#Vintage Wooden Clock

[randostufforino]

[thrifted-friends]

beautiful clock 🕰️

[scoutingthetrooper]

[warm-poetry]

My photography, please leave credit. :)

[susoriginals]

Vintage Wood Quartz Mantel Clock Keeps Excellent Time Only $10 

[tinalilith1]

Vintage Décor: 5 Ways to Add Character to Your Home - Share A Word

Take your vintage home décor to the next level and create an unforgettable focal point with a magnificent wooden grandfather clock that screams tradition and family value.

[gghostwriter]

Out of Sunshine

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Having forgotten your dinner date, Spencer comforts his usually sunshine girlfriend Trope:Fluff & Comfort w.c: 1.2k a/n: been very overwhelmed with responsibilities and wants lately that I just needed to write a self-indulgent fic. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

Spencer’s knock on your apartment door was met with silence. It was a starry Friday night and he had arranged a dinner reservation with you, his girlfriend for a year and a half, to the newly opened French restaurant along the main street. With a certain spring in his step, he settled with Hotch, and by extension the team, that he couldn’t be disturbed unless an emergency case comes in—something he silently wished not to happen. He had also picked up a bouquet of your favorites from the local florist. An array of whites that reminded him of the dress he first saw you wearing at the park.

He knocked again, ears straining to hear anything behind the dark wooden door. There was nothing. He balanced the bouquet on one hand and reached for the phone inside his satchel. It was quite unlike you to not answer the door.

The number you dialed is either unattended—

“Strange,” he muttered under his breath. During his morning phone call with you, a much needed routine to tide him through the macabre of his job, you sounded so excited about the dinner he’d planned and had even promised to wear the same white dress that had plagued his eidetic memory. He chuckled in reply before asking any plans for the day. There was a slight pause on your end, no doubt thinking of ways to pass time before night winds down, and you answer—

The studio, he remembered. You mentioned passing by your art studio to occupy time. He sighed in relief as he enters his vintage blue car parked on the the sidewalk, bouquet placed securely on the passenger seat. The clock on the dashboard tells him there’s still time to make it to the reservation, granted he wasn’t sure if you were ready to go.

A non-descriptive tune played from the radio as he turned left to enter the designated parking space of your studio building. It was a mixture of soft piano keys that sounded like spring and sunshine, both adjectives he loved to use to describe you.

When he finally found the courage to fumble his way in asking for your number, the smile that flashed on your face was blinding. It was as if he stared directly into the sun with little to no protection for his vision.

Over the course of multiple dates, he found himself waxing prose about you in his head. The pinking of your cheeks reminded him of strawberries ripening, so tempting to touch with his own pair of lips. The twinkle in your eyes, full of adoration and trust, made him feel strong and protective—like he was some kind of crow guarding his loot of sparkling treasure. And the bounce in your step wherever you’d go had him envisioning a sprig of wildflowers growing from each footprint, the nymph of his very own Spring.

He let himself in the studio, grateful you’ve trusted him with a spare key. “Sunshine,” he called out.

The light inside the four cornered room was on, windows all open for the paint fumes to escape, and there you were, hunched over an easel, furiously painting without any care of your surroundings.

He called your name, softer this time, as if to slowly ease you out of the artistic trance. The timber of his voice and his sudden presence led you to squeak in surprise, paintbrush dropping on the wooden streaked floor.

“It’s me, sunshine,” he raised his hands in front of him in surrender. “It’s me.”

Your nose scrunched up in question, a streak of blue dried paint on your cheek, adorable. How adorable you were in his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you bent down to grab the brush before resuming your old position.

“It’s 7:50, love.”

You swiveled to face him, eyes wide in distress. Hands promptly reaching to turn over the faced down phone. “No, no—oh my god, I am so sorry!”

“It’s alright,” he tries to placate you but his words of comfort seem to fall on deaf ears. “Really, it’s alright. It happens to everyone.”

Tears were starting to build up in your eyes. Your hands were wrangling with the apron tied around your waist as you mutter a series of apologies again and again. “I’m sorry. So sorry—we can’t make it to our reservation now, can’t we? Spence, I’m so so sorry. I—I forgot,” a sob escaped from your throat. “I don’t know what to do.”

He puts down the flowers on the nearest available space, your stool, and steps into your space. Filling it with his perfume and warmth meant to comfort you. He could see how distressed you were—rocking on your heels, hands unable to stay put, and lower lip sandwiched in between your pearly teeth.

“Breathe. It’s completely fine, love. No harm done. Really, it’s alright.”

The tears come rushing down, staining your flushed cheeks with its tracks. “It’s not—how could I forget?”

“Sunshine, it’s okay. It happens to all of us and I know you’re quite busy, it’s understandable.”

You burrow into his chest some more, afraid of separating from him and the haven he brings.

He continued on. “I also know you’re overwhelmed, the exhibit is just around the corner and I know how important it is to you, I understand.”

Laying your cheek near his beating heart, you mutter a reply. “It’s really not—I don’t want you to think you’re not important to me too.”

His hands cupped your face to stare into your saddened eyes. Spencer couldn’t see the warmth and brightness that was always present in his sunshine. There was a cloud of rain and doubt covering its’ greatness. He understood no one could always be happy all the time but it bothered him to see you breaking down from stress.

“Shouldn’t I be the one worried about that?” he lightly joked. “I’ve cancelled on dates so many times and did those ever make you feel less important to me?”

“No. Never,” you sniffled.

“Then what makes you say I’d think that, sunshine? I would never, I promise.”

The corners of your lips lifted up to a small smile. There it was, the rays of sun peeking behind the clouds, bringing warmth back to the dark crevices of his being.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” your lower lip jutting out in a pout. The air of anxiety slowly dissipating around you.

Spencer laughed, noting the tear stained marks littered on his purple button down. “That’s alright. Why don’t we order from your favorite Indian place down the block? We can get your favorites and have our dinner date here instead?”

“You’d be okay with that?”

He leaned in to kiss your temples, taking in the twinkle back in your eyes framed by your wet long lashes and the flush on your cheeks from emotion—good and bad.

For Spencer, you had never looked more beautiful. The reason behind of your breakdown was raw, intimate, and it made him see you in a new light. Heat bloomed in his chest, like a series of red roses, filled with love for you.

“Anywhere with you is good for me, sunshine.”

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

List of Random Things For Your Dark Academia Settings | For Writers

The Library 📚

Towering mahogany bookshelves filled with ancient leather-bound tomes

Antique globes and faded maps mounted on the walls

Heavy velvet drapes blocking out the sunlight

Ornate brass reading lamps casting a warm glow

The musty smell of old books permeating the air

The Study 🪶

A large oak desk strewn with papers, quills, and ink bottles

Walls lined with pinned insect specimens and anatomical drawings

An antique typewriter, its keys clacking softly

Stacks of well-worn leather journals and notebooks

A cabinet of curiosities filled with skulls, fossils, and scientific oddities

The Classroom 🎓

Rows of old wooden desks, surfaces scratched with generations of graffiti

A blackboard covered in elaborate chalk diagrams and Latin phrases

Dusty shelves holding jars of formaldehyde-preserved specimens

Antique microscopes and brass telescopes waiting to be used

The tick-tock of a grandfather clock counting down the minutes

The Dormitory 🕯️

A four-poster bed heaped with tattered quilts and faded velvet pillows

Parquet wood floors layered with antique persian rugs

Flickering candles in tarnished silver holders casting dancing shadows

A steamer trunk overflowing with vintage tweeds and wool knits

Tea-stained pages of love letters and poetry scattered on the nightstand

The Secret Society Meeting Room 🗝️

An imposing stone fireplace with Latin phrases carved into the mantel

Worn leather armchairs circled around a low table set with tarnished silver

The air thick with pipe smoke and burning incense

Shelves lined with ancient masks, ceremonial daggers, and dusty alchemical tomes

Shadows dancing on the tapestry-covered walls in the candlelight

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Doctor's Wife 💘 | Carlisle Cullen Imagine

Set during the events of Twilight (2008)

Twilight Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Carlisle Cullen x female!vampire!reader (romantic), Bella Swan x Edward Cullen, Edward Cullen x reader (platonic)

Content warnings: fluff, light angst, suggestive themes right at the end | female reader (she/her) | wc: 3.5k

requested 📥 yes/no

Premise: When Edward introduces Bella to his family after weeks of avoiding the inevitable, there was no telling how it was going to go down. Of course, what does one expect when they bring their girlfriend over for the first time…. except it's to a family of animal blood-sucking vampires who's lives each deserve a biography of their own. Bella felt the pressure of making a great impression, but the nerves seemed to heighten in regard to meeting the woman responsible for raising Edward throughout his undead life. The woman whose soul was bonded to none other than the Cullen patriarch.

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

Over a hundred years walking the Earth and Edward still experienced the universal feeling of cringe and embarrassment. This time, at the hands of none other than his family as he introduced him to the girl who’d captured his undead heart and made it hard for Edward to stay away. 

“Alright, um,” he swallowed, placing a gentle hand on Bella’s back to nudge her in the direction of the staircase. Away from the prying eyes of his siblings and Carlisle after Alice had to say, ‘Oh, you do smell good,’ and Jesper was literally fighting for his life to keep it together. “Where’s Y/n?”

“In her studio,” Carlisle replied with a smile, the mention of his wife bringing a warmth to his chest. “She’s working on a project and can definitely use a break. She’s been excited to meet Bella since you mentioned bringing her over.” 

Bella blushed, the nerves resurfacing at meeting another member of the Cullen family. The matriarch at that. Edward’s adoptive mother and Carlisle’s wife. 

“Thanks,” Edward turned on his heel, leading Bella in the opposite direction. Mumbling a short goodbye, she followed the vampire down the corridor, past the staircase and a living space before stopping in front of a wooden door. 

Before he knocked, Edward put a comforting hand on Bella’s shoulder, “Calm down,” his teeth sparkled against the light, eyes teasing. “Your heartbeat is out of control.”

“Sorry,” she flushed again, cursing at herself. She didn’t understand why she was so nervous to meet Y/n. More so than the rest of his family. Maybe it was because Edward spoke so highly of her. Maybe it was because she saw the way Carlisle lit up at the mere mention of her name. Or how the townspeople praised Y/n, even if they only had one interaction. 

Edward went to knock, but this time was interrupted by a voice calling out from the other side, “Come in!” Smiling, he pushed open the door, revealing a large room in what only could be described as an organized disarray. 

Bella’s jaw slightly dropped, taking in the scene before her. Eyes first darting to the high ceilings with a drop-down chandelier. Though it wasn’t on, thanks to the natural light provided by the left side of the room with floor to ceiling windows where a wall should’ve been. A beautiful, perfect view of the forest surrounding the home. 

The walls were painted a rusted burnt red, the kind you see in art museums. Floors made of the finest dark wood, with one area covered by plastic reserved for protecting it by the paint cans laying on top, beside an easel holding a large canvas. A very large, vintage clock took the center of the wall connected to the window, surrounded by pieces ranging from old signs to shelves holding books and plants. 

On the main wall parallel to the windows, a map of the world hung, flanked by art pieces. Portraits, landscape. Various mediums of pencil, oils, and acrylic. A phone straight from the 1930s mounted above a small table covered by messy stacks of paper. Bella’s eyes drew to a woven basket that came probably to her waist, filled with pieces of rolled parchment. A few laid on the ground. A foot away from it was a cart holding art supplies. 

Finally, Bella’s gaze landed on the figure in the center of the room. Y/n sat on a wooden stool, her posture perfect, hand scribbling across a large piece of parchment placed on the wooden desk facing the windows. The desk was the type that propped up, a lamp attached to the corner, and side table. Something an artist or engineer invested in. 

“I thought I heard the raging pump of a heartbeat approaching.” Bella squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment, letting out a small groan. Opening them when she heard the skid of the stool against the floor. 

“Y/n,” Edward scolded, tone playful. 

“Apologies, I couldn’t help myself,” Y/n chuckled, approaching the two with a wide smile. Bella held her breath, admiring the woman before her. Alice may have been the fashion girlie of the family, but there was no denying who she must’ve gotten it from. 

Y/n made even the simplest of clothing look ethereal. White blouse tucked into beige trousers, brown belt with hints of gold, paired with stunning white heeled boots. The necklaces she wore were layered, the longest of which had several charms making them clink together, bracelets covering her wrists, three rings on each hand, and gold hoops. A multicolor scarf consisting of warm tones like red, orange, and yellow tied around her hair. Then of course, her eyes were melting gold. 

She was the picture of an artist. 

Upon closer inspection, Bella had to hold back a whistle at the ring reserved for her left ring finger. Carlisle sure had taste and made sure his lady got what she deserved. That was no ring. That was a rock.

“You must be the famous Bella,” Y/n’s hand shot out, Bella hesitating a moment before taking it. Y/n’s handshake was soft yet firm at the same time. Bringing a chill to Bella as their skin met. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you,” letting go of her hand, Y/n brought both of hers up to make a gesture. “I have been begging Edward to bring you around for weeks. I don’t know why it’s taken him so long,” a playful glare was directed at him. 

Edward rolled his eyes, then put an arm around Bella. “Bella, this is Y/n. My mother for all intents and purposes. Artist, architect, and occasional therapist to all of us emotionally stunted immortal teenagers.”

“You said it, not me,” Y/n smirked, hands raised again. 

Bella laughed, comforted by Edwards touch as she regarded Y/n. “It’s really nice to meet you, Y/n. Edward talks about you all the time.”

“Good things, correct?”

“Of course,” Bella assured, nudging Edward who had scoffed. “He mentioned you designed this house--it’s absolutely beautiful. And this--,” motioning to the space, Bella was again in awe of Y/n’s studio. It’s like she was walking through an exhibit in the Louvre. “Wow.”

“When I made the blueprints for this house, I wanted everyone to have a place--plus everyone was vocal about what they wanted,” she teases with a grin. “Carlisle has his study, Alice her closets, Rosalie wished for a garage, Jesper desired a library, Emmett a game room, Edward got his music room. And me,” a hand waves to the room with pride. “My studio.”

Bella raised an intrigued brow, aimed at Edward, “you have a music room?” 

Had he been human, Edward would have blushed. He brushed it off with a shrug, “Yeah, it’s just where I keep a few instruments. I’ll show you as we go through the house.”

“A few,” Y/n lightly scoffed, earning a small glare from the boy. 

“Carlisle said you’re working on a project,” he changed the subject, nudging his head toward the desk. Catching sight of the blueprints that were in the early draft stages. 

“The high school plans to renovate the library, so they’ve asked me to go over some plans and designs. They were pleased with my work for the gym last year.” 

Edward turns to Bella, “Y/n has the magic touch for designing and constructing. And because we’ve had the time to redo college over and over again….” They share a laugh, “she’s got degrees in art, engineering, design, and business on top of her architecture education.”

The woman simply shrugs, “I like to keep busy. Who wouldn't want to take advantage of obtaining all the world’s knowledge when you have eternity.” If she saw the pointed look Edward was giving her, Y/n ignored it. 

“Anyway,” He sighed, returning his attention to Bella, “The town comes to her for consultations. And, in most cases than often, she designs and oversees the build.”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” Bella awed, past Edward’s shoulder she spotted the white construction worker's hat. Propped beside a coat hanger possessing a pair of overalls, scarves, and painters' boots. “Did you-,” her finger pointed to the display of artwork, “paint all those?”

“Several, yes,” Y/n motioned them to follow her, moving closer to the wall. “This one you might have guessed is the view of the forest from this room. The first one I did when we moved here. But not all are recent, some I did in the 90s--,” she pointed to a canvas framed with gold trimming near the top. Depicting an image of inside a medical tent, “That one is from when I volunteered for the Army Nurses Corps.”

Bella’s eyes bulged, glancing between Y/n and Edward. “You--you served during the War?” 

Y/n nodded, expression now solemn, “First World War. We were living in Virginia at the time and therefore injured soldiers coming back from Europe docked at the bases there first. Carlisle was the trauma surgeon, and I was a nurse.” Her boots echoed against the wood as they strolled down. “We stayed there the duration of the war before settling in Chicago….”

“How long before he wakes up?”

“Not long,” Carlisle kept his eyes on the unconscious boy while his wife paced behind him. Had they been able to sweat they would’ve been drenched. “The venom transferred from his neck. The closest I could get to his heart--it should take less than a day.”

Y/n ran a hand through her neatly styled hair in distress. They’d only been in Chicago a few months. Arriving when the War ended and immediately joining the effort to combat the Spanish Influenza spreading through the population. With their current predicament, there was no way they could stay.  

Ripping the nurses cap off, she asked, “What’s our next move then? We can’t stay here. This city is an endless potluck of people, and we don’t know how strong his urges will be,” she stopped pacing, coming beside her husband with a pleading gaze. “I know you said his parents are dead, but that doesn't mean he may not have family who’ll come looking for him. What kind of people are we to rip him from the ones who love him?” Upon the look she received, Y/n dropped her head, “Unless you mean to fake his death.” 

Carlisle placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “The boy had the influenza. They saw his condition--it was deteriorating. They’ll believe it took him in the night and his body was sent to the incinerators. Just like the others.”

Y/n sniffed, eyes welling with unshed tears. “I know, but…” she trailed off, “He’s a kid, Carlisle. We agreed that when it came time for us to save someone from death, it would not mean robbing them of their life--.”

“He was dying, Y/n,” his tone was firm, yet gentle. “I promised his mother we’d look after him.” Eyes flicker to Edward, then back to Y/n. While Carlisle hated himself for what he’d done, there was no going back now. “He’s our responsibility now. We’ve to teach him the ways of this life and make sure he copes with it. Not succumb to the darkness like we did.” 

Another sound left her, Y/n taking a moment to process before nodding. “Okay,” she whispered, keeping her voice steady. “We take this day-by-day.”

“Day-by-day.” 

“That’s when Edward….” Bella trailed, biting her lip when she realized it wasn’t the best idea to bring it up. Yet, she was surprised both the vampires nodded, understanding her implication. Instead, she said, “He mentioned you’ve been with Carlisle the longest….”

Like earlier with the doctor, Y/n visibly brightened at each time his name was said. “Will be two hundred years this fall.”

“Two--two hundred??” The human spluttered. Edward had failed to tell her that information. Only saying the two had been together long before Carlisle saved him. 

Chuckling at Bella’s reaction, Y/n tucked a piece of stray hair back in its place. “The vampire who bit me didn’t stick around. Abandoning me. A few days later of endless wonder and unable to control my newfound appetite, Carlisle found me.” Her smile was so wide, bright white teeth bouncing off light. “It’s been quite a life ever since.” 

They spent the next few minutes learning about the history of each painting. From the oil masterpiece of the New York Skyline to the charcoal portrait of Joan of Arc. Bella took time to admire the watercolor image of Carlisle. Donned in his white coat, hair and posture perfect. 

“Ah yes,” Y/n hummed, beaming up at the canvas. “My personal favorite. Though I’m a little biased given the muse of this piece happens to be the muse of my soul.” 

“Stay still.”

“I am.” 

“No, you’re not,” Y/n berated, dipping the brush back into the golden color before continuing to paint Carlisle’s hair. “I know this is time consuming, darling, but it’s not like you haven’t done it before.” 

“In my defense,” his hand raised, quickly putting it back in his lap when she groaned, “I’ve never technically sat for a portrait. The ones from Volterra were done while I wasn’t aware they were being painted.” A grimace took his features, remembering his time with the Volturi. “Aro preferred moments to be captured as they were happening in real time.”

Y/n threw him a look, shaking her head in the process. “Yeah, he seems like the type.” 

“First and last time he got to play model,” she laughed at the memory. “Thanks to the creation of the camera I could develop a photograph and wallah!” her hands made a gesture, “A still image to use as reference. And now with cell phones….I don’t even have to put in the work to develop the photo. It’s right there!”

Initially Bella found her reaction to a camera phone a little odd. But then remembered Y/n was a 200+ year old vampire and literally witnessed the development and advancement of technology. 

“But I don’t always create,” Y/n winked, stopping in front of a stunning work of a lily pond. “Sometimes I collect.”

Stepping closer, Bella inspected the art, finger on her lip as her brows furrowed in concentration. She’d seen it before. The familiarity of it was driving her brain into overdrive. Then it hit her, breath hitching, “Is that…A Monet?” Her confirmation nod made Bella nearly choke on her saliva. “How--?”

“Being alive 226 years and getting the privilege of traveling anywhere means I’ve had the pleasure of meeting interesting people,” her smirk was the type a movie villain showed that made the audience fall in love with them and brush away the fact they were a villain. A captivating sight. “One of those people happened to be Claude Monet during our time in France. Our shared love for art and nature brought a great friendship. I was actually with him when he painted this,” she casually said, aware of Bella’s astonished reaction despite her eyes trained on the canvas. “Unfortunately, Carlisle and I left before I got to see him finish. After he died several of his paintings went to museums or auctioned off. I made sure to acquire this one--took me about three years to find.”

After a moment of gawking, Bella gathered herself and moved onto the next piece. It really felt like they were in an art museum. Soon they came to the end of the gallery. 

“You’re incredibly talented,” Bella praised, unable to take her attention off the marble sculpture enclosed in a glass case by the small bookshelf. 

“Thank you. It’s nice to finally have someone to show this all too. Instead of just me admiring it daily.” Y/n put her hands in pockets, “Now I hate to kick you out, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to beat,” Y/n led them to the door, “and I’ll let you get back to your tour of the house. It was lovely to meet you, Bella, and please don’t be a stranger. Our door is always open for you.” 

“I really appreciate it,” Bella smiled, standing beside Edward in the doorway, “It was great meeting you too.” A wave of a goodbye and promise to visit again, Y/n watched Edward escort his girlfriend up the staircase to the second floor. Leaning against the side, Y/n touched a finger to her lips, not bothering to hide the giant grin surfacing. 

“I know that look.”

Despite speaking after Bella and Edward disappeared, Y/n felt Carlisle’s presence the second he breached the corridor. Not to mention the tingling sensation at the base of her spine. 

Slowly turning to face him, her smile widened, and Carlisle saw the way her golden hues sparkled when he approached. “And what exactly is that look?”

“The one where you’re overcome with happiness unable to be measured with how much it consumes you.” 

Hands took hold of her shoulders, gently brushing down until they reached her own, Y/n leaning into his touch, voice teasing, “What mother would I be to not be overjoyed for her son and the wonderful girlfriend he’s brought home?” 

Carlisle chuckled, tilting his head down to place a kiss on her forehead. The floral aroma of her Marc Jacobs perfume amplified her already sweet scent. Oh, how addicted he was to her scent. It was like walking through a garden of the most beautiful flowers on Earth. 

“You didn’t embarrass him, did you?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, tapping his chest to scold him, “Not much more than you lot. He was practically dragging Bella out of the kitchen.” Carlisle raised his hands in defense, making her raise a brow.

“That was all the kids. I’m innocent, my dear, you must believe me.” 

She tsked, “Well, at least you didn’t scare the poor girl like Rosalie and Jasper. And as much as I love Alice’s excitement, you might want to tell her to take it down a notch,” Y/n made a face, “I thought we all agreed last night not to bring up Bella’s scent.”

She was met with a sigh, her sculptured-God of a husband dropping his head onto her shoulder in defeat. “What was I supposed to do? You left me to fend for myself.” 

Laughing, Y/n reached her arms around his shoulders, encasing him in an embrace to which he greatly accepted. “I’m sorry, my love. Will you forgive me? I promise to find you the finest stag in all of Washington for you to feast upon.” Instantly his head shot up, moving it so their noses brushed against each other. 

“That’ll do.” Their lips met, igniting fireworks throughout their bodies as it always had for 200 years. Never once losing the feeling. 

They’d seen everything in the course of their century's long life. Several wars. Epidemics. The fall of countries and rise of new ones. Medicine advancing, technology overtaking man. The race to space and the rebirth of the Olympic Games. 

Met people who’d changed the world. Witnessed humanity evolve--and sometimes wondered how the hell it could be so stupid. But overall, they were the stagnant figures in their plane of existence. Time moving, they remained still.

And yet, somehow, they were able to find a family after all. 

When they pulled apart, their expressions of love remained. “God,” she hummed, “That never gets old.”

“Just like the first time?” He chafed, gold eyes glimmering.

Y/n pretending to think, lips pouting, “Less nervous,” a squeal escaped her at the feeling of his fingers tickling her ribcage. Shoving him away, the woman chided, “Get back to the hospital old man. There are patients to be seen, and I have a deadline to finish.” The gasp that left him made her grin.

“Old?! I’ll have you know that if I’m old then that means you are---.”

“Don’t you finish that sentence,” her finger pointed at his chest, “otherwise you’re sleeping on the couch.” Carlisle smirked, entering her personal space once again. 

“I can’t sleep. Neither can you.”

“Damn,” she exhaled, feigning defeat when really, she was becoming more invested with their little game. “You’re right.” Then her eyes turned dark, sinister. Face consorting to a look that made Carlisle shudder. 

A look he’d seen hundreds of times, and not once did not bring a chill to his already cold body. Enough to bring his heart back to life. Enough to send the frozen blood down to his spine. 

“Guess we’ll have to find another way to pass the time.” 

[infamous-light]

You Belong to Me Ch. 2

Alcina Dimitrescu x F! Reader

Ch. 1

AO3: You Belong to Me

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu's obsession knows no bounds as she becomes increasingly possessive over you. Will you succumb to her dark embrace, or find a way to break free before it's too late?

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Yandere, possessive/obsessive behavior

The winding hallways of Castle Dimitrescu seemed to stretch on endlessly, leading you deeper into the heart of the imposing structure.

The palms of your hands, once steady, now grew cold and clammy as you approached Lady Dimitrescu's bedchambers. You were about to begin your new role as her personal servant, a position that no one else has held before. Your mind buzzed with questions, doubts, and uncertainties.

What if you made a mistake? What if you failed to live up to her expectations?

The weight of this responsibility pressed down on you like a leaden blanket, threatening to overwhelm you before you had the chance to even begin. You swallowed hard, trying to calm the nervous flutter in your stomach.

Eventually, you found yourself standing in front of a set of double wooden doors, looming over you like a menacing shadow. Taking a deep breath, you raised your hand and knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the silent hallway.

“Come in.” Her voice, low yet authoritative, carried through the barrier of the door.

With a trembling hand, you reached out to grasp the polished golden handle, feeling its cool metal beneath your fingertips.

Here we go.

Then, you pushed the door open.

Stepping inside, you were immediately enveloped in the grandeur of Lady Dimitrescu's bedroom.

The room exuded an air of timeless elegance, each piece and decor chosen to reflect the aristocratic taste of its owner. Silk draperies hung down in graceful folds, their deep crimson hue contrasting sharply with the white furniture. Near the back, a grand, four-poster bed was pressed against the wall, its velvet canopy cascading down like a waterfall of blood. The bed itself was lavishly covered with plush, satin pillows and a heavy, fur-lined duvet. To the side of the bed stood a nightstand, its surface organized with an array of books and papers.

A large fireplace took up the right side of the bedroom, its mantlepiece adorned with an assortment of antique trinkets. Hanging above the mantlepiece was an old vintage clock, its hands steadily ticking along.

As your eyes continued to roam her bedroom, they finally landed on Lady Dimitrescu herself. She was seated at her vanity, delicately combing through her dark hair. You almost jumped out of your skin when her piercing gaze, framed by long lashes, locked onto yours through the reflection of her vanity mirror.

“Ah, there you are,” Lady Dimitrescu said as she set her hairbrush down. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

You bowed your head, trying to keep your breathing steady. “My Lady.”

She rose with fluid grace, her movements both mesmerizing and intimidating. Her towering presence filled the room, and you could feel the heat of her gaze lingering on you, appraising you. Each step she took was deliberate, her long nightgown whispering against the wooden floor as she approached you.

“Do you know,” Lady Dimitrescu purred, lifting your chin with a single, bare finger, forcing you to meet her eyes. “How much I despise being kept waiting?”

Your heart raced, a rapid staccato in your chest. Glancing to your right, you saw the time on the clock.

9:01 A.M.

Your hands fidgeted slightly, and your voice came out a bit shakier than you would have liked. “I’m sorry, my Lady. It won’t happen again.”

A slow, knowing smile curled her lips, and she traced her finger along your jawline, sending tingles down your spine.

“No, it won’t,” she murmured. “Because I have very specific expectations for you,” she leaned in closer, her lips grazing your ear as she whispered. “And I expect you to meet them.”

“Yes, my Lady.” You said quietly.

Lady Dimitrescu pulled back just enough to look into your eyes again.

“Good,” she said, her smile widening. “Now, I want you to draw me a bath. Make sure the water is just right – hot enough to steam, but not so hot that it scalds. Add a generous amount of lavender oil. I find it most relaxing in the morning.”

You nodded, eager to get this over with, and turned toward the adjoining bathroom. As you prepared the bath, the sound of water filling the large, circular tub mingled with the soft rustle of her nightgown as she moved about her bedroom. Reaching for the small bottle of lavender oil, you uncorked it and let a few drops fall into the steaming water. You swirled the water with your hand, dispersing the oil, and then straightened back up. You couldn’t shake the feeling of her eyes on you, watching your every move.

When the bath was ready, you turned around to find her completely nude by the doorway. Her eyes held yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. You quickly averted your gaze, feeling a rush of heat creeping up your neck. Her lips curled into a playful smirk.

Lady Dimitrescu walked past you with a grace that belied her towering stature. You could feel the heat radiating off her as she passed, a mixture of fear and fascination rooting you to the spot. She paused briefly at the edge of the tub, casting a sidelong glance in your direction, her eyes glimmering with amusement. With an almost theatrical flourish, she dipped one long, slender leg into the water, followed by the other. The water rippled and sloshed around her as she sank into the depths, her body disappearing beneath the surface until only her head remained above the water.

She reclined against the side of the tub, letting out a sigh of contentment as the warmth soothed her skin. Unsure of what to do next, you began to step away, your movements hesitant.

“I didn’t say you could leave, now did I?” Lady Dimitrescu said, her voice low and silky.

You immediately stopped in place and lowered your head.

“No, my Lady.” Your response was barely above a whisper.

“Come closer.” Her command was firm but soft.

You swallowed thickly, the tension between you two palpable, hanging in the air like a dense fog. Her eyes darkened, and for a moment, you felt like prey caught in the gaze of a hunter. Despite her relaxed pose, there was a coiled strength about her, a sense of latent power ready to spring.

You must have hesitated a second too long, because without warning, she reached out, her long fingers wrapping around your wrist with a firmness that left no room for resistance. She then tugged you down to the water's edge in one swift move.

“Don't be afraid, darling,” Lady Dimitrescu whispered. The warmth of her touch sent a jolt of electricity through you, making your skin tingle. “I won’t bite. Much.” The corner of her lips quirked up slightly, as if amused by her own joke.

Personally, you didn’t find it very funny.

Her fingers danced lightly over your wrist, her touch featherlight yet deliberate. Her index finger came to rest over your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of your heart. She drew you in closer, her presence overwhelming and intoxicating.

“You’re such a nervous little thing, aren’t you?” she cooed, her voice a soothing lullaby tinged with amusement. “But perhaps a little fear can be exhilarating, don't you think?”

Your throat went dry, the words stuck like sandpaper as you tried to respond. “I-I suppose so, my Lady.”

Lady Dimitrescu chuckled, a predatory gleam in her eyes.

“There’s nothing quite like the taste of fear, the thrill of the unknown. I quite enjoy playing with my food, though,” she paused, going quiet. Just as quickly as the intimacy had risen, it vanished. “You’re much more than just a plaything.”

Her eyes glinted with a dangerous light as she studied you.

“Help me wash my hair.” She demanded quite suddenly.

You knelt there, slightly dazed, trying to process the whiplash of emotions she had just put you through.

The shift in her demeanor was startling but you didn’t have time to dwell on that as you rose from your position by the bathtub. You walked over to a shelf lined with a variety of shampoo bottles and grabbed a few. You turned around and made your way back over, standing behind her. The scent of sandalwood and peppermint hit your nostrils as you poured a generous amount into your palm. Gently, you began to massage the shampoo into her hair, your movements careful and precise. Lady Dimitrescu leaned back into your touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips as you worked the lather through her locks.

You couldn’t help but wonder how this had become your life.

***

You could hear the faint sounds of water splashing as Lady Dimitrescu prepared to emerge from her bath. You stood just beyond the threshold, made to wait by the doorway.

After what felt like an eternity, she stepped out with a fluffy towel wrapped around her large frame. She regarded you with a burning gaze, her golden eyes shining with a mixture of expectation and impatience.

“Go get my dress.”

“Yes, my Lady.” You replied promptly.

You moved toward the wardrobe that stood against the wall and opened the doors to reveal a multitude of white dresses. Carefully, you lifted one of the dresses from its hanger, feeling the fine fabric between your fingers. As you turned back toward Lady Dimitrescu, she allowed the towel to slip from her body, revealing her alabaster skin, smooth but slightly scarred. You looked away respectfully and focused on the task at hand, though the image of her naked body remained vivid in your mind.

She walked over to her dressing area and began to slip into her undergarments. Holding the dress out for her, you watched as she stepped into it, her long legs sliding effortlessly through the garment. Once the dress was in place, she adjusted it meticulously, ensuring every detail was perfect.

“Help me with the laces.” She instructed, turning her back to you.

The long, delicate laces of the dress dangled down her back, waiting to be tied. You hesitated for a moment, realizing her height made it difficult to reach the top laces. Lady Dimitrescu noticed your hesitation and glanced over her shoulder.

“Grab the step ladder in the corner of the room.” She directed, her tone patient but firm.

Nodding, you walked over to the corner and retrieved the step ladder, placing it carefully behind her. You began to climb the ladder and once you reached the last rung, you found yourself almost at eye level with the back of her head. With steady hands, you began to weave the laces through the eyelets, pulling them snug but not too tight.

As you worked, the proximity to her felt both intimidating and intimate. It made your hands shake slightly but you forced yourself to push through it. A moment later, you tied them off with a final, careful knot.

Stepping down from the ladder, you took in the sight of Lady Dimitrescu now fully dressed, her dress hugging her form perfectly.

She turned to you, her gaze steady. “I must say, you did an excellent job.”

You blinked rapidly a few times. The unexpected compliment caught you off guard.

“Uh - thank you, my Lady.”

She clasped her hands together, a pleasant smile spreading across her face. “Now, let's attend breakfast, shall we? My daughters are already waiting for us.”

Uncertainty arose within you. You’ve never worked in the kitchen before, but you don’t have much of a choice. You reassured yourself that you're resourceful and quick to learn.

“Of course, my Lady. I'll have the preparations made immediately.”

She let out a soft, almost amused sigh. “No, you misunderstand. I would like for you to have breakfast with me and my daughters.”

The words hung in the air, their weight settling heavily in the bedroom. The blood drained from your face. The thought of being around all three of her daughters at the same time made your heart almost stop beating.

“What?” You croaked out before you could stop yourself.

Lady Dimitrescu's eyes flashed dangerously. The space seemed to shrink around you as she took a deliberate step closer, her gaze never leaving yours.

“Did I stutter?” Her voice was icy.

“N-No, my Lady. I apologize for my misstep.”

She continued to regard you with that menacing glint in her eyes.

“Good,” her tone softened slightly but lost none of its edge. “Then let's not waste any more time, yes?”

You nodded quickly. She turned away, seemingly satisfied with your response.

“Come.”

You followed after her, trying to keep pace with her long, purposeful strides. The morning would be like no other, and you could only pray that you would emerge from it unscathed.

***

The grand double doors of the dining room were pushed open by Lady Dimitrescu with a flourish.

As you stepped inside, your eyes immediately fell upon her daughters, gathered at the far end of the long, polished dining table. They looked almost serene under the sunlight streaming in through the tall, arched windows but you knew better. Apprehension tightened around your chest like a vice. Memories of their previous acts of cruelty flashed through your mind. You had seen the aftermath of their games, the bruised bodies, and the blood-stained floors, and now, being in their presence, you felt like a gazelle being dragged into the lion’s den.

You forced your legs to move, stepping further into the dining room. Each step felt heavier than the last as the sisters' gazes followed you, as if sizing you up.

Bela, the eldest, sat to the right of her mother's chair, her blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face. Her eyes, a bright shade of gold, locked onto yours as you neared the table. There was an intensity to her gaze, flickering over you with a cold, calculating look that made goosebumps travel across your arms. Though you had only seen her in passing, you knew enough about Bela to be cautious. She wasn't as outwardly violent as her two younger sisters, but she could still dish out a swift punishment just like her mother.

Across from her, Cassandra was sprawled lazily in her chair as if it were a throne. She regarded you with a smirk, her eyes glittering with amusement. There was a predatory air about her, a sense of dangerous playfulness that set your nerves on edge. Cassandra seemed to be savoring your discomfort like fine wine.

Next to Bela, Daniela sat in stark contrast to her sisters. She greeted you with a wide, almost manic smile, her eyes alight with an unsettling enthusiasm. Unlike Bela's cool demeanor or Cassandra's mocking danger, Daniela's energy was chaotic and unpredictable. You were grateful that you never had to interact with her either since you were first brought to this castle.

You flinched as Lady Dimitrescu’s hand suddenly landed on your left shoulder, her grip solid but gentle. She guided you around the table and led you to an open seat next to Cassandra.

“Good morning, girls,” Lady Dimitrescu greeted as she took her seat at the head of the table. “I apologize for the delay.”

“No worries, mother. I’m happy that you’re able to be here with us.” Bela said, her voice warm. You could have sworn you’d seen her eyes sparkle with fondness as she glanced at her mother.

But your attention soon shifted to the food in front of you. The table itself was a sight to behold. A colorful assortment of freshly cut fruits and warm bread rolls were all laid out before you. Bowls of creamy porridge, still steaming, were placed around the table as well. It's a feast fit for royalty, a sight you never imagined you'd see in your life. As you grew up, meals were meager, often consisting of whatever scraps could be put together. You remembered the days when even a simple loaf of bread was a rare treat.

The doors near the back of the dining room suddenly swung open, and two maids stepped out, pushing a silver cart. The cart held a few wine glasses and one large, red wine bottle. As the maids approached, their eyes met yours. You saw a flicker of emotions – shock, confusion, and concern – pass across their faces but they quickly masked their expressions and continued with their duties. Each glass was carefully filled to just the right level. As soon as that was done, they immediately left without another glance in your direction.

You didn’t recognize them, but the weight of their stares left a lingering discomfort in your gut. You could already hear the whispers that would soon circulate among the staff. What will Catalina think once she hears about you dining with the Dimitrescu family?

You gazed down at the bowl of porridge in front of you. Your stomach rumbled in anticipation, and you just realized that you hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, so you picked up your spoon and dug in.

The first bite was heavenly, the creamy texture and subtle sweetness dancing on your taste buds. You closed your eyes, savoring the moment, letting the warmth spread through your body. You were halfway through your meal when you felt something unsettling.

A strange, tickling sensation crept up your left arm. You glanced down and saw a small fly scurrying up your sleeve. You yelped and dropped the spoon, letting it clatter loudly against the table. Lady Dimitrescu’s gaze snapped toward you and then to her middle child.

“Cassandra.” Lady Dimitrescu's voice was a blend of warning and irritation.

You followed her gaze and Cassandra sat there with an expression of exaggerated innocence. She batted her eyes, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “What? What happened?”

Cassandra's eyes shifted to yours for a moment, the smirk now fully formed.

“Your games are not amusing, Cassandra,” Lady Dimitrescu began, her tone firm. “As we discussed last night. She will be sharing future meals with us from now on. I expect you all to be on your best behavior.”

Wait. They talked about you?

Before you could dwell too long on the thought, Daniela’s voice chimed in. “I’m finally happy I’m allowed to be around you now. Having to wait all this time was torture.”

You scrunched your eyebrows together in confusion, trying to make sense of what she just said. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind that, dear. Let us enjoy this meal together.” Lady Dimitrescu interjected smoothly, her tone brooking no argument.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling like a pawn in a game you didn't fully understand.

Just then, a prickling sensation ran down the back of your neck. It was the unmistakable feeling of being watched. You tried to ignore it at first, but the intensity grew until you couldn't help but glance around the table. Your eyes landed on Bela. She watched you with an inscrutable expression, her eyes dark and unreadable. There was something unsettling in the way she held your gaze, neither hostile nor friendly, but piercing, as if she could see through you.

You couldn't shake the feeling that Bela knew something – something you desperately needed to uncover. But for now, all you could do was play along.

@ion-news @fanfiction8080 @cryiner

[bethecliche]

my love mine all mine l vincent renzi x f!original character

summary: after seeing her for the first time, he just fell (deeply) in love word count: 3.7k content: female reader (no description of genitalia), mention of sex, mention of stretch marks, description of hair and eye color (but not texture or skin color), french laws and locations being misinterpreted, use of tv shows and books I didn't watch or read, non canon note: english is not my first langague! I wrote this in portuguese and then translated to english myself, there's a chance you'll find an error or something. I'm sorry sorry! I highly recommend you to listen to the song while reading.

you can check the aesthetic references for this oneshot here but take note that none of the people actual faces on this reflects on the character identity that I wrote, so don't base all of the details on the references for the characters in story.

The first time he noticed her, she was sitting on one of the wooden benches outside the courtrooms. She seemed nervous, shaking her legs and glancing restlessly between the watch on her wrist and the clock on the hallway wall, as if it made much difference. Regardless of her worried expression and furrowed brow, Vincent felt that he had never seen such an attractive woman in his life. From her brown hair to her brown boots, looked like she stepped out of one of those '70s fashion advertisements he'd seen in vintage magazines as a kid. He didn't had time to notice much more than that, as he crossed the hallway and headed to his session. At the end of the day, of course, she was no longer there.

What seemed to have been one of those street crushes that you see when crossing an avenue and never think about again, stayed in Vincent's head for a few days. Every time he passed by the corridor, he waited to see if the brunette would be there. He tried to guess what she was doing there that day and whether there was a possibility of bumping into her again, a question to which the universe answered “yes”.

Two weeks later, this time leaving work, he looked down buttoning his blue coat, distracted in his thoughts when he noticed the same brown boots a few steps in front of him. The stranger held a cigarette between her fingers and had her arms pressed against her body. Although it was snowing lightly, it was extremely cold for an autumn day. Her look was different, probably due to the weather, with a coat with a puffed collar and puffed sleeves, once again looking like she belonged to a previous decade. The wind ruffled her hair a little and the moonlight illuminated her posture, a scene Vincent believed could have come from a movie.

All his past relationships were comfortable. Someone he knew in high school, someone he knew in college, someone who was introduced by friends or someone his friends encouraged him to talk during an outing. He didn't consider himself an introvert, but he never needed to pursue someone who was interested. Things just happened for him. It wasn't his comfort zone just to approach a stranger like that, much less at the door of his work, but something that day said it was the right thing to do.

He took a cigarette out of his pocket and approached the girl asking to borrow a lighter. His sudden plan only went so far.

As soon as she turned to face him, she gave a friendly and inviting smile, taking the object out of her pocket and activating the flame in front of his face. Vincent stood still, staring into her eyes throughout the action, mesmerized by her and her sparkling brown eyes.

“Will I ever meet a lawyer who doesn’t smoke?” She asked as she extinguished the flame, placing the lighter and her free hand back in her pocket. Too cold to let it out.

His response took a few agonizing seconds, as his mind was far away and still lost in her gaze. He composed himself, running a hand through his hair and looking away.

“The day this happens, let me know. I want to be there.” Vincent laughed awkwardly, causing the girl to laugh as well. At that moment, he felt that he wanted to provoke more of this reaction, he wanted to see more of her smile and so the conversation flowed.

His first question was how she guessed he was a lawyer and not a passerby to which she replied, "You stand like a lawyer." He shared how being a lawyer was boring and tedious, but it did have its dramatic moments in court when she asked if the career was challenging like its portrait on TV. He also discovered that she was there to pay a car ticket caused by her younger brother, hence the great nervousness when he first saw her a few weeks ago.

“When my parents told me that my 20th birthday present was a baby brother, I already felt within myself that I would be the best sister in the world. That I would try to make his life as easy as possible. 18 years later, he asks to borrow my car to visit his girlfriend - which I don't hesitate to do, after all I support young love. And the little shit-head makes sure on parking in front of a fire hydrant.” The girl blew smoke to her right side, not taking her eyes off him. “Would you be my lawyer if I try to choke him?”

Vincent could only laugh at her spontaneity, easy way of talking about life and easy way of making conversation.

“Just threaten him, it will be an easier case for me to win.”

They talked about Metz and how her family decided to move to Paris when she was a teenager because they knew the city needed more beautiful people, a fact Vincent agreed with. In order not to dismiss him, in a very charming way, she praised his Parisian accent and said that such a comment did not apply to him and only God knows how Vincent felt inside after that.

The two shared their tastes, such as reading romances and watching Dix pour cent every night before bed. It was as if they knew each other much more than the 1 hour they spent together under the snow. They shared maybe two more cigarettes before realizing it was getting a little too late to chat like that on the street.

He doesn't even know how he got out of that situation alive and managed to get home with her number.

Their first date was at a local cinema on a Friday night for a re-showing of Buffet Froid, a film Anne had never seen.

He didn't remember the last time he felt butterflies in his stomach, although it was guaranteed that nothing could compare to this time. As he got ready and tried to match his best t-shirts with his beige pants (which he eventually changed out of, finding them too tacky), Vincent remained nervous thinking that she might not show up or that this would be the first and last time they would meet in this circumstance.

In the end, all the “first time” flutter went out the window when he saw her smiling and waving on the other side of the street, already with the tickets in her hand. “I'm glad you came.” She said, holding his arm as they walked through the door of the establishment.

“I wouldn't miss it.” he replied.

The two took watching films very seriously, so it was only during the ending credits, after a lot of laughter, small comments and bumping hands on the popcorn bucket, that the two kissed.

He felt the softness of her skin on his hand and her sweet scent of perfume, in addition, of course, to the hot and saccharine kiss. It was slow, serene, just as they both wanted, being able to feel each other in that moment. It was also Anne's desire to slowly run her fingers through his hair and she didn't hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity.

After throwing their trash away, the two walked out of the cinema, now closer to each other, hand in hand. The weather wasn't as cold as when they first met and they were free to enjoy the warmth of their bodies without so many layers covering them.

“For a great 70's mind, you never having watched Buffet Froid is an insult.” He pointed at her with his free hand, wanting to tease her.

Anne rolled her eyes. Even though she liked the film, she didn't want to give a taste. “Obviously you would like action movies like that. It suits you.”

“I’ll make you like it too.” He stated, trying to imply that he wanted them to meet again, to which she responded by kissing his cheek and saying, “Next time, let's watch a romcom.”

Once, twice, three, four and a few more times, all being unusual dates. Sometimes she would call during his workday and say she would pick him up for an adventure. She drove aimlessly, just the two of them talking about their days and observing the city lights. These were Vincent's favorite “dates”, as they all ended with the two of them making out like two teenagers parked in the driveway of his apartment.

The more he got to know about her, the more he wanted to constantly be a part of her life. Anne owned a clothing store downtown, something he never tired of saying was the “most suitable job her”. On the last date they had, she took him to the closed store and put on a fashion montage for him, with improvised note cards on paper left on the counter and all. But she knew that the judge had been bought when he only gave her 10s. She also took the opportunity to get Vincent to do the same, putting him once again out of his comfort zone to find out that bell bottom jeans don't really suit him.

They even got to watch a car race - something that not even Anne had done, she had just decided that it was an experience they needed to have. They both entended up hating it, but the important thing was that the company was great.

That was one of the nights Anne slept at his house.

They ate some junk food from the fridge and watched a silly but captivating show on TV while they chatted more. When she realized she could sleep at any moment, Anne got up to brush her teeth and change her clothes, putting on her uniform for whenever she was there: a Vincent t-shirt.

Vincent found it charming how she captivated his gaze regardless of what she was doing. He loved her unique and sophisticated style, but he also loved seeing her like this, casually wearing his clothes, in his home, as if she were his. And lastly, he loved seeing her with nothing on.

Every detail of her body, her birthmarks on her shoulder and that one next to her beautiful eyes or her stretch marks on her back, everything about her seemed to have been chosen down to the millimeter. When they made love, his hands went everywhere, trying to reach as much of her as he could, to feel the warmth she exuded.

And the best way to love her was by looking into her eyes, admiring her beauty, running his lips up and down her body, being grateful for the privileged position it was to be able to love her.

Mornings were like nights, with him waking up earlier and being able, once again, to admire the woman beside her.

“You are even more beautiful in the morning.”

The two walked through the streets of Paris, both tipsy, looking for an available taxi in the dead of night. With their relationship now more established and their schedules aligned, they made it a challenge to come up with these unusual date only once a month so it wouldn't lose its fun. Today had been the day to go to the opera and due to their lack of sobriety, they didn't seem to have left anywhere other than the shabbiest bar on the corner.

The event was boring as fuck and they left halfway through to drink somewhere more enjoyable. They found an open bar showing a PSG versus Marseille match. Neither of them supported the teams or understood about football rules, but this seemed like a new opportunity for them to have another different experience that day.

One laughter after another, some passionate kisses between drinks and the two were celebrating PSG's victory at the bar with some strangers whom they befriended.

“My mother wants to meet you. My brother too. I said I might have a lawyer for the next time he's up to no good. Do you think it’s too early?”

When drunk, Anne tended to speak fast and slurred, but Vincent understood perfectly. He smiled, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the tip of her nose. “I will love meeting your family.”

They never actually asked each other to go steady, but it was clear that they already belonged to each other at that point.

Vincent was on his cell phone writing a text to his mother about the shopping list for Christmas dinner and their desire to participate in decorating the tree (Anne's request to spend more time with her mother-in-law) while his girlfriend was lying on his lap reading his copy of Around the World in 80 Days (and she was loving it, for sure).

It was a lazy day for both of them at Vincent's place. A year into their relationship, the two of them loved sharing these moments together doing different activities.

“She said she misses you a lot and looks forward to seeing you on Christmas, but that you're banned from being near the kitchen when it is time to prepare desserts. Everything you touch that’s sweet ends up burning for some reason.”

Her smile, excited by her mother-in-law's affection, turned into a face indignant at the rule she imposed. "What?" She looked up from the book and pulled Vincent's hand to check if the message was real and it was. “This is so unfair!”

“Sorry, Anne, you’re just really bad at this.”

She lightly pushed his arm and pretended to be uncomfortable, although she knew it was true and wasn't really upset. Before she could return to her book, Vincent placed his cell phone on the table and began talking.

“One more thing, huh,” he cleared his throat, “I made one more space on the rack for you. I don't want certain clothes to get wrinkled in the drawer. I’ll make room in one more drawer too.”

Anne put the book aside and knelt on the sofa, facing her boyfriend. “Won’t it bother you? I already have space in my bedroom drawer, bathroom… In fact, there are a lot of my things scattered around the house. I don’t want to impose my space here.”

This was a subject that she had also been waiting to comment on for some time. By working her own hours at the store and having an employee to take her place wherever needed, Anne had a more flexible schedule than Vincent and it was easier to stay at his house, helping to keep everything on track and cooking for both of them. He would arrive just before dinner time and they could enjoy together without rushing to do the chores.

Because of this, the few clothes she wore just to sleep there became a drawer full, her makeup in the bathroom sink and her shoes near the door.

The gray-haired man hugged her around the waist, kissing her forehead and assuring her of his action. “You are not imposing anything, mon chéri. I want you to use this space. I want to have more and more of you here.”

For him, having her scent permeate the rooms was a gift wrapped in the best bow. Knowing that every day he would come home to see her welcoming smile and welcome kiss was the biggest work incentive.

“It feels like my home.” She whined.

“It’s your home. Our home.” He insisted.

In his favorite action, he cupped her face and looked warmly into her eyes, admiring her features trying to associate with what he was trying to say. They both smiled at each other realizing where the topic was going.

“Are you…”

“I want you to move in with me.”

The beautiful smile that filled his heart appeared on her face and Vincent, who was sure of her choice, but a little afraid of her accepting it, smiled too at her positive reaction.

In conclusion, he ended up needing to make more closet space for her countless boots, but he was happy that she could call the space her own (and she looks great in those boots, he would never complain about making room for them).

The snack table was almost empty and that made Anne happy. She might not be good at desserts, but her food was always praised and she almost never had leftovers when she cooked for her friends.

“This sandwich is delicious, aunt Anne!” Daniel stated, taking another one from the table and sitting on the sofa next to her. “Can I take some home?”

“Of course you can! There’s more stored in the kitchen, I’ll put it on the side for you to take.” She continued, now coming closer to whisper. “You can give Snoop a bite, I won’t tell your mom.”

“Hey, I’m watching you two!” Sandra said towards the back of the sofa, pointing at the two jokingly. She was talking to Vincent leaning against the wall in the hallway, looking anxious.

There was approximately 10 people spread throughout the room at this gathering. The couple chose to host a celebration for the launch of Sandra's new book, a dear friend of both, and tried to make room for everyone present. She was very delighted with the honor, although unaccustomed to the positive attention she was receiving.

Even though they weren't glued to each other at the party, Anne and Vincent always stopped for a moment to exchange a kiss and ask if everything was okay. He, even more so, couldn't stop admiring his girlfriend from afar. Parties like this always made him happy to be able to share the love he had for her and also show others that this was his girl.

It was around 6pm that they said their goodbyes and thanked their friends for being there. After closing the door, Anne took a deep breath and leaned against it with Vincent kissing her neck and hugging her waist.

“Had fun today?” He asked against her neck, kissing slowly until he reached her face. Hugging him back, she just nodded yes, pulling him into a longing and passionate kiss.

Vincent pressed his body against hers and tightened his grip, placing his free hand against the wall for support. Everything was going well, until Vincent suddenly stopped, as if he couldn't give in to temptation yet.

He also took a deep breath, with a shy smile as he looked at her.

“Is something wrong?” She asked, still leaning against the door and resting her hands on his shoulder.

"What?" He retorted.

“During the party, you kept looking at me like that, with those heart-eyes, that fool in love face of yours. And now you're doing it again. It seems... different.”

Vincent laughed awkwardly, as if he was unprepared to respond that quickly. “In my defense, I always look like a fool in love when I’m with you.”

Before anything else, Vincent took a red velvet box out of his pocket and opened it, showing a silver ring made especially for her. With the hand that was on her waist, he slipped into her hand and intertwined their fingers.

“Kneeling isn’t your style, nor are long speeches in front of our friends, but I can’t just leave the ring in your hand without saying anything. The day I saw you for the first time, I was intrigued. The second time, that feeling I had of needing to talk to you urgently, of not letting the opportunity pass, I think, somehow, I knew we were going to get to this moment right now. By the third time - I was already in love. Head over heels, worshiping the ground you pass, heart-eyes, whatever you want to call it. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't feel those butterflies in my stomach before seeing you, that I don't feel the eager to be by your side. If you do me the honor of marrying me, I can promise that you will have a man who wakes up in love with you every day. Forever.”

Anne's eyes were already full of tears as soon as she saw the box and she couldn't help but shed them when she heard the proposal.

The last 4 years of their lives were instinctive, passionate, in a way she never thought she would experience. All her last lovers didn't last long, they couldn't handle her personality or couldn't love her right, so she was left with no hope that it would change. But Vincent's speech was something that she not only believed, she felt. Every day, she felt his love, his affection and his care. Wave of action speaks louder than words and she trusted her man.

There was no other answer than yes.

The same word was repeated by the two of them at the registry office a few months later. The idea was never a big party, it didn't suit either of their personalities, but Anne always wanted a dress and a veil, so they were both there, in their wedding clothes just before lunch time in the registry office next to Vincent's work place.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!”

With that sentence, the two shared a classic wedding kiss, with Vincent holding her around the waist and Anne throwing her leg up. They could live that moment over and over again, but they needed to go out for a little celebration party with their friends before they left for their honeymoon (and Anne was more than eager to have her friends around so she could toss the bouquet).

Outside, in another snowy day, Anne reached through the car window and took a black bag from the glove compartment, handing it to her now husband.

“What is it?” He held on, swinging by the loop to feel the weight so he could find out what it could be.

“It's your wedding gift.” She cheerfully replied.

He stole one more kiss from his wife before opening the bag, already imagining what could be inside.

“It has our initials and today’s date on it,” she pointed to the bottom where the details were, “so no other girl coming out of court will need to offer you the lighter.”

Vincent took a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it with his newest gift, but without inhaling, just lighting it for the sake of it.

“No one will have my love. Only you, mon chéri."

[hwanchaesong]

↗🏢 Entering 3rd floor: One more and two more. Losing and winning. Bets and money thrown away like rags but nothing matters when the prize is on his lap. 🌌

🎧: Chase Atlantic - Obsessive

wc: 1.3k

genre & warnings: fluff, angst, suggestive, chaebol au, cursing, a game of poker (inaccurate representation), themes of luxury and higher society, a steamy kiss, mentions of marriage etc etc

a/n: this is a part of The Paradise Hotel series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

Heart racing faster every time a second ticks away in the vintage wooden clock displayed in the corner of the luxurious room. 

The smoke that some bystanders blow somehow makes it harder for you to breathe, and maybe, you should’ve cut off the wine while you had the chance because it is now making your head dizzy.

Your eyes traveled to the dashing, well-dressed man seated in front of you, a hand on his chin like he’s thinking of something deep. His own orbs are focused on the table, more precisely, at the laid flop cards. 

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his feigned contemplation, rationality is not a trait of his, but rather his enemy. Impulsivity and arrogance are his friends, which is about to show themselves when the male makes eye contact with you, a devilish smirk on his glossy lips. 

“To make this dull game interesting,” he mutters confidently, his hands going over the plethora of purple and yellow chips, “let's raise the stakes.”

Multiple gasps were heard, the people who are watching the ongoing match of poker are in awe at the bold move. Surely, gambling a whopping 10,000 dollars is not a joke. You’re either crazy or poised, no in-between. 

The thing is, Beomgyu still has more money to bet, but the amount that he waged is all that you have.

You squint your eyes at him when he motioned for you to make your move. Oh, he’s playing a damning game, but you are a lioness yourself. Backing down from a challenge is not the right way to end your night. 

“I’ll take you on that.” you said, sliding your remaining chips in the middle of the table, "Call. All in."

The tension is palpable which can only be cut off with a saw, and you can’t help but regret meeting this vexing man in such a place.

It was supposed to be your getaway from the busy training life that you live in, being an heir for one of the largest corporations of the country isn’t exactly ideal, like what everyone says.

“You are one lucky child!”

“I wish I’m living the life you have.”

Fuck all that. Where’s the luck? And how dare they think that being born in an extravagant family equates to a happy one. 

You are nothing but a tool for them to make their company larger, bigger, and be the number one. A trophy that they can show around. Intelligent, beautiful, and manners as elegant as a swan, the perfect daughter that can make anyone swoon. 

But you despise the mask that you have to put on every time you face the crowd, you hate the attention from the onlookers who did nothing but to judge and gossip.

You wanted freedom, true happiness, a flash of dopamine.. those things you get in a thrilling match of poker.

You learned the game when you were 13. Out of your mind and going crazy from learning how to play the damn violin, then your music teacher suggested a fun activity that he'll let you enjoy during your free time.

That was when you discovered your hidden talent in.. well, gambling.

That was also when you discovered Choi fucking Beomgyu.

You've actually heard about him. Another one of those fortunate heirs but unlike you, he's rather conceited and selfish; that is according to the gossip.

And hell, he's good at playing poker. The only person who has defeated you, and you hated that with passion.

He looks like an idiot, handsome yes, but still an idiot in your eyes, and it annoys you to no end that this dimwit actually has enough brains to do mind games and do math.

So, here you are, provoked to actually accept a round of poker after he went and spouted how scared you were of him.

Instead of enjoying champagne and steak in the large yacht, you are sitting with your pride and a camouflaged bet on the line, praying to the gods out there to let you win this time.

Beomgyu checked his whole cards, clapping his hands afterwards and relaxing his figure on the sofa. Legs crossed and arms draped over the sofa back.

"Not too late to fold, darling." he utters, eyeing you like a hawk.

You scoffed, returning his sentiments, "No thanks, but you are free to do so."

He shrugged your comments, kind of telling you to 'suit yourself', opting to focus on the game when the dealer began to drop the turn and the river.

Your hand is shaky, staring at the pot while you recheck your cards at hand. It's good. Amazingly excellent. Luck and statistics are on your side.

Beomgyu must be bluffing that confident countenance.

"Miss and sir, it's time to show your hands." the dealer says, and you did the honor of showing yours first.

"Straight flush." you smirk at Beomgyu's surprised expression, but then your joy plummeted when he revealed his hand.

"Royal flush, baby."

The crowd roared, a seismic thrill from the close match of poker.

You close your eyes, gritting your teeth in anger, stopping yourself from cursing or doing anything remotely ungraceful. You just lost a game, you're not going to humiliate yourself further.

"I am getting all this... later." Beomgyu smiles wickedly, ushering the guards to make everyone in the room to leave and give you two privacy.

It is a public space, but his family's power and influence are not to be messed with. Thus, he must be obeyed at all costs.

Rushing footsteps are heard, then silence follows after the door has been shut.

You now opened your eyes, meeting his in a heated stare before asking for his demands, "What do you want? I'm telling you though, I'm not giving you any of my games anymore. Spare that."

"You are getting engaged, right?"

His question astounded you. Does the news really spread that fast?

"Who are you getting engaged with?" he resumed his interrogation, not moving an inch in his manspreading position that he assumed in the process of his inquiries.

"Heeseung. Lee Heeseung. Well, that's what I heard." you answered, avoiding eye contact with him.

You were shocked when he laughed aloud, peering at him incredulously, "What is your problem?"

"Lee Heeseung, that's low." he snickers, amused at the thought of you marrying his mortal nemesis, "Yeah, no. You're marrying me instead."

His declaration is a bomb, dropped on you suddenly and you are not quite sure on how to react but laugh awkwardly.

He is a man of impulsive decisions and foolishness, but this is way too far. A sick prank that he's brewing in order to entertain himself in his playground.

"I- Beomgyu. Do you hear yourself? Have you finally gone mad?" you asked, standing up from your seat, not willing to humor his bullshit anymore.

He wasn't speaking and you took that as your cue to remove yourself in this.. uncomfortable discussion.

"It was nice playing with you, get some rest while you're at it. Yeah?" you gave him a tight-lipped smile, proceeding to step away from the room but as you passed by him, you were forcefully pulled towards him.

You didn't have the chance to process the situation. One moment you're on your feet, then the next you're seated on his lap, his lips on yours while he holds you close to your body.

What's weird though, is that you didn't resist the kiss, you enjoy it.

You liked the way his lips molded into yours, nibbling on your lower lip and biting it rather harshly before licking the incoming bruise away. Pulling away from you to mumble against your lips.

"That bambi boy sucks, you should know better that I am far superior than him. Besides," he laid you down the cushions of the sofa, his electrifying fingers trailing on your sides, "you lost to me. Don't you want to play more rounds of poker with me until you're able to win at least a round?"

You let out an offended wheeze, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, "Choi Beomgyu," you whisper his name, your digits playing with the hair on the back of his neck, "Less talk, more action."

taglist:

@hyunjinheartbreakprince @lun4kazumii @once27 @purrplegyuu @yawnzsof @baeksofty @shakalakaboomboo

[hiskillingjar]

Yoo what if Lawrence x mc with a knife kink and they be fuckin... like lawrence learns of the knife kink

i'm in the mood to write some stuff for law. be prepared for that!

1200+ words, cw for self harm mentions, same MC as this fic

"It was my grandad's in Vietnam,"

It was late in the musky apartment, and you were a little high (as you so often were) when you pulled the pocket knife from your messenger bag, unfolding it and holding it out for Law to look at.

The blade was probably shiny once, but it had been spotted with brown rust since you'd been given it, and its hollow, wooden handle was on the verge of splintering (wrapped up with white, packing tape) and black with mould, showing its age, what it had seen, the life it had lived before it was put in your hands.

“Cool, right?” You then asked, holding the dirty blade against your palm.

Law lowered the joint from their lips, sleepy (dead) grey eyes blinking as they sat up and stared at the knife.

You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling proudly at their somewhat impressed expression.

"I always carry it when I'm out," You explained nonchalantly, taking the burning joint as you passed them the knife, raising it to your lips for a slow drag, heat burning in your lungs as you quickly breathed out. You still weren’t very good at smoking weed, but you were getting better at it. "But I have more at my apartment, vintage ones, new ones. I collect them."

"You collect them?" They repeated, looking up at you with a raised brow. "That's probably-"

"Probably a little concerning, right?" You asked with a little titter, leaning back on the bed, spreading your legs lazily, your skirt hiking higher up your thighs, exposing dashed white scars under your fishnets. "Come on, don't play therapist with me, Law. It doesn't suit you."

"I was actually going to say it's probably a little stereotypical," They replied, a slight and uncharacteristic smirk on their lips. "You’re a trans girl obsessed with knives...that's kind of obvious, even for you, isn't it?"

You barked out a laugh, sitting up quickly (not closing your legs).

"Look at herrr though," You drawled through your giggles, pitching your voice up to the catty drawl you and your girlfriends sometimes spoke to each other in, taking the knife back when they held it out to you. "Clocking me for my phallic fixations. I didn’t know you had jokes, Law.” You grinned. “You're gonna have a field day when you show you my gun, aren't you?"

"You…really have a gun?" They asked after a moment, lowering their voice as they took the joint back for another drag. “Isn’t that illegal?”

They had the priorities sorted, it seemed.

"I mean, just one," You said with a shake of your head, watching as they breathed out a thick mouthful of smoke. "And it's, like...plugged up with so much junk that it doesn't work. It’s probably as legal as your joint," You gestured towards it and huffed out another little titter, feeling oddly defensive. “Like, I’m not gonna go flashing it to the cops, but I don’t think they’re gonna bust down my door for it.”

They nodded their head slowly, taking another drag of the joint.

You knew that they weren’t calling you out. They didn’t care about you owning weapons, just like you didn’t care about the dead animals they had rotting in barrels in the forest.

They were both parts of you that you didn’t make public to polite society but kept to yourselves and, occasionally, each other.

You knew how meaningful that was. And how important it was for you to have someone you could be authentic with.

You wondered…

"Sometimes…” You stared with a little sigh, slowly lowering the blade of the knife to your thigh, running it along one of your dashed, white scars. “I cut myself and I swear …I can feel the pain of everyone it's ever hurt inside of me. Like a pulsing heat."

You cut through one of the segments of your fishnets, exposing flesh and showing off your scars.

Law’s eyes glanced up lazily, just enough to make you feel desirable.

"You think it's hurt other people?" Law asked softly, lowering the burned-out joint to the ashtray at their bedside.

Figures, they wouldn't care about you hurting yourself, or give a second glance to your self-harm scars. 

That's what you liked about them though. They didn't ask questions.

"It's a product of war," You said like it was obvious, pressing a little more pressure against the knife, making the skin underneath it turn white. "Of course, it's hurt people…that’s, like, all it was made to do."

"Mm, that was lifetimes ago, though," They drawled, leaning forward and running a hand (big, made you feel small, made you feel delicate) over your knee, not stopping you as the rusty blade started to split your skin. They never did stop you, though. "You've kind of taken it and...made it your own, you know? It's kind of like you, in that way."

"Mm?"

"You...existed as one thing," They explained, reaching out for the knife with long, bony figures and waiting for you to give it to them, which you did readily, obediently. "And now you exist as something else. Just like this knife was once a product of war, and now it's a...tool for your pleasure, mm?"

"Pleasure," You repeated with a huffed laugh, trembling with pain as they pressed the blade against the bleeding cut, teasing the skin open more, making the wound that much harder to heal. "That's a funny way of putting it, Law."

"You're hard," They said, a little bluntly, using the blade of the knife to flick up your skirt (the gesture made your cheeks flush and your knees tighten together), showing your cock pressing tight against the bars of your chastity cage. It was less of a symbol of your submission to them (the two of you were above such binary concepts, after all) as it was a symbol of your devotion, your promise to remain faithful, your promise to not do anything they didn’t agree to. "Or, harder than you usually are. You must be enjoying something about this…"

"Okay," You huffed again, hissing as they dragged another shallow cut into your thigh, severing more segments of your tights. "Let me hold onto one phallic symbol, can you? If I’m now allowed the other…"

"Sure," They replied, taking your sarcastic retort seriously (they weren’t good at picking up on sarcasm) as they continued to stroke your scar-patterned skin with the blade. “Whatever you want…”

You breathed out unsteadily as their other hand reached up your thigh, their thumb tracing over the twin cuts tenderly, smearing blood and tracing the lines of muscle that they had inadvertently exposed.

“You have a good pain tolerance,” They observed as they dragged a third cut into your skin, their gaze going up to your face to watch you as you bit your lip, a bead of sweat running down your cheek as you tried, with all your might, to not flinch or whimper.

“Thanks,” You murmured with a sardonic smile, leaning back on the bed as they kept rubbing at your cuts. “Hh…I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” They replied with a smile, gentle and eerie and unnervingly sweet.

“I meant it as one.”

[herearedragons]

Homecoming

(3,876 words; Dorian/m!Lavellan; angst, post-Trespasser)

written for a Florence + The Machine prompt from @greypetrel : “Can you protect me from what I want? The lover who let me in, who left me so lost?”

read on AO3

On a summer night, the Pavus estate stands empty.

Not empty of visitors or of the presence of its owner - empty of everyone. There are no guards at the gates or in the garden; no cooks in the kitchen; no servants in the hallways. Its rooms are cold and unlit, illuminated only by moonlight breaking through the large windows and painting bright geometric shapes over surfaces and decorations.

In the study upstairs, one of those shapes falls directly over an armchair with a small wooden table by its side. On the table, a freshly opened bottle of wine; in the chair, the last remaining resident of the estate raises a glass to his lips, appreciating the fine vintage. 

A staff rests balanced on his knees. An artisan dwarven clock with twelve handles ticks away on the wall beside him.

Magister Dorian Pavus drinks his wine, and waits for the man who is supposed to come kill him.

*

“All staff have been escorted off the premises, Magister.”

“Marvelous; thank you, Valeria.”

The captain of his guards regards him with a look that is familiar: respect, alertness - and the slightest hint of suspicion. She is saying, without speaking a single word aloud: you are behaving unusually, and I would like to know whether my job of keeping you alive is about to get harder.

“What are our orders?” she asks.

Unfortunately, she will not like the answer Dorian has for her.

“Go home,” he says. “Forget everything you’ve seen and heard here today.”

If she has an immediate reaction to his words, it doesn’t register on her face. Wait, no - it does, just very subtly; a slight tilt of her head to the side, a twitch of her brow.

She’s saying: excuse me?

“Magister, I beg your pardon, but I’ve been led to understand that someone will attempt to assassinate you tonight.”

Valeria is highly professional. A slight emphasis on the word “assassinate” is all she allows herself as an attempt to communicate extreme incredulity to her employer.

“Exactly - and I want you to be as far away as possible when it happens.” He sees the resistance brewing beneath her composed exterior and adds, quickly, before she has a chance to speak again: “This is an order.”

The resolve drains from her at once; an expression of defiance becomes one of defeat. She will not argue; this is above her station.

“Yes, Magister.”

Her tone, though subdued, is unbearably miserable; he can’t possibly end the conversation on this note.

“Oh, don’t look so grim; you don’t have to shop for a new employer quite yet,” Dorian says. “I can assure you that I have every intention to survive the night - and, when I do, I’d like to have your services still available to me. That last part will be tricky if you are dead; reanimated guards have fallen out of fashion, I’m told.”

Confusion, writ large across her face; the veneer of professionalism broken.

“This is about protecting me ?”

“This is about protecting all of you, if I can help it. You are very skilled, and I would trust you with my life - I do , in fact, trust you with my life, regularly - against any threat but this one. If you are here when he comes, you’ll be in his way, and you will die.”

Her brow furrows. He’s gotten through to her; there was enough gravity in his words to make her realize that his decision to send her away isn’t a foolish whim.

“And yet you will survive… him?”

“I certainly plan to. Now - ”  Dorian raises an eyebrow -  “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Valeria nods shortly and hastily collects herself; their little moment of eye-to-eye sincerity has passed.

“Of course.” She hesitates. “...Have a good evening, Magister.”

The setting sun shines in bright oranges and reds on the back of her armor as she walks away.

*

In the moonlit garden of the estate, there are shadows.

Their presence is subtle and easily overlooked. Their footsteps make no sound; their clothes blend perfectly with the dark greens and grays of the night, hiding them behind pillars and in foliage, in solid blocks of shadow and in the mottled patterns of bright moonlight filtering through leaves.

There are twenty-seven of them, in total. Fifteen serve the Divine, and have traveled to Minrathous in secret from various corners of Thedas. The remaining twelve are Dalish, who have made the long, long trek from Wycome to one of the most dangerous places for their kind - just to be here tonight.

Some of them are on the outer side of the fence. None of them are inside the building. They are scattered across the perimeter, and, when the intruder comes, they will make no attempt to stop him.

They are not a wall keeping him out; they are the iron teeth of the bear trap, waiting to close on him once he has taken the bait.

*

The morning sun reflects off the crystal embedded in his transmitter amulet, each facet polished to perfection. He’d be able to spot his reflection in one of those quite easily, had he tried.

He doesn’t.

“Tonight, then,” Dorian says. “Are you sure?”

A small blue glow ignites inside of the crystal for a fraction of a moment, indicating that his message has been sent properly. Some seconds pass as the other party speaks their response, and then the amulet vibrates with the familiar voice of the Inquisition’s former spymaster - or, as she is more widely known these days, Divine Victoria.

As always, the sound of her speech comes with a pinprick of irritation in  his chest. This is not what this amulet is for, and no, he has not gotten over that gripe after four years of it being used in this way. 

Still, it would be foolish not to use it at all. The ability to instantly communicate between Minrathous and Val Royeaux has granted them an immense advantage in their hunt.

“As usual, we don’t have much evidence when it comes to his intentions - but what we do have shows that it is likely.”

Dorian allows himself a moment to process her words, taking his thumb off the back of the amulet so that it would not record and send the sound of him taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, with only the slightest shudder at the end.

He always knew that this was a possibility; hoped for it, even, on some of the worst (and best) days.

He tries to parse his own feelings. Fear is certainly present, his self-preservation instinct kicking in (good - it’s still working). There is also anxiety - different from fear; the vague tremble of uncertainty rather than a call to action - and something like… excitement. 

Hope, even? 

No. Not hope. He’s made some good progress from the point of denying himself hope for anything at all, but hoping for the best in this particular scenario feels too daunting.

Excitement, however, is something he can definitely work with. He did always love a challenge.

The amulet vibrates in his palm again.

“Is everything alright?”

He puts his thumb back on the warm copper.

“Never mind the pause; I’m still here. Now, what are our plans for tonight?”

*

The Magister finishes his glass of wine and sets it aside. He looks at the bottle for a moment too long, but does not reach for it. 

This was his first and last glass for tonight. It was certainly good, even though he could barely taste it after the first sip; his mind is elsewhere, try as he might to anchor himself in the present.

For a moment, he thinks that he hears footsteps echoing downstairs, but he dismisses the thought. The sentries will not enter the building - and it couldn’t have been him , either.

His hand, idle without the glass, moves to rest on the grip of his staff.

The Magister knows: when he shows up, no one will hear any footsteps.

*

The first of the Dalish arrive soon after Valeria leaves.

Two figures at his front gate; two elven women with scarves on their heads, their faces bare, carrying large baskets. Servants; no one would look twice.

Through the study window, Dorian sees the taller of the two set her basket down and stretch; as she does, her hands form the signal gesture that was described to him. 

He activates the spell inscribed into the wrought iron, and the gates swing open of their own accord, letting the two women inside.

He comes downstairs just as the front door opens. The first thing to cross the threshold is is one the baskets, which look even more enormous up close; the women haul them in and set them down unceremoniously, the shorter of the two slamming the door shut behind her.

Both of them acknowledge him with a brief glance before beginning to furiously wipe their faces with their scarves, removing the thick layer of makeup that was necessary to hide their vallaslin.

“Would you like some water?” he asks.

The taller - and older - woman takes the scarf away from her face, meeting his eyes in earnest for the first time. Hers are brown and warm, just as he remembers; her hair, also a painfully familiar brown, has more grey streaks than it did the last time he’d seen her.

Four years and six months ago.

His last visit to Wycome before he left for Minrathous; the last time he has seen her son.

“Would you like some water” is not, by any means, an adequate greeting for the situation they’re in, but - even after years of imagining their next conversation  - he doesn’t have anything better.

To his own surprise, Dorian realizes that a significant amount of his fear has nothing to do with the impending attempt on his life, and everything to do with meeting her again.

Adria Lavellan smiles - a small, humorous smile; just a quirk of her lips and a slight rise of her eyebrows - and nods.

“Yes, thank you. Both to drink and to wash up.”

Nothing about her tone or demeanor is hostile. She’s friendly, and the attitude she projects suggests that she is genuinely glad to see him again. 

Something in his chest tightens and tightens until it hurts. He tries to say something in response, but finds his mind horrifyingly blank, and his tongue heavy.

He silently nods and walks away.

More elves arrive. Most of them come in pairs; some come in a group of three, or alone. All in the guise of servants.

Many of them carry baskets. Inside - armor, weapons and traps.

The sun disappears below the horizon, the sky painted twilight purple in its absence. 

When he speaks to Adria again, she has donned a set of ironbark armor - her husband’s finest work, no doubt - and is in the process of stringing a longbow.

It’s strange to see her like this. Every time Dorian has met her in the past, she wore dresses and aprons and seemed to prefer the role of hearthkeeper; here, she is in charge of a party of eleven, armed to the teeth.

He starts by complimenting her armor. She thanks him with the same small smile; still unbelievably non-hostile. She compliments his house in turn.

Be it any other person, Dorian would have interpreted her attitude as cleverly disguised contempt - but this is Adria Lavellan ; he knows her, and he knows the son she raised, and she would not lie to him.

He wants to ask her a question.

How - 

No, why - 

Does she - 

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t write to you,” Adria says all of a sudden. “If the Inquisition was still around, they could have gotten my letter to Minrathous - but without them, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She’s throwing him a lifeline, giving him an easy topic for conversation - and, shamefully, he elects to take it.

There is, at least, a question he can ask here.

“…Why would you want to write to me?“

The words come out without his usual flair. Flat. Vulnerable.

Thank the Maker that no one else seems to be listening, for the moment.

She regards him kindly with her warm, brown eyes.

“I lost my parents and my first husband almost at the same time. I remember what it feels like; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’m glad that you held up well.”

“…Well. Yes.” Dorian clears his throat. “I try. I - “ 

This is the perfect place to say something clever, perhaps some witty remark about his father’s demise, but the words do not come. This woman’s presence is equal parts comforting and terrifying to him, and it causes his brain to stop working.

He must do something about this. Now . He absolutely cannot remain a bumbling fool around - around his - around Neilar’s mother.

Dorian takes a deep breath.

“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “Why - “ his voice quivers - “Why are you not furious with me?”

A slight frown appears on her face as she parses his words.

“Well,” she says after a moment’s pause, “Those are two questions, and I’ll answer both. Why am I so calm: I’m not. I’m worried, and scared, and angry, and many other things - but those feelings are for me, not for the world. Sharing them with the world right now won’t help me or my children. And for the second question, I’m not aware of anything I should be furious about.” She tilts her head to the side slightly and perks up her left ear, which is closest to him. “ Have you done something I should be angry about?”

…Yes? No? He has spent countless sleepless nights trying to answer this exact question, and he still has no idea.

Is he to blame for what happened? Should he have postponed his return to Tevinter? Should he have been more thorough with his questions when he spoke to her son through the amulet that is now being held by the Divine?

Should he have dragged him away from that bloody Well by force before he could ever drink?

“I don’t know,” Dorian says.

Adria’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, inspecting him.

Judging?

Then, she nods and turns her attention back to the bow.

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” she says. “Not any more than I blame him. Everything you two did, you did out of love, and it was right; now we must deal with the consequences. I don’t like those consequences, but I don’t think that you could have chosen to do anything differently. If you could, you would have been different people.”

It’s not forgiveness or absolution, but it is something much more precious: acceptance.

*

A creature walks through an empty hall.

Despite the dry summer night, beads of condensation shimmer on the edges of its form. Its movements make no sound, save for a faint dripping noise.

The creature has taken nineteen lives so far. Thirteen throats slit open, bodies found in pools of their own blood; three of them Dalish Keepers, one a First. One a Tevene Magister.

Six more bodies found drowned or strangled, floating face-down in a body of water or inexplicably buried in undisturbed soil. All six served what remained of the Inquisition; all six died on duty.

Thirteen assassinations. Six casualties.

In the Magister’s study, the temperature begins to drop.

*

He was right - there are no footsteps. In fact, there is nothing at all; not even an ominous whisper on the wind, a creaking door or the howling of wolves in the night to herald the intruder’s arrival.

The doorway is empty. Then, Dorian blinks, and it’s not empty anymore.

His only exit out of the study that isn’t a window is blocked by a wraith with glowing eyes the color of veilfire. The dark figure stands unmoving just past the threshold, every detail of it obscured by shadow.

Tonight is the night.

His entire body tenses as fight-or-flight kicks in; he forces himself to relax again, easing back into the chair. He remembers the investigations of previous murders; the target was never struck on sight. There will be a trigger, something that will set off the assault.

Outside, twenty-seven fighters are getting into position.

“You came, then,” Dorian says. His voice does not betray him, thank the Maker; it manages to produce the exact amount of sarcastic aloofness he had hoped for. “And all I needed to do was to get rid of my guards and staff and sit alone in the dark for a couple of hours. Who knew it was that easy?”

The figure steps forward, over the threshold and into the rectangle of moonlight streaming in from behind Dorian’s back. At once, it ceases to be a shadow and becomes a material presence.

A revenant.

His face is pale in the moonlight, the green vallaslin of Ghilan’nain appearing dark grey. Scratches and dirt on every visible part of his skin; grown-out, unkempt hair with leaves and twigs caught in it. Eyes glassy, pupils glowing veilfire green.

When he speaks, his voice is low and rasping, barely familiar - but familiar nonetheless.

A single word.

“Vhenan.”

Fuck. He can’t do this. This is too much - this is wrong - he can’t - 

No. It’s too late now. Either he sees this through, or he dies.

“Amatus,” Dorian states dryly. “Long time no see. Next time you decide to become possessed and disappear forever, maybe leave a note? ‘Dear Dorian, just letting you know that I’ll be away for a while. The ancient spirits I let into my brain have finally claimed my soul and I’m going to spend four and a half years murdering people on their behalf. You were right about everything and I should have listened to you. Love, Neilar.’ ”

It feels good, at least. Sure, he’s just rambling to buy a few more minutes for the people outside - but, while he’s at it, he might as well get some things off his chest.

Now that he’s been forced to work through the fear and the guilt at an incredibly fast pace, all that’s left is anger; quite a hefty amount of it, with the name of this glassy-eyed idiot written on it in giant glowing letters.

“Or how about using the amulet? You know - the magical marvel I invented specifically for the purpose of talking to you? It didn’t cross your mind to maybe mention all the sleepwalking and speaking in tongues that was happening? No! It’s all I’m alright, Dorian , and things are fine, Dorian , and I have to spend a month wondering if the amulet is broken before Leliana calls to tell me that you’re gone - ”

A sharp edge against his throat, clutched in ironbark fingers. Appearing without the warning of sound or motion, like Neilar himself.

The others should be about ready by now, shouldn’t they?

Neilar speaks. Ancient elven.

Dorian understands every word; he’s been doing his homework on everything elven and ancient ever since the disappearance.

“The will of Mythal demands your demise.”

The blade presses deeper - fuck - no, not deep enough to end it. 

It takes all of his willpower not to start casting. Not yet. This isn’t just about saving his own hide; this is about capturing him for good.

The signal. Any second now. Surely - 

*

“...Hold on, just a second - he’s not peeking, right?” Dagna asks, adjusting buckles and leather straps.

“I can’t - he’s covering my eyes!” Neilar protests.

His eyelashes tickle the inside of Dorian’s palms, as if to prove the point.

“Well, good - keep covering them. It’s all wonky and misaligned and you’re not allowed to see it until it sits right.”

Dorian can relate to her fretting. This particular project was, in many ways, a work of passion, and the necessity to finish it as soon as possible only added to the frantic energy of everyone involved. His own part was relatively small; he chimed in at the design stage and provided some arcane support at the tail end of the process, drawing on his necromantic knowledge of animating limbs.

It looks good, though. It should also work well; they’d checked everything a thousand times over. 

Dagna finishes the adjustments and leans back to inspect her work from afar. Satisfied, she nods:

“Alright, let him see it.”

He takes his hands away from Neilar’s eyes and steps aside, making sure that he can see Neilar’s expression as he looks at his new prosthetic.

The look in his eyes is blank, at first, processing what he’s looking at. Then - surprise, curiosity; he leans closer to the artificial arm, inspecting it for details.

“Try holding it up to your face instead,” Dagna suggests.

“But how do I - ”

“Don’t think about it too much! Just do it.”

The arm moves, rising up to eye level and turning, allowing Neilar to look at it from different angles.

Silverite-inlaid ironbark, the metallic parts lovingly engraved with images of vines and halla.

Dorian can see the exact moment when Neilar finds the writing hidden among the designs. His lips move silently as he reads the text.

The same quote in elven, dwarven and Tevene, snaking along the vines:

“Wounded and blinded, I will find my way home.”

A line adapted from the tale of Ghilan’nain, changed ever so slightly to make it into an oath; the same oath Neilar had taken, years ago, upon completing the trial to earn him a place among the clan’s scouts.

Despite the recent revelations from Solas, it seemed appropriate. Dorian doesn’t remember who was the first to float the idea for adding text, but the approving look he received from Taren - Neilar’s father - upon suggesting that particular quote has been firmly burned into his memory.

And yet… This is all fine and good, but the most important question is - 

“It’s… perfect.” Neilar sounds almost puzzled, as if liking their gift is a surprise to him. “I didn’t know what it would look like, but now - I can’t imagine it looking any other way.”

Dorian feels something inside of him deflate with relief. Neilar keeps inspecting the prosthetic, turning it this way and that, then starts playing with it, testing how far the fingers can bend and how quickly he can shift from one gesture to another.

It’s not as good as the real thing, it’s a little slower; Dorian knows that for a fact.

Still, right now Neilar doesn’t seem to mind; after messing with the hand some more, he shifts his attention to Dagna and pulls her into a hug, thanking her. Then, it’s Dorian’s turn.

The hug is tight enough to make his ribs hurt.

For the first time in weeks, it feels as if everything will be alright, after all.

*

A sharp whistle cuts through the silence.

Neilar freezes, both ears perked up. Distracted.

At the sound of the signal, relief floods Dorian's system. He feels the corners of his mouth twist into a smile of their own accord.

“I still love you, for the record,” he says, “But letting you slit my throat is a little too much, don’t you think?”

With a snap of his fingers, the lightning glyph he’d drawn on the floor of the study hours ago detonates.

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Grievances: Gladiolus Amicitia x Reader

You woke to the feeling of a cold and empty bedside. You sat fully up in the bed, the thin cotton sheets falling into your lap as you did your best to look around the small bedroom for your boyfriend, but you couldn’t find him. In fact, the sheets beside you were even made despite him getting under the covers with you just a few hours ago. Looking to the small end table, you saw the time on the little alarm clock - 3:46 in the morning.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and got up onto the creaky old floorboards, wincing at how loud they were just from your slight movement. You did your best to creep out of the room without making too much noise to wake the others (although you’re sure Ignis had already woke from you getting up). You toed on your shoes and grabbed your jacket before making your way down the aging steps.

You all had just arrived at Cape Caem yesterday afternoon, rolling up to the old farmhouse by the sea to set off for the prince’s wedding soon. It had been a trip and a half so far, with Galdin being out of the picture and Lestallum being a pitstop and a half with all of the little side things you had accidentally picked up as a party, it was nice to get a whole evening to yourselves and rest. You and Gladio had been given one of the solo bedrooms, a queen-sized bed fitted with crisp white sheets and a baby blue comforter with distressed white wooden furniture. It would be a lovely bedroom to take home.

But Gladio wasn’t around.

You looked around in the kitchen and on the porch but didn’t see him, afraid of opening other doors that could lead into bedrooms full of sleeping people. You split open the vintage curtains in the front window to look outside, squinting into the darkness as you looked around in the near-darkness for any signs of him. It wasn’t like Gladio to just disappear, hell, he’s a mountain of a man! How could you miss him? How could you not wake up to him getting out of the bed?

You nearly closed the curtains to look somewhere else when you caught a glimpse of someone in the darkness over by the cliff’s edge. You opened the door and quickly stepped outside, the cool sea air blowing past you, nipping at your skin and leaving goosebumps down your body. The air was cool and crisp, it smelled of the salty sea and of the churned earth behind you full of fields of crops. Crickets were chirping in the grass, you heard the rustling of small animals in the bushes, in the distance you heard wild animals howling in the night to the moon. You slowly walked towards the figure, already able to make out his broad shoulders covered in a jacket and the fluffy hair that needed a good trim before the wedding. You’re not sure if he heard you coming, but if he did, then he didn’t say anything to you. He was sitting on one of his camping chairs, back to the farmhouse as he looked over the sea and the moon. There was a book on the ground, one of his favorites, it looked like it had been tossed without a care in the world down.

It was when you were standing right next to him did he acknowledge your presence, only giving you a slight glance before turning back to look at ocean. He was kind of hunched over in his seat, almost as if he was trying to make himself look smaller. It was almost like he felt vulnerable, especially before you.

You gave him a few moments, hoping that with you being next to him that he would open up to you, maybe give you a glimpse as to what was going on, but he didn’t. His lips were sealed.

“Are you alright?” you finally asked quietly, breaking the tense silence between you two.

Your words hung in the air around him like anvils, they swaddled him up in a suffocating grip and refused to let go. Your words, those three little words, make the king’s shield start to tremble.

Gladio’s breath was shaking, hitching in his throat as he tried his hardest not to start breaking down in front of you.

You placed your hands on his shoulders and rounded out in front of him, crouching to meet his eyes. His face was already wet, tear tracks slightly dry and they looked sticky, he must have been crying earlier. His eyes, bright and full of life like a roaring fire, were dull and diminished. He looked exhausted, he looked miserable.

“Gladio…” you murmured.

Suddenly the shield pulled you in close, forcing you to stand or else you would have head-butted right into him. His big and burly arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he yanked you in close, burying his head into your stomach. You felt a warm wetness start to form against your shirt. His grip was crushing against your back and hips, but all you could do was try to comfort him.

He didn’t sob, he didn’t moan or heave or scream. He sat in the chair and trembled, crying softly into your stomach.

You didn’t rush him, you didn’t say anything to break the silence, you simply placed one hand on his brawny shoulder and the other became carded into his soft hair. You had to admit, it was a shock to see your partner cry. He was always one for being stoic and in control of himself - except for anger sometimes - to the point that you wondered when the last time he had cried was. Even now, he was still controlling himself, pulling back on showing how truly upset he was as he clung and shook under your hands.

“I miss him.”

Those words hit you deep in the gut as he whimpered them out into your shirt.

His father.

His father had passed in the fall with the king. He and Iris were on their own now, their mother having passed about a year after Iris was born from what Gladio had told you. It was just him and his little sister against the world now.

All of his life was spent to be like his father, maybe even better while still holding his father is high regard. He was going to be like his father, be a shield and protect the king with his life. Gladio loved his father, and now he’s finally allowed himself time to grieve for his loss. What hurts even more is that there probably isn’t a body to bury back in Insomnia either, only twisting the knife in his chest.

“Oh Gladio,” you murmured. You rubbed both of your hands along his shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into his back as you pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Everything will be alright.”

[ask-missparker]

—This is your place?

—

Arron & Mia - Father Daughter Duo

Continue this fanfic

Summary: Sometimes your father can see right through you while you’re still alive…

Mention of -> May Parker, Skye, and her friends

Warning: Some angst and fluff

——

After the simple agreement was made by the two parties, they headed out to one of the homes in the small village. And if anyone had to be honest, The Afterlife, was actually kinda beautiful.

Greenery everywhere, people with powers young and old walking around, guardsmen at some point of entrance and other things. It was actually quite common and comforting with its architecture as well. Modern architecture with a classic design inspired by European and Chinese architectural elements.

Arron led his daughter to his quiet home in the mist of the valley.

This is your place? She wondered.

It seem like any other classic rustic style house, with wood floors, gray walls and a combination of modern furniture with a comfortable vintage interior. To be honest, she liked it. It seemed like a house you could see in a whole wooden doll house. Arron could sense she liked it, even if Mia wasn’t going to admit it.

He gestured for her to sit down and get comfortable.

As soon as Mia sat down on the black leather couch and lean back against the cushions she hummed. She then asked, “Alright..what do you want to know?”

“Hold on.” He replied softly chuckling as tossing her a water bottle, guessing she might be thirsty or something. Of course she caught it.

Mia nodded as her lips pouted slightly and looked around. She didn’t see any signs of other life in the house or anything. She thought she would see a woman’s jacket or even a bra laying around, but she saw nothing of the sort. Stupid posters on the wall, weapons laying around and an empty box of junk food? Nope. He was probably hiding them somewhere safer.

No beer bottles either? Maybe in the kitchen he has them? She wondered.

She didn’t know weather to lie here about her thoughts about—she realized it was silent for too long.

Suddenly she politely says, “This place looks nice..”

Arron smiled, “Thanks. Are you hungry? You were asleep for a while.”

“No. I’m fine.”

Lie. Arron clocked that from a mile away.

She was starving.

“I’mma get you something to eat.” He said before walking away.

“But I’m..” She says trying to protest but was caught off by his sudden tone.

He repeated firmly, “I’mma get you something to eat.”

Moments went by before Arron returned with a simple sandwich. Ham and cheese. She glanced at it for a moment in hesitation as she took the plate from him. After a few seconds, she took a bite and murmured in disbelief, realizing that he added two different slices of cheese with turkey ham.

Swiss and cheddar cheese with melted butter, layered with a nice slice of ham, between two slices of wheat bread.

“This is good.” She mumbled before taking a few more bites.

Truth. Arron clocked that too and smiled.

“Didn’t think this would be your definition of ‘get you something to eat’..” She mumbled as she ate, glancing up at him.

He cross his arms and scoffed, “What were you expecting? A bag of chips and a bottle of beer?”

“Well when you put it that way, it sounds pretty much the exact idea one would expect.”

“A beer with a bag of chips, would not do well after you been asleep and injured.”

“How did you..?”

“Don’t ask. I just know.”

She stayed silent and just ate.

Arron obverse her as he took a deep sip of water. His daughter’s face with completely May Parker, except her eyes and hairline, that’s all him. Hell, the way she looked at him in the sunlight, he clocked her skin tone to be similar to him. The way she sat reminded him of his sister.

Her smile and the way she presented herself, was her mother’s but her quiet attitude was him.

An impulsive spirit and a strong desire or sense to fire when ready, if she’s not trusted by anyone.

However. There was this glow to her that he couldn’t quite understand, this sweet little girl, had still been trying to figure out how the world worked. This flickering grin in her eyes that’s clearly been knocked over but rebuilt over time and time again.

There were other features he could not quite grasp yet.

He wondered if she was loved and appreciated by others…

It’s one this ability allowed him to see, the truth and lies within someone. And because Amelia was in a vulnerable position, it was a matter of whether he can see all of it or just none.

“Wha..?” Amelia said softly as she finished eating and looking at him.

“Nothing..just, you look so much like your mom. It’s scary how much you reflect her…and me.” He replied in a hush tone, his thick voice shining through.

“Oh. I thought people just said that as a compliment to a daughter and mother…”

“For your case, from the last time I saw your mama, yeah, you look pretty much like her.”

That actually got a smile from Mia. An actual smile, not the half-ass ones that he used to see. Her soft smile lit up her cheekbones and her eyes.

Arron couldn’t help but smile back at her. It was infectious.

“Well, I gotta ask. How—what are your abilities? Aside from the skills you already possess.” She asked leaning her elbow against her couches armrest and rest her chin in her hand.

He smiled a little knowing that was probably on her mind but nonetheless he answered her. He scoffed, “I can see if someone is lying or telling me the truth about whatever it is that happened last. It’s how I did—still do my job.”

“Oh, wow. Nothing gets past you, huh?”

“Not always, I have to be focused and present myself to do it. I can sense it coming internally.”

He wasn’t even going to tell her about the shadow part, that was only meant for him to see. But the rest was correct in what he said.

“That’s actually kinda cool.” Mia said in a deep blunt yet soft tone, her normal high pitched voice still shining through.

He gave her a half smile and chuckled, “Yeah? Here I thought it was funny joke to someone like you.”

“Well, I mean, you’re kinda like a human lie detector, if that makes sense…?”

“Yeah, no, that’s right. It just means I’m honest for the sake of being honest.”

There was a moment of silence that washed over them before Arron decided to ask, “So, what do you do?”

“What?” She asked taking a sip of the water bottle.

“Our deal was that I get to know you a bit, right? So, what do you do skill wise?”

“Oh, ummm, I’m a field agent and a bit of a technical expert at SHIELD. Scouting places, going on tours, hunting down people and recruiting the right ones for the job.”

Arron couldn’t help but grin hearing that. He wasn’t the least bothered concerned about her job, he should be ashamed or worried about her health seeing how she was injured, but he was impressed.

Look at her size. She was tiny and she managed to keep up with the big gun?! And young too! He thought.

However his attitude slipped into his lips as he said, “No way in hell, you do all of that. I don’t even think you can handle that much weight on your shoulders or skill level.”

She blinked not expecting his response to be that and shifted in her seat, “W-what is that supposed to mean? Your insulting me my line of work?”

“No, no, sweetheart, just don’t expect for you to do all of that. You got your ass handed to you on your way here.” He replied smoothly.

“I—well, in my defense, i did not expect to be blasted and I been having a rough day so far…”

“Okay, we’ll see later in the field how well you can fire a gunshot. What about power wise?”

“Power wise?”

——

Arron gave her a look, as if she was dumb. It’s not like he asked her to take a shit in a hole or something. He just asked for her abilities. Mia was brought in due to her lack of knowledge of her own other skills, not for her relation to other players.

“Look, I’m not gonna you shit if you don’t start talking.” He added leaning against the wall to look down at her frame, then sighed realizing he sounded harsh and spoke again, “Sorry. I’m not gonna push you then if you’re not willing to tell me. And that’s okay, angel.”

If Mia had to be honest, she would’ve never thought she would be in this position ever. She seen countless of time like this, where people would have absolutely no interest or sympathy for telling her story. Or, she was on the other end of it all, listening to people’s opinions and concerns about their lives.

How they were treated by others, traumatized, looking for some kind of purpose and sympathy. The list goes on. Hell, some of her friends were still going through their own struggles with their trauma and transition to be better.

She was always the one to listen, humor the other person or try and convince them to speak out about their own problems. Lending a comfortable hand and words of support for them.

She spent half of her time making sure everyone else was okay and never really cared to talk about her feelings, pushing them away or in particular trying to make herself look good. No one really asked or knew how to comfort her, it was always her doing the job for them. They don’t always notice the signs but she does.

So the fact that Arron was asking her about something like this…that was a first.

Coulson, May and maybe even a friend or two would be truly concerned for her. But this was a big first.

After a moment she spoke, “Power wise..I can sense, manipulation and control someone’s emotions. I can feel their presence and thoughts in a way.”

“How did it happen?” He asked softly, surprised she actually told him.

“After a rumbling trip to Puerto Rico islands…an accident occurred between us trying to get an item before Hydra did…but it didn’t go as planned because Skye went down there, in the caves, with a fellow agent…that’s when the destination came, a huge pile of debris and rock came crashing down..I rushed in to get Skye and um..Tripp…soon enough I was blasted back and surrounded by rock..”

“Oh jeez…oh damn! Are you kidding me right? You actually survived that long trip?”

“Yeah, I survived and everyone was questioned about it..even scanned for any kind of damage…but I kept getting headaches and nausea..a weird sensation in my chest, in my head..like I can barely breathe…”

“You were being consumed by your powers. They were slowly coming in…w-was there anything specific that must’ve triggered it?”

“Did you not just hear the whole incident?”

He chuckled light and scoffed, “No, I heard it. You sensed a lot all at once. But what exactly happened that you remembered?”

“We were grieving an agent, a friend of ours..Trip was down there with Skye, when i rushed in, all I saw was Tripp’s ashes and rock surrounding where he once stood…and back at base, everyone was fighting, sad, and distant with each other..” She explained with a slight scoff, “..umm, at a lot of anger and frustration..I almost snapped..”

“Did you? Did you snap?”

“..eventually I snapped, I accidentally fell into a trap where I screamed at the group and manipulated them to stop their anger for a second…they looked at me confused…everyone didn’t question it and went on with their grief, until I went to the a friends place to try and convince myself I was fine..”

Amelia kept explaining what she could remember and Arron just listened, no advice or cheesy comments of support. He didn’t even try to downplay how she felt, like one of her friends did. He just listened an awful amount of listen as he went to side beside her. Occasionally he nodded or said something in comfort.

Yes, she was still dealing with a lot and couldn’t control when it happened, or when people got mad. Other times she would downplay her own behavior or chalk it up to her going crazy. But she felt kinda good, being able to talk about it and the cool breeze from the window helped.

After a moment Arron said, “I think you were sent here to try and relax, Amelia. Get away from your worries and struggles, try and control yourself for a bit…maybe meet someone who gets it?”

“What do you mean..?” She asked softly.

“From the stories I heard from being here, the second you start acting different or your character becomes more…oddly enough not the version of you people like, they start to behave differently.”

“They judge you for some simple action that happened to you…all my friends met me, before this incident, and now I am just a bit different.”

He gave her shoulder a small squeeze and then rubbed small circles on her back. He wasn’t sure if he should give her a side hug yet, but Mia lean against his shoulder instantly. That cause him to wrap an arm around her gently. She buried her face into his chest feeling a sense of comfort and felt his compassion, despite it being under that tough exterior and tension.

——

The two went on to talk about other things. School, friends, life experiences and cracking a few jokes more often than not. There were moments where the topics got serious, like when he asked about her dysfunctional relationship with her friends or her line of work.

The two even joked about favoring certain types of films than others. Hey, they did need some conversation starter!

Arron often tried to give her a simple explanation when she asked him about his past missions, people he met in life, his relationship with his sister Bobbi and how he met her mother. He honestly thought he wouldn’t have to talk much about May, but he knew it was coming.

“Your mother was honestly one of a kind in her own right.” He said with a soft grin, “Creative, strong, sweet as hell and stubborn…when she knew she wanted something, she did it. We honestly fought a lot about stupid things…but I never remember how I met her.”

“How? Mom said it was a trip to a friend’s wedding when you met.” She said smiling.

“Yeah, some friend of mine had a wedding he was doing to and he thought, he could bring me as a plus one. I went to humor him and at the party, h saw your mother standing outside the balcony talking with someone. And I walked over. She smiled.”

“Yeah? Cause I know my mom got a pretty smile but still…”

“Well, she had her smile, her short hair and a hot black dress that—”

That’s when Mia made a face and shook her head, “Nope! Nah, nuh uh, don’t finish that sentence. I get it..I got the picture.”

Arron smirked snickering at her reaction, “Hey, you asked!”

“But that’s not what I meant..”

“Yeah, sure, but that’s what I meant by remembering that day.”

——

There was still uncertainty and speculation about whether this was a good thing so far. It hung in the air. But so far, it wasn’t so bad. Yeah, sure, they had some stuff they still didn’t address about their relationship, question they needed to ask themselves and things that possibly might be useful for Mia’s stay here.

That was just the surface level stuff. But honestly, it seemed like neither of them wanted to go beyond that level anyway.

Plus, Mia was itching to check on Skye as well, despite knowing she was possibly okay and trying to adjust to the circumstances of her life. The situation in general.

But before Arron or Mia could say anything else, there was a knock on the door. He held up a hand when he saw her reach for her pocket for a gun. He shook his head and stood up to answer it.

The moment it was opened, Mia got a glimpse of who it was.

In front of her stood a young man. Dirty blonde hair, a light complexion and soft yet sharp green eyes. He wore a burgundy shirt, dark brown pants and boots, but you can tell he had a weapon in his pocket. He smiled at Arron but then caught sight of Mia.

He spoke to Arron for a few moments, talking about security measures and a few new developments in the area. How there were a couple of other people who wanted to talk with him about shipping containers and supplies. Arron nodded gently.

He then noticed how Mia was catching the blonde’s gaze and how she responded with a small smile.

Arron put a hand on her shoulder before saying, “Jeremy, this is my daughter Mia.”

Jeremy smiled holding out a hand, “Jeremy Michaelis.”

Mia shook his hand smiling, “Amelia Parker. Nice to meet you.”

Arron smiled, “I have work to do. How about Jeremy show you around?”

“Great.” Mia replied softly smiling.

“Cool.” Jeremy added right after still smiling as he chuckled.

With that, Arron left leaving the two of them alone to their own devices.

——

Ahhh! That’s all folks and that’s how she met Jeremy 😉

Please let me know what you think about Mia and her dad so far?

- @gcthvile @meiramel l l @aidanxsophxoxo @blueboirick @wizzzardofoz z z @finlayholmes @ethan-lensherr @elzabeth-stark k @marvelsfavoriteuncle @sci-fi-lexcon @ask-starrk @therealdaydreamstark @luna-d-marsh @rickb-chaos @the-x-ladiesofnyc @trulysummersprivate @missstrawbs2001 @purpleprincessonfyre