the petals of your cunt before taking his middle finger and slipping it between them. Your back arched in a jolt as he ran one finger along the length of your cunt, mouth falling agape as Simon gathered as much of your juices on his finger as he could.

Even this small amount of contact already had you dripping and coming apart at the seams; it had been so long since you had felt that familiar touch and pressure against your clit, the one that only he could provide.

Simon couldn’t help himself once he got his first real feel again of how soft and slick you were, goddamn it had been too long that he’d only been able to play with himself, and greedily he drew upon your clit in concise circles with the pad of his rough finger. There was a second where he tried to remain calm, to take his time drawing out your pleasure as he would normally do, but as your back arched and your breathy music filled the silence of the car, he could not hold off from unleashing weeks of pent up need onto you.

Removing his lips from your own, he moved down to the soft skin of your neck with teeth ready to leave the flesh marked with his seal. It burned him alive with desire at the thought that he would be able to see your pretty skin marred by him, that everyone who came in to contact with you in the coming days after today would see it too.

You could not stop the way your body writhed and squirmed as his finger collected a friend to join it and spread your entrance open so they could both slide inside. The heightened tension of the moment with the man you had yearned for only made you more sensitive and the way his fingers filled your tight, aching hole after it had been left empty for too long thrilled you. As natural as breathing, your hips ground down on his fingers, using them as your own living dildo.

God, he wanted nothing more than for you to ride his cock as well as you rode his fingers just now and send him straight to hell. Shit, he couldn’t catch his breath, his need was just too much. “That’s it. Use me; make my fingers yours.”

Both of your hands moved to behind your head and onto the window; you needed more leverage to ground onto him harder, as hard as you could. Nothing compared to him, not your own fingers, not a toy; you could not stop yourself. You could feel the condensation already gathering on the glass as you moved and you had to wipe it away so that you could get better purchase on the surface so you wouldn’t slide.

There was nothing that was going to ruin this.

“Oh god, baby,” you squeaked out as that overwhelming deep warmth of your release gathered in your abdomen.

The corners of his mouth upturned against your neck at the sound of you falling apart because of him. Images conquered in his mind about your moans and cries reaching outside the car so that anyone who walked by would hear them before they caught a glimpse of the show. Why wouldn’t he want to show you off like this? You looked so fucking beautiful falling apart to his ferocity.

Just the way your muscles strained and your cries became more pathetic, Simon knew you were close. “Are ya gonna come for me already, pretty girl?” his gruff voice purred against your collar bone. “Come on then, give it to me. Clench down on my fingers. Let me feel it.”

Pumping his fingers in and out of you, keeping the pace as steady as he could, he felt those velvety walls flutter around his digits as he rocked his upper body with you to simulate the movements he’d soon be doing when he was really inside you. The air was so thick with moisture it almost felt hard to breathe right, the windows filmed with the stuff as with a few more strokes at your clit you came hard and fast, shaking as he continued to work you until ever single ounce of your orgasm had been spent.

Simon was gone then, replaced by a feral beast fueled by his ability to make you come… and wanting to do it again, but this time with his cock.

He pulled those thick fingers out of you, glistening with the wetness of your cum and brought them to his lips. You watched wide eyed as he stuck them in his mouth and licked them good and clean; goddamn you tasted just as delicious as he remembered. Could you blame the man? You had kept him starving since your video popped up on his phone and he had to get a bit of it all.

“I need more of ya,” he groaned in whispers as he leaned back into you, desperate hands pawing at your breast still sadly inside your dress as he kissed you again, now with the taste of you on his breath.

“We need to move, someone’s bound to come see what all the noise is about,” you said, able to think a little more clearly now that you had come once, but Simon was still gone and there was only one thing that would bring him back.

“Don’t care, can’t wait. Get in the back. Now.”

The primal growl in his gruff voice was enough to make you comply without another word; once was not enough anyway, not after how you had suffered. You needed to be filled with more than his fingers. With a nod you immediately began climbing over the cushions towards the backseat of the car as he got out and moved into the back with you. You leaned back into the front long enough to shove the seats forward all the way to give you more space.

Simon needed room to work.

Scooting over, he planted himself directly in the middle of the back seat and pulled you over top of his lap to straddle him, shins digging into the edge of the cushion. Shit, he as so hard you couldn’t properly sit over top of him without leaving a wet spot right where his cock tented the fabric.

Clothes could be washed, as if he would care at all if anything got on him right now. Pushing your hips down, he made you grind your overstimulated clit hard on that throbbing shaft and you mewled into his face. A devilish grin spread from ear to ear as he rocked your hips to dry hump him.

“Someone ‘ere begged to be bred and that’s what she’s gonna fuckin’ get,” he hissed, sucking in the air harshly between his teeth at the feeling of you on top of him. “Can’t take it back now, luv. I have been fuckin’ dreamin’ of doin’ this, ever since you sent me that goddamn video and I ‘eard you say those sweet fuckin’ words. Been fuckin’ gnawin’ at the bit to stuff you full.”

Taking both of his hands, he pulled at the low neckline of your dress until your breasts came spilling out of the top. Angling his face in, he placed his nose right between the two to suffocate himself within them. There was a hint of your perfume still lingering there, that scent he had bought you for your birthday last year, the one that occasionally lingered on his clothes and had done for the first couple weeks of his mission.

The flesh was so enticing that he sucked in the supple top of one breast before he bit down, not enough to break the skin, but enough that it would definitely leave a nice red outline of his teeth; more signaturea that you could both admire.

“Simon,” you moaned his name.

Your own hands roamed up under his shirt, pushing the fabric up until you reached his chest and you could run your hands over the sparse bit of hair you adored; it would be so nice to get to nuzzle against it again. As your fingers ran between his pectorals you could feel the moment his breath hitched.

“Please, Simon,” you begged. “I need it.”

Those breasts he would get back to later, your words brought him back and his need to fuck you senseless slammed into him full force.

Rushed, he laid you back over the console between the seats as he sat up and forward, undoing his belt before ripping his pants down enough that he could pull his cock out of his boxers. The angle was slightly awkward, but as he aligned the leaking head of his phallus with your entrance and gave that first thrust to fully enter you, everything else fell away.

“Oh fuck…fuck… oh fuck,” that deep agonized whimper echoed through the car as Simon’s hands bore down his grip on the top of the seat cushions. “Goddammit, luv…s-shit…ah…”

Nothing, absolutely nothing in this fucking world could ever compare to the way your body felt wrapped around his cock: how silky and warm and tight it was. There was no way with his limited brain function could he accurately describe how mind-numblingly amazing it was to be inside you again. Those restless nights where he just couldn’t seem to stay satisfied, the pictures and video that made it worse, the dreams that woke him to stained boxers, it was all undone in that moment as your soft walls held him snugly.

Your head flew back over the lip of the console as he filled you completely to the hilt, stretching you out to your limit. It was almost too much after so much time apart, but goddamn was it exactly as you had wanted. You swallowed the saliva gathering in your mouth, wanting to say the words you had first brought to life in your video, but in person this time.

“Breed me, please Simon. I need you to fucking breed me.”

Never had a more beautiful sentence ever been spoken to him in all his years than to hear your desperate and depraved voice telling him to claim you in the most ultimate way; it was even more beautiful in person than it was that first time he heard it. His fingernails nearly tore holes in the seat as gripped with all this strength to stop himself from coming too fast from all the excitement.

The car began to shake forward and back as Simon snapped his hips into you with a feverish intensity. Even within the first few minutes he was already pussy drunk, slamming into you with a feral roughness that left his rhythm scattered for a bit as his brain only had one objective now: to come.

Your legs were absolutely burning and shaking from the intensity as you had to spread them wide so that he could fit in between, but it didn’t matter; you would have done anything to have him reclaim your cunt as his own again.

The scent of sex was heavy in the air of that enclosed space, the wet slapping sounds of two bodies connecting in that most erotic way keeping the beat.

Yet there was still one more thing he wanted, one more thing that he had been daydreaming about all by his lonesome. Even in this cramped space, he was determined to make it happen- for both of you. His hands were on your legs and before you knew what was happening, he had pulled out of you so that he could situate your calves up on his broad shoulders.

As he thrust back in, the new position helped him reach even deeper until he completely bottomed out. Goddamn it was like you could feel him in your stomach, so full with him that you were completely one being.

“F-fuck…” you stammered out the cry, choking on your words as you writhed uncontrollably. It was almost too much.

“There ya go baby,” he groaned as he started rocking his hips again, unable to contain himself at this consuming euphoria. “Gotta make good on my fuckin’ promise.”

He took you even rougher now, gripping into your hips hard enough to leave purple fingerprints where his hands rested as he pounded into you furiously, your body contorted and at his mercy. The windows of the car were completely fogged over now, the condensation not letting any clear visuals in or out as the axel squeaked with the force of Simon’s thrusts. The console you were still laid on scraped across your back to make it burn as your body was rocked, but the angle was so perfect that the stimulation made your brain blank to anything that wasn’t your second release creeping up on you quick.

There were no more words that could be said as you both devolved into beings hell bent on pleasure alone, just the depraved sounds of grunting and moans filling up the interior to capacity; that growing warmth in your belly nearly reaching its peak

Goddammit, he was closer than he thought due to all the pent up desire he'd been unable to sait for weeks, but he had to be sure you were almost there again too. "Are ya close?" he asked as more of a plea than a question, hips snapping desperately with a shudder as he was losing the battle to his orgasm.

"Yes," you groaned back. "Don't stop, please."

He closed his eyes tight, working to stay from blowing until he felt your thighs twitch and clamp down around him, keeping him locked in. A few more sloppy thrusts slipping through the cum covering your cunt, a few more bumps against your swollen clit, and that was it. The warmth shot through your limbs, coursing like electricity as you came once more.

"Yes, yes, yes!" you cried out and finally he let go and fuck did he come with a roar that stung your ears.

Simon's body convulsed, the muscles in his abdomen tensing and straining as he released weeks and weeks of need. You took it all riding out your orgasms in tandem until you both lay still a moment, simply breathing after such an explosive ending.

He moved back into the seat exhausted, pulling your body along with him as you stayed connected. Lightly he pushed up your dress to press his raw lips to your stomach to kiss down the lower half of your body. Each embrace was another silent praise he gave while he took deep breaths through the high of his ecstasy until his rapidly pounding slowed and he could final re-wet his dry mouth to speak.

“Fuck, I think we both needed that one,” he said against your skin, his warm breath wafting over the fine spread of moisture along your torso, making you tingle as he kept his cock buried inside. “Ya did so good for me sweetheart.”

You reached a hand out to him and he helped you to sit up and into his lap. Wrapping your arm around his neck you pulled him into a deep kiss, letting your mouths linger together with eyes closed for a few moments as you both finished coming down.

“I’m glad your back,” you whispered as your lips parted.

He cupped your cheek with his palm, staring back into your eyes as he smiled. “I’m glad to be back too,” he returned. "And I'm gonna make sure that I make up for all that lost time."

Tag list: @sillylittlereader @babygirl-riley @jarfullofjizz @jamieelol

[rainybyday]

Pt 2 | Pt 3

Jazz was in awe of her baby brother. Sure, she had seen him in her Ma’s tummy but seeing him in person was different. 

He was so.... squishy and tiny and small and soft! His hands waving in slow motions with legs kicking in the air, closed eyes and baby soft clothes on his new body. Jazz was content on watching her brother like this, hearing his soft coos and simply staying with him but she felt a nudge from her left. 

“Touch him Jasmin,” Big Sister Rosa said. “Hold out your finger to greet him.”

Jazz looked back at her Big Sis. Her dirty (mud covered) blond (dark red) hair shifted so her green (missing) eyes stared at her in gentleness (and understanding, for she too was a big sister once upon a time). Seeing Jazz’s hesitation, she nudged her again towards the crib to encourage her.

Jazz looked at her, then glanced back at her brother. The baby was still wiggling in his position. Hesitantly she reached out her hand to hover over her brother, still a bit unsure as to what she should do. Just when she was about to retreat her hand when the nerves got the best of her, she felt the touch of feathery soft skin. 

Wide blues eyes watched in awe as a tinny tiny hand grazed her’s. Danny was blindly waving his arm to feel her own before little fingers with even tinnier nails finally unclenched from his fist and latching on to her hand. 

A moment of silence passed by before the tiny ittiy bitty baby made a soft whining sound. 

And then-! And then-!

He opened his eyes!

Jazz felt all her breath escaped her in a loud gasp as blurry blue eyes blinked against the bright lights of his nursery. He blinked for a long time before his eyes seemed adjust enough to seek out the soft thing he was touching. 

“Hi baby,” Jazz breathed. “I’m your sister.”

Little eyes blinked as responding hums answered back. 

(The specters watched the two living breathing beings as they conversed with each other. Neither of the siblings knew that those words would have taken a hold of them both. A bind that transcends beyond blood and water.)

(Both pair of eyes glowed under the veil, ebony hair became wispy white and crimson hair became blazing embers.)

(One held the starting of a star in his eyes, space under his shadow, and eternity written in his future.)

(One held the shine of a sun in her eyes, magic on her fingertips, and the birth of infinity that will be the tale of her destiny.)

Jazz protected and loved her brother. Twin laughter can be heard in rooms they claim to play in. Jazz would always insist on feeding him when her parents come to grab him for food. Giddiness would push Jazz to rush to her brother once school is over to tell him about her day. Slowly, Jazz’s life was becoming brighter with her little star by her side. 

The birth of her brother also had another side effect. She would converse with her Big Sisters more, asking questions about her brother's health or ask them what stories her brother would love to hear. Craft projects were made with the upmost care in order to gift them to her little star. She spent a large about of time digging for pretty rocks and wildflowers to present to him as well. More and more she planned her days around what she can do to make her little brother the happiest he can be. 

More and more she started to spend more time outside 

(More and more people of the town started to notice how the predator began to prowl the streets of their uneasy town.)

(Tension began to rise, and every person would start to slow down around corners of their homes. Afraid to meet the gaze of something unnatural, the beginning of something dangerous with too white teeth and too bright eyes. Tension was becoming thicker and only time will tell when it snaps.)

(And it did.)

“What are you smiling about?”

“Hmm?” Jazz hummed as she turned questioning to the voice behind her.

“You heard me!” A classmate yelled. “What are smiling about Witch!”

Jazz tilt her head at the term, not noticing the growing uneasiness of her classmates around her who were staring at the altercation. She pondered at the new word as she answered. “I was smiling because I was thinking of my brother.”

The classmate waited, clearly looking for more of an explanation but got none which agitated them. “So what? You just smiling thinking of your pet?”

Jazz frowned. “Pet? Danny is not my pet.”

No, Danny was her little brother. Her sweet little brother who would smile so adorably with so soft cheeks and playing with ever do gently. Her little brother was her prefect little star. He wasn’t some pet.

Her classmate looked at her disgust. “Thats what a Witch would say.”

“What’s a Witch?”

“What you are!”

She doesn’t understand what that means at all. 

(The unseen dead children cower under the name. The name that was said with such fear yet hunger. The need to destroy and take and light on fire because of that name. Many have seen those that set ablaze, many have been there longer than what their appearance may imply.)

(Many have seen the start of the hunt.)

(The Witch Hunt.)

“Why would you ask that?” Big Sister Annie asked Jazz. 

Jazz, unaware of the troubled look her Big Sister had, answered. “A classmate called me a Witch, but I don’t know what that means.”

(The Fenton Household became still. The elderly couple at the back stopped gossiping with each other as their auras became a deadly shade of black. Big Sister Rosa frozen in kitchen, her open wound on her neck started to drip blood once more and her mulated hands tumbled. The women in dresses of fire started to burn, skin turning black and the smell of ozone.)

Big Sister Annie stayed silent for a long moment. So long that Jazz started to shift every so often for waiting for so long. Finally, as years of waiting (not) Big Sister Annie crouched down to meet her eyes. 

“Listen to me Jasmin.” A̸̰̹̬̭͌̏̅̍͜n̷̺̆͌̽̈́̽́͝n̴͔͉̻̯̪̤͇̐̐͛͋̚͝ę̶̦̓̀̃b̵̈̀̓̀͛ͅë̷̡͚̬̳͎̪́̚t̴̡͊h̷̜̪͖̓ͅ ̷̡͖͎̥̇M̴̡̛̠͖͚͈͋̈́̑̾a̷̢̺̝̭̣͎̾̈́̋̾̑r̷͕̣̐ḯ̶̢̤̉͗̔̒̽͝b̸͍̓̅̂̀ͅe̶̝̬̹̪͇̒̄͒̌́̃͝l̴̰̍l̸̼͕̭̞͂̋̽͝ ̴͖̼̙̞̬̈́̔̃̓G̴̠̭̖̥̦̮̙̓̓͆̉͋̋r̴̜͙͊̽̉͗ã̸͖̞̬̠͎̦̓͆̃͂͜c̷̱͙̬͈̺͗͐͌͆̚e̶̪̭̦̬͉̯̩̔̇̽͂̀ demanded. “Listen to me very carefully to what I am about to tell you. Do you understand?”

“Uh.. Yes?”

“Jasmin.”

“Yes!”

(There's something about history. History always tells us the stories of the past, the winnings of war and the start of buildings anew. History is always taught to show the mistakes we make so that we will be blessed to no repeat them.)

“Witches are people that are hurt by others because people fear them. They don’t mean to cause fear, it's just that people are scared of things they don’t understand, things they deem strange.”

(But we often forget that History is written by the survivors, the winners.)

“Jasmin, you're not strange to me nor to Roselle or Madame Victoria or Master Wischer. We love you so very much, but you have to understand something Jasmin. Not everyone can see us, they don’t understand us, nor do they accept us. It's not their fault nor yours, but sometimes people believe in stories that are passed down far to earnestly.”

(And History, is not always right.)

“We don’t want you to be hurt, so please, listen to me Jasmin. Listen to me.”

(Witches, as they all know, were always burned at the stake.)

That day was the day that Jazz learned how to pretend. Pretend because if she did not, then she will be hurt. 

She doesn’t want to be hurt so she pretends, even if she doesn’t like to pretend that she can’t see the children in her classroom. Or how she can no longer call out to the madams in beautiful gown in the streets or dance in the forest with them anymore without getting caught. Sure, she could still talk with them behind closed doors, but her family started to come less and less by the day. 

Slowly, it became just Jazz and Danny. But her and Danny. And no one else.

(She wonders why they left her.)

It would be years of being normal, years of pretending to read more silently and walk away a bit faster. Years of pretending to be someone she is not. 

It was years of fakeness when she meet someone new, someone lost. 

His name was Jason. 

[novaursa]

Legacy (the judgment)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: what was promised

- Next part: high heart

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The throne room was filled with an oppressive air, its gilded walls and high ceilings doing little to mask the dread that radiated from every corner. The Iron Throne loomed at the center, its jagged blades catching the low light, casting specters over the assembled crowd. Tywin sat upon the throne with his customary air of authority, his expression a mask of calm indifference as his sharp eyes surveyed the hall.

To his right, you sat in a high-backed chair, your posture regal despite the lingering discomfort of childbirth. The seat felt hauntingly familiar, the same place you once occupied during your father’s reign, though the room had changed. Gone were the dragon motifs and Targaryen heraldry—now replaced with the lion banners of House Lannister. Yet, the weight of the past lingered, a silent reminder of the cycles of power and loss.

To Tywin’s left sat Cersei, resplendent in a golden gown that mirrored her father’s austere demeanor but failed to hide the venom in her gaze. Her green eyes were fixed on the empty space where Tyrion would soon stand, her lips curling in disdain.

The other judges sat further below, Lord Mace Tyrell looking uncomfortable in his ceremonial robes, his ruddy face betraying his nervousness. Beside him, Prince Oberyn Martell leaned back in his chair, his expression one of casual amusement. His dark eyes flicked to you, his lips quirking into a faint smirk as if to say, How fitting that you’re back here, of all places.

You met his gaze briefly but offered no response, your attention shifting as the heavy doors of the throne room groaned open. A ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd as Jaime entered, his golden hand gleaming in the torchlight as he escorted Tyrion toward the throne.

The crowd fell silent as Jaime stopped before the throne, his green eyes flicking briefly to you. His expression was unreadable, but there was a tension in his movements, a subtle stiffness that betrayed his unease. Tyrion, by contrast, wore a mask of sardonic calm, his lips twitching with what might have been amusement as he glanced around the room.

“Lord Tyrion Lannister,” Tywin’s voice rang out, deep and commanding, silencing even the faintest whispers. “You stand accused of regicide, the murder of King Joffrey Baratheon. How do you plead?”

Tyrion raised his chin slightly, his sharp eyes meeting Tywin’s unflinchingly. “Not guilty,” he said, his voice clear and steady, though a flicker of defiance danced in his tone.

Cersei scoffed audibly, her hand tightening on the armrest of her chair. Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on Tyrion, his expression unmoving as he nodded to one of the attendants. “Proceed.”

The trial began with a parade of witnesses, each more damning than the last. Servants recounted Tyrion’s sharp words to Joffrey, the veiled threats that had peppered their interactions over the years. Cersei herself gave testimony, her voice thick with feigned grief as she painted her brother as a monster, a jealous schemer who had always resented Joffrey’s ascension.

You watched in silence, your hands folded neatly in your lap. Though your face betrayed nothing, your heart clenched as Tyrion sat through the onslaught, his expression growing darker with every word.

Oberyn leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his chair as he observed the proceedings. He caught your gaze again, his smirk returning, but this time there was something sharper in his eyes, as if he were silently assessing your thoughts.

When it was Jaime’s turn to testify, he hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering to Tyrion before he spoke. “My brother has always been… direct,” he said carefully, his tone measured. “But he is no murderer.”

Cersei’s scoff echoed through the hall, but Tywin silenced her with a single look.

The trial continued, the accusations piling higher, the weight of the evidence threatening to crush Tyrion beneath its sheer enormity. You shifted in your seat, your gaze drifting to Tywin. His face was as unreadable as ever, though you had spent enough time with him to sense the faint strain in his posture, the unspoken calculation behind his silence.

As yet another witness took the stand, you glanced at Tyrion. His head was slightly bowed, his hands clenched on the table before him. For all his bravado, that strain now was beginning to show.

The sinister athmosphere in the room grew thicker with each passing moment, the weight of the accusations pressing down on everyone present. And yet, through it all, a single thought echoed in your mind: This is a performance, carefully orchestrated, a game with stakes higher than anyone here realizes.

The sound of the witness’s voice droned on, but your focus remained on the players of this deadly game, each one a piece on the board, moving toward an end that none of them could fully foresee.

The memory was vivid, as if it had only just occurred. You had been in Tywin’s chambers, a place that had become strangely familiar to you in recent weeks. The hearth was ablaze, its warmth filling the room as you cradled your newborn son in your arms. Damon stirred slightly, his tiny fingers curling around a strand of your hair as you hummed softly, swaying gently to soothe him.

Tywin sat at his desk, his quill scratching against parchment as he worked tirelessly on matters of state. Scrolls and letters were piled neatly before him, his focus unshakable as always. The faint clinking of his signet ring against the inkpot punctuated the silence. Despite his formidable presence, there was a strange domesticity to the scene, a quiet rhythm that had developed between you.

But the peace of the moment was fleeting. You had been turning over your words for days, waiting for the right time. Finally, you spoke, your voice soft but steady.

“What will you do with Tyrion?”

Tywin didn’t look up immediately, the quill pausing only briefly before continuing its path across the parchment. “Tyrion will stand trial, as is proper.”

“And then?” you pressed, shifting Damon slightly as you sat on the edge of a chair near the hearth.

He set the quill down, his sharp green eyes meeting yours, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. “Justice will be served.”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers brushing over Damon’s soft hair. “Justice, or Cersei’s version of it? You know what she wants.”

“Cersei’s emotions are irrelevant,” Tywin said firmly, leaning back in his chair. “She may cry for blood, but she does not dictate the law.”

“Does she not?” you countered gently, though there was an edge to your tone. “She’s already laid the groundwork, turning the court and the people against Tyrion. And you’ve allowed it.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his gaze locked onto yours.

“Tyrion is your son,” you continued, your voice softening. “You may not show it, but he is. And whether you care to admit it or not, he’s more like you than anyone else.”

Tywin scoffed faintly, though the reaction was muted. “Tyrion is a disappointment. He always has been.”

You shook your head, cradling Damon closer as you leaned forward slightly. “He is clever, resourceful, and determined. Just like you. You may not approve of how he uses those qualities, but they are the same ones you value in yourself.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, but he said nothing, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded you.

“If you allow Cersei to destroy him,” you said quietly, “it will only weaken the family. Tyrion may not be the son you wanted, but he is the son you have. He has proven his loyalty to this house time and again, despite how you’ve treated him.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.

You looked down at Damon, his small, peaceful face a stark contrast to the tension in the room. “You care deeply for legacy, Tywin. I know that better than anyone. But legacy is not just power and gold. It’s the people who carry your name. Tyrion is part of that legacy, whether you wish it or not.”

Tywin’s expression was inscrutable, his eyes flickering briefly to Damon before returning to you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured. “What would you have me do?”

“Ensure the trial is fair,” you replied without hesitation. “Keep Cersei’s emotions from poisoning the outcome. And if he is found guilty—if there is truly evidence to condemn him—don’t let it be her hands that carry out the punishment.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, the flickering firelight casting shadows across his stern features. Finally, he leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. “You presume much, Y/N.”

“Perhaps,” you admitted, your tone unwavering. “But I speak because I know you value strength and reason above all else. Tyrion embodies both, even if you refuse to see it.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze dropping briefly to the papers on his desk. When he spoke again, his tone was quieter, almost contemplative. “You are more forthright than most. It is… refreshing.”

You blinked at the unexpected compliment, but before you could respond, Damon stirred in your arms, drawing both your attention. Tywin’s eyes softened imperceptibly as he looked at the boy, and you seized the moment.

“For Damon’s sake,” you said gently, “keep this family intact. He deserves to grow up surrounded by strength, not destruction.”

Tywin’s gaze lingered on you and Damon for a moment longer before he straightened, his mask of composure returning. “I will do what must be done.”

It wasn’t the answer you’d hoped for, but it wasn’t a dismissal either. You nodded, knowing you had planted a seed, even if Tywin would never openly acknowledge it. As the memory faded, your attention returned to the present trial. Tyrion stood before the court, defiant and alone, but you held onto the faint hope that your words had reached the man seated on the Iron Throne.

Witness after witness had been paraded before the court, each painting Tyrion in a darker light. You sat silently to Tywin’s right, your composure a carefully maintained mask, though inside, you felt a growing sense of unease.

Tyrion had held himself together remarkably well through most of the trial, responding to the accusations with biting sarcasm and cold wit. But now, as another name was called, you noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor.

“Shae,” the court crier announced.

The air in the room seemed to freeze. Tyrion’s head snapped up, his mismatched eyes narrowing as Shae stepped forward. Your own heart sank as you recognized her, the woman Tyrion had once confided in, loved even. She was dressed plainly, her usual warmth replaced by an icy resolve as she avoided Tyrion’s gaze and walked to the stand.

You cast a quick glance at Cersei, seated on Tywin’s left. Her satisfaction was evident, a smug smile curling at the corners of her lips as she watched Shae take her place. It became painfully clear that Shae had been turned, manipulated into playing a role in this farce of a trial.

“What is she doing here?” you muttered under your breath, your voice barely audible. Tywin didn’t react, his gaze fixed on Shae as the questioning began.

“Shae,” the prosecutor began, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “You served as a handmaiden to Lady Sansa Stark and were in close proximity to Lord Tyrion during his time as Hand of the King, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Shae replied, her voice trembling slightly, though whether it was from fear or anger, you couldn’t tell.

“And during that time,” the prosecutor continued, “did you observe any… troubling behavior from Lord Tyrion?”

Shae hesitated, her hands twisting in her lap. “Yes,” she said finally, her voice growing stronger. “He… he was cruel. He spoke of Joffrey with hatred. He said he wanted him dead.”

You felt Tyrion’s entire body stiffed from where you sat. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table before him, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might shatter.

The prosecutor pressed on, his tone becoming more insidious. “And did Lord Tyrion ever discuss how he might carry out such a desire?”

Shae looked down, as though ashamed. “Yes. He told me… he told me he would strangle the boy. With his own hands.”

The words sent a ripple through the courtroom, gasps and murmurs filling the air. Tyrion’s face twisted with a mixture of rage and pain, his control slipping with every word.

You leaned forward slightly, your heart aching for him. It was clear to anyone who truly knew Tyrion that the accusations were absurd, but in this room, truth mattered little.

“Why are you doing this?” Tyrion’s voice cut through the noise, raw and trembling with fury. He stood slowly, his gaze locked on Shae. “Why are you lying?”

Shae flinched but didn’t look at him. “You broke my heart,” she said quietly, the tremor in her voice betraying her conflicted emotions. “I loved you, and you threw me away like I was nothing.”

Tyrion took a step forward, his voice rising. “I sent you away to protect you! To keep you safe from them!” He gestured to Cersei and Tywin, his voice dripping with contempt. “And now you stand here and spit their lies like a puppet.”

Shae’s gaze finally lifted, but it was filled with a mix of anger and shame. She opened her mouth to respond, but Tywin’s voice cut through the tension.

“Enough,” he commanded, his tone icy. “The witness will step down.”

Shae hesitated, her lips trembling as though she wanted to say more, but she obeyed, retreating from the stand. As she passed Tyrion, she avoided his gaze, her steps quick and unsteady.

Tyrion turned to the court, his eyes blazing with fury. “Is this what passes for justice?” he spat, his voice echoing through the hall. “A parade of lies and manipulations, all to satisfy Cersei’s thirst for vengeance?”

“Mind your tongue,” Tywin said coldly, his gaze hard.

Tyrion laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and mirthless. “Why? So you can pretend this is fair? So you can continue this charade as if the outcome hasn’t already been decided?”

The dread in the room was set ablaze, the air crackling with the weight of his words. Tyrion stepped forward, addressing the gathered lords and ladies. “I did not kill Joffrey, but I wish I had. Watching him die gave me more satisfaction than I’ve felt in years.”

Gasps erupted from the crowd, and even you couldn’t suppress the flicker of shock that crossed your face.

“I wish I was the monster you think I am,” Tyrion continued, his voice rising, his anger boiling over. “If only to tear this family apart the way it’s torn me apart.”

You could feel Tywin’s gaze shift toward you briefly, though you kept your eyes on Tyrion, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I demand a trial by combat,” Tyrion declared, his voice ringing out like a bell, silencing the murmurs in the crowd.

The room fell into stunned silence. Even Tywin’s composed mask slipped for a fraction of a second before he regained control. Cersei’s face twisted in fury, her hands clenching the armrests of her chair.

You exhaled slowly, the weight of Tyrion’s words settling heavily in the room. The game had just changed, and the stakes had risen higher than ever.

The cold stone walls of the dungeons were damp, the faint sound of dripping water echoing through the halls. Jaime Lannister made his way down the dimly lit corridor, his expression was a mix of frustration and concern, his strides purposeful as he approached Tyrion’s cell.

Tyrion sat on the small bench inside, his head leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. When Jaime’s footsteps stopped just outside the bars, Tyrion opened one eye, his lips curling into a wry smile.

“Well, well,” Tyrion drawled, sitting up and gesturing grandly. “The Kingslayer graces me with his presence. To what do I owe the honor?”

Jaime sighed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “What are you doing, Tyrion? You had a way out, and you threw it away.”

Tyrion chuckled humorlessly. “Ah, yes, the way out where I grovel before our dear father, admit to crimes I didn’t commit, and let him send me to the Wall to freeze my arse off for the rest of my days. Tempting.”

Jaime gripped the bars tightly, his expression hard. “It was better than this! You think I don’t know what Cersei is planning? She’ll name the Mountain as her champion, Tyrion. Do you really think you can win against him?”

Tyrion shrugged nonchalantly, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. “I’m not dead yet, am I? And who knows? Perhaps the gods will favor me.”

“The gods?” Jaime’s voice rose, incredulous. “You’ve never put stock in the gods, Tyrion, so don’t start now. This isn’t a game anymore.”

Tyrion leaned forward, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, it’s always been a game, Jaime. You’re just upset because I’ve decided to play by my own rules.”

Jaime slammed his golden hand against the bars, the sound ringing out in the still air. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Father was going to spare you. He wouldn’t let you die. All you had to do was plead guilty, and he would have sent you to the Wall. But now…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Now, you’ve spat on his mercy, and you’ve undermined all the efforts made to protect you.”

Tyrion’s smirk faltered slightly, and he raised an eyebrow. “Efforts? What efforts?”

Jaime leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Our stepmother—Lady Y/N—has been working tirelessly to sway him in your favor. She’s risked more than you know to ensure you had a chance. She even convinced him to temper Cersei’s influence over the trial.”

Tyrion froze, his gaze sharpening. “And you think that would have worked? You think she, of all people, could change Tywin Lannister’s mind?”

“She already has,” Jaime shot back, his tone firm. “Father listens to her more than you realize. More than he listens to anyone.”

Tyrion blinked, genuinely taken aback by the revelation. “I suppose the dragon has tamed the lion after all,” he muttered, half to himself.

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “And now, with this stunt, you’ve disregarded all of it. You’ve thrown her efforts—and any chance of clemency—away. Cersei will use this trial by combat to destroy you. She’s already chosen the Mountain. Do you have any idea what that means?”

Tyrion’s expression darkened, and he let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know exactly what it means. Cersei’s idea of justice is ensuring my head is mounted on a spike. She’s wanted me dead since the day I was born.”

“And now you’ve handed her the perfect excuse,” Jaime said, his voice heavy with frustration. “Why, Tyrion? Why do this to yourself?”

Tyrion’s gaze hardened, his voice low but laced with venom. “Because I’m tired of being her scapegoat. I’m tired of being the monster everyone blames for their misery. If I’m to die, Jaime, I’ll die fighting. Not crawling to our father for scraps of mercy.”

Jaime shook his head, his frustration palpable. “This isn’t bravery, Tyrion. It’s foolishness.”

“Call it what you will,” Tyrion replied, his tone defiant. “But at least I’ll die on my terms.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching heavy between them. Finally, Jaime straightened, his expression grim. “If this is truly what you want, then so be it. But don’t think for a moment that you’re the only one paying the price for your pride.”

With that, Jaime turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Tyrion watched him go, his smirk fading as he leaned back against the wall, his thoughts a tumult of defiance and regret.

The warm midday sun streamed into the garden, the air heavy with the scent of blooming flowers. You sat on a stone bench beneath a canopy of vines, cradling a cup of water in your hands as you gazed out over the vibrant greenery. Despite the serenity of your surroundings, your thoughts were troubled. The trial had left an unsettling tension in its wake, and your concerns for Tyrion weighed heavily on your mind.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention, and you turned to see Prince Oberyn Martell approaching, his movements as graceful as ever. Dressed in his signature Dornish attire, the colors of House Martell proudly displayed, he carried an air of effortless confidence. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he gave you a slow, exaggerated bow.

“My lady,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Or should I say, my queen in all but name? How lovely to find you among the roses.”

You managed a faint smile, though your unease lingered. “Prince Oberyn,” you greeted him, gesturing for him to sit beside you. “What brings you to my quiet corner of the world?”

He sank onto the bench with the ease of a panther, his gaze fixed on you. “I wanted to see how the most intriguing member of this… lion’s den is faring after yesterday’s entertainment.”

“Entertainment?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You speak as if it were a play, not a trial.”

He chuckled, leaning back against the bench. “Was it not both? The intrigue, the betrayals, the grand declarations. It had all the makings of a fine Dornish tragedy.”

You sighed, your fingers tightening around the cup in your hands. “It was no tragedy for you, Oberyn. But for others…”

His smile faded slightly, and he tilted his head, studying you. “You’re worried for the Imp,” he said, his tone more serious.

You nodded, your gaze dropping to the cup. “Tyrion is… not without his faults, but he doesn’t deserve this. Cersei’s hatred for him is blinding, and my husband—” You hesitated, then sighed. “Tywin will allow this charade to continue if it suits his plans.”

Oberyn’s lips curled into a sly smile. “And yet, you sit here, torn between loyalty to your husband and concern for your stepchild. You are a fascinating woman, Y/N.”

You gave him a sharp look. “This is no game, Oberyn. Tyrion’s life is at stake.”

He nodded slowly, his expression turning thoughtful. “You are right, of course. It is no game. But perhaps you’ll find solace in knowing that the Imp’s fate may not be as grim as it seems.”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Oberyn leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I will be Tyrion’s champion.”

The words hung in the air between you, their weight sinking into your chest. You stared at him, a mix of surprise and apprehension crossing your face. “You would do that?” you asked quietly. “Why?”

He tilted his head, his smile returning, though it was tinged with something darker. “You know why, Y/N. Elia. My sister, murdered by Gregor Clegane under orders from your husband. Our nephew and niece, butchered. This is my chance to avenge them.”

You swallowed hard, the name Gregor Clegane sending a chill down your spine. “And you believe you can defeat him?”

Oberyn’s smile widened, his confidence radiating from him like the sun. “I know I can. The Mountain may be a brute, but he’s slow, clumsy. I’ve trained my whole life for this. I’ve dreamed of this moment.”

You hesitated, your concern growing. “And if you fail?”

“I won’t,” he said simply, his tone unwavering. “But even if I did, what better way to honor my family than to die fighting for them?”

You shook your head, your hands trembling slightly as you set the cup down. “This isn’t just about you, Oberyn. If you fail, Tyrion dies as well. And I… I cannot bear to see another innocent life taken in this pit of vipers.”

Oberyn reached out, placing a warm, steady hand over yours. “You have a kind heart, Y/N,” he said softly. “But kindness alone will not save him. Justice will.”

You met his gaze, the intensity of his conviction almost overwhelming. “I hope you’re right, Oberyn. For Tyrion’s sake, and for yours.”

He smiled, squeezing your hand gently before releasing it. “You’ll see, Y/N. By the time this trial is over, the Mountain will fall, and justice will be served.”

With that, he rose gracefully from the bench, offering you a slight bow before turning to leave. You watched him go, your heart heavy with conflicting emotions. As you gazed down at the roses blooming around you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the thorns were drawing closer.

[scary-grace]

if my heart was a house - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

It's been nineteen years since Tomura was sentenced to death, and you've built a life in the space he left behind, braced each day for the worst. You're prepared for everything - the questions your daughter asks, the memories that sting a little more in the winter, the specter of the news you've been afraid of for years. But of all the things life's thrown your way, it's the one you haven't dared to hope for might be the one thing you can't handle. (cross-posted to Ao3) The prequel can be found here: what I can't remember now written for @pixelcafe-network's Challenge Friday event! Banner/divider by @cafekitsune

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Chapter 1

You know even before you open your eyes that it’s snowed overnight. The world always sounds too quiet afterwards, and you used to have so many words to describe it – almost comforting, almost eerie, almost serene. But that was when you were young. Now you’d replace all those words with a different one: Empty. You used to love the winter, the first snowfall of the year, and you still do. But it always reminds you of him. And he’s gone.

He’s been gone for years now. The length of time you spent with him has been swallowed six times over by the time you’ve spent alone, and you’d like to think that even in the beginning, you wore your sadness well. Now, nineteen years in, it barely shows. You keep it buried through spring, summer, autumn – until the first frost, the first freezing rain, the first icicles on the eaves and the first drifts of snow on the ground, when it crawls free of the grave and sprawls on top of you at night. You met Tomura in the winter. Fell in love with him by spring. You got two more winters with him after that, and then he was gone, and nothing can fill the space he left behind.

But even if one chamber of your heart is frozen open for good, the rest is still alive. And there’s room for a different kind of love, a way for you to translate your grief rather than buckle beneath its weight. There’s a knock at the door to your room, and your daughter’s voice slips cautiously in. “Mom? Are you awake?”

“I’m awake,” you say, and you blink away the tears. “Come in.”

Even at eighteen, Chihiro still hesitates before she steps across the threshold, but once she’s made the choice, she throws herself onto the bed with abandon. “We got half a meter. That’s even more than the forecast said.”

“And we’ve still got power. Lucky us.” You wipe your eyes, just in case, and turn to face her. “Good morning, kiddo.”

“How long do I have to be kiddo? I’m almost done with high school.”

“Okay, you’re right,” you compromise, even as your throat tightens. She’s never met her father, never will, but the tone in her voice when she’s putting her foot down reminds you painfully of him. “What should I call you instead?”

“My name. You’re the one who picked it out.” Chihiro’s dressed in her pajamas with a hoodie thrown over them, and you can see her phone lighting up through the front pocket. “Don’t you like it anymore?”

“I love it,” you say, “Chihiro. Did you sleep okay?”

She nods. There’s something on her mind. You can tell by the way her brow furrows, and the way her mouth thins tells you that she’s planning to keep it quiet. Or that she’ll try. Chihiro has a hard time keeping her feelings inside. She and Tomura have that in common, but while you always gave Tomura space to figure out how to say what he needed to, you always let Chihiro know you’re aware, and listening. “What’s going on up there, Chihiro, my daughter who’s almost done with high school?”

She rolls her eyes, but a smile is pulling up the corner of her mouth. Her smile’s always been a little lopsided, but so has yours. “There’s only one morning of the year you ever sleep in,” she says. “The first time it snows. And then you’re different all day – not mad or depressed or anything. Just different. I was wondering why.”

“I’m sorry,” you say at once. “I’m not upset with you. It’s not anything you did. You could never do anything that would –”

“I know, Mom.” Chihiro’s crimson eyes are intent on your face. “It’s one day. You get to be weird if you need to. I just wanted to know – is it because of him? My dad?”

When she was little, you’d lie, and tell her the snow is so pretty that you can’t help but get emotional about it. There was a while where she didn’t ask. But she’s old enough now that you can admit it. You think. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice is steady. You’re proud of that. “This is around the time of year when I first met him. It brings back memories.”

“Good ones?” Chihiro settles into the pillows the way she used to when she wanted a bedtime story. “Tell me.”

You hesitate. “Not the gross stuff,” Chihiro clarifies. “I don’t want to know about that. Kaori’s mom tells her all about that stuff. And she bought her a vibrator for her birthday.”

“Huh,” you say after a second. “That’s sex-positive of her.”

“You’re being nice. What do you really think?”

You think she reminds you of Tomura. He never let you duck behind the niceties; he always wanted to know your real reaction. “I think it’s weird. Especially if Kaori didn’t ask.”

“She definitely didn’t. She’s really shy.” Chihiro grimaces. “I’m glad you’re not weird like that.”

Not weird is a good thing. Maybe. “You know I’m here if you need to talk about –”

“No, Mom. Gross.” Chihiro buries her face in the pillow. “Tell me about my dad.”

“Okay,” you say. “Your dad. He, um – there was something about him. I never met someone like him before, and I haven’t since. He told the truth about stuff, even if it wasn’t pretty, and he said what he thought even if it was a bad time. One time we went on a double date with one of his friends and their new boyfriend, and the first question out of your dad’s mouth was whether the boyfriend had drawn his facial hair on.”

Chihiro wheezes. “That’s awful,” she says, but she’s laughing – just like you were. “Had he, though?”

“We never got an answer,” you say, and Chihiro laughs harder. “Your dad could be a jackass sometimes, even to people he liked, but when it really mattered, he’d –”

Kill for them. You swallow the words. “He was there for people when they needed him,” you say instead. “He was always there for me. Even if he didn’t know the right thing to say, I could count on him to listen. And he never gave me a hard time for standing up for myself. Not even when we argued about things.”

You were sort of a pushover early on. You were worried that saying no would make you difficult, and being difficult would make him want to leave. It wasn’t how you were most of the time, or how you’d been before you and Tomura got together, and he wasn’t scared to call you out. You remember the grin on his face the first time you really put your foot down about something, set a boundary and held it. I knew you were in there somewhere, he said. This is how I like you.

That was something you loved about being with Tomura: You were good for each other. You made each other better. “It sounds like you were happy,” Chihiro ventures, and you nod. “Do you think you’d have gotten married sometime? Did you guys want kids?”

Married, maybe. Your friends and his all used to joke that the two of you were the old married couple of the group, but while you talked about the future, you almost never talked about marriage to go with it. Not until it was almost the end, and you never made it to the discussion, any discussion, about having kids. Your pregnancy was catastrophic because of what happened before it, but even if it hadn’t been, it would have raised a lot of questions that neither you nor Tomura knew how to answer. “We were really young,” you say. “I was only twenty-two. We hadn’t had that talk yet. But I think we’d have talked about it if –”

“Yeah.” Chihiro’s voice is muffled by the pillows. “Did he know about me? Before he died?”

Your stomach clenches in a tight, guilty cramp, one that’s been getting steadily worse over the years. “I didn’t find out until after he was gone.”

“Oh.” Chihiro’s voice goes small and wavering. “Do you think – um – do you think he would have liked me?”

There’s no way to know. That means what you say next isn’t technically a lie. “He would have loved you,” you say. Her shoulders shake, and you rest your hand on her back to settle her, the same as you’ve done since she was a baby. “Just like I do.”

Chihiro turns her head to look at you, her eyes glassy with tears. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.” You rub her back in slow circles. “Ask about him whenever you want. I’ll always try to answer.”

“Do you miss him?”

Other than your daughter’s ragged breathing and your own steady, shallow sips of air, there’s no sound in the world. When you open up the blinds, you’ll see an empty snowfield, unmarked by human footprints for a little while longer. Footprints in the snow will be filled in by the next storm or melted away in the thaw, but the marks Tomura left on you are indelible. There will never be room for someone else where he stood, because he’s still standing there, somewhere you can’t reach.

Sometimes you’ve thought, selfishly, that it would be easier if he really was dead, just so you wouldn’t have to cope with knowing that he’s still out there, knowing exactly where he is with no way to get to him. You’ve let Chihiro think he’s dead. You tell yourself it’s easier for her this way. It’s better that she doesn’t know what really happened to Tomura. The fact that you know is bad enough.

“Mom?” Chihiro asks, and you realize you never answered her question. “Do you still miss my dad?”

You still love him. That’s the same thing. “I do,” you say. “Every day.”

Chihiro cries herself out, and then it’s time to get moving. Her school has a late start, not a snow day, and you still have to go to work. You make a special breakfast anyway, play the music you and she used to dance to when she was little, and soon your daughter’s smiling again. Chihiro doesn’t have trouble being happy, not like you and Tomura both did. Still do, probably. Your depression was just that, but the sheer weight of Tomura’s past regularly threatened to crush him, and you doubt the nineteen years he’s already spent in prison have done anything to improve things.

But Chihiro knows how to be happy, and you know, because she tells you when she’s not. You’re not naive enough to think your teenager tells you everything, but she knows she can talk to you. And she does talk to you, getting steadily back to herself as you eat breakfast and clean up and get ready, her for school, you for work. Then the two of you crunch your way to the car and start digging it out of the snow. The snowplows must have been out last night and early this morning, because the road doesn’t have much in the way of accumulation. You’ll have to be careful of ice.

You’re both a little sweaty under your winter coats when you get in the car at last. “I’m already gross,” Chihiro complains. “Why can’t we get a garage or something?”

“Where would we put it?”

“In your room,” Chihiro says. You snort. “Or in mine. Since I’m going to uni soon.”

Your heart sinks whenever she says that, but you’ll be damned before you let it show. “You’ll still need somewhere to stay when you come back,” you say. “Maybe we don’t really need a kitchen.”

Chihiro rolls her eyes. “What? You’re not planning to turn my room into, like, a sewing room or something once I go to school?”

"No," you say. "My parents did that when I went away. I hated it."

Looking back, you took it way too personally. They weren’t saying they were done with you, or that the place you’d grown up wasn’t home anymore. You were just hurting, and looking desperately for a reason why. Coming back on school break to find your room cleaned out was a good one. “I’m not going to do that,” you say to Chihiro.“Even when you live somewhere else, you’ll always have a place with me.”

Chihiro glances sideways at you. “Kaori’s mom is freaking about her moving away.”

“Kaori’s mom freaks out a lot,” you say. You and she should have bonded, because you’re the only single moms in this small town, but Kaori’s mom makes you nervous. “How does Kaori feel about it?”

“Her mom will be fine. She’s not worried.” Chihiro pauses for a long moment. “I am, though.”

Your grip on the steering wheel goes white-knuckled. “About Kaori’s mom?”

“About you,” Chihiro says. You reach a stop sign, come to a full stop, and turn to look at her. There’s a stubborn set to her jaw that’s all too familiar. “Kaori’s mom is crazy. But Kaori’s mom has a life. She goes out some nights and her friends come to visit and she has parties and hobbies —“

“I have hobbies,” you protest.

“Yeah. Your hobby means you hang out in the house all day,” Chihiro says. “You can't carry your sewing machine and all your fabric to a craft party. Maybe if you learned to knit or something —“

“I’m not going to knit.”

“Something,” Chihiro says firmly. “Something that means you’re not alone all the time. I’m excited to go to uni. I’m worried about what’s going to happen to you when I leave.”

You’ve fucked up, big-time. “Chihiro, I understand why you —“ No, you don’t. All you understand is that you were stupid to think your damage didn’t show, awful for making Chihiro think she has any responsibility for your mess of an internal life at all. “It’s not your job to make sure I’m okay. I can take care of myself.”

“It’s not about taking care of yourself,” Chihiro fires back. “It’s about being happy. You want me to be happy, right?”

“Of course I do,” you say. “I love you.”

“I love you, Mom.” Chihiro says it bluntly, unashamedly. “So I want you to be happy, too.”

You don’t know what to say. It’s quiet, and it keeps being quiet, until a car pulls up behind you and honks its horn. You refocus on driving in a hurry. With you distracted, Chihiro pushes the point. “You barely even talk to people, Mom. Kaori’s mom thinks you hate her because you never say yes when she asks to hang out.”

“I don’t hate her,” you say. Chihiro’s skeptical look skewers you to the seat. “Look, she’s just not — it’s complicated.”

“No it’s not,” Chihiro says. “Next time she asks to hang out, say yes.”

No. “What if I sign up for an art class at the community center instead?”

“Do that, too,” Chihiro says. You grimace. “You want me to be happy. I’ll be happy if I know you’re talking to other people and doing stuff that’s not in the house. I don’t want to come back on a school break and find out you’ve only been talking to the trees or something.”

She pauses. “I guess you can talk to them a little. As long as you don’t start thinking they talk back.”

“Got it.”

You drop Chihiro off at school less than a minute before the bell rings, but she still makes you get out of the car and hug her. She hugs really tight. She got that from you. Tomura used to complain jokingly that you were a boa constrictor in a girlfriend suit. You kiss her forehead and send her on her way, then get back in the car and drive to work, feeling even worse than you did when you opened your eyes to a snowy silence this morning.

Chihiro’s wrong about Kaori’s mom. It is complicated — not because you hate her, but because she’s the nosiest person in town, and because you’ve got a lot to hide. You didn’t mean to have a lot to hide. It was just something that happened, and as the years since Tomura’s conviction have unfolded, you’ve gotten steadily more attached to the lie. It’s not about you. It’s about Chihiro, who shouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that her father’s a convicted murderer awaiting execution in supermax prison, who shouldn’t have to deal with people looking at her differently. It’s about Chihiro. It’s not about you.

Or so you tell yourself. But there’s a reason you fled from Tokyo in the aftermath of Tomura’s sentencing, why you cut off contact with his friends and yours, why you dyed your hair and changed your phone number and nuked your social media along with every email address you ever had. People hated Tomura. And because you were with him, they hated you, too. It didn’t matter that you knew nothing. That the murders he was accused of committing took place before you met him. Even if you’d dumped him the second he was arrested, you’d have been called stupid for not seeing it all along. You couldn’t hack it. You were headed for a breakdown at high speed. But you would have stayed, if Tomura hadn’t told you to go.

The last time you spoke to him was after his sentencing, as they were taking him away. You seized his hands, already cuffed, his wrists chafed raw, and for a split second, he held on so tightly that one of your fingers broke. Then he looked up, hopeless fury in his eyes. Get out of here. Don’t come back. I don’t want you to watch.

You thought he meant he didn’t want you to watch him being shoved into an armored truck for transport, but when your letters came back unopened, when he refused to let you visit or even call him, you realized the truth. He wanted you gone, just as completely as he was gone from you. That moment in the courtroom was the last one you’d ever have with him. And that was what tripped the breakdown at last. You were throwing up too much to overdose and you were too chicken to try another way, so you went to the doctor to figure it out so you could kill yourself with your chosen method. You just wanted anti-nausea pills. The doctor did bloodwork, made you give a urine sample, and gave you a diagnosis.

“Hyperemesis gravidarum,” he said, and you looked at him blankly. “You’re pregnant.”

He expected you to get an abortion. Everybody and their mother probably expected you to get an abortion. If Tomura had been there, if your accidental pregnancy had been something the two of you were dealing with together, it probably wouldn’t have even been a question. And for any other pregnancy, it would have been the only viable option in your mind. But when you thought about it, about this pregnancy, your mind rejected the idea so violently that you threw up again. You couldn’t get rid of this baby. You needed it. Looking back, you know your reasons were terrible. You had a kid so you wouldn’t be alone. So you’d keep some memory of Tomura close to you always. So you’d have a reason to keep getting up in the morning, a reason to eat and sleep and exercise, a reason to find a new job in your new town and work hard at it. So someone would need you. So you could do something with your agony at losing Tomura, grab it with both hands and twist it back into love. Deciding to have the baby was the most selfish thing you’ve ever done. And raising Chihiro, loving her, is the most important thing you’ll ever do.

She’s right about you. You do live for her. And if that means signing up for a pottery class at the community center and agreeing to grab tea with Kaori’s crazy mom so she won’t worry, that’s what you’ll do.

You work in the combined billing/records/HR department at your town’s medical clinic, with occasional ventures to the front desk when a receptionist is out sick. You spend a lot of time staring at the computer, a lot of time on the phone, and very little time talking to your coworkers — but you’ve been here for seventeen years, longer than almost anyone else. You were working here before some of your coworkers were out of primary school.

Dr. Kawada is your age, though. He greets you as you walk in. “Glad you made it. Anybody who lives past the town limits is staying home.”

“They should. The roads are terrible even with the plows out.” You hang up your coat, then sit down and power up your computer. “How many patients do you think we’ll get?”

“We have a ton of cancelations already,” Keiko, the nurse-practitioner, reports. She would be the one to make it in — Kawada would crawl here with his teeth if he had to, and she’s his wife, so of course she tagged along. “And there was a call for you, bright and early.”

“For billing? Somebody must have been losing sleep.”

“Not for billing. For you,” Keiko admonishes. “I forwarded it to your phone. It seemed kind of urgent.”

You log into your computer, then decide to check the message while you’re waiting for it to perk up. The voice on the other end of the line is completely unfamiliar. “Hi there. My name is Midoriya Izuku, and I’m a lawyer with the —" There’s a really loud sound on the other end of the line, completely obliterating whatever he was about to tell you about the organization he’s part of. “Due to confidentiality I can’t share much over the phone, but it’s really important that I get in touch with you! Please call me back to arrange a meeting —“

You hang up and delete the message. You don’t like lawyers, and this guy sounds like he has prosecutor written all over him. Or else he’s a reporter lying to you about his credentials to trick you into giving him a quote. The twenty-year anniversary of Tomura’s conviction is coming up, and there were articles at the ten-year mark, too. You’re more concerned about how this Midoriya Izuku got your number in the first place. You’re not easy to find. You made yourself tough to find on purpose.

It’s a quiet day at the office. Almost all the appointments are canceled, which means that the walk-ins get seen almost immediately, and you have time to start on your end-of-the-year reports. And time to talk, because Keiko and Dr. Kawada are in talkative moods, and you’re the best and only target. “How’s Chihiro?” Keiko asks. “Has she picked a school?”

“Not yet. Still weighing her options,” you say. And then, because you’re tired: “She’s worried about what will happen to me once she leaves.”

“Tell her not to worry. We’ll take care of you!” Dr. Kawada says with a grin. “What’s she worried about, anyway? You seem fine.”

“I am fine. But I’m signing up for an art class so she’ll stop worrying that I’m going to wither away alone,” you say. Dr. Kawada snorts. “How I’m doing isn’t her responsibility. She didn’t ask to be born and I didn’t have her so she could take care of me.”

“Nobody thinks that,” Keiko says. She gives you a weird look, but then she changes the subject. “Hey, but even once she moves out, you don’t have to be alone! Me and Shogo know lots of people we want to set you up with!”

You’re pretty sure your face goes dead white. “What?”

“I mean, I know you haven’t been seeing anyone since you moved here —"

“Because it’s not about me anymore. It’s about Chihiro.”

“Yeah, but if it’s about Chihiro, shouldn’t you want her not to worry?” Kawada’s not helping. You feel like you might be sick. “I moved here right around when you did and I’ve never seen you date anybody. Things must have gone down real bad with your ex —"

“Shogo!” Keiko swats him, mortified, then looks at you. “Sorry. He should know better.”

“Chihiro’s dad isn’t my ex,” you say. “He’s — gone.”

It’s the same trick you’ve been pulling on Chihiro since she was old enough to ask, and it works on adults, too. Kawada backs off, chagrined. “Sorry,” he says. There’s an awkward silence. “I’ve known you for seventeen years. How did I miss that?”

“I don’t like to talk about it.” You don’t even like thinking about Tomura, but every winter, it’s unavoidable. Every winter the sadness curls up around you, and although time is supposed to heal things, it’s never gotten any easier to throw off come spring. “I wouldn’t wish it on anybody.”

“Yeah,” Keiko agrees. Her eyes are sad. “Still. Tell Chihiro not to worry. We’ll keep an eye on you.”

You force a smile, force your eyes to brighten. “Thank you.”

It’s the clinic’s slowest day in a while, and you spend a lot of it screwing around on the computer. You sign up for an art class, one that meets the same night as Chihiro’s choir practice, so you can pick her up on the way home. You google therapists, too — maybe she’ll feel better if she knows you have one. And maybe you need one. Chihiro’s your daughter, the most important person in the world, the one you’d sacrifice everything to care for. Caring for her takes up most of your thoughts, distracts you from the pain of losing Tomura. Once Chihiro goes away for school, there won’t be anything left to keep your sadness at bay.

Tomura’s been on death row for nineteen years. They could execute him at any time, and you’d never know until his name was released by the government. During his trial, when you realized the death penalty was on the table, you looked up how it would happen. It still haunts you sometimes. You don’t want to think of Tomura with his neck broken, his eyes open and staring, dying with feet chained together and his hands bound behind his back. You want to remember him before it all went wrong. Back when you still believed he was the best thing that ever happened to you.

You met him at university, on a day when the campus was iced over. Your on-campus job started early, which meant you had to make your way to the library on paths that wouldn’t be de-iced for another hour. Tomura had an early class. He was headed the opposite way from you, and you were both so focused on not slipping and falling that you walked headlong into each other and fell on your asses anyway.

Your backpack slid from your shoulders, and the papers Tomura was carrying scattered across the path. Fuck, Tomura said, with feeling, and you laughed. What’s so funny? You fell down, too.

I know, but — An image popped into your head and set you off all over again. We look like we’re in a cartoon. Except without the stars and planets around our heads.

No stars and planets? I want a refund, Tomura said, and cracked a smile that opened up a split in his lower lip. Damn it —

Here. You retrieved your fallen backpack and a packet of tissues, then started gathering the papers Tomura had dropped. Sorry. It looked like you were in a hurry to go somewhere.

Comp-Sci building. I’m never signing up for a 7am again. Tomura’s phone buzzed, and he yanked it out of his pocket. And now it’s canceled. Motherfucker. I have to walk all the way back —

Maybe not all the way, you said, and he looked at you. I work at the library. It’s definitely open. You can hang out there until they get the paths salted.

Tomura looked at you, the tissue still pressed to his bloody lip. You didn’t know his name yet, didn’t know anything about him, but there was something you liked about his face. Something you liked about how he still got in on your joke, even though he was pissed about the fall. Something about the fact that he hadn’t gotten up yet, even though you’d gathered all his papers and were holding them out for him to take. I’ll level with you, he said after a second. I’ve never been to the library.

I get that a lot, you said, and you stood up. The plan was to hold out your hand to help him up, but you moved too fast, and your feet slid out from under you again. You managed to hang on to Tomura’s papers, but you went down hard. Fuck!

Tomura didn’t ask if you were okay. He just lifted the papers out of your hands, set them aside, and helped you sit up with hands that shook ever so slightly. I’m surprised you swore, he said, and you raised an eyebrow. You look like the type who says fiddlesticks instead.

Fuck off, you said, and he laughed. Making him laugh felt like an achievement, one you were proud to win. Looking back, that was when you knew you were in trouble. Maybe we should just crawl to the library.

It’s cold. Walking’s faster. Tomura got shakily to his knees, then his feet, and you copied him. I bet we can make it.

He stumbled twice on the way there, and you stumbled once, but neither of you fell again. You were leaning on each other to balance, more contact than you ever made with guys you weren’t dating, and nothing about it felt tense or awkward. It was just the only thing that made sense to do.

And that’s how everything was with Tomura. It just made sense, and you were so happy — and you think Tomura was, too. You fought sometimes, sure, but everyone does. Sometimes you didn’t know the right thing to say, but neither did he. He had a rough past, and you didn’t push him to talk about it. You just let him share what he wanted to, when he wanted to, and towards the end you had something close to the whole picture. It just didn’t have the murders in it.

No. You don’t want to think about this. You know what you believe about this, and going in a circle won’t help solve anything. You decide to redirect your feelings of frustration by looking up the lawyer who called you. Sure enough, he’s a prosecutor— or he was. Looking at the profile on his law firm’s website, you’re not sure what he does. He was in the news a year or so ago. Some case involving the yakuza.

The bell rings, and since Keiko’s on break and the receptionist got snowed in, you hurry up to the front to check the new patient in. It’s a good distraction. It helps to stay busy. When you’re busy, you don’t have to think about any of it — not Tomura, not the fact that he’s gone, not the fact that your daughter is leaving soon, too. And you don’t have to think about how it won’t be long before all your distractions run out.

Chapter 2 ->

[oaksgrove]

The Captain and the Captain; Mission Parameters: Undefined

pairing: Captain John Price x Captain!female!reader

synopsis: Task Force Echo joins forces with the legendary 141, leading to a whirlwind of first impressions, professional clashes, and undeniable chemistry. As Echo’s captain, you’re determined to hold your ground and prove your team’s worth—but the quiet intensity of one Captain John Price might just throw you off balance. Amid the tension of a high-stakes mission, connections begin to form, and you can’t help but wonder—what happens when the mission ends?

word count: 1619 

warnings: slow-burn romance, mutual pining, and plenty of team banter.

Team’s Diary – Entry 42

Captain [Your Name]

Task Force Echo

Date: Classified

Location: Joint Base with Task Force 141

Dear Diary (It’s still childish how we address this. But Hayes forces us to…),

Well, where do I even begin? Today was a whirlwind. For starters, Echo is officially working with 141. Yes, the Task Force 141. The legendary team with their notorious reputations. And let me tell you, first impressions were… let’s just say memorable.

The initial briefing was tense. You could practically cut the air with a knife. I could feel Price’s eyes on me as soon as I walked into the room. It wasn’t hostile—more like curious. He’s got that air of authority, like he’s sizing you up without saying a word. I wasn’t going to back down, though. Our task force has earned its stripes just like theirs, and I’ll be damned if anyone thinks otherwise.

The introductions were quick, and somehow it still felt like a standoff. Lieutenant Hayes, ever the charmer, gave Soap a wink that nearly had me rolling my eyes out of my skull. Soap, to his credit, looked delighted. He leaned toward Ghost and whispered something, probably cheeky, judging by the smirk that spread across his face.

Speaking of Ghost… God, that man is intimidating. He loomed silently in the corner like some specter, his unreadable mask fixed on us the entire time. If I hadn’t caught Sergeant Holt’s subtle side-eye, I would’ve thought I was the only one unnerved. “He’s just a bloke in a mask,” I told myself. Yeah, right. A bloke who feels like he could break the world in two if he wanted.

And Gaz? He was the warmest of the lot, polite and curious. Lieutenant Miller was quick to match his energy, chatting about anything and everything—well, as much as they could while keeping it professional. If anyone’s going to become fast friends, it’s those two.

I won’t lie, Diary: this is going to be a challenge. Task Force Echo has always been about precision, discipline, and efficiency. We don’t waste time on bravado. 141, on the other hand, seems to thrive on controlled chaos. Soap was cracking jokes left and right, and while I hate to admit it, even Hayes was snickering.

Price seemed to watch it all with a quiet kind of amusement, but when it came time to plan, he was all business. The man has a presence, I’ll give him that. And his strategies? Sharp. He doesn’t miss a beat.

Still, there was this moment—when we were discussing infiltration routes—where our hands brushed as we reached for the same map. It was nothing, really, but I caught him looking at me. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made my stomach do a little flip. Pull it together, Captain.

I think Hayes is going to fall head over heels for Soap, if she hasn’t already. I caught her laughing at one of his awful jokes during lunch, and I swear I haven’t seen her laugh that hard in months. It’s endearing, really.

Holt is harder to read, but I think Ghost intrigues her. She’s always been drawn to the quiet, mysterious types, and he certainly fits the bill. She didn’t say much, but I noticed the way her gaze lingered when he spoke during the briefing.

Miller, bless her, is already planning to adopt Gaz as her new best friend. They bonded over a shared love of tea and British sitcoms within five minutes of meeting.

And me? Well, I’d be lying if I said Price didn’t leave an impression. He’s so steady, so composed—it’s hard not to respect that. But it’s the moments in between, the small glances and the way his voice softens when he addresses me, that stick with me. I don’t know what to make of it yet, and I doubt I’ll have time to figure it out.

This mission is going to push all of us to our limits. Echo and 141 are two very different beasts, but maybe that’s a good thing. We complement each other in ways I didn’t expect.

For now, I’ll focus on the mission. But Diary, I can’t help wondering—what happens when the mission is over?

-

The soft scratch of your pen came to a stop as you finished the entry. You leaned back in the chair, your eyes lingering on the last line. What happens when the mission is over? You closed the diary gently, running your fingers over the worn cover. Hayes might tease you about writing these entries, but it gave you clarity—a way to navigate the chaos of your work.

Sliding the diary into your desk drawer, you straightened your shoulders and took a steadying breath. Echo’s bunk area was quiet, save for the hum of voices drifting in from the common room. The sound pulled you out of your thoughts, grounding you.

As you walked into the main area, the scene that greeted you was both familiar and oddly comforting. Task Force Echo and 141 were scattered across the room, a mosaic of personalities and energies. Hayes was seated on the arm of the couch, leaning a little too close to Soap, who looked far too pleased with himself. Gaz and Miller were deep in conversation, their shared laughter punctuating the room. Holt sat nearby, her expression unreadable, though her gaze occasionally flicked toward Ghost, who loomed quietly at the edge of the group.

And then there was Price.

He stood near the corner, his hands resting on his hips as he observed the room with a quiet intensity. The light from the overhead fixture cast warm tones over his features, highlighting the streaks of silver in his beard. He turned his head slightly, and his eyes met yours.

You froze for a moment, caught in the gravity of his gaze. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was the weight behind it. Steady. Calculated. Like he was seeing more than you meant to show.

You nodded at him, a small acknowledgment, and his lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. It was subtle, so fleeting you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching him so closely.

“Oi, Cap!” Soap’s voice broke the moment, pulling your attention. “Come join us. We’re just getting Echo to spill all their embarrassing stories.”

You arched a brow, smirking as you made your way toward the group. “Good luck with that, Sergeant. Echo’s tight-lipped.”

Hayes shot you a mischievous look. “Don’t listen to her, Captain. I’ve got plenty of stories about her.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you warned, but there was no heat in your tone.

The room buzzed with easy camaraderie, a surprising blend of Echo’s precision and 141’s controlled chaos. Yet, even in the midst of the chatter, you felt the pull of Price’s gaze.

He hadn’t moved from his spot, though he was now nursing a cup of tea. Every so often, his eyes would flick to you, as if he were cataloging your movements, your words, your presence. And though you tried not to, you found your own gaze drifting back to him.

Gaz noticed first. He elbowed Soap, nodding subtly toward the two of you. Soap’s grin widened, and he leaned closer to Hayes. “Looks like your Captain and ours have a bit of a staring contest going on.”

Hayes followed his line of sight, her brow lifting in realization. “Really? That’s... interesting.”

You caught the tail end of their hushed conversation and narrowed your eyes. “What are you whispering about over there?”

“Nothing at all, Cap,” Soap said, far too innocently.

“Right,” you drawled, crossing your arms. “You’re all far too quiet for my liking.”

Miller chimed in, her grin conspiratorial. “I don’t know, Captain. It seems like some people are more focused on certain... individuals in the room.”

The implication was clear, and your face heated slightly. “Focus on the mission, Lieutenant,” you said firmly, though the corner of your mouth twitched with amusement.

Price cleared his throat from across the room, drawing everyone’s attention. “Enough,” he said, his tone calm but commanding. “Leave your Captain alone.”

The room fell silent for a beat before Hayes let out a low whistle. “Oh, he’s definitely defending her.”

Price shot her a warning look, but there was no denying the faint amusement in his eyes. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath before taking another sip of his tea.

The conversation shifted after that, the teasing dying down as the groups broke off into smaller clusters. But as the evening wore on, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Price’s gaze, nor the warmth it left in its wake.

As the room began to clear, you found yourself lingering, tidying up stray cups and papers. Price approached quietly, his steps measured.

“You handled that well,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “They’re a handful, but they mean well.”

He chuckled softly, the sound deep and resonant. “That they are.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

“You’re a good leader,” he said finally, his gaze steady. “Echo’s lucky to have you.”

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a high compliment,” you replied, your voice quieter than you intended.

His lips curved into a faint smile. “Just speaking the truth.”

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. And as you stood there, the distance between you narrowing ever so slightly, you couldn’t help but wonder if the mission wasn’t the only thing worth pursuing after all.

part 2 here!

[zablife]

Tommy's Scent

Tommy Shelby x nun!reader

A/N: The scent of smoke in the air, requested by @cillmequick and @peakyswritings. Part of my Corrupt a Wish challenge.

Warnings: predatory behavior, unwanted advances, brief mention of assault Corrupt a wish reminder: If you think this story has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention. Proceed with caution!

There was something about the earthy, spiced blend of smoke that would always be central to your memory of St. Hilda's. Arriving as a novice, the scent haunted your waking hours as it seemed to follow you through every corridor, never fully dissipating. The unique smell seeped from the banisters and books alike as though some specter lingered in every corner watching you.

The more it clung to you, the greater the weight on your mind until you could think of nothing else. Determined to banish the distraction, you took it upon yourself to air the classrooms every morning. However, breathing in lungfuls of soot and smoke from the nearby factories hardly seemed like a solution. The combination of smells gave you a nauseous headache which frequently made you ill.

By the end of your first month at the orphanage, your hands were already becoming red and chapped from the frequent, thorough scrubbing of your habit and stockings. At the end of your third, they were raw and bloodied. However, your nightly ritual had become something of a self-soothing gesture as you allowed the fresh scent of the soap to cleanse not only your belongings, but your anxious heart.

Your small room was something of a sanctuary for you in those days, the one place where the air remained pure. Loathe to leave the peace you'd created within those four walls, you began to delay the start of your day to remain there. Noticeably late for morning prayers on more than one occasion, you were swiftly reprimanded by Mother Superior who expressed doubts about your commitment.

After you pleaded with her to let you stay, she obliged on the condition that you performed a new duty. You listened intently as she explained there was a sick child in Warwickshire whose parents were to receive weekly communion. It seemed odd that this task had fallen upon the sisters of St. Hilda's when St. Mary's was much closer in proximity. However, you didn't dare question her judgement, especially after she'd shown you mercy.

The next morning you made the journey to a large estate called Arrow House in a shiny Bentley that had been sent just for the occasion. You tried not to show your excitement at the lavish accommodation, but you had to admit you were secretly thrilled at the prospect of making the drive in luxury each week.

The time passed quickly as you trained your thoughts on the little girl who'd fallen ill, wondering how you might find her upon arrival. Your nerves seizing hold of you before you'd realized, you began to fidget nervously as the large house came into view.

As the car came to a halt, you took a deep breath and held your head high as you exited. You were keen to project an air of confidence if the family was watching from the window.

However, you needn't have worried. There wasn't a single member of the Shelby clan to be found when the heavy oak door swung open, only a slight woman in a carefully pressed uniform. She ushered you inside as she studied you with piercing green eyes, stiffly introducing herself as the housekeeper.

Though you couldn't say why, the hair on the back of your neck prickled as you followed her down the hall. It might have been her unfriendly demeanor or the sudden rush of wind as the front door closed behind you, but an disquieted feeling came over you. The sense of déjà vu only grew stronger as a familiar woodsy, slightly sweet smell met your nostrils.

There was no time to reconcile your thoughts as the housekeeper left you at the threshold of Mr. Shelby's office, clutching your handbag against your body. By sheer willpower, you rapped upon the door, reminding yourself you were here to deliver communion to the Shelbys. Out of duty for this sacred act, you were compelled into the room where you glimpsed a man in only his waist coat and rolled sleeves sat at the desk. A rush of embarrassment caused you to falter, unaware he would be dressed so informally.

"Come," he commanded without looking up from his papers and the authority in his voice dictated nothing less than strict obedience.

Taking a seat across from him when he gestured, your gaze locked onto his sky blue eyes. They appeared quite angelic in the light, framed by his long, dark lashes. However, there was a hardened look about him which gave you a chill.

He hadn't failed to notice the effect he had on you, leaning forward to offer a cigarette. You shook your head as you politely declined, reaching into your bag for the small case containing the communion wafers.

"That won't be necessary," he muttered as he lit up.

You watched intently as he inhaled, your concern growing as his chest expanded like some great beast. The gentle roll of smoke tumbling from his mouth and nostrils did nothing to suppress your anxiety, especially as you were struck with a sudden revelation. The scent haunting you all those months was his unique blend of tobacco.

The clink of his lighter snapping shut jolted you back to reality and the purpose of your visit. "Mr. Shelby, I'm afraid, I don't understand. You asked me here, but you no longer wish to receive communion?"

The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers, curls of smoke reaching the high ceiling long before he gave an answer to your query.

Staring into the roaring fire beside him, Mr. Shelby's eyes reflected the bright orange hue of the flames as he admitted, "My daughter died last month. So, you see, I've no need."

You gulped harshly at his words, but quickly recovered. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know. Would you care to say a prayer together?"

He only laughed at your suggestion, "And what good would that do her now, ey?"

"Prayer has seen me through difficult times since I was a child," you answered, staring at him earnestly.

Plucking the cigarette from his lips, he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger as he punctuated his words. "When I was a boy I carried a screwdriver and a blade and everyone believed I had the power to lay curses."

Your blood ran cold upon hearing this, but you had to admit you were intrigued by his statement. "Do you?" you ventured, holding your breath for his answer.

Without breaking eye contact he affirmed, "Yes, I do."

You shuddered involuntarily as another chuckle escaped his lips and you became suspicious he'd asked you here only to humiliate you. Whether driven by grief or malice, you didn't know, only that you'd become terribly afraid of him. Reaching for the rosary in your pocket, you removed it and began rubbing your thumb over the beads to soothe yourself.

You didn't realize you'd closed your eyes to the devil across from you until he was standing at your side, one hand clamped against the back of your neck. "I wouldn't try that," he advised as he caught sight of your lips moving in silent prayer. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered a cruel taunt, "No one is listening."

The following moments were a blur, his body too close for comfort and his words a mixture of threats and perverse longing. He'd watched you from the day you arrived at St. Hilda's, careful to keep to the shadows whenever he visited Mother Superior.

Upon his confession, your mind traversed the path of your early days at the orphanage when you'd been assigned to teach Latin. Suddenly you were lost in memory:

The twist of the door knob down the hall caused you to jump before turning your attention back to the lesson you were teaching. As the ancient wood creaked upon its hinges, you redoubled your efforts reciting the lesson as you'd rehearsed. However, the potency of the scented smoke caused you to freeze with chalk dangling from your fingertips.

As though in a trance, you moved to the doorway, your head tilted at an angle to follow the dark figure now striding away from you. In the shadows of the darkened hall, you could make out the outline of a man in a peaked cap. His dark, dusty coat flapped behind him as he disappeared from view, leaving nothing more than a few dirty footprints to prove his existence.

"You knew I'd been there," Mr. Shelby uttered and you cried out in horror at his ability to read your mind. It was beyond comprehension how he'd known your every move. "You wanted to know me too, didn't you?" he asked, hands roaming your body despite your thrashing. You couldn't answer, catatonic in the face of his brazen assault.

What seemed to be a lifetime later, you collected yourself from the floor and bolted for the door. Hurtling down the hall as fast as you could with tears blurring your vision, you eventually reached daylight, but in your haste to escape, your feet stumbled on the stone steps outside Arrow House. Falling to your knees, you winced as the gravel cut into your legs.

"Let me help you to the car," a calm, even voice boomed behind you. Thomas Shelby came into view above you, hand extended like a perfect gentleman.

"Don't touch me," you snapped, chest heaving for breath. A spark of indignant rage caught fire inside his crystal blue eyes before taking a deliberate step back when he noticed the driver approaching.

Smoothing his hair back, he turned to the older man announcing, "William, Sister Y/n seems to have hurt herself. Please help her to the car."

As William took hold of your elbow, you rose to face Mr. Shelby with a look of determination. Inwardly you vowed to tell Mother Superior everything as soon as you returned and your steely eyed gaze said as much. It was the very reason he returned to his office at that moment, to make a phone call of his own.

And thus your confession about Mr. Shelby's behavior did not go as planned. The moment you divulged the false pretenses under which you'd been brought to Arrow House, her apathy turned to anger. Incensed at your accusations, she reprimand you for telling such “fanciful tales."

However, you could not accept the injustice that had been done. “You're aware of his wickedness and you do nothing?” you gasped in disbelief, glancing down at your bloodied legs as proof something had indeed happened that day.

"Mr. Shelby is a very generous benefactor. In fact, the Grace Shelby Foundation is the biggest single source of funding for this charitable institution. If he asks for your visits to continue, then that is what you shall do." When she was finished, she pursed her lips tightly to convey her resolve and you realized it was her final word on the matter.

You took the long, lonely walk back to your room in a stupor. The moment you closed the door, you allowed yourself a moment of pity and cried until your eyes were as red as your hands which scrubbed ceaselessly to erase the scent of him.

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

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[spectersgirl]

hi! can you do one where harvey and the reader had a thing and it ended badly and they end up in court against each other or something like that? maybe they end up together after all? thanks!!

Loveeee flexing my angst muscles!

Ready for a Battle

Harvey Specter x Reader

-------

"You've gotta be fucking kidding" you muttered under your breath as you read over the paperwork for your latest case, noticing the attorney on record listed just so happened to be Harvey Specter. You'd dated a few years prior, but the ultimate killer to the relationship was that you and Harvey were very similar in stubbornness, causing you to fight and argue more than spend any actual time together.

You'd been lucky enough not to cross paths in all the time you'd been a lawyer since the breakup, but it seemed that your luck was running out. You placed your head in your hands in frustration, sighing before getting back to work on preparing for your case.

A few days went by of normalcy before you heard a knock on your office door, and they didn't wait to hear you answer before entering.

"Harvey, you know normally people knock to get permission before coming into a room." You said dryly.

Harvey smirked before striding to your desk, leaning on the corner before looking around appreciatively.

"I knew you'd tell me no, and I wanted to see this fancy corner office they gave you."

"Not too bad, huh? Don't worry, I'm sure Jessica will give you one soon enough." You replied, sarcasm dripping from your tone.

"I have one of my own, I just wanted to see how much better mine is than yours."

You rolled your eyes at the cockiness, setting the file you'd been focused on aside, finally giving the man your full attention.

"Is there something I can do for you, Harvey?"

"No, but you can do something for you. You can settle this thing so it doesn't get ugly in court."

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to figure out what he was trying to pull. "Since when do you care about things getting ugly?"

"Since I noticed you were the attorney of record on this case. I don't want to see you get hurt." He replied, a hint of something in his tone that you couldn't identify.

"I think I can manage. Plus, it's not like it wouldn't be the first time you've seen me get hurt. I'm ready for a battle. Now, if there's nothing else, you can see yourself out. I've got a case to prepare. "

He paused for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sharpness of your tone, before shaking his head and heading for the door.

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Y/N." He said before opening the door and leaving you to stew in your own thoughts.

The verbal banter continued throughout the trial, each argument met with a counterargument, every objection with a swift rebuttal. The tension between you two was undeniable, the courtroom atmosphere simmering with unspoken history.

Days turned into weeks, and the battle intensified. You won the case, barely, based on a technicality that you were thankful Harvey didn't catch during discovery. He'd come to your office later that day, clearly pissed about the verdict. The energy in the room turning nothing short of intense the moment he stepped foot inside. The arguing began immediately, the two of you throwing jabs left and right until Harvey took it one step too far, making it personal.

"You always were too blinded by your own stubbornness and ego to ever see the truth," Harvey retorted, his voice carrying an unexpected edge.

The words hung in the air, a sharp sting piercing through the facade of rivalry and through the high you'd had from winning the case. It was a line crossed, a jab that hit closer to home than intended. The hurt flashed across your eyes, and anger surged within, a tempest of emotions brewing beneath the surface.

"MY ego? MY stubbornness? You're one to talk, Harvey. You know why this didn't work out all those years ago and you know it wasn't all my fault. At least I never let my arrogance overshadow my competence," your voice, usually composed, held a hint of hurt.

Harvey's facade wavered, regret immediately swirling in his stomach as he realized the depth of his words. "I didn't mean... I'm sorry,"

But the damage was done, the rift between you widening with each passing moment. His apology hung in the air, sincere yet inadequate in the face of the pain it had caused.

It was later that evening when yet another knock interrupted the silence of your office. As you turned, Harvey stood in the doorway, a mixture of determination and vulnerability on his face. Without a word, he crossed the room, closing the space between you. His gaze was unwavering as he reached out, his hand cupping your cheek gently. You couldn't move, and you hardly breathed as he began speaking.

"I messed up. I messed up today when I got pissed and opened my mouth, and I messed up years ago by letting you walk away. I know that now, I guess I always have but I couldn't admit it. I can't let you walk out of my life again." Harvey's voice was earnest, devoid of the usual brashness.

Before you could respond, he leaned in. His lips met yours in a tender yet passionate kiss, one you'd been craving since the moment you left him all that time ago. In that moment, words became irrelevant as the depth of his regret and affection poured into you through the kiss.

As you pulled away breathlessly, the weight of the moment hit you both.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N, I... I shouldn't have done that, that wasn't fair to you. I just-" He stammered, but you stopped him with a gentle hand to his chest.

"Don't. Just come here" You replied, pulling him in once more and guiding his head down to yours for another kiss. You felt him smile as he ran his hands down your sides.

"I always hoped you'd come back." He whispered against your lips..

"I fought myself every day to not come running."

"Wish you would've"

"Me too"

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 43

Part 1 Part 42

Will’s loitering around the school, Dustin, Will, and Lucas plastered to his sides like burrs as he waits for Jonathan to get out of school and pick him up. The hallways are almost empty – everyone else allowed to take buses, and ride bike, and walk home; Will left the odd one out.

Even his friends who are dawdling by his side as they walk the empty parking lot have bikes chained up at the front of the school. They’re only still here because Will’s not allowed to be left alone. By anyone. 

The air is crisp, biting into his cheeks, but it’s too crisp to be the other side. Snow is on the horizon, not ash. He can smell it.

Mike’s talking about El in a hushed voice, moaning about Hopper blocking all access like the protective Father he isn’t. Will wishes his problems felt as small as Mike’s are,, and promptly feels bad about the thought.

It’s just, winter is in the air, and the sky is getting darker earlier each day. In a few more weeks, Will’s not sure he’ll even be able to get home after school without the specter of the Demogorgon hunting him from the shadows between each tree.

He wishes he didn’t live so close to the woods.

He wishes he could live in Steve and Eddie’s pockets like they live in each other’s. He only feels covered when he’s looking at Steve Harrington’s broad back.

Jonathan’s car pulls into the empty parking lot, and Dustin, Lucas, and Mike run off with shouts of goodbye. Only Dustin looks back, waits for Will to shuffle into the passenger seat before waving and peddling quickly to catch up.

Jonathan’s heat is up high enough to hurt. Will sinks into it, puts his frozen hands up to the vents to dethaw. 

“How was school?” Jonathan asks, The Doors playing near silently from his crackly radio.

“It was okay,” Will says, thinking of Zombie Boy shouted out at him like a slur in the hallways. Thinking about how sometimes he’ll walk up to his friend’s and be greeted by abrupt, strained silences, like a few days in the Upside-Down has made him a freaks among the freaks.

Jonathan hums, but doesn’t press. WIll loves him for it. As they drive toward home, the long-familiar fishhook feelings hooks and yanks his stomach. In a moving car, it’s almost a queasy thing, like he always imagined being on a sailboat would feel. He’s being pulled in two directions and his organs are sloshing around with it.

“Can we go see Steve and Eddie?” Will asks quietly.

Jonathan’s hands clench hard, shitty steering wheel vinyl creaking. He sighs, like a dog when you won’t share a piece of your dinner no matter how hard it begs. He takes a u-turn without a word, heading toward Forest Hills, knowing just like Will does that if they’re not already there, that’s where Steve and Eddie will end up soon.

Will knows they’re not there yet before Jonathan parks in the vacant spot where Eddie’s van usually presides. He puts it in park, doesn’t take the key out of the ignition, turns the heater down just a hair.

“I just don’t get it,” Jonathan says, looking at the Munson’s closed front door, not looking Will’s way at all.

“Get what?” Will asks, even though he knows. 

Jonathan sighs that same sigh. “Just–” he runs a hand through his discheveled hair until it partially covers his eyes, “you spend a few days with them and now it’s like they’re all you think about.”

Will looks down at his lap, can’t meet Jonathan’s eyes even when he feels his brother turn to look at him. Left unsaid in the space between them is that Jonathan doesn’t get them, doesn’t get him anymore, when they’re all each other has had for years.

“You weren’t there,” Will says. He knows it’ll hurt even before Jonathan breaths in like he’s been shot.

The heater and radio static break up the silence. Will can still feel it. 

“Can you–” Jonathan srarts. Will sees, out of the corner of his eyes as Jonathan reaches out toward him before dropping it. “Can you try to explain?” Will looks down at his dirty sneakers, thinking. He doesn’t have the words. But hten Jonathan says, “please?” all quiet and desperate and Will turns.

He pulls his feet up onto the seat, arms wrapped around his knees,  turning his body to face Jonathan as Jonathan does the same. Jonathan’s knee bangs on the bottom of the steering wheel, but he gets it all the way up to mirror Will’s posture, both their shoulders hunched, both of their arms around their knees.

“I was really scared,” WIll says, for the first time admitting something that was obvious. “And then they saved me.”

Jonathan nods, meeting his eyes. “And that’s it?”

Will shakes his head, looks down at the stick shift separating them. “No,” he says, fidgeting his fingers anxiously. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Jonathan reaches across the car, covering Will’s knee with his big palm and squeezing. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” He doesn’t understand, Will can tell.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, eyes prickling. The fishline is slackening now. He can feel it. They’re on their way. “This isn’t like that.”

“Like?”

“Like, a stupid teenager thing,” Will says. How does he say this isn’t about puberty, or growing up, or a fight with his friends, or even the isolation of the school halls where everyone treats him like he’s oil and everyone else is water. 

“Okay,” Jonathan says in that calm, quiet way that always calms WIll down. “What is it then?”

Will looks back down at the stick shift, Jonathan’s foot now propped up against it after he’d stretched it out. His sneakers are too small – Will can see his pinky toe pushing up against the side. 

“Like, there’s something in me,” Will says. “And it’s in them too.” Jonathan doesn’t say anything, but Will can feel his eyes on him. “I can feel them, right now.” He whispers it out, a secret in this car confessional of two.

“Feel them, how?”

“It’s, itchy? When they’re too far.” WIll says, struggling to find words he’s not sure exist. “And I can tell they’re turning into the trailer park right now.” He touches the hollow just below his ribs, looks up into Jonathan’s eyes. “Right here.”

Jonathan’s brows are furrowed, eyes intense, just as Eddie’s van comes peeling into view, parking haphazardly in front of Eddie’s trailer. Jonathan’s eyes go wide. He hadn’t gotten it until this moment. Will can see it hit him in the dilation of his pupils. “Like El?” he asks, quiet as Eddie tumbles out of the driver’s seat and rushes over to open the passenger side door for Steve like a goofy knight.

“I don’t know.”

Jonathan glances over just in time to watch a wan-faced Steve take Eddie’s hand to hoist himself out of the van. “Do they?”

Part 44

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[flaneur001]

Home

Pairings- Leon x GN reader x Redacted (Leon and Redacted belong to @14dayswithyou)

Tags- Fluff and Angst

Summary- Tis the spooky season and you're away from home.Your spirits are as low as the cold and crisp fall weather, good thing your friend is coming in clutch with his own set of tricks and treats.

You swung open the building door, breathing a grateful gulp of fresh air after being holed up all day in the office. Fresh being an overstatement, because the air was mediocre, and on good days. Stretching your limbs, you lingered, taking in your surroundings with tired eyes. 

A forest of concrete, as far as your vision reached. Rows after rows of buildings, small houses, and shops sat clustered on this street. The car horns, and the general cacophony of a busy neighborhood had become white noise to you. Begrudgingly acquainted with city life now. A far cry from Corland Bay. Your hometown felt so distant, wrapped in the salty breeze and cozy charm of its memories. 

The beach, the library, the playground, the lake, your old haunts, and…and…what else

You closed your eyes, heaving in a deep sigh and exhaled. Not today. You wouldn’t go down that road.

The evening sun had already slipped past the horizon, letting its final wisps linger like flickering embers in the sky. 

Its crimson, golden, orange hues, shone like faint, still wet brush strokes on the edges of a black canvas. You had a feeling that it was going to be a dark night. The kind with no stars in sight. Perfect for the Halloween enthusiasts, who had littered the pathway of your neighborhood with various kinds of carved pumpkins sporting jarring, lopsided mocking smiles.

It was late. You were late. Or maybe you had miscalculated. Maybe you should’ve left your office earlier—made some excuse, should’ve faked sickness. Anything really, just to avoid this crowd of people that were already out and about. Donning costumes, gnarly makeup, laughing and hollering. The kids, high on sugar, little demons slipped past the grasp of exhausted parents; who flailed behind them zombie-like, carrying fluorescent orange pumpkin baskets, overflowing with an array of candies.

You stood out, in your disheveled clothes and messy hair, walking amongst the dead and undead. Or perhaps you fit right in, with the way people walked past you, without a sparing glance. A ghost. An invisible specter. Didn’t really need a costume for that.

You looked down, suddenly overcome with this unnamed feeling at the pit of your stomach. You pulled at the ends of your sleeves and hastened your pace. Eyes stinging with a slow pressure that built somewhere deep inside your chest. A dull persistent ache. 

You turned a corner striding blindly—relying more on muscle memory than your sense of direction—towards your apartment building. 

Reaching inside, you mashed the elevator button, repeatedly abusing it, as if willing the old elevator to appear by force. The tacky music grated more on your nerves today.

With a ding, you stepped out. Feet trudging up to your door and stopping in front of it. Yours was the only one to not have a candy basket placed outside. The corridor was deserted too. Silent in the face of the festivities.

For all your fervor to get home, here you were, in a weird stare down with your apartment door. Clutching the key tightly between your thumb and forefinger, you found yourself hesitant, almost appalled by the idea to go inside. 

With a weary sigh you rested your back against the door and slid down it. Sitting in a huddle on the floor. 

What was it really?

Yet you knew the answer to it already.

Fear. It was fear of what you’ll see when you unlock your apartment and walk in. Or more so, how you’ll feel. Dark room, a small dining table with a single chair, pushed into a cramped corner of your compact kitchen. And a withered bouquet of red chrysanthemums—sent by him, weeks ago— that you didn’t have the heart to discard. It sat wilted and droopy, placed in a cut off plastic bottle for lack of a glass vase. Scattered, sparse furniture and blank gray walls. A visual representation of your own emotions really. Cold. Lonely.

You had never bothered to decorate your studio, afraid that if you let this place feel like a home, it’ll be permanent. So you lived like this. Split in halves. With the other dwelling happily somewhere, in that time, frozen and framed in a cute picture that sat on your nightstand. You and Leon. On a summer-y afternoon, running barefoot across the sandy stretches of the beach. 

You closed your eyes, picturing his topaz ones twinkling at you in mischief as he chased after you, amidst playful shrieks and raucous laughter. Hands coming to wrap around your waist as he spun you and dragged you into the embrace of the tides. 

You scoffed, tasting the salt of that balmy ocean on your lips, brushing the traitorous tear that rolled down your cheek, with the back of your hand. At last you had lost to the wave of nostalgia that had been threatening to consume you all day. Holidays made you particularly homesick. And it didn’t help that you were miles apart. That you missed his stupid smile, when he called you by that goofy nickname.

You chewed at your bottom lip, contemplating, debating. When your phone screen lit up catching you off guard, making you almost drop it in surprise.

You stared at the caller ID, dumbfounded.

‘Oarfish’ it read. 

“Leon? What are the odds…” You mumbled, clearing your throat and forcing on a smile, hoping that some cheeriness masks your heavy voice.

 Your fingers toyed with the white beads of your bracelet, thumbing the little fish charm dangling from it. A nervous tic, a comforting fidget. Matching with your childhood friend.

“Heyyy Darl! Miss me?” Leon chirped, voice a bright ray of sunshine splitting through the stormy gray cloud that lingered over your head.

“You know, I’ve got better things to do.” You replied, teasing, imagining the smile etched on the brunet’s face.

“Oh yeah? Better things to do, you say,” Leon intoned. “More important than missing your best mate? Or wishing him a happy Halloween? I’m hurt, Sunfish.” He let out an exaggerated huff, and you could picture the pout he was sporting.

You closed your eyes, chewing the inside of your cheek, feeling that gnatty bit of guilt prick at your heart. It was true. You had been avoiding talking to him. Lying to yourself. Blaming it on your busy work hours, or the timezones. But in reality you knew why. You know why.

“I’m here now aren’t I?” 

“Let’s not forget who called whom first, alright?”  He retorted, playful banter masking the tinges of accusation and hurt in his voice.

“Fine,” you relented, apologetic and awkward,”Happy Halloween Oarfish”

“See, it’s that easy.” Leon chuckled, “Happy Halloween to you too, Darl.” 

You could hear his breaths, soft and steady. The occasional rustle of sheets told you he was in bed. 

A beat passed, and he mumbled, “Wish you were here”

You opened your eyes again, head lulling back to rest at the door of your apartment. Your fingers tightened around the fish charm, tugging at it, just like his words tugged at the tangled mess of your emotions. 

Me too

“I—How have you been?” You exhaled, skirting past the topics that would make you throw every caution to the wind and pack your bags and buy the tickets to the next flight, just so you can see his stupid face and—

Leon smiled, catching onto your miserable attempt at deflecting. No heart to hearts happening tonight. Got it. 

“Same old me” he swallowed, shifting to sit in a more relaxed position, fingers drawing abstract patterns on the sheets.

“What about you? Got any plans for tonight? Any wild Halloween bashes to attend?” He joked.

It was your turn to smile now. Sensing the protectiveness and helplessness that he tried to hide behind callous quips.

“Pfft! Oh you know me! A wild party animal, having orgies left and right—“

“Hang on, wait, did I accidentally ring Teo?” He snorted.

“What, so is he the only one who can be wild?” You grumbled in faux indignation.

“Wild? My little sunfish?” he giggled, “Please, the wildest thing you ever did was winning that Christmas bingo, by nicking my grandma’s winning card. And let’s not forget, you swiped it while she was out cold after three glasses of cheap wine”

“Let’s not forget who goaded me into it—“

“And I felt like such a proud dad doing it—but then, let’s not forget who cried all night after, thinking they’d landed on Santa’s naughty list, and would never get another pressie in their life” He laughed now. A full bellied joyful laugh that made something flutter in your stomach. Making you feel weirdly proud that you were the reason behind it.

“Geez, alright! You win; Teo can be the wild one in the group. I guess I don’t mind being the goody-two-shoes.” You grinned, then added, “the only voice of reason.”

“Uh huh, but you’ve always been the cute one in the group, haven’t you?” he hummed, casually and carelessly. 

Recklessly you’d say. Frowning at the rapid thump of your heart.

You let out a dismissive snort and brought your knees to your chest, hugging them. The cold marble of the lobby floor, making you shiver a little.

“And you, the nagging parent” 

“Tut tut, is this how you’re gonna talk to your daddy?” He snickered

“You did not just say that.”  

*** 

Hours passed. The conversation hopping from light hearted banter, to reminiscing, to talking about the mundane. 

You were stiff and achy all over from sitting on the floor for so long, yet you didn’t want to end this conversation here. Didn’t want to go back to the silence and the voice of your own thoughts. 

“So then, I told my mate to stop being such an arse, and suck it up. I mean who doesn’t get a few sprains during a tough game of volley, right?” Leon continued.

“Mmhm” You mumbled in response, forcing your eyes to stay open.

A pause, and you heard a soft ‘pfft’ of an amused laugh on the other end.

“You sleeping on me, Darl?” Leon whispered, “Am I boring you?”

“Huh? No, no no” you sat up straighter, rubbing your eyes, “I’m here, I’m listening”

Leon smiled gently, as if you could see him. His hand was cramping now, holding up the phone for the last few hours. He knew you were enjoying this conversation. It hadn’t slipped his notice how you’ve been avoiding him. And perhaps, he had let you. 

You have always been like this. Guarded. And Leon wasn’t one to barge. If you were the kind to build up walls, he was the kind to set up a camp on the other side and wait. Wait through all the seasons of your emotions. Wait until you open up and let him in.

“Sunfish?” He hummed, a soft breath in your ear. A hesitant tap on your walls.

“Leon?” You exhaled, holding up your hand in front of you, as if reaching out to him. The bracelet tinkled, catching the light on its beads and shining like seashells in the sun.

Another pause. You listened. To his breathing, to the susurrus of his sheets, straining your ear to hear the million unspoken things he was too considerate to say. And you, too oblivious to figure out.

“I wanted to say *chrrk* want to *chrrk* meet *chrrk* miss you” His voice broke and garbled as the connection waxed and waned.

You lifted the phone off your ear and checked the signal. 

Full bars. Huh, strange.

“Leon, can you repeat that? Your voice keeps cutting out” you asked, standing up to get a better signal.

“Huh? I was saying *chrrk* see you *chrrk* Sunfish—”

Before you could say anything else, the call ended abruptly with a sharp beep.

Your fingers hovered over the redial button, but you were interrupted by a slew of messages that dinged on your phone.

Oarfish- “I was saying, it’s pretty late. You should catch some Zs Darl. We can chat plenty tomorrow.”

Oarfish- “Sweet dreams!”

Oarfish- “PS- I might’ve sent something your way, and no I won’t take it back. Enjoy! xoxo”

Just as you began to type out a response, the elevator at the end of the lobby dinged. You heard footsteps approach your door. You checked the time

1:00 am 

Puzzled, you saw a delivery boy look at the receipt in his hand and then scan the numbers on the apartment doors. With a flourish he stopped before you and held out a package along with a clipboard for you to sign.

You quickly signed, took the rather heavy box, and walked into your apartment, closing the door behind you with a light kick.

Impatient like a kid on Christmas, you tossed your bag and coat on the couch, flung the keys on the table, and grabbed a knife from the kitchen to open the mysterious box sent by Leon.

Brushing aside the protective wrapping, you let out a surprised laugh.

“Oh Leon, you little goofball.” You murmured in fond appreciation as you studied the contents inside.

There were candies— all your favorite kinds—that expensive bottle of perfume you’d raved about to Leon once, a small string bag full of seashells, and Polaroids. Stacks and stacks of them. Different pictures of you, through the years. Your life, captured in perfect squares.

But that wasn’t all. As you rifled through the box, you realized the Polaroids were part of a display set: Fairy lights, clips, and a small tool box with an instruction manual. 

Yet what made you emotional, was the printed card that lay underneath it all. You smiled, reading the words through tear blurred eyes—

“Since you can’t be home this year, I brought the home to you”

And it was true. The seashells, the pictures, and the candies, from that old store near the beach, were like bits of Corland bay packed in a box. 

Giddy you fished out the manual and began reading through the instructions, fingers already untangling the fairly lights. With a gleam in your eye, you approached the blank gray wall in your living room. 

Maybe, just maybe, this can be your home away from home.

***

The dull noise of the metal guitar leaked through the pair of headphones buried somewhere under the mess of clothes on the bed. The chair creaked as they rocked, back and forth, back and forth. Long legs crossed and propped against the table in front of them. 

It was pitch dark. Yet their azure eyes seemed sharp; staring raptly, unblinking, at the bright glare of the large computer screen before them. 

“A little to the left”

“No, it’s still uneven”

They occasionally mumbled, amusedly speaking to the person flitting about on the screen. Slender fingers with black painted nails, twitched as if they wanted to reach out and take the task from your hands, and do it for you.

Later, then. When you’re asleep. 

He watched, until you stretched and yawned. Tired feet taking you to your bedroom.

They rose then too. Unconsciously mimicking your movements. He slipped under the covers, in sync with you. Eyes flitting up to the Polaroids adorning their wall. Similar to the ones you put up, moments ago.

They smiled conspiratorially; pleased at the treats he had shared with you. Pleased at his neat trickery.

They didn’t even need to look at the screen anymore, to know your nightly habits. 

Changing, Brushing your teeth, hair, fluffing your pillows, lifting the end of your duvet and snuggling up all the way to the left side of your bed. The one lined up against the wall. 

He hummed, husky and low. A dulcet timbre, singing the beginnings of an old lullaby. His hand came to rest at the wall separating you. A soft tap. A yearning caress.

Redacted sighed, letting the sleep take him over. They didn’t care, so long as you were near. They were content. They were home.

[everyframeapainting20]

In this pivotal long take from "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," Mr. Weasley pulls Harry aside within the bustling Leaky Cauldron, physically separating him from his family and friends. Throughout the scene, the specter of Sirius Black looms large, represented by the wanted poster prominently placed in the foreground. This imagery keeps the threat of Sirius ever-present as Harry is brought into a more private, shadowed space.

As the conversation turns to Black and his supposed danger, the blocking becomes particularly evocative: Harry and Mr. Weasley are framed between the ominous poster of Black and the lively background. This juxtaposition emphasizes Harry’s growing separation from the communal warmth behind him. When Mr. Weasley takes Harry deeper into the Leaky Cauldron, the lighting shifts dramatically. They move into a dim, isolated corner, cloaked in shadows, visually reinforcing the gravity of the situation and Harry's mounting isolation.

Mr. Weasley’s warning not to seek out Black culminates in the take’s final moments, where Harry is left alone. The long take ends on a close-up of Harry, underscoring his solitude and the weight of the peril now resting solely on his shoulders. This scene marks a tonal shift in the film and elegantly introduces one of its central themes: isolation.

Throughout Prisoner of Azkaban, Alfonso Cuarón masterfully employs cinematography to convey this theme, and this long take is a striking example.

[pricegouge]

I saw you were asking for horror prompts 😈 so here’s my scary perverted one:

Vampire!Nik who’s turned when his milaya is still a baby. Comes back 20+ years later to haunt and turn her so they can spend eternity together despite the fact that she doesn’t even remember him❤️🥀

-🗡️

okay, yeah. i had fun with this one, thank you!

cw: incest. age gap, but only kinda cause vampires. horror elements. vague vampire lore, including thralls. dubcon kissing/heavy petting. blood. unedited as usual, sorry. abrupt ending cause i ran out of steam. ~5k

he can't be bothered to watch over you for many years. life (death, rather) is just all so very exciting. he spread his wings. proverbial, maybe, though he's heard tell of something more ancient. more literal.

he doesn't forget you. how could he? you haunt his waking hours for what seems an eon, days and nights blurring until he has to rest for long years, wakes to a different time entirely and worries about how much he's missed.

much, as it turns out.

you're a proper woman when next he sees you, headstrong and borderline unrecognizable. he follows you for days, weeks. learns all your patterns, the quiet parts of yourself you seem to keep hidden behind locked doors he can only pass because he installed them, the bones of the house shaped by his own hands - an estate that's fallen to ruin, once-lavish halls picked apart by collectors, barren and drab with the dwindled staff. he tells himself it's a morbid type of curiosity but he knows better the second he lingers too long, sees you for the woman you've become when you undress before him, gazing upon yourself in a mirror that won't betray his presence, even if he wants it to. wants to see confusion cloud your face as recognition wars with your fear. you must have seen photos of him, your governess keeping you educated on the man who'd given you a name and a fortune and left in the night. he doesn't look quite look like himself anymore, but he more closely resembles you than he does his re-creator. and surely that in itself should sway you?

for you must be as lonely as him.

night fall is the worst for you, those lingering hours after the staff have retired where sleep eludes you, entices you to pick up hobbies which have not given you joy for many years. you'd been moved to the master suite some time back, the overlarge bed as tempting as a siren. you'd grown slovenly, your governess always said so. lax in your studies and far too melancholy to find a suitor.

but what could it matter, really? the estate had been searching tirelessly for a match since your first season, the only bachelors who'd made offers old and penniless. you still had a pretty enough dowry, but no one wanted to be saddled with the get of some wayward lord. not when there'd been no proper abdication. not when the specter of your father loomed over every inch of the estate, his fist still clutching at every gem. sometimes you imagined the sheets even still smelled like him, a faint trace that would linger some mornings and burn up with the sun when you finally let the maid in to draw the curtains.

but it was just a silly fantasy, some trace of comfort born from loneliness. in truth, the only possible clue you could have of your father's scent rests in the humidor tucked in the corner by the secretary - fine cigars turned stale, full-bodied notes now arid. hollow as the house itself.

you're sat with one, dry, peeling paper tickling your philtrum as you try to discern what flavors still linger. licorice, certainly; heavy and cloying. something earthier under it, a fine balance. leather, maybe. it's a distraction, a mindless way to pass the hours before you could feasibly fall into bed without your prying governess saying anything, shut your thoughts off for a time. you'd already written in your diary, another dull entry. brief with the monotony of your life. honestly, cataloging the notes you can pick out of these ancient, abandoned cigars would make for a more interesting read. this one still smells the strongest, though the paper has turned brittle with handling. sometimes you watch the gentlemen of the ton, carefully memorizing the precise way they snip the ends off, roll the cigar over the open flame of their lighters. you often imagine doing the same, like to picture yourself smoking the aged rolls expertly.

really, you know you'll end up in a coughing spell loud enough to wake the whole house, but the truth is you've never tried. it's a curiosity that's grown on you, the slow creep of moss over rotting trunks. you swap the cigar for something less flavorful, something that won't be missed, and rifle through the secretary until you find the little cigar kit you'd kept safely tucked away. maybe, like the rest of society, part of you expects it's owner to return someday, reclaim what's his.

the cigar falls apart a little, once clipped. flaky shreds of tobacco and other strong herb shake out at first, but you moisten the edges of it delicately, lick your fingers as daintily as possible and fuss about the paper until becomes slightly more malleable. lighting it is less of a chore than expected, the oils long dried. shake catching like tinder. you yelp and wave it out, stamp the little ashes that rain onto the carpet with a slippered toe. feel silly after. sillier still when you take your first drag and think for a moment you've managed to imbalance all your humors - immediate expectorant clogging your nose, inflaming the column of your neck. rough wool, still matted and nettled from the field fills your lungs and you cough, ragged and silent.

small blessing, no prying governess to heed your call.

light-headed, you wobble to the window, breathe deep of the frigid breeze you let in. winter steals in around you, rattles the pane on it's way past and sends the curtains fluttering. it makes your chest ache in a new way, but is a balm to your overheated skin, soothes your throat as you gasp for each breath. clutched in your fingers, the cigar glows brightly in the strong wind, crackling away happily. as your sinuses clear, you note the lingering heaviness of licorice, a black tar that seems to seep down your throat, gags you. you give it up for a bad job and smother it on the pane before tossing it onto the roof below. with any luck, a curious crow will snatch it away before spring melt off can dump it into the pasture, catch the attention of the gardeners. you've no clue how well-acquainted your governess is with the brands your father used to smoke and you've no plan to find out, resolving to leave the window open all night if you have to in order to clear the stench of your foolish endeavor.

the candles have guttered but it's no matter, the moon bright enough that you can disrobe and navigate to bed even without them. it's not a difficult endeavor anyway, the bed such a ridiculously oversized piece it dominated most of the room and called into question the size of the man who'd commissioned it. you drown in it most nights, restless, twisting yourself up in sheets that stretched on forever, wound around you until you'd wake gasping, clawing at your own belly as if to loosen the stays of a corset that wasn't there. the physician who'd come to see to you was unsympathetic to your claims that the bed was simply too large - had suggested sleeping in your corset instead, claiming it would soothe your nerves and prevent you trying to bind yourself in your sleep.

it did not work, but your maid, alice, was loyal to the governess. tied your stays in the back, much too tight for you to undo once she'd left you alone. even now the boning digs at you, chest still heaving from your foolish endeavor. you settle on your back, try to keep your shoulders set back to encourage deep breathing and watch the shadows play about the room, curtains billowing with each icy gust. there's still too much smoke in the room, lingering up near your ceiling where it swirls about, never quite low enough to escape when the curtains ebb in a back draft. you hope you won't be stuck with the window open all night. already, fine dustings of snow slip past, tip toe up your bed to catch your covers and set your legs shivering.

the blankets twist about you again when you turn to your side, but for once you don't mind, your own body weight keeping them tucked firmly in place so the wind can't steal your heat away again. your breath evens as you finally begin to relax, body forming to the mattress just as much as it forms to you. sleep finds you slowly, lulls you into it with deep sighs, your breath matching that of the house itself. you time idly, watching the curtains in the cloudy mirror of your vanity - the only concession to your residence in the whole room. a gift from some minor lady who'd once hoped to sway your favor toward her son - only to have him elope a month later with a merchant's daughter -, the piece stands out singularly in the dark, masculine room. gilded framework and ivory inlay, it catches the moonlight beautifully, pearlescent in the chill. you let yourself be entranced by the vision it makes, orpheus overtaking you, settling over you like a calming, physical weight which shifts, presses a knee between your own -

it feels like the chill has taken your blood when your eyes tear open, body frozen in place as you watch your reflection stir, pushed slightly further onto your belly while the blankets move seemingly of their own accord. you tell yourself it's the wind tugging at them again, but the way the flatten against the mattress makes no sense - and it's the not the wind that whispers your name in your ear.

still trapped in the bedding, you thrash uselessly before you're able to escape its clutches, only realizing you're screaming when the breath is knocked out of you as you thud to the floor. help comes to lift you to your feet before you are able to do it yourself, alice's hands surprisingly firm when they dig under your arms and lift. you can't even manage to thank her, breaths stuttering out high and thin as you stare at your bed in wide-eyed shock: two distinct impressions of bodies, one curled around the other, yet completely empty. smoke curls above it, oddly thinner than that what still lingers around your ceiling. it breaks up on the next gust of wind, shatters around you with a cloyingly sweet scent.

---

your governess is cross to say the least.

the next day is spent in the kitchens, working away your transgressions into a particularly hard dough batch. she is unsympathetic to the terror that had overtaken you just before they'd rushed in to help. says she's certain they'd only heard your fresh coughing, although you try to point out that the cigar was already gone by then.

"don't be clever," she warns, an adage you've heard many times over the years. What man wants a clever wife?

she has the humidor emptied, says it should have been done long ago. you say nothing because probably, she's right.

alice isn't your friend, but sometimes she can be friendly. unlike your governess, she at least seems to have noticed your distress from the night before, simply nods in agreement when you ask her to warm your bed after she's done helping you dress that evening. perhaps she still sees it, the fear. she hums at you like she thinks you need at, at least, and maybe you do because it works quickly, your body exhausted after so much hard work and such little sleep.

---

despite your exhaustion, you do not sleep soundly. the midnight hour finds you fretful, though you're careful to remain still so as not to wake alice. you breathe in sync with her in an attempt to soothe yourself until you realize it's not her that moves but the house itself, curtains billowing in a breeze that shouldn't exist, windows locked tight for the night. strangely, the realization does not frighten you - not even when you turn to find alice staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes glossed over and vacant. skin leeched pale in the moonlight. you roll over to her, curious, and her eyes track over you uncomprehendingly, focus on a point at the far side of the room.

there's no decision to sit up, you simply do - chest rising first as if an anchor knot is rooted in your sternum, woven between the hollows of your ribs. the world tilts for a moment, and then rights itself, as if alighting with you on this new level. you observe the room much as it had been the night before, cold light filtering through whorls of smoke, though there's more of it now - thin trails of oily residue curling all around the room. it seems to ebb about the edges. even with the window locked tight, the room still seems to contract and compress, pressure increasing rhythmically before expanding again, fresh smoke rushing to fill it. you track the trail back to its source, a pin point ember which builds and gutters with swell, bobbing along on a tide. it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust but you make out the hand that holds it first, long fingers painted warm in the low light. it's the only bit of skin you can make out, the body attached to it settled so far back into the shadow it appears only as one itself - darker, deeper. barely distinguishable.

by its immense stature, you reason it is a man sat at your secretary. like alice's composure, there is a part of you that knows this realization should frighten you, but you're much too tired and curious to care, crawling to the foot of the bed so you can get a better look, continuing on over the edge and onto the floor when you still can't make out his features. your palms scratch against the worn wood, bearing too much weight in your awkward crawl, and room stills when you feel blood on the heel of your hand, the heat of it almost shocking in the cold air.

you only make it another stretch closer before the man recovers, the ember of his cigar flaring and popping as he takes a long drag, leans forward in his seat until you can make out a broad, stubbled jaw, two perfect white streaks glowing in the moonlight revealed when he finally drops his hand. his lips are wine-dark when they part, reveal a neat row of pearly teeth. he's impolite, blows his smoke directly at you. cloyingly sweet licorice and heady tobacco. you do not cough this time, though it's a near-miss. it seems to please him, lips tugging into a cruel smile as the smoke grows denser, begins to pour from his mouth in a thick, black cloud. it stains his chin, his teeth a black tar-like oil that smells too pungent. rotted.

you startle when alice screams, overcorrecting when you turn to her because she's there beside you, not behind, both of you still lying in bed.

"alice?" you start, trying to wake her, but your hand slips across her chest, slick with something dark and hot, and you freeze, unable to do anything as she continues to sieze and shriek beside you.

the governess comes, and then a doctor. in the confusion, you're shuttled off to the chair across the room. you're already settled into it by the time you realize it's where the man had sat, and you briefly take inventory of it, as if perhaps you could feel the traces of his body heat lingering. but the only thing of note is the trace whisps of dark sweets, easily explained away by your own mishap the night before.

they clean alice's wound and find a neat ring of teeth marks, your own good name saved by virtue of the doctor recognizing that they'd had time to heal - must have happened some other night, that alice must have been picking at them in her sleep. your governess's obvious distaste stills your tongue, unwilling to face her wrath if she believes you sympathetic to some street hussy. so you say nothing, even as alice shrieks about a man, about being accosted. even as they call her hysteric and pack her off. instead you sit silently, picking off the blood the that had dried to your hand when you'd gone to wake her. never mentioning the scrape you find beneath it and the congealed line of your own blood; the cut from when you'd flopped out of bed to crawl to his feet. because you can still smell it, the stomach-turning sweetness, and the heavy scent it had given way to, and you know what it was now, staining his handsome chin just as much as alice's breast.

and it's not fear, or even pity that settles low in your belly, simmers hotter than that ember which had sparked to life, woken you to his call.

you follow them when they walk her out, a small team of men needed to keep her restrained. she fights to be heard, but a part of you worries she fights to stay as well, the claws she sinks into the door frame intended to keep herself put for him. you feel ugly and selfish when you traipse back to your room, but you do anyway, stopping only long enough to smell the beautiful bouquet of dark winter roses you pass on the sideboard. they're lovely and sweet, though you can't help noticing no one has bothered to cut the thorns off. careless. you wonder who got them.

---

it's not the only life taking root in the house.

despite the grueling winter, you notice sunshine in the halls, dust motes dancing in the pale light. sconces you've not seen lit in years keep the shadows of night at bay. spices find their way into your meals, a small luxury you've been missing greatly. you can see your governess watching the staff suspiciously, but don't dare ask if she has her theories.

---

there are cigars in the humidor. or maybe they aren't cigars, much thinner than the ones you're used to seeing. you've no idea how they got there, but neither do you know who to ask. who you can trust to believe you, even just long enough to look, see the proof for themselves.

but then, you're not sure you want anyone else to know.

they smell like his. dark and heavy, sickeningly sweet. it makes your stomach turn but you fish out the lighter anyway, throwing the windows open decisively. fresh air pours in around you, chases cobwebs from the corners. the sconses gutter before flaring back to life, leaving the room brighter than it's been in months, cleaner than it' felt in ages.

you hardly notice, too busy fighting the cough that builds in your throat as you take your first drag. you don't manage it, smoke sputtering sputtering from your mouth in fits and starts as you heave your way through a coughing fit, stomach turning with an unexpected wave of nausea. face turned to the cool relief of the window, you've got your cheek leaned up against the side of the pane when the smoke begins to waft away. it takes you a moment to make sense of the image revealed, inverted and near as it is. fear grips you before you even manage it, some fine-tuned instinct recognizing the viper at your feet and turning to run before you're even sure what you've seen.

but this is no viper, and the reaction warranted when faced with the immense silhouette of a man hanging inverted in your window, mere inches from your face, is to go still as a deer in the hunters' sights, evidently, and play the docile little pray.

he turns properly toward you, the shaggy hair dangling around his face catching in the wind. your cigar flares with it, wan light revealing pale skin and dark eyes which seem to glint in amusement when you stumble away, the whole of the picture revealed to you just as long fingers wrap over the top of the casement and pry it open, hinges groaning as they overextend to let his broad shoulders pass. he pours through the sill like butter from the pan, pools on your ceiling with a strong grip on your curtain rod. except, when he drops from it, he sinks from the rafters like a feather, none of the might his huge frame suggested anywhere to be found.

still reeling, your hip catches the edge of your wardrobe and you slip past it, put your back to the wall as quiet cries spill from your lips, pleas incomprehensible.

he greets you by name in a thick russian accent, and somehow, impossibly, you know, but you ask anyway, voice trembling. "who are you?"

a step closer, movements so fluid you can barely discern them. when did the candles go out? "your cleverer than that."

strange compulsion, you can't stop yourself before reciting, "men don't want clever wives."

"is that what you think i want? a wife?" amusement curls around the words, turns his accent lilting.

"i don't know what you want," you whisper, and he grunts - edging closer to irritation.

"and is that what you think i am, then? a man?"

"no…" the truth shocks you, has you casting about for an anchor. you only find confirmation when you catch sight of your vanity, the man in your room leaving no reflection. your cleverer than that. "you were here that night, weren't you? on the bed with me?"

"well, what's a man to do when he returns home to find a pretty young lady in his bed?"

"you're my father." it's not a question. you're not even certain you mean it as a chastisement. it is simple fact, roiling in your stomach like the nausea that lingers.

a fact he ignores, slipping closer and trailing cold digits over the inside of your wrist before taking the slim cigar from between your fingers. you weren't even aware you'd still had it. it glows back to life when he takes a deep drag, smoke spilling from his mouth when he speaks again, "do you like this one better than that other? they're very popular in paris."

you latch onto the wrong part of the question. "is that where you've been?"

"there," he shrugs. "everywhere."

more nausea, sinuses prickling with the added smoke. "anywhere but here?"

he doesn't seem to like this question, either, a stillness overtaking him. "i was… called away."

but if he can be angry, so can you. "for twenty four years?" you snap, voice ragged and sharp as it had been after your first inhale.

his stillness snaps, exasperation turning him away from you. he paces to the window and finally you can see more of his features - the high peaks of his hairline, the heavy brow and the broad nose. he's an older man, you know, and yet - he doesn't really look it, fine lines of his forehead no worse than a man ten, twenty years his younger. his voice is gruff when he speaks again. quiet. "a man can't help being needed -."

"you were needed hear!" you shriek, a reservoir of emotion you didn't know you'd kept dammed breaking free.

when he turns on his heel the candles flare again, and you gasp, shocked to find him suddenly before you, the wool of his overcoat scratchy even through your shift. he waits for you to settle, for your chest to stop heaving against his and your pulse to stop hammering so loud in your ears that you can't hear what he says when his lips move, tongue darting out to wet them. "am i no longer needed, then?" he finally asks, and you wilt against him.

"of course you are," you sob, trying not to notice his own breaths never come.

---

there's no precedent telling you what to call him. his name is improper, but 'father' leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. you plead of him 'my lord!' when his kisses linger too long and he groans, pleased.

you're not sure if you like him when he's pleased.

he frightens you, takes too much. he's a man of appetite as you should have known by the marks he'd left on alice, but you'd foolishly thought yourself untouchable, too gently borne to suffer such indignities. of course, the station of your birth matters little to your own father - if it indeed ever would have mattered to anyone at all.

but it's hard to refuse him when he's your father, and so huge, besides. his broad frame corrals you easily back toward the bed. he doesn't let you sink onto it until his kisses have trailed to the hinge of your jaw, cold nose nuzzling behind your ear. when he does breathe, his chest eclipses your own, tries to turn you concave, carve a space within you. his exhale stinks like his cigar, pressed into the corner of your lip.

it's improper. leaves you teetering between disgust and a guilty sort of pleasure, which only serves to repulse you further. your stomach turns, guilt eating its way up your throat. acrid with smoke.

the hand splayed over the column of your throat tightens minutely, long fingers threatening to pluck the tendons which flex when you gag. he misunderstands. "not supposed to inhale, you know?"

your head spins, the only relief from your mounting sickness found in the the cold relief of his hands against your cheek. "i didn't… i don't..?"

"shh. that's alright. papa will teach you. take this, it will help you feel better."

and your mouth when he does. wide, mimicking. eager for some tincture to help soothe your nerves. a strong dose to put you under, perhaps. he grins when you show him your teeth and a finger finds his own, long claw catching minutely on his lip when he drags the pad of his first two fingers over his canine. you're shocked when it comes away bloody - more so when he coos, eases them into your own mouth to stroke against your tongue. for a moment you're too shocked to respond, but then the heavy taste of blood coats your mouth and you thrash about under him, swatting and biting.

it only seems to encourage him, voice too thick with hunger and approval to be as soothing as he intends it when he tries to gentle you beneath him.

he gives up trying when his blood overflows your mouth, spilling over your cheeks as you continue trying to shake him off. he mutters something about a waste and then his other hand is pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply fully. you gurgle, trying to clear your mouth and he snarls, shoves his fingers deeper.

you're forced to swallow your mouthful when your vision begins to tunnel. he sighs in relief when you do, breath nearly as heavy as yours when you gasp and wheeze. he has the decency to drag his fingers down your chin as you struggle, staining all down your throat as he traces the path of the load you've swallowed.

"not so hard, was it?" he mutters, still painting your skin. you glare at him when you can finally manage it and he just chuckles, forces his fingers behind your bottom teeth again. even still the taste revolts you, tongue crowding to the back of you mouth to try and escape the cold copper, the thick licorice. if he notices, he is undeterred. makes you take even more when he pries your jaw open and spits in your mouth.

the vulgarity makes you heave, but his weight fights even that. keeps you in place when he shoves his fingers back until the webbing nestles against the corner of your mouth and his fingernails scrape against your throat. he feels when it constricts around him reflexively and his free hand smooths the hair back from your sweaty forehead, cold breath against your temple as he tells you to relax, voice fragmenting - somehow both soft, ethereal, and a very real rumble in your ear.

it's that quiet one that gets you, webs its way through your nerves until you're limp with it, energy sapped along with your will to disobey. his fingers pull back minutely, give you enough space to swallow the blood that's gathered at the back of your throat. when they push back in, he bids you suckle them in that same distorted voice and you do. easily, gratefully, and this time, the blood pools in your belly like an antidote. it soothes your nausea, leaves you hungry for more. he doesn't hesitate to provide it, fingers pumping in and out of your mouth as you begin to suckle at them, entreating him to stay nestled in the heat of your mouth each time he starts to pull away.

you're unsure how long he feeds you. long enough you that you feel sated and sleepy when he withdraws entirely. a strand of saliva follows him, snaps back to fall down your chest when he licks his own fingers after, thick tongue wiping clean what mess remains. his skin comes back whole and healed, a prospect that should surely frighten you, but there is no fear when you grow bold, pull him closer by a strong grip on the long strands of hair at his nape. his tongue is slick when it slides against yours, chasing the taste of himself. he follows it down your chin, panting against the column of your neck as his hands work up your chest, the pressure of them on your waist having been having gone unnoticed through your corset. his nails scrape your skin when he catches the hem of your dressing gown and finally, some base instinct flares back to life, tries to stay his hands with your own, fingers scrabbling against his. he just hushes you again, voice echoing softly between your ears. this time, when your fingers wrap around his wrists, it is simply an anchor for you, body feeling as though you may simply drift away under his care.

when his mouth finds your breast, you arch into him, bucking hard enough that he groans, lays his body flat over you to keep you in place as he feasts. even his weight is decadent, a relief from the way you feel untethered. he pinches your nipple between too-sharp teeth, soaks the fabric of your shift in saliva just to soothe you after. his mouth offers no heat, no balm for the frigid breaths he ghosts over the wet material. you beg for it anyway, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. an instinct that will do you no good here, the man at your breast inhuman and cold.

it's a fact you can't escape from, not with his cold blood in your belly and his will in your head. not with his lupine teeth spreading wide over your heart, or the ecstatic relief when he finally bites down. your breath steams in the air as you pant beneath him, chest heaving into his mouth even as you try pulling him impossibly closer, and here, finally, is the heat - the bloom of blood that soaks your shift and warms your skin, even as you grow colder with the loss of it. he's insatiable, a man of appetite as you knew, and yet you give yourself freely, even as your breath grows stilted and shallow and your fingers twitch in his hair. he only surfaces when your vision grows cloudy, looms above you in a grisly mask of death turned two-tone with the moonlight and your fading vision. jaw stained dark, it appears an endless maw from which he speaks, demands to know if you'll join him in eternity.

and what girl could ever live without her papa?

dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/adornedwithlight