#Water Softener Consultancy

[earthtooz]

jealous ratio because i really like him like that, fluff, reader is a menace

“who gave you those flowers?” 

ratio’s voice is demanding and snarky, eyes ablaze with a similar kind of disgust when you walk into your home with a bouquet in your arms. putting your keys on the counter, you greet him with your usual smile and prance over to place a kiss on his scowling expression.

which softens momentarily at the feel of your lips on his skin.

“hi, veritas,” you greet.

“welcome home, love,” he murmurs in return, smiling when looking at you, but the scowl returns when he makes eye contact with the flowers. “who gave you these?”

“aventurine did.”

the world freezes over with ratio’s silent rage and you’re the only one untouched despite being the catalyst. searching for a vase nearby, you’re more than content to let his possessiveness simmer, in fact, it’s something you are used to now.

when you manage to dig up an empty vase from a cabinet nearby, ratio’s footsteps scurry towards you.

“you’re keeping them?” he asks.

“why wouldn’t i? they’re a gift.”

“a gift? 

he’s fuming, absolutely fuming now as he watches you fret over the bouquet, trimming the ends, putting water in the bot, arranging them to look nice and lovely, all whilst your lover stared at you hawkishly. you pretend not to notice the way his eye twitches occasionally, allowing him to watch you work.

his mind must be working at a million thoughts per second, so you’ll just let him be until he can talk to you again.

“why did he give you flowers? there must be an occasion that i am unaware of.”

after finishing your final touches, you turn around with all the garbage in your hands and walk past the scholar. he follows. “to say thanks. he recently consulted me for one of his projects and the results were fruitful, so he bought me a bouquet in gratitude.” 

pink roses. last time ratio read, they were supposed to symbolise gratitude, the ideal choice to send to someone who has helped you. 

“well. if that’s the case then he owes me a planet’s worth of flowers.”

“lighten up, veritas, he was just being friendly.”

“friendly?” he all but snaps. 

“yes, friendly. is there an issue with that?” 

“that gambler being friendly implies to him being up to no good.” he attaches himself to your hip, hovering over you as you make a mug of coffee. “he is a menace, an undesirable anomaly, a type one error, i advise you keep your interactions with him limited. only one of us should need to deal with his antics so i suppose i’ll have to bite the bullet on this one, darling.”

“you are so brave, my hero. are you done? anymore talk about aventurine and i might just think you’re in love with him.” ratio splutters at your wild accusations, missing the way you smile under your breath. then, you throw your arms around the scholar and he doesn’t return the embrace, still dumbfounded. “i missed you and the first thing you do when i come home is talk about another man.”

he scoffs, lifting you up onto the kitchen counter. there, he rests his hands on either sides of the counter beside you. “your mouth is twice as foul as his.”

“and yet you still love me.”

“marginally.”

“you!”

tomorrow, you return home to a luxurious bouquet of red roses sitting on the kitchen island.

i'm writing this as a pregame to the diluc fic i have in the works.

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[laswells-ashtray]

(Mother-hen)Price and (Father-hen)Nikolai antics and shenanigans.

I dunno, let’s just say that one day Soap and Gaz get hurt when roughhousing and the two try to play it off like nothing happened. Well, two minutes later Price has them both sat down and is scolding them while he patches them up, saying something about how they’re always ‘too rough’ and how they need to ‘settle down before they make a mess’.

Nik is always the icebreaker in the situation, cracking jokes here and there to soften the blows Price delivers and making promises that they’d go to the shooting range later and have a competition on who the best shot is.

I also think that when Ghost doesn’t take care of himself like he usually does, they all get worried, but not as worried as Price.

He won’t barge or force Ghost to talk, but he will stick around longer than he usually does and keeps an eye on him for a second more before going about his business. He’ll also give him meals that he randomly made throughout the day and makes sure he eats before moving on to whatever he was doing.

Nik on the other hand just invites Ghost to help him fix his helicopter, and when the two finish they’ll sit on the floor of it and quietly have a cigarette together before going about their day.

…

Also, random side note: how was your Thanksgiving? Hope the food-crash was delectable bc mines was.

I won't lie I am deeply Scottish and have never done a Thanksgiving event/dinner in my life. But my day was generally uneventful in a good way, I had a tattoo consultation that day and my artist likes me so it was chill.

I've always held the belief that they don't intentionally practice awful self-care but as men so busy with their jobs and also the entire traumatic response of constantly being surrounded by the carnage and bloodshed they find themselves some days at 3am wondering when the last time they drank water or ate anything slowly enough to taste it was.

I think while Nikolai can also suffer [as a treat], he's the best at staying on track and keeping the rest of them on track and Price falls into the mentality of those are his boys and he'll be in a body bag long before he lets one of them get there.

That being said:

"Lads, it's a spar not a fuckin' scrap. Act yer age, not yer shoe size."

Both Soap and Gaz pause, heads popping up to look at him in a way that's reminiscent of meerkats. They'd been rougher than usual and for a second John had wondered if they had been trying to work something out off of the field. He knew better though, if they two argued then neither of them would exchange a word until they got their heads out of their arses and then got drunk together after it all washed over.

"Wisnae tnhat bad, wis it, Gaz?"

He can see MacTavish wince as he straightens up, a hand hovering over his ribs and the trail of dried blood coming from his nose is far from subtle.

"Just dickin' about, sir."

Garrick's lip is split and a drop of fresh blood bubbles from it when he smirks, he's also avoiding resting his weight on his right leg.

"Bench." Is all he answers with, heading away to grab a first aid kit they, after many mildly violent incidents, decided to keep in the gym.

By the time he reaches the bench the two sergeants are nudging each other and bickering like boys, Soap nudges Gaz's foot and in retaliation, Gaz elbows him. In a horrific moment of self-awareness John realises he had been much worse as a sergeant. He quickly packs that thought away in a mental box entitled "things I'll never admit to Mac" somewhere between the shirt thing and the river incident.

"Quit it, you're supposed to leave the blood to the field." He scolds half-heartedly before setting to work trying to fix however they'd fucked Soap's nose.

He's passing Gaz an icepack for his foot when Nik walks in, shaking his head in mock disapproval as he approaches. The act is ruined by his immediate questioning.

"Who won?"

John cuts in before it can delve into another round of bitching.

"The people who're trying to put us in caskets if that's how the two of them fight."

He's met with a snort and two affronted squawks before he's assaulted with a barrage of verbal bullshit defences that he doesn't pay attention to.

He looks back at Nik with a curious expression.

"Hangar, babysitting after the bird."

The disbelief on his face is about as subtle as a hand grenade.

"All by his lonesome?"

There's an almost sheepish look on Nikolai's face until he relents.

"He is smoking."

"That's more like it. You two will be joining us in the mess later, I take it." It isn't a question, Nik doesn't mistake it as one.

"Да, captain." Nikolai would drag Simon by the scruff of his neck like a cat if he had to.

"Good."

[navyhealthyglow]

appearence; "is she glowing?" - glow up guide no.2

Hey love, how are you doin?

Today we'll cover the next part of our glow up journey - our looks. So without further ado, let's begin!

I prepared a list of things you can do in order to boost your looks, and take care of yourself at the same time, so you can glow up<3

FACE:

⟶ don't pick your pimples!!! It's the worst thing you can do when dealing with acne/spots/blackheads etc. Instead go see a dermatologist. You can also use salicylic acid, azelaic acid or pimple patches ⟶ start double cleansing to remove all makeup and dirts from your face. Use an oil cleanser first, and a water based one afterwards. ⟶ use vitamin C to brighten your skin and give it this healthy glow ⟶ diet is also very important to keep your face clean and glowy. Make sure you're not eating too much sugar and processed foods that may cause inflammation. ⟶ use makeup according to your face shape and to enhance your features. ⟶ depuff your face using ice cubes, gua sha and face massages ⟶ When you sleep on our side, your face is pressed against the pillow causing acne and wrinkles, so sleep on your back or invest in a silk/satin pillowcase to reduce friction. ⟶ make sure you're using spf 50 daily

BODY:

⟶ move your body! Find an acitivy that you enjoy and move your body daily. You can go to the gym, find a class (like pilates or spinning maybe?) or just workout at home, stretch or go on walks. I personally love dancing and stretching, and I also try to walk at least 10k steps a day. ⟶ check up at the doctors regularly to make sure you're healthy ⟶ make sure you're sleeping enough, this is very important if you want to feel and look your best. Studies recommend at least 7 hours for and adult, and minimum 8 hours for teenagers ⟶ diet, im sorry but this is key to a healthy lifestyle and body. A healty, balanced diet with lots of fruit and vegetables and whole foods is essencial. Make sure to get enough protein and healthy fats in. I am not a medical professional, so if you have any special needs, allergies or you are in treatment consult any dietetary changes with your doctor or a certified dietetician. ⟶ use a nourishing body wash and after the shower use a lotion to moisturise your skin. And use deodorant after every shower. ⟶ exfoliate using a scrub or an exfoliating glove once/twice a week to keep your skin soft ⟶ you can take a pumice stone to soften the rough skin on your feet, and make sure to clean and cut your toenails. ⟶ find a signature scent, I recommend perfumes as they last longer but scented mists are also good. Bonus points if you have a lotion in the same smell to enhance the scent. ⟶ this is optional, but if you'd like to take your body care to the next level, everything showers are amazing! I do one about every two weeks on sundays. This is the time for you to take a cozy bath, exfoliate, wash your hair, maybe do a face mask? There is no right or wrong for an everything shower, just make yourself feel good and clean the way you like it<3

HAIR:

⟶ wash your hair 2-4x a week depending on your needs. Don't wash your hair daily as it can cause damaged hair and a dry, itchy scalp. If your hair gets greasy easily, try to at least wash it every other day. ⟶ use a hair mask once a week ⟶ I find that the best hair care is according to your hair porosity. You can check it with the glass of water test.  Simply take a clean, product-free strand of loose hair and put it in a glass of water. If the hair floats at the top then it is low porosity, if it sinks slowly or settles in the middle it is medium/normal porosity, and if it sinks straight to the bottom then it is high porosity. ⟶ every night before bed apply hair oil to your ends and put your hair in a protective hairstyle such as loose braid to keep it from damage while you sleep. ⟶ use rosemary or argan oil to grow and thicken your hair ⟶ trim split/damaged ends when needed ⟶ you can use a scalp scrubber to better clean all the dirt and scalp build up ⟶ avoid excessive heat and when you do, use heat protection

CLOTHES:

⟶ rather than buying every microtrend that exist, invest in quality pieces and create a capsule wardrobe. Keep in mind to adjust it to your own personal style, or if you don't have one you can look ideas up on pinterest. ⟶ wear accesories! Necklaces, bracelets, sunglasses etc can elevate your looks by 1000x! Find out whether gold or silver fits you the best, or maybe you find diamonds or pearls a better fit? ⟶ keep your clothes clean and neat, iron them when needed to avoid looking slumpy

ESSENTIALS:

⟶ brush your teeth 2x a day ⟶ brush and detangle your hair ⟶ use a lip balm to hydrate your lips ⟶ always keep a hand cream near to use when needed ⟶ get enough sleep ⟶ move your body and eat healthy ⟶ stay hydrated, drink at least 2l of water a day

That's everything for today sparkles, I hope you enjoyed this post and I am waiting for your comments on how your glow up journey is going<3

Find me here: 🤍💿

#navyhealthyglow - all my og content #navyhealthytips - glow up tips #navyhealthyjourney - my glow up journey

My other blogs: 📖💙

@navyisstudying - study blog

[yumikk101]

Echoes of Stone and Memory Part 2

Featuring: zhongli × reader, fluff, romance

Silence stretched between you and Zhongli, a quiet, unspoken understanding that the bond between you could not simply return to what it once was. But it could be built anew, stone by stone. For days, this silence was the rhythm of your return to Liyue—a steady, fragile peace

The people of Liyue believed the Geo Archon was no more, that he had perished in time’s passage. He had let himself fade into myth, guiding his people subtly, concealed within the life of a consultant at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. So you kept to the edges of the city, watching, relearning the lands you had once shaped, all under Zhongli’s quiet guidance

Each day, he would lead you through places that held fragments of your past together: a winding path along Dihua Marsh, ancient relics by the Stone Gate, temples hidden in the mountains. He seemed to sense which places would stir painful memories, carefully choosing ones where you could simply listen as he recounted Liyue’s history without the burden of personal recollection. His restraint was unwavering, always keeping the space between you respectful, yet offering you moments of comfort that you knew were meant only for you

One evening, as you returned from a distant shrine with Zhongli, a light rain began to fall. The heavens above Liyue were painted in muted grays, and the familiar scent of rain on stone filled the air. Zhongli extended an umbrella over you without a word, letting the rain soak his own shoulder. It was a small gesture, but achingly familiar—a silent care, protection offered without need for thanks

You looked up at him, a hint of a smile softening your lips. “You’ll catch a cold if you let yourself get drenched, Zhongli”

He glanced down, a faint warmth touching his gaze. “I assure you, a simple rain will do me no harm,” he replied calmly, his voice a steady murmur. But he kept the umbrella over you, hand steady and unyielding, even as droplets began to glisten on his own sleeve. You wanted to reach out, to close the space between you with a touch, yet you held back, letting the silence speak in place of words

Days turned to weeks, and the small gestures became a quiet language of their own. Zhongli would pour you tea before you asked, knowing your preference for Osmanthus’s floral notes. When the nights grew colder, he’d leave an extra shawl for you without mention, his care unobtrusive but unmistakable. These actions felt like whispers, as if he were helping you to feel again, showing you how to trust each other with every shared moment, one step at a time

One evening, while wandering through Qingce Village under the dim glow of lanterns, you paused to admire the glaze lilies swaying in the soft night breeze. Their blue petals shimmered under the moonlight, each flower a fragile memory of times long past. Your fingers grazed a petal, and a wave of recognition washed over you—of the two of you, in another time, planting these same lilies together under the stars

“They bloom only once a year,” Zhongli said softly beside you, his voice steady as the earth. “I remember when we first planted them”

You looked at him, the ache of memory stirring deeply within you. “You’ve kept them blooming all this time,” you murmured, the weight of years filling the silence between you

“Some memories,” he replied, amber eyes softened with something almost vulnerable, “are worth preserving”

Winter crept quietly into Liyue, covering the land in soft layers of frost. And one winter night, you stood beside him by the harbor, the soft flakes settling over the water’s surface. He offered you a cup of tea, his hand brushing yours with a tenderness that made you pause. You looked up, drawn to the familiar warmth in his eyes

“Zhongli,” you began, voice trembling just enough to betray the emotions building inside, “we’ve shared centuries of memories and a lifetime of silence. But… do you think that we can find something new in all of this? That there’s still something left?”

“There is, and there always will be,” he whispered, his breath warm against the cold air. “I have spent centuries holding on to fragments of you, yet I find I am still unprepared… for the moment you stand here before me, real and near”

He moved closer, his hand slipping to the back of your neck as he leaned in, eyes lingering on your lips as though waiting for permission. Your heart raced, and any doubts that had lingered melted in the heat of his gaze

“Zhongli…” you murmured, your hand finding his, fingers weaving together, grounding you in the present. The tenderness in his gaze softened, replaced by a smoldering intensity that made your cheeks flush

With a quiet breath, he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss both gentle and searing, as though finally, after ages of waiting, he was tasting something forbidden and treasured. The world around you dissolved; the snow, the cold—all of it faded, leaving only the warmth of his kiss, the strength of his hands as they held you close

When you pulled away for a breath, he leaned his forehead against yours, the faintest smile on his lips as he whispered, “I never stopped loving you… not once.” His thumb brushed over your cheek and this time it was you who drew him in, capturing his lips in a kiss that grew more heated, more fervent with every passing second. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, only the warmth of his embrace. His hands moved, one slipping up your back, tracing delicate paths that made your skin hum under his touch

As the night wore on, neither of you broke away. Every glance, every touch spoke of the years of longing, the promises unspoken, and the passion you had both kept hidden. Under the silent snowfall, you found each other anew, with no need for words—only the unbreakable bond that had brought you back to him, that had kept him waiting across lifetimes

-End-

Author note: I hope you enjoyed this really short fanfic I'm sorry I can't write more parts to it it's just a fleeting idea that came to me and I wanted to post it for my supporters to read again thank you for reading ✨

[kaleidoscopecth]

we need a calum fic with lots of praise and him being a little dominant please and thank you <3

All I Need

MDNI

pairing: calum hood x reader

summary: it’s just you and calum in the rainy woods, nothing stopping you from giving in to each other in every way.

warnings: unprotected sex (i think im starting to see a pattern, sorry chat), bike sex, cursing, that’s it i think

word count: 3.3k

a/n: when i got this ask all i could think of was “holy shit this is essentially him in the smuts of my new fic” so after consulting the “council” i decided to post a smut from the fic as a little snippet LMAO. it’s edited into an x reader, but it’s the same scene that you’ll hopefully read when i do put out this fic. ANYWAYS. enjoy <33

(special thanks to zuza for editing this for me, ur a life SAVERRRR)

Copyright © 2024 kaleidoscopecth. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

The night air was crisp as you and Calum sped down the highway on his bike. There was something deeply comforting about being with him—a quiet steadiness that felt both grounding and oddly familiar, like you’d known him forever.

The wind whipped past, carrying your laughter as you threw your head back, savoring the freedom that came with the open road. You could hear Calum’s chuckle in response, low and warm, and it only made you laugh harder, the sound blending with the steady hum of the engine beneath you.

When he finally pulled off the road and into the edge of the forest, parking the bike, a nervous flutter settled in your chest. This moment felt so different from all the others you’d shared—those times forced together by circumstance. Now, under the quiet canopy of the night, it was just the two of you, with no obligations or pretense. Calum’s smile was as bright and infectious as ever, and it made your nerves soften, if only slightly.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low, his smile shifting into something softer. The weight of his gaze made your heart race, but before you could process it—or say anything in return—fat raindrops began to fall.

The first few landed lightly on your skin, cool and scattered, but in moments the drizzle turned into a downpour. Calum spluttered in surprise, brushing rain from his face, while you threw your head back with a loud, carefree laugh.

You had expected the rain—this was Seattle, after all—but there was something thrilling about the way it drenched you both, soaking your clothes and hair within seconds. Pulling away from Calum’s embrace, you held onto his hand and twirled in delight, the rain mingling with your laughter as thunder rolled in the distance.

The rain quickly soaked through your clothes, making your shirt and jeans cling heavily to your skin, but none of it seemed to matter. Calum stood beside you, his lips curved into a faint, amused smile. His hair was plastered to his forehead, rain dripping from the dark strands as he tried—unsuccessfully—to look annoyed.

But you knew better. You caught the laughter dancing in his eyes, the way his barely contained smile betrayed the truth. It wasn’t irritation; it was something softer, warmer—something that made your heart skip a beat despite the chill of the rain.

“You look adorable,” you giggled, brushing the rain-soaked hair from Calum’s face. “Like a wet puppy.”

Calum let out a soft grumble but couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped as he met your grin. “Should’ve known it was gonna rain,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And you like that, don’t you? Knew it was coming.”

You gave a nonchalant shrug, slipping your hand into his and leading him a few steps farther from the bike. The rain fell steadily, soaking you both as Calum’s arms slowly wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. You tilted your head up to look at him, your hair a dripping mess, water clinging to your face, but the playful spark in your eyes remained.

“We’ve never danced together,” you murmured, your voice soft yet teasing against the steady rhythm of the rain.

Calum raised a brow, brushing the wet hair from his face with a smirk. “So, you want to dance in the rain?” he asked, already knowing the answer from the way you grinned.

Instead of waiting for a response, his hands shifted firmly to your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the ground as he spun you around. Your laugh rang out, bright and carefree, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. For a fleeting moment, joy swept through you both, unrestrained and electric, the rain the only witness to your impromptu dance.

He held you close as you moved together, your soaked clothes clinging to your bodies like a second skin. Mud splashed up your bare feet as you swirled, but neither of you seemed to care. The world around you faded, leaving only the rhythm of the rain and the warmth of his touch.

In his arms, you felt normal-just a girl with a guy who understood her, who looked at her as though she was something precious, something extraordinary. The weight of your past hadn't disappeared, but in this moment, it felt lighter. It felt conquerable. Like maybe, just maybe, the two of you could make it through anything.

Calum leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, warm and grounding against the cool rain. When he pulled back, his hands stayed on your waist as the two of you continued to sway, caught in a quiet, tender rhythm. But then his gaze dropped, and his eyes widened slightly as they landed on your chest.

A mischievous grin spread across his face.

“So..you just skip the bra pretty often?” he teased, his tone playful as his eyes flicked up to yours, gesturing at the hardened peaks visible through your soaked white shirt.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. “Enjoying the view, are you?” you shot back, matching his playful tone.

“Absolutely,” he admitted without missing a beat, his grin widening as he pulled you closer.

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “What can I say?” You shrugged. “I got my nipples pierced for a reason. Can’t let them go to waste without showing them off a little.”

Calum’s expression darkened, his hands tightening on your waist. “So this was all part of your plan?” he murmured, his voice lower now. “Ditch the bra, wear a white shirt, all in hopes of getting my attention? Did you factor in the rain too?”

You laughed, throwing your head back in pure amusement. “Yes!” you teased. “You’ve got me! I don’t know what to do now.”

Calum laughed, shaking his head as he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. “You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” His tone was dripping with fondness, and maybe a little bit of desire too.

You bit your lip, feeling the atmosphere shift from lighthearted to something heavier—thick with heat and desire. “You know what they say,” you murmured, letting your hands slide up to Calum’s broad shoulders. “Don’t stick your dick in crazy.”

Calum's eyes flicked down to your chest, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“Don't tell me what to do,” he whispered, his voice low and strained before capturing your lips in a hungry kiss.

You responded eagerly, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in his damp hair as the rain slicked your skin. Calum's hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he deepened the kiss, the intensity pulling you into something electric, something that burned despite the cold drizzle falling around you.

When his tongue brushed against yours, a muffled moan escaped your lips, swallowed by the storm of his kiss. You barely noticed you were moving until the shift in air and the firm coolness beneath your thighs pulled you back to reality.

You blinked, realizing he'd set you down on the seat of his bike, the rain slowing to a soft patter around you due to the cover of the trees. Your heart fluttered as you leaned back on the steering, watching as Calum straddled the bike so that he was facing you. He shrugged off his sopping wet jacket, followed by his shirt.

You let your eyes rake through his lean body, the way the skin stretched so thinly over the muscle and the tattoos that littered his skin. Calum’s lips latched on to your neck, causing your eyes to flutter shut as you let out a blissful sigh.

His hands slid under your shirt, pushing it up and bunching the fabric above your chest, leaving you exposed to him. “You're so fucking pretty,” he murmured, his voice low and rough as he pressed kisses down your throat, along your collarbone, and lower to your chest. His lips left a trail of heat in their wake, igniting a fire that coiled deep in your stomach.

“You're my addiction.” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin before pressing a kiss to your nipple, making you shiver. “All I need. You're all I need.”

His mouth closed around your nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive bud, and you arched against him with a soft gasp. Pleasure blurred your thoughts, but something about his words tugged at the edge of your mind.

They felt familiar— too familiar.

It took a moment to click, and by the time it did, Calum was already working open the button of your jeans.

“Wait,” you said, breathless and slightly dazed, your hands pressing against his chest. His dark eyes snapped up to meet yours, confusion flickering across his face. “Did you just—did you just quote Radiohead while trying to get into my pants?”

“I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or turned on that you noticed that,” he chuckled, tugging the heavy fabric of your jeans down your legs. Thankfully, they were a bit loose, making it easier than expected. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the soft skin of your thigh. “But I mean it— you really are everything.”

Calum smirked, kneeling before you and sliding your damp underwear down your legs. The cool air and the chill of the bike's seat made you hiss softly, your half-lidded eyes following his every move. He pressed gentle kisses up your leg, each one slower than the last, before finally brushing a tender kiss to your clit. The sensation made you jolt, your fingers gripping the edges of the bike for support.

Then, he straightened, leaning over you until their faces were inches apart, his breath warm against your rain-cooled skin.

“Calum,” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need as his middle finger teased your entrance, collecting the slickness there but refusing to go further.

He smirked against your neck, trailing hot kisses along your pulse. “Please,” you whispered, your voice breaking as your hips instinctively tilted toward him, desperate for more. “Do something.”

“You sound so pretty when you beg, did I mention that, Princess?” His voice was a husky whisper as his finger continued to make teasing circles around your entrance. He wasn’t giving you what you wanted, at least not without a fight.

“Please,” you whimpered, your eyes squeezing shut as your entire body pulsed with need. You couldn't stop yourself from rutting your hips against Calum's teasing fingers, desperate for even a hint of relief.

Calum chuckled low against your collarbone, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through you. Drops of rainwater dripped from his damp hair onto your heated skin, making you shiver again. Slowly, agonizingly, he slid just the very tip of his finger inside you. It was nothing—just a tease—and it drove you insane.

“Fuck—please,” you gasped, your voice breaking with frustration. “I need you—“

“Spell it out for me, Y/N,” he growled, his voice rough and demanding. “Tell me what you want. I'm not a mind reader.”

A sudden, animalistic surge of desire crashed over you, and you opened your eyes, meeting his gaze through your lashes. Your lips parted, and your voice came out in a desperate, breathless whine.

“I need you to fill me up,” you begged, the words raw and unrestrained. “Fuck me like I'm your filthy slut.”

Calum’s eyes darkened significantly as he slid the rest of his finger inside you, accompanied by another one. The stretch made your back arch, and you let out a moan as he curled his fingers perfectly inside you. “Good fucking girl,” He growled, biting the skin of your neck harshly. “You’re such a perfect girl f’me.”

His lips crashed against yours, swallowing every desperate moan that spilled from you as his fingers worked you relentlessly. The slick, wet sounds of his movements mixed with the steady rhythm of the rain falling around you. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clutching for support as your body trembled with need.

“Such a little whore for my fingers, aren't you?” Calum chuckled, his voice dripping with arrogance. His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing it in just the way he knew drove you insane.

Your eyebrows knitted together in pleasure, and you threw your head back, resting against the handlebars as your breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps. “Please,” you begged, your voice breaking. “I want to come on your cock.”

Your words seemed to ignite something in him. Calum withdrew his hand, leaving you whimpering at the loss. Without hesitation, he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a deliberate slowness, his dark eyes locked on yours.

You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he focused his attention on the button of his jeans, shoving them down just enough along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and heavy, slapping against his stomach as he leaned closer.

“You want more, Princess?” he growled, the teasing edge in his voice making your toes curl. He dragged the tip over your swollen clit, eliciting a sharp cry from you.

“Then you're gonna fucking take it,” he snarled, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. “You're gonna take it so well for me, like the good little whore you are.”

You found yourself nodding eagerly, your breathing having hitched at his words. You gripped his biceps tightly as he sank into you inch by inch, seemingly determined to drag the moment on for as long as he could. Finally, when he was buried to the hilt, he let out a moan. “You feel so fucking good,” He muttered. “So wet, so fucking tight. Love this pretty little pussy, and it’s all mine.”

“It's yours,” you gasped, your voice breathless and shaky as Calum began snapping his hips against yours with an unrelenting rhythm. He didn't give you a moment to adjust, the sharp edge of the pain only heightening the overwhelming pleasure that coursed through you. You felt stretched, completely filled, as your nails raked down his back without mercy.

He hissed at the sensation, his breath catching before he crushed his lips to yours in a bruising, desperate kiss. His hips continued their punishing pace, each thrust driving you harder against the cool, unyielding metal of his bike. The intensity of it all blurred the lines between pain and pleasure, leaving nothing but raw, electric connection in its wake.

Your head fell back as you cried out into the night, droplets of water still falling onto your bodies, making everything so much slicker. You shivered as Calum began to suck at your sweet spot right where your pulse beat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

“Look at you,” He moaned between kisses. “Taking me so well, it’s like you were made for this, made to take my cock, weren’t you? My filthy little slut.”

“I’m yours.” You were beginning to grow dizzy with how much the pleasure began to build up in your stomach, the familiar sense of nearing the edge finally occurring. “Fuck, I’m all yours, made for you.”

Your thighs trembled, your entire body tightening around him as he continued to pound into you. “I’m so close,” you sobbed into his shoulder. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Calum’s thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight, deliberate circles around it as his hips continued to snap into yours. “Come for me, Princess,” he urged, his voice commanding. “Clench around me— make a mess out of my cock.”

With a broken cry, you felt your orgasm finally wash over you with such intensity that your vision went black for a second. Your nails dug harshly into Calum’s biceps as you rode out your high, quickly growing more and more sensitive.

Your moans quickly shifted into overstimulated whimpers as your body writhed beneath him, your muscles twitching with sensitivity. You tried to pull away, but Calum's firm grip on your hips kept you in place.

“Sit still, babygirl,” he commanded, his voice rough and strained as his thrusts became more erratic. “I told you to take it, so take it.”

You bit down on your lip, the cool rain mingling with the heat radiating off your skin as you surrendered to him, letting him use you to chase his release. Your breaths came in short, shallow gasps, and before you could think better of it, the words tumbled out of her mouth.

“Come on my face,” you whispered, the request barely audible over the rain.

Calum froze for a moment, your words hitting him like a lightning bolt. Then, with a guttural groan, he pulled out of you, stumbling back off the bike in his urgency. His hand worked furiously over himself, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

You felt a fleeting emptiness as he left you, but the anticipation building in your chest quickly replaced it. You leaned back against the handlebars, sticking your tongue out and meeting his gaze with a mix of submission and challenge.

That was all it took. With a strained, guttural moan, Calum finally gave in, his release spilling onto your waiting tongue and heated skin. You moaned softly at the taste, your fingers reaching up to wipe the streaks from your cheeks, gathering as much as you could.

Calum watched you, wide-eyed and breathless, his chest still heaving. His mouth fell open as you licked your fingers clean, your eyes fluttering shut in satisfaction. “Taste so fucking good,” you murmured, your voice husky and dripping with praise.

Before you could say anything else, Calum closed the distance between them, crashing his lips against your. It was quick but heated, his tongue exploring your mouth— seemingly desperate to taste himself.

When he pulled away, still breathless, Calum looked down at you with awe etched across his face. “You're so perfect,” he whispered, his voice soft but full of conviction.

Quickly, he tucked himself back into his pants and helped you shimmy into yours, his movements gentle but efficient. Your shirt was still bunched up just below your collarbone, and he couldn't resist leaning down to place a lingering kiss on each hardened nipple before reluctantly pulling the fabric down to cover you. The wet fabric was more than a little uncomfortable, but you could hardly bring yourself to care.

“Only for you,” you murmured, your voice tender as you watched him. You loved the way his fingers brushed through your damp hair, the way his gaze held yours as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

Calum's lips quirked into a small, shy smile as he leaned in to press a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “I really hope so,” he murmured, his tone carrying an unexpected vulnerability.

He squeezed your hand, intertwining your fingers as he straightened up. “But we should get back before we both catch a cold,” he added with a playful grin, his voice light and teasing, though his eyes still shone with unspoken affection.

You let out a soft, resigned sigh. “You're probably right,” you pouted, resting your head against his chest. You didn't want this moment to end, finding comfort in the quiet of the forest and the gentle rain as long as Calum was there.

“Don't sound too sad,” Calum murmured, tilting your chin up so your eyes met. His expression was warm, teasing. “We can head back, take a hot shower, get rid of these soaked clothes. Maybe do this—” he gestured to the bike with a shy smile. “Once or twice more.”

You grinned, your lips curving against his as you leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You really know how to cheer a girl up,” you teased, lacing your fingers with his. “I'm down. Though, I might be up for more than one or two extra rounds.Who knows?”

Calum shook his head, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Maybe I should stick my dick in crazy more often.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

send in your requests, this has been fun!!!

[mahiiimahiiii]

its here!!!

An:/ will I ever finish a fic that I start? We will never know. Trying to keep this short and saucy. Maybe it will become a series…? Modern au Baldur’s gate, this is bisexual cat dad gale I mentioned earlier this week, feedback would be appreciated. (first time writing gale woohooo!!)

Tdlr: you thought that I was feelin’ you? Nah that rizzard’s a munch.

word count: around 4k

(this will have a named durge :9, her name is wynne and I post her often, but shes a brown drow with shoulder length curly hair and heterochromia due to her glass eye.)

Cw: cunnilingus, light consciousness, sleepy sex, breakfast in bed? More like breakfast and headdd. Possessiveness, previous substance usage, previously established relationship, durge is mentally illest, slight cervix brusing, hurt and comfort, biting/claiming, we must take it easy so gale doesn’t blow up.

Smothered in a deck of pillows you laid at the prodigal wizard’s bedside, a career you thought merely extinct in the modern era. A purveyor and ever the pioneer he was- integrating his magic into online technology, now consulting other businesses on its integration; Gale Dekarios was always ahead of the curve.

You didn’t think of him a fan of minimalism, his rooms each eggshell white with delicate paintings in dark oak frames. The only things maximalist was his collection of ancient tomes lining the walls of his cozy apartment, a certain fire hazard for one too prone to burning things.

He had worried, inviting you into his home. At one point you had invited him to stay at your home, a shabby apartment in disarray nestled in the lower city of Baldur’s gate- the political district. You hadn’t taken your meds in months, too busy to fill out a prescription- you snapped. It was terrifying and beautiful all together.

He called the pharmacy after that, setting alarms and reminders in your phone to take them. You had slept soundly with a little coaxing, your face softened into peaceful smile, surrounded by sensory items galore. He kissed you when you woke up and cried and apologized for your behavior. Your lips were salty from tears, but that made them sweeter.

He told you not to apologize, he promised he would take care of you.

“It’s rotten work” you had cried, and he laughed.

Not to me. Not if it’s you.

That was the first time your lips uttered an “I love you.” His heart sang- he gushed to tara when he got home afterwards, plucking out stacks of classical romance.

He had much he wanted to share with you.  How he admired you.

He had told you as much.

His bedroom now, had touches of your presence. A couple of sweaters hung in his closet, perfume and soaps on his counter, meds, cup of water, and eyedrops on his bedside table. The door creaked open revealing the multi-colored tressym, the lady of the house, Tara. She chirped in acknowledgement before hopping onto the bed, noises from outside the door got a bit louder. The smell of coffee wafted in, notes of vanilla and cinnamon hit the air.

Tara began to purr loudly, nestled in the cleave of your thighs; she nipped at the hand closest to her. “Have you taken your meds yet?” she inquired, her voice was stern and motherly.

“jus’ gonna’ now.” Your voice slurred, the sleep obvious from your voice. You groped for the pill bottle, holding the tab down and twisting off the lid. You pulled out one and a half tabs, washing them down with water. you grabbed the eyedrop bottle, filled with a tonic gale made for you, compatible for a magic eye. You laid back, dropping the liquid into your eyes and rolling it around in the socket.

Your vision opens as you rub at your eyes, adjusting to sit up in bed. You combed a hand through your hair, knots popping through your anxiety ridden strokes.

“Was your sleep alright dear? You look rather vexed.” Tara was busy grooming, but kind enough to check in with you.

You laughed softly “vexation is a constant state of my life, but I appreciate the thought. Yes, it was fine, thank you. Just distant thoughts about previous me’s.” you rubbed your eyes again, “have you seen our wonderful gale?”

She tutted, stretching out over your legs and flopping to the side “he has requested you stay in bed. But- he is busy as a bee, as always. She began to purr again, rubbing her nose against the sheets. “Consider me your roadblock from getting up.”

You sank back into the pillows staring at the swirling texture of the ceiling. It was stuck with small glow stars that never got charged. Near the head of the bed was a small planetary mobile, little bells sang out from the room’s small fan. Gale likes his white noise.

A rap at the door broke you from your thoughts. Gale’s curious eyes peered over the door, crinkling as he broke into a smile. “Good morning my star, I hadn’t realize you had woken up already.” He wore a loose crew neck shirt, embroidered with flowers at the hems, his pants a taught cotton blend- ones he would call cozy dress pants, and ones you’ve seen him fallen asleep in. his hair was tied half up half down in a spikey bun, strands of steel grey hair glowed with he light of the sun. He held a mug in his hand, one of his kitsch collections. “I got a dig bick” it read.

He set it on the nightstand, caging you in for a sweet kiss. His thumb stroked the outline of your chin mindlessly, savoring the warm way his chest tightened at your tired and happy eyes. He tasted of caramel coffee and apple slices. He pulled away from your grasp, slightly breathless.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have come checked in on you sooner. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep. You could compete for the most beautiful creature in the heavens.”

“Certainly not compete- I am the most beautiful creature.”

He chortled heartily, kissing your lips gently once more. “You don’t know how right you are, my love.”  Gale absentmindedly drew patterns onto your skin, his gaze gentle, yet longing. “Rest a bit more- I have some surprises planned.” With a kiss to your brow he pulled away, your skin felt flush with warmth.

You settled into your pillows, cupping the mug gingerly. You took a few sips. Brown sugar, ¼ milk and ¾ coffee. He always noticed the small details; it was comforting on your tongue. A small sigh of delight escaped your lips. For what good you did to deserve this- you don’t exactly know. Perhaps the gods favored you somewhat to be blessed with such a partner like gale. 

The humming resumed from the kitchen, a hiss and a gentle swear as you heard the oven door click shut. Then the tap ran as he sighed out. He snacked on something as he gathered dishes, a bowl set to the floor, Taras’s breakfast. She stretched against your leg’s wings flapping out, and tail flicking idly. She chirps a couple of times before hopping off the bed.

The gentle music of plates approached your door, along with your beloved wizard, tray in hand.

“ta daaah!!” he lifted the tray in a slight ‘come see’ gesture. You took another deep sip of coffee before setting the mug down.

“Gale- you really didn’t have too.” A slight pout formed on your lips, setting the mug aside you placed your hands in your lap.

“Nonsense. It gives me great joy to make your life easier.” He paused, setting the tray down on the small desk in the corner. “It frustrates me, occasionally- that you wouldn’t deem yourself worthy of that sort of love, that sort of worship.” He crawls towards you on the bed, his tossed hair and neat beard framing his chin and cheeks. “I adore you.” He gently cupped your cheek, straddling your settled legs. “Let me worship you in the way I was made too”

Selune take the wheel, how your heart fluttered at his honeyed words! You tilted your head squinting slightly, processing in a way you only knew how to. “This may seem impulsive, or the urges doing the talking but forgive me. Worship me with sinew, carrion, and pools of warm blood…?”

He chucked gently, tilting your head up slightly. “Less bloody, though it can be dependent on your moon sickness.” He was gentle and patient, only activating at your confirmation. His gaze soft on yours, deep and inviting. “Let me know, I will only do so at your words.”

His breath smelled like cinnamon and caramel, skin scented like warm patchouli and rose. He kissed the insides of your wrists, your knuckles, and tips of your fingers.

“Yes, id like that.” The words were out of your mouth before you’d known it. Warm lips met your skin, kissing his way down your arm, his lashes brushed against you with every kiss. Warm pride surged through your belly, you were his, and he was yours.

You grasped at the back of his head, pulling him into your embrace. Gales legs shifted under yours, bending at the knee to allow you to rest your legs around his waist. He braced a hand behind your head, careful about dropping his head on yours. Your lips moved sloppily, he still kissed like an awkward teen- which ultimately you found endearing. His stubble brushed against your skin. one of hands cupping your jaw, he separated slightly breathless. “Sorry, orb. It’s getting a little tight in my chest. Mind if I…take it a bit slower?”

“You needn’t apologize my love.” You ran a finger against his bottom lip, “I’m always willing to go slow. Your company is something to be savored.”

“I was hoping id be more sweet.” He giggles at his own bad joke, lips returning to yours. He hummed into the kiss, the wizard’s tongue ran over your teeth gingerly, asking for entrance. You obliged parting your mouth slightly, he tilted his face his nose brushing against yours. You ran your tongue against the ridges in his mouth, he let out a low groan his tongue retreating into his. Gale’s breath was wonderfully heated.

“You are quite delicious my dear.”  He grinned shifting his weight to move about. “I would like to- taste you a bit more if that’s alright.”

“oho!” you grin twirling a piece of his hair around your finger. “Shall I be finding out about your most practiced tongue this morning?”

“The very same” he beamed, crinkles forming around his eyes, he bends down kissing the column of your neck, his teeth gently grazing and nipping at the skin. “That is- if you’d like.”

You gave him a quiet nod, a little nervous to fully admit what you’d like. His lips trailed further down over your night shirt, his hands found the edge of the hem, gingerly pulling up his eyes flickered back to you again to check in.

you nodded once more.

The blissful sting of his teeth at your sides, he favored biting you around your hips and waist, a gentlemanly move and to lay proof of claim. Bites upon the neck were simply too gouache for him. You could feel the squeeze of your walls as he kissed his way back down your sternum, lips soft as ever he was a tease. You sighed when he made his way back to your thighs planting a kiss on each of them. He adjusted so he was under the covers, the top of his head tenting the blanket. His eyes claimed yours again, a swirling of questions in his deep brown eyes. You smiled, his gaze then relaxed and lowered.

He ran his tongue on the outline of slick in your underwear, electing a low whine from you. He smiled, hooking his fingers into your rubber band and kissing your skin as it was revealed. His glasses slid down his nose, the lenses fogging up from his breath. He pulled off the garment, a groan rumbling through his chest.

“By the weave… you are absolutely stunning.” His padded fingers grazed against your cunt, sweeping the juices onto his digits. He sucked at his fingers; eyes clamped shut to savor your taste. He exhaled, lips forming a delicious pout.

“You taste of the finest ambrosia…” his voice was soft, almost bashful. “I am blessed to be continuously surprised by the joys of the mortal realm.” His hands found the side of your thighs, hair fanning in front of his face. You reached out brushing it behind his ear, carefully running a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his head. The tip of his tongue traced shallow outlines around your clit, hot velvety breath layered against your thighs. He began to kitten lick up your sex, soft sighs of delight as he tasted you. He hovered over your clit, mouth latching onto the sensitive bud, his eyes caught yours again, the corners crinkling in delight at your slightly disheveled state. Breath catching in your throat, hand on his head, and heel of your foot braced against his back. The sunlight made your skin glow, eyes dark and pupils blown. Silver hair danced along your cheeks, perhaps this is what the visage of an angel looked like.

He swirled his tongue around you, mindful of suction and teeth. Using a hand to push up his glasses, glancing up occasionally. He let go of your clit, listening to the rush of air from your lungs. He muttered an incantation under his breath.

You watched as he worked, his strong nose pushed against your clit, his thick tongue dipping into your core. His hands cupped your hips and ass like he hasn’t eaten in a week, letting out a soft groan as he rutted against the mattress. Then you felt it, a cool touch on your inner thigh as he came up to breathe. His beard was stained with you, a signal to your arousal. You shivered under his gaze; the cool grasp felt wonderful against your puffy clit. It trailed down to your folds, gently prodding at your entrance. You groaned at the intrusion, cool invisible digits spearing your insides.

“Mage hand” the prodigy hummed, kissing the sides of your chin, fingers idly rubbing shapes into your clit. You groaned into his mouth as he peppered kisses onto your lips, his hands left your clit to pull off his shirt and pants, an obvious tent present in his boxers. He took off his glasses and untied his bun, his hair falling against his shoulders. It had gotten a bit longer, just dusting over his shoulders. Your lashes fluttered as the digits curled inside of you, stretching you gently.

“You are a work of art, my love.” He palmed his crotch, fingertips tracing against the swell of your breast. The hand works in tandem with his; slow tantalizing pumps against your inner walls. You squeezed down against the phantom feeling, the wizard sighing with delight. He kissed down your skin again, mouth back against your clit working to free you of the taught knot in the base of your stomach. One hand balanced on your hip the other under his waistband tugging at his shaft. Gasps escaped your lips, as you melted into his hands. He seemed smug and utterly pleased when his eyes met yours again.

The stimulation against your walls faded, a whine ripping though your lips. He gently shushed you, crawling back up your body, kissing every freckle or mole he came across.

“Now, my love, are you ready for me?” his words ached in the right places, dripping with arousal and tinged with need. He clumsily slid out of his boxers, tossing them somewhere in the room. His body has softened from time sat still, less definition from his college days and a soft slope of a belly coated in a fuzzy happy trail. He was slim- certainly, but he wasn’t fit either- Being cared for has that effect on people.  You slid a hand down his hip, squeezing his muscular thigh on its way down back to your side. His hips canted slightly under your light touch, biting his inner cheek. “Oh, the things you do to me, my star, my precious little love.” His words flushed as pink as his cheeks.

“I’m so glad only I get to view you like this, your beauty- in the most natural state- forgive me a moment- I must- “he let out a shuddering exhale, catching his breath. “Ah. Can’t speak much when focus goes somewhere else” his eyes were apologetic.

“Would you prefer…being on bottom?” your concern evident from your voice.

“That would be wise.” He shifted to the center of the bed amongst the clouds of pillows, his hair settling haphazardly as its own halo.

You ran a hand down his chest, admiring your lovers’ body. Your hand cupped his hip as you clambered over him. His knees knocking together as you used them as leverage onto him. Gently you tested him against your entrance, beads of pre-cum welling from his slit. Every muscle of the man beneath you tensed in anticipation. Your hips shook slightly at the awkwardness of the position, head of his member broaching your folds. The insides of you felt plush and velveteen, as you took him inside of you, the most pathetic sound ripped its way from your throat, hanging in the air. Your toes twitched, a sigh shared in tandem at the hilt, one hand over his quick heart.

The outlines of the dark round tattoo glowed faintly, he spasmed underneath you, thighs tensing and untensing. This felt sweeter than any sex before it, each time you burned anew for him. Each ridge upon him your body memorized, cream and pink his skin ran. You kissed his adams apple as it bobbed, his breath ragged from adjusting.  He screwed his eyes shut; face crinkled like crepe paper. You cupped his chest, testing a roll. It stung beautifully against your walls; warmth flooded your sides as you clenched down on him. His hands found your sides, pinching and cupping your ass, gentle to assist your bounces. He exhaled again muttering several incantations, cool slow buzzing ran over your clit.

“Oh, my love- how immaculate you look- “he sighed pushing up onto his toes, cementing you further onto him. His thighs wobbled as he speared you, aching to get every inch of himself into you. The head of his cock pulsed against your cervix, finding spongy spots within you. Your brain bubbled, cheeks flushed and radiating heat, a slight ring to your ears.

He stared at you with eyes you could never get tired of, pools of honey browns devouring your figure. Every flash of your image- ingrained into his memory.

He pulled you onto him, lips too quick to clamp down on yours. Your breath vanished between his teeth, nipping at your lower lips. His thrusts were desperate, earning a few moans from your lips. He captured them in return, his lips greedy for your sound. Your legs wormed around his, toe to toe. He set a bruising pace; his tip gently nestled against your cervix. You clamped and fluttered around him, cupping his chin and hand clamped in his hair.

He gasped for air, lips bruised “bhaal below- I can feel you- “he bit his lip, “gods your so close- so close and so good to me.”  His hips pulsed erratically, tips of his toes sliding against the mussed sheets. “Beautiful- my star you are excellent-!”

No words fell from your mouth, just a coagulation of sighs running from your throat. Your core felt ironclad and taught, your cup overflowed with him around.  The base of your hips ached from the muscle usage. His warm hand settled on your hips, his dulled nails digging into your plush flesh.

“Your so close- my darling, my love- “his words slurred, head tilted back to gulp back air. “Gods- come for me my star- I need you so bad-!” his voice slightly broke. Your mouth found the base of his throat clamping and sucking at his favorite spot. Quickly, he shoved you down as you crumbled into him, noses pressed together. Waves of heat pulsed through your core, sending his spent seed into you. He twitched and pulsed as he pulled you close, his chest gently glowing purple.

And then there was silence, blessed waves of relief as the shocks ran through your body. He deflated, sweat sticking to his forehead, curling the baby hairs around his scalp. You ached. Again, he was the first to stir a hand gently combing through your scalp. A gentle laugh erupting from his chest.

“Well, my dear- you are a gift that keeps on giving.” He hummed, closing his eyes. “I am spent- I don’t think id like to move for the rest of the day- I mean, if you’d like to, that would be our plan for today.”

You hummed in response, shifting your hips. “We forgot a towel.”

“No need to fret my dear…” he reached towards a drawer in his nightstand, pulling out a rag. “Always prepared.”

He helped you up, a whine ripping through your chest at the removal. Settling you back onto his chest, the rag settled comfortably between your thighs. He ran his hands up and down your back, tracing the dimples of your thighs, each ridge of bone and settled muscle. He stretched, reaching for his kindle on the bedside. Bracing an arm on your back. His skin smelt like lilies, soft and smooth under you. You listened to his dull heartbeat, peacefully drifting off in his arms.

[zablife]

Tachipen (Part 5)

Summary: With the flip of a coin, Tommy makes a deal to bring a young gypsy girl into the Shelby clan. Considering her too young to marry, he takes pity on her and employs her as a nanny for John’s children instead. The arrangement soon sours when Tommy believes his horse has been cursed and demands her help stealing from the Lees. When she seeks solace in John’s company, an innocent romance blossoms, but a war with the Lees and Polly’s poorly-timed advice drive them apart in a way that will change their history forever. As the scenes from the present reveal, Y/n must watch the Shelby men go on to love others while she is shut out. However, the events of one tragic afternoon could change everything.

Author’s Note: After a 5 month hiatus, this story is back! I'll be updating more regularly now that I've outlined more of the fic. The story is told through flashbacks, but I will note the year. Tommy meets y/n in 1919 and the story goes thru present time which is the year of the vendetta, 1925. 

Warnings: language, ethnic slur, implied smut, mention of pregnancy, mention of arranged marriage

Part 4

1924

The frosted glass shook as Polly forcefully closed John’s office door, her eyes darting from you to her nephew. “What is this I hear about the two of you sniping at one another like bloody children?”

You and John both started speaking at once and Polly shouted over you to assert authority. “That’s enough! John, perhaps you could explain why you’re even in the office today?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Y/n is perfectly capable of supervising the other girls.”

John opened and closed his mouth a few times in shock, giving the appearance of a fish out of water before you interjected. “He’s been hovering over me for weeks, Pol. Won’t let me finish one fucking job without trying to find a mistake!”

John pointed a finger in your direction as he retorted, “If she could keep her mind on her work instead of her love life for a change--”

“Would you stop?!" you screamed, interrupting him mid-sentence. You felt the emotion welling in your chest and did your best to keep from crying. Running a shaky hand through your hair, you took a deep breath to regain control before continuing your plea to Polly. "I did as I was told. I broke up with Angel and I apologized…” you stopped before you broke down, then continued with the part that stung most, “for the inconvenience.” Those had been the words Arthur insisted you use. He’d probably consulted Linda about it at the first sign of trouble, you thought bitterly. 

Polly softened at your show of emotion, reaching across the table for your hand. “Alright, I think I understand. John, would you leave us, please?” John nodded with clenched jaw, pushing out of his chair with more force than necessary. He looked back at you as he crossed to the door and you swore you saw a brief shadow of remorse cross his handsome features though you couldn’t be sure with the lingering tension between you.

When you were finally alone, Polly began, “Y/n, I’m sorry about this. I know you’re upset about the Changretta boy and I don’t blame you, but what’s done is done. And you must understand that John is under a lot of stress at home. I’m not sure if you know this, but there's another little one on the way,” she said hesitantly.

“Again?” you nearly shrieked. It was the third time in the nearly four years he'd been married. 

Polly nodded slowly. “You see why he’s so on edge lately?”

You swallowed thickly, thinking of how chaotic the household must be with six children, soon to be seven. Although you attempted a shred of compassion for his new wife, you couldn’t manage it. “Yes, I understand,” you said in a quiet monotone. “He has a lot of people depending on him.” It was what Polly wanted to hear so you spoke the words, turning your head away so she couldn’t read your expression.

“Exactly. I know it doesn’t excuse his behavior here, but we all have to learn to get along,” she advised, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before leaving you alone in the room. A bitter laugh escaped your throat at the thought of any of you living peacefully after all you’d inflicted upon one another. 

—————————————————-

1919

As the first rays of dawn broke, you sat up in bed, face aching from the bruise across your cheek and your mind reeling from the events of the previous day. If Tommy hadn’t trusted you before, there was no hope for you now with so much cash missing from the betting shop, especially when he learned the Lees were to blame. How could he not think you were involved?

Panic setting into your bones, you decided to make a hasty retreat from Polly’s house while you still could. Despite the throbbing in your wrist, you slipped your dress over your head and silently turned the bedroom doorknob, giving the hallway a quick glance for occupants. With no signs of activity, you slipped quietly down the steps and right to the front door, knowing this would be the most difficult part of your escape. The rusty hinges creaked loudly and you cringed at the noise, well aware of how it carried throughout the house. Rightfully so as Tommy’s voice beckoned to you at the sound. “Where are you off to so early?” his husky voice called out.

You spun around to face him, heart pounding in your chest as you waited for his wrath to rain down upon you. You calculated the distance to the street, wondering if you might still be able to outrun him, when he suddenly closed the distance between you, shutting the door with a gentle push. 

As he stared into your eyes, he spoke again in a much softer voice. “I misjudged you."

You held your breath realizing how close he stood, the heat radiating off his body into yours. Transfixed by the intensity of his bright, blue eyes, you couldn’t help but stare back at him. The anxious flutter you felt in your stomach intensified as you waited to hear what he thought he knew about you.

“What you did for Ada last night was…” he looked away for a moment as he tried to find the words to express the gratitude he felt upon hearing of Ada’s difficult labor and delivery. “Well, my sister and nephew are alive because of you. You could have gone with the Lees, but you stayed here,” he said, emphasizing the last part. You realized he was recognizing the loyalty in your decision, though for you it had been a matter of common decency.

“Thank you,” he added hesitantly and you could tell from the way he said it, he didn’t make a habit of ingratiating himself to others.

“I only did what I thought was right,” you said, averting your eyes to the floorboards.

One look at your tense posture and Tommy took a step back to give you air. He gestured toward the table as he asked, “Will you sit with me?” You nodded slowly, crossing to join him at the kitchen table. Tommy took a seat and lit a cigarette, leaning back and tilting his head as he searched the ceiling through the rings of smoke. Then the words tumbled forth, breaking the awkward silence unexpectedly. 

“About that night in the stable… I brought you here to look after my family and I had to know I could trust you. Charlie thought you might have put a spell on the horse and for a moment I believed him.” Sitting up and looking you in the eye he added, “But when I asked you for the truth, I could tell by your reaction that it wasn’t your doing.”

Your eyes grew wide at his confession. You hadn’t expected him to speak of it ever again and the thought of him bringing it up now made you shudder. With a dismissive air and bitter tone you pushed it away saying, “M used to it. No one trusts gypsies.” You hugged your arms around your body to still your trembling limbs, hoping Tommy would’t recognize weakness in you.  

“It’s not right though,” he said looking you in the eye. “I should never have…”

“No, you shouldn’t, you bastard” you interjected, jaw firmly set at the mention of his cruel treatment. 

Tommy sucked his teeth as he flicked ash into a mug, giving your jab a moment to wash over him before responding. “I suppose I deserve that, but I want to make amends. Can we start fresh?” Tommy asked, blue eyes searching yours intently.

“Yes, I think so,” you agreed reluctantly, unsure how this turn of events had happened.

“Good,” he said with a nod. “Because I’d like to invite you to have a seat at the next family meeting.”

Your head was still swimming with Tommy’s apology so you weren’t quite sure you heard correctly. “What? When?” you sputtered.

“Today, we have to go on the offensive now that the Lees have struck a blow and you’re our best hope of understanding their way of thinking,” Tommy explained. 

You touched the bruise on the right side of your face that was turning to a dark shade of purple, thinking of how your sister was one of them by now. What would your scheming do to her, you wondered?

While you were lost in thought, Tommy leaned forward to examine your swollen wrist and you cried out at his touch. He lifted your hand and moved it carefully to see if there were any broken bones, a skill he’d learned during the war while attending to his men. Nodding thoughtfully he replied, “You’ve got a sprain. You should let me wrap it.” 

“Alright,” you agreed, watching as Tommy fetched a bandage and efficiently went about his work, a fresh cigarette hanging from his lower lip. His touch was surprisingly gentle and your mind wandered to the times you’d watched him with the horses. You recalled how they’d responded to him without the use of a whip, only the sound of his voice over the noise of the scrap metal yard. You couldn’t deny that there was something about his presence in this moment that you found calming.

The roughness of his voice cut the silence as he spoke for the first time since he began tending to you. “I’ll be off to John’s now,” he said with a nod as he stamped out his smoke and before you could ask anything more he was gone, leaving you in quiet contemplation of your new role within the family and everything you thought you knew about Tommy.

————————————-

“Open up!” A voice bellowed out before John’s front door swung open, footsteps falling hard and fast on the stairs leading to the bedroom.

John sat up quickly, pulling the duvet over his naked body before reaching for his revolver on the nightstand. Tommy burst in with John cursing, “Fuck, Tommy! When will you learn to knock?” 

“When will you learn to lock your bloody door? The Lees could still be in town for all we know,” Tommy scolded.

As the brothers argued, the woman beside John began to stir at the sound of their shouting. As she rolled over to face John, Tommy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as he caught sight of the woman’s familiar dark curls. John covered her quickly though he knew Tommy had already spied his secretary.

John tossed his gun onto the bedside table as he waved his brother off. “Alright, that’s enough! Get out!”

“Fine, but get dressed quickly. There’s business to discuss,” Tommy said, turning to leave. Then hesitating for a moment he called over his shoulder, “Lizzie, I want you at work by nine!”

She inhaled a sharp breath beneath the covers, embarrassed at being caught in bed with the boss’s younger brother. She’d gone to the Garrison to celebrate the new baby with everyone else from the office, but it was Tommy she’d been after. John just happened to be the brother who stumbled into the snug first.

After donning her dress and shoes, Lizzie leaned over with a warm smile and gave John a tender goodbye kiss. His head pounding from the hangover, he gave her only a sliver of affection in return, the reality of what he’d done hitting him full force. When he closed his eyes the only person he could see was you.

“I’ll be going, but I’d like to do this again. You never call me anymore,” she said biting her lip. Pulling back to study him she noticed John’s baby blue eyes didn’t dance with light as they had the night before.

“Listen, Lizzie…” he began, but Tommy interrupted, calling to him from downstairs. “We’ll talk later, yeah?” he said and she nodded cheerfully before pulling on her heels and clicking down the hall.

By the time John joined Tommy in the kitchen, Tommy was pacing like a wild animal. “Where the fuck were you yesterday, eh?” he asked, pointing a finger at his brother. 

John rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head slightly. He couldn’t think clearly. What had happened? Before he had time to reply, Tommy was stalking toward him angrily. “The betting shop was robbed by the Lees. Y/n and Ada could have been killed because you left your post, John!”

“Oh, fuck off, Tommy!” John replied. “This is not my fault! How was I meant to do collections for Arthur and run the shop? Scudboat was there anyhow,” he asserted, pulling his suspenders up with an annoyed roll of his neck.

“Except he wasn’t. He went to Charlie’s yard for the arrival of the new shipment which is why you were supposed to have been back by four!” Tommy said, slamming the kitchen table with his palm for emphasis. Running a hand through his hair he shook his head muttering, “You never fucking listen.”

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, another vision of you suddenly dancing across his eyelids. He’d noticed a deep red mark on your cheek and how you winced when Ada put too much pressure on your hand, but you’d both been so consumed with Ada’s labor. You’d been steadfast delivering the baby, but that was how you were when you were scared, carrying on despite the fear. John’s head shot up as he asked, “Y/n? How is she?”

Tommy let out a heavy sigh as he realized he was finally getting through to his brother, plopping down in a chair he replied, “She has some bruises and a sprained wrist. She was lucky this time, brother, but the danger will increase. The Lees know she gave us information about their operation. They took their money, but now they want blood,” Tommy said ominously. 

John nodded in understanding. He wouldn’t let his concentration lapse again. You were too important and he was determined to do everything in his power to protect you this time. He only needed to bring you home.

———————————————-

The family assembled in the betting shop without noticing you hovering in the corner, feeling woefully out of place. Polly and Arthur were already seated, talking quietly as Polly smoked her clove cigarettes. Lizzie sat with pencil and paper in hand to take notes if necessary, but she didn’t appear nearly as concerned as the others. In fact, she was positively radiant, as though she couldn't stop smiling. You wondered what she had to be so cheerful about, when Isaiah appeared in the doorway, remarking to her, “Looks as though someone had a good night.”

“You know, John,” Lizzie replied with a giggle. Your heart stopped as you watched her bite her lip seductively, wondering what she meant by that. 

Moving to the kitchen to help yourself to a cup of tea, Isaiah sauntered in behind you, clearing his throat to announce his presence. “Why didn’t you come to the Garrison last night?” he asked, leaning against the cupboards with a casual charm he directed at most ladies.

“I was tired. Delivering a baby will do that,” you replied with a smile.

“Of course. John said you were brilliant,” Isaiah complimented you as he removed his cap and smoothed his hair.

“Isaiah, was Lizzie with you and John last night?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

A wide grin spread across Isaiah’s face as he accepted the mug of tea you offered exclaiming, “Yeah, for a bit. Then they told me to piss off. I mean, you know how they are.”

“N-no, I don’t,” you stuttered, hands beginning to tremble around your cup.

“Those two can’t keep their hands off each other! It’s been that way since the war ended. John used to blind her other customers just so he could see her more often,” he said with a laugh. When Isaiah observed your blank expression he continued saying, “You know what Lizzie used to do, don’t you?” 

Shaking your head, you felt your stomach drop and your mouth go dry as he explained their arrangement. Apparently John had been paying her for sex for years. The words stabbed into you as you held yourself up against the cupboards, willing your face not to betray your tender heart in front of a blinder. 

But the terrible feeling of betrayal was overwhelming as you remembered Katie’s words about her father and his whores. You thought John had feelings for you, but clearly you’d been wrong. The pit in your stomach grew as you relived the kiss you shared the night before outside Polly’s house. He must have sensed your hesitation and gone back to someone more experienced and familiar. You felt another twist of the knife as you wondered if he ever wanted you. His brother had forced him to take you in after all and suddenly you felt terribly foolish. Worried your legs might give out at any moment, you excused yourself to take a seat at the table.

The pain only worsened as Lizzie turned to address you with an air of worldly sophistication. “Y/n, it was kind of you to leave John and me last night. One day you’ll see how important it is that a man and a woman have their privacy. I know John appreciates it,” she said with a wink and a knowing smile. As heat seeped into your cheeks with the overwhelming feeling of humiliation, it was almost more than you could bare. Did everyone know John saw you as a child who wasn’t worthy of his attention?

Soon Tommy and John arrived, taking their seats at the table and you found yourself shifting uncomfortably in your seat as you tried to avoid John’s gaze.

As Tommy called the meeting to order you noticed all eyes on you, making you painfully aware that as a non blood relative nor a blinder, you shouldn’t be there. Tommy quickly put everyone’s fears to rest, making it known that he had asked you to be his adviser and no one dared go against Tommy. 

The meeting progressed quickly after that with John proposing an all out war against the Lees. He wanted to see them all cut to ribbons and you could tell by the dangerous gleam in his eye he was more than capable. Lizzie gave him a nod of approval from across the table and your blood boiled at the thought of them discussing strategy together, plotting and scheming as they lay tangled between the sheets. You were past the point of tears by now, coiling your hands into fists below the table.

While no one else came forward with a different thought right away, Arthur quickly agreed to John’s plan. Not one for ideas himself, he went along with the quickest method of handling enemies. 

However, Polly was next to speak and interjected reason before the men could become too blood hungry. “This all began because of greed, Thomas. If we propose to share our contacts with Erasmus and thus the earnings, it might convince them to stop trying to kill us.” You could see Polly favored peace above all else, but you knew Tommy would never settle for half his take. 

Then the idea came to you, born of resentment and retaliation, but an age old solution that would work nonetheless. You knew how to achieve peace if only you could convince your aunt and Tommy.

“There’s another way, but it requires discussion with an elder, my aunt, Zilpha,” you proposed, glancing up at Tommy.

“She’ll see me after everything that’s happened?” Tommy asked, a note of skepticism in his voice.

“No, but she’ll see me,” you promised him. You could see the wheels in his mind turning as he pondered what you might say to your aunt. If he truly trusted you, he would agree to let you speak on their behalf, however. 

With a small nod he agreed. “Alright, I’ll take you tomorrow,” Tommy said. “You’d better get some rest.” And with that, he left everyone in stunned silence, their fate in your hands.

As everyone filed out of the room, John remained, leaning on a desk. When you attempted to walk past, he stopped you, reaching out to capture your arm. “Y/n, wait,” he called out.

Your eyebrows shot up at his request, unsure why he hadn’t dashed out after Lizzie. It seemed her company was what he craved now so why was he here waiting for you? “What is it, John?” you asked, voice tinged with irritation. 

“I wanted to see how you are,” he said, looking you over with what appeared to be genuine concern. His opposite hand traced the bandage that covered your wrist, eyes trained on your injury as though he felt the pain concealed beneath it. 

“I’m fine,” you said, attempting to break away, but John held you to him.

Reaching up to caress your bruised cheek he spoke earnestly, “Look, I’m sorry about yesterday. I should have been at the shop. If I had been, none of this would have happened.”

“Well you can’t change it now,” you replied, locking eyes with him, wanting to scream at him about Lizzie, but knowing it wouldn’t help.

“Let me at least try to make it up to you,” John pleaded, rubbing his thumb over your hand. “Come home,” he suggested in a voice so soft you almost didn’t hear him.

“Why?” you asked, snatching your hand away.

The biting tone had obviously hurt John, a wounded look crossing his face immediately as he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at the floor. “Because…because the children and I need you,” he reasoned, furrowing his brow. He’d never been good with words, but he hoped you would hear how much he cared for you with that simple phrase.

The words pricked the hairs at the back of your neck, confirming what you already suspected. There was no love there, only a life of convenience. Biting your cheek to keep from crying, you sucked in a quick breath before replying, “I’m sorry, John, but I’m needed elsewhere at the moment.” You turned on your heel and disappeared into the house.

—————————————-

You spent another night at Polly’s, too upset to return to John’s. When you closed the bedroom door before having your dinner, Tommy urged the others not to pry into the cause of  your sudden mood change. He explained there was a long drive ahead of you in the morning and reasoned you must be anxious at the thought of returning to a camp full of angry relatives.

As you drove to the Lee camp in comfortable silence, you were relieved that Tommy wasn’t the curious sort. However, you knew he deserved to hear what you intended on proposing to your aunt so you began explaining your plan for ushering in peace between the two families. While you expected him to question it a bit more, he only chain smoked as he kept his eyes trained on the road. When you’d finished, you swore you heard a low hum of approval emanate from his pursed lips, though you weren’t entirely sure from his stoic expression.

There was no time for doubt in any case as the car jerked to a halt. You exited your side cautiously, eyes scanning the horizon to find men with rifles stood at attention above you. “Slowly now,” Tommy advised as he stooped to gather a stick and dug into his pocket for a white handkerchief to tie at the top. As he walked up the dirt road toward the vardos circled on the ridge, he waved the makeshift flag. You allowed him to lead until he leaned toward you to whisper, “You’re sure you still want to do this? What of your future, eh?” It was the first he had mentioned you in any of the plans and you swallowed harshly at his insinuation that your fate mattered either way.

“Let me worry about that,” you replied stubbornly, marching ahead. Tommy wanted to laugh at your determination, but thought better of it considering the circumstances. He shook his head as he followed after you, admiration for your courage swelling in his throat. 

Zilpha greeted you with a wary expression upon your approach, face as dark and stormy as the clouds overhead threatening rain. Standing at the doorway of her vardo, she refused to descend until you had both been searched for weapons. Although you understood her hesitation, it stung to be treated as a traitor when you still held love for your family. 

When she was satisfied you weren’t there to harm her, she allowed you to ascend the steps and you breathed a sigh of relief when she extended a wrinkled hand to you, pulling you inside.

Despite having convinced her of your own good intentions, Tommy was made to wait outside. You could tell from her knitted brow, he would never gain her full approval and you knew you would have to work hard to sell his good points. 

After the preamble of commenting on your thin frame and offering up a hearty stew, Zilpha asked why you had come and you wasted no time with your appeal. 

“He’s a smart man, aunt. But he needs strong men,” you explained.

“For what?” she asked harshly, turning to face you with such force, her jewelry crashed together creating a tinny clinking that echoed out like a warning.

“Protection for his growing business. They get the winner in one of every three races before the race even starts. No need for chalks or rafflers. It’s a certainty,” you promised her, believing in Tommy’s operations so that she would have faith as well. 

“It sounds like this Shelby man’s got his hooks in ya,” she said, eyeing you suspiciously.

You bristled at her assumptions, holding your head high. “No Shelby has me, aunt. In fact, I have a unique proposal for you to end the war between you and them.”

“And what might that be?” she said, leaning forward elbows on her knees to hear you better.

“Rumors say Erasmus’s cousin Esme has been running wild. If I could promise a good husband for her, would you give Tommy soldiers? If you do, this alliance will make you a rich woman,” you promised.

Zilpha thought for a moment, recalling the trouble she’d had finding a suitable groom to take on the headstrong young woman.

“And what man do you suggest?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Tommy’s younger brother, John Shelby,” you said, hoping she didn’t notice the way your voice wavered as you said his name. She hadn’t, too preoccupied by your talk of fortune. Without hesitation, she extended a hand in agreement.  

As you both emerged, Tommy searched your face for a sign that the negotiations had been a success. You gave him a small nod and he turned to Zilpha. “He’ll do then?” Tommy asked.

“Bring him round in a fortnight and it will be done,” Zilpha proclaimed. 

The drive back to Small Heath was cloaked in thick silence as you looked out the passenger window. Exhaustion from the long day was beginning to take hold of you, but something wouldn’t let you give in to the need for rest. Although you hoped your plan of revenge might heal your broken heart, the ache only grew stronger. You didn’t yet know it, but regret would soon take hold and there would be nothing you could do to reverse it. 

——————————————

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[assortedseaglass]

Borne & Bound

Aemond Targaryen X Geowyth Beridan (Shieldmaiden!OFC)

[Masterlist]

Story Content: Strong Language, Violence, Slow Burn, Smut, Canon-typical Sexism, Mentions Canon-typical of Incest

Notes: Aemond and Geowyth meet in the training yard.

Mearl thundered across the glade at the edge of the kingswood. A flash of green whirled in the dark aspect of his eyes, and his long mane of raven hair flew in the wind. So dark was his coat that the very landscape seemed to tear as the great beast cut his way across the green.

Geowyth knew she was driving him hard. He hadn’t been ridden since their arrival into King’s Landing, and she was permitted to visit him only twice during her busy stay at the capital.

It was easy to exit the keep that morning. A great many attendees of the King’s council and feast were leaving for home, and in the hubbub of servants preparing their house’s journeys, Geowyth was able to slip into the stables and saddle Mearl in the awakening dawn.

Across the Blackwater estuary and away from the city, from her brother, she drove him hard as dawn turned to day. In the few days since she had ridden, Geowyth had not forgotten the thrill of speeding across grassland, coast or cliff with her mighty companion, but memory and dreaming could not quite equal the exhilaration of the real thing.

The cold air of the morning chilled at her face as Mearl’s unbraided mane whipped before her in long tendrils. Her knees were tucked into the round barrel of his ribs, and with every stride she felt the ripple of muscle there. Occasionally, he cast his head side to side as he ran, huffing and whinnying as he did so. It was in those moments, that Geowyth knew he had missed this as much as her. Together, they flew across the grassland, their two bodies alert utterly free.

Geowyth’s angry tears had dried the moment she rode Mearl over the shallow water of the estuary’s opening. What a difference fresh air and freedom makes. In truth, when Geodred told her that she would be staying in King’s Landing a while longer, she hadn’t been entirely angry. Staying with Helaena was the primary reason, in fact, that Geowyth hadn’t taken her dagger to her brother’s throat. A companion to a princess. She’d be lying if the little girl within her didn’t jump with pleasure when she heard those words.

No, it wasn’t that which made her angry. It was the way Geodred skulked to her chamber door late in the evening to tell her. That he had not consulted her before arranging it with the Queen. His reasons, that she could learn about court life from such a household, remain with Helaena and have the freedom to be a young noblewoman that life in Braedel had not, and soon will not, afford, did little to quell Geowyth’s anger. It seemed that despite their brief stay in the capital, Geodred had learned much about the way things were done here. Namely, duplicity, secrecy and order that relied not on the merit and skill of a person, but their gender.

‘Tis no wonder Princess Rhaenyra left.

When Geowyth flung these accusations at her brother, he’d softened. His bright eyes darkened and he’d held a hand to her face. It was no use, trying to hide herself from the person she loved most.

“I should have told you, but when confronted with the Queen and her machinations, ‘twas hard to back down. I am just as nervous here as you, sweoster. I know,” he had continued lowly and stepped into her room. Alma had left only a few minutes before, and Geowyth had half hoped she had seen Geodred on her way to the servant’s hall. Alma was not good at disguising her appreciation of Geodred. “I know that you are worried about our uncle. But I swear to you, I will send for you the moment our father beckons him home.”

Tears threatened to fall once more, and Geowyth blinked a few times against the wind, focusing her mind on the stamping of Mearl’s hooves. Somehow, the earth beneath them sounded different here. In Braedel, beyond Eobarrow, across the mor and harad and along the brimlad, Geowyth knew every knoll and mound like the back of her hand. Here, the land was a stranger, just as she was.

The sun had risen yet the chill of night remained. From atop Mearl, Geowyth looked at her surroundings. The trees on the edge of the kingswood were dark, their boughs tinted pink by the early morning sun.

Red sky at morning, shepherd’s warning.

Deeper in the wood, she saw some of them rippling, like wind across water. Mearl veered suddenly to avoid a trough in the land and Geowyth looked forward. Ahead, hills covered the horizon like sleeping green giants, and Geowyth wondered how long it would take to ride there. A day, at least. Perhaps she could convince Helaena to take her there one day. Helaena and Dreamfyre, she and Mearl.

Though she was yet to see the dragon, Helaena had told Geowyth much about Dreamfyre. Of her silver and blue scales that shimmered in the sun like the fish of Blackwater Bay. How she flew with grace and speed, and that her spirit possessed a lightness that seemed to soar when in flight. When Geowyth remarked how well matched Dreamfyre and her rider were, Helaena had blushed proudly. “I will introduce you to Mearl before we leave,” Geowyth had told her. Helaena shook her head furiously, fear flashing in her eyes. “Princess,” Geowyth took her hand. “You are a dragon rider.”

Geowyth smiled at the memory, and patted Mearl’s strong neck. “How could anyone be scared of you?”

At once a great roar, like the felling of a great tree, split the air. Mearl bolted, and Geowyth fought to calm him, all the while looking around.

“Sy swige, Mearl, y heore!” “Be still, I am here!”

He stopped his weaving course and settled into a steady run, yet Geowyth could sense the tension humming throughout his body. The very air around them seemed to swell under the weight of their worry, pressing down on them from the skies. Geowyth rode Mearl to small tor on the edge of the wood, and together with heaving breath, they waited for the storm to pass.

If the air had been chill on the ride out of the city, it was nothing that compared to the cold that swaddled them now. It was just as Geowyth leant over Mearl’s sleek neck, attempting to soothe him with whispers of home when a great shadow fell across the valley. Mearl whinnied and rose onto his back legs, spooked by the sudden blackness that swept across the ground.

In terrified awe, Geowyth looked up. She had heard rumours, of the beast that lived beyond the city, too large for the dragonpit and ridden by the bravest and most merciless riders. But to see her on the wing, a goliath against the sky, eclipsing all light as she flew, was another matter entirely.

Vhagar.

Excitement and terror prickled Geowyth’s skin in equal measure, and a shiver ran down her spine. The same seemed to have happened to Mearl, for the shackles of his neck and mane were alert to the creature overhead.

Geowyth watched as Vhagar rose higher into the sky, her bulk never seeming to diminish. From her battle-worn belly to the holes of her wings, the great she-dragon was utterly beautiful, and Geowyth felt an instant kinship to the dragon. Mearl bristled restlessly as though reading his rider’s thoughts, and Geowyth patted his neck once more as they both watched the sky.

Time stilled as Geowyth watched Vhagar circle ever higher. She was transfixed by the slow beating of her wings, the elegant way she glided through the air, her tail cutting the cloud like a knife. Of his own accord, Mearl moved off the tor and onto the plain of grassland. He stopped in the centre of the glade Geowyth had ridden him through, as though the open landscape gave her a better viewpoint to watch the dragon. Still, he pawed at the ground impatiently.

“Ungeara, min lufu,” “Soon, my love,”

Geowyth returned her gaze to the sky just as Vhagar turned sharply on her wing. The sleek hair of her rider caught fire in the pink morning light and Geowyth’s excitement turned to envy. For those fleeting minutes, Geowyth had forgotten that Prince Aemond Targaryen was Vhagar’s rider. How lucky of him, to be so entwined with the dragon. She wondered if he new how lucky he was. Judging by the attitude he had displayed throughout her stay, she doubted it.

By some strange coincidence, the prince seemed to have spotted the Braedel shieldmaiden far below at the same time she noticed him. There was a distant cry that Geowyth knew to be High Valyrian, and with surprising speed Vhagar changed direction and entered a dive towards the earth. Reacting instinctively, Geowyth kicked her heels into Mearl’s side and the stallion galloped into action.

The shadow Vhagar cast grew larger as she approached the earth. So too did the echoes of her rider, laughing and shouting words Geowyth did not understand. Mearl, sensing the dragon’s approach, ran harder in the direction of the keep. It was about time Geowyth made her way back to her duties, but why not have a little fun before she did so?

She wasn’t scared. Quite the opposite. Geowyth knew she was safe. The prince may not be able to hide his dislike of her with the skill that she managed to hide hers, but it wouldn’t do for a prince of the realm to kill one of their visiting guests, let alone one with whom his family was trying to make an allegiance. If not for the political fallout, the terror of his mother’s fury was surely enough to put that idea from the young prince’s mind.

And so, beneath the shadow of Vhagar, Mearl and Geowyth rode with freedom until the breath from the beating of the great dragon’s wings whirled around them. Geowyth cried out with glee, her shriek transforming into raucous laughter when Vhagar flew low overhead before sweeping away towards the capital.

Just to witness her in flight was to feel a freedom unlike Geowyth had ever known. Onward she rode, basking in the path Vhagar had flown, toward the city with a renewed vigour in her spirit. Perhaps staying in the capital would not be so bad.

People nodded and smiled to Geowyth as she strode through the keep’s corridors towards her small guest chambers. Alma would be there now, drawing a bath and fresh with gossip from the other servants. Some were surprised to see her awake so early, such was the life of a noblewoman, while others glanced at her dishevelled state. When she gave them a broad smile, her amber eyes alight with happiness, they either looked away, startled by their hue, or beamed back. Whatever their reaction, Geowyth found she did not care.

After her early morning ride, felt almost herself again. The smell of sweat and early morning dew clung to her cloak, and her riding boots left a muddied trail in her wake. It was like being at home; up before her uncle and Geodred rose, taking to Mearl with other riders of the Renward.

By the time she reached her chamber doors, a few other visiting ladies were leaving their rooms for an early breakfast. One of the Baratheon girls, the timid one, smiled to Geowyth as she passed, and a beautiful Tyrell girl swept after her.

“Morning, Alma.” Geowyth smiled as she entered the room and removed her riding gloves.

“Morning, Geowyth,” Alma had been instructed to abandon formalities almost at once.

“What news?”

Alma sprang to life in an instant. “It’s been such a night! Willow, one of the scullery maids, said that Rouncewell, one of the grooms, disappeared in the middle of the night. How she knows, I can’t guess,” Alma clicked her teeth and hurried to add rose petals and rosemary to Geowyth’s steaming bath. “And then Myonette, she’s a lady’s maid, said that she saw him sneaking off from the Tyrell lady’s room!”

“Well don’t you go revealing anything to anyone, other than me of course,” Geowyth had removed her dirtied outer layers and was making away with her undershirt.

“Course not.” Alma held her hand and helped her into the copper bath. Geowyth sighed as the warmth eased her aching muscles and Alma continued her tales. “Maryam, the cook, said that Barbary was in such a state yesterday evening. Barbary’s another scullery maid,” Alma added, moving somewhere in the room. “And then, guess what!? This morning, she was gone. Bed turned down, no note, nothing. Maryam reckons she’s got herself in a bad way and done a runner. You wouldn’t catch me losing my virtue and doing a moonlight flit-” She tutted again.

Geowyth leant an elbow against the bath and looked to where Alma stood by the writing desk. “Not all women have a choice, Alma. Surely, your mother told you about the evils of men?”

Alma hung her head. “She did, my lady.”

“And let us not forget,” Geowyth turned around in the tub. “Women are hot-blooded creatures too, with wants and desires. Why are we not allowed our share of fun for fear of tarried virtue?”

“My lady!” Alma gasped and Geowyth giggled. There was silence a while, and Geowyth could almost hear Alma thinking over her words. Suddenly, the maid gasped. “I almost forgot, this arrived for you not long before you got back,”

Alma appeared before Geowyth and held out a folded piece of parchment. Geowyth took it hastily from her hands and water sloshed over the bath’s side. “Sorry, Alma. Pass me the knife on the table there,” Alma made to grab a cloth and returned to clean the mess, handing a small dagger to Geowyth. With one fluid motion, Geowyth broke the wax seal and settled the dagger on the edge of the bath. It had once belonged to her mother, Finwyth. Geodred had inherited their father’s sword and rank, Geowyth, her mother’s dagger and countenance.

She need not read the signature to know who it was from, she recognised the writing and the seal emblazoned with a horse’s head.

Deorling maeg (darling girl),

You will never know the joy your council brings me, whether in person or written form. I had not expected to hear from you so soon into your stay, but by all above and below did it lift my spirits. I would happily read pages of your account of life in the capital.

All is well here. Folchild and her parents visited from Stanas Isle to go over what remains of the wedding. Remember you and I talked of how she seemed brighter and happier each time we saw her? Well, she seemed reserved these last few days. I put it down to her missing Geodred and the worry of the wedding and all that it will bring, but her father was in foul mood and her mother barely spoke. Hrodan suspects her father is regretting her betrothal to Geodred. I can’t see why, Stanas Isle is a place of little influence and her marriage to Geodred will see her elevate her rank while having to fear in the way of war. And anyone can see how she adores your brother.

Hrodan has been helping me run things in Geodred’s absence. I know you do not like him, Geowyth, but he is a shrewd and astute fellow. Let this be my next lesson to you. Not all people you dislike are the enemy, their flaws my even work in your favour.

Perhaps this is something to put to the test with your new acquaintances. You were right in your assumption, Geodred had not written, though I received word from him not two days ago about your extended stay. While it seems you need no help with the princess, why not be more attentive to the princes’ merits? The heir apparent you say is a wastrel but bonny fellow, and Geodred tells me that Prince Aemond has been giving him private tutelage in mainland history. List me two more of their virtues with your next letter.

I will miss you, deorling maeg, but I cannot tell a lie. Geodred and the queen are right that you should stay. I want you time to be a young woman of the realm before taking Geodred’s place as commander. We do not have long until that day comes, and I will not have you waste your life on this ill old man. I am in good hands. The cooks keep me well fed, I take a walk with Galepan each day (even if I am not fit to ride anymore), and Hrodan oversees the council. Mawe has even taken to sleeping by my bedside. It is the chicken you told me to feed him. Straight from the table, just as you said. He shall be my companion when you return, not yours!

I will you see you soon, do not worry. And if for whatever reason my forebears come to take me early, know that it is with you in my heart. I will tell your father of your grace.

Merits, my deorling maeg, and manners.

Eower tyme eam, (your devoted uncle)

Galan, Cyng (Gallan, King).

Geowyth stared at the letter. Silently, she held it out for Alma to take. Merits and manners? Not a thought for her wants, just like Geodred. The moment Alma turned her back to place the letter on the writing desk, Geowyth stood, bath water rippling around the tub.

Alma hurried over with a cloak. “You’ve been in not five minutes-”

“A walk,” Geowyth said to herself. “I’m sorry, Alma. I need a walk.” With no other word, Geowyth redressed in a clean smock and a tunic of Braedel blue and brocaded bronze. Tucking her mother’s dagger in the hidden pocket of the tunic, Geowyth put on her muddied boots and made for the gardens. It had worked that morning and it shall work again. Fresh air would set her mood right.

Gallan had said nothing untoward in his letter, yet Geowyth felt he was scolding her somehow. Surely, if he had met the princes he would be in agreement? They were two people about whom there was little good, and even “good King Gallan” would not be able to find such.

As she stormed towards the gardens, her footsteps became heavier. How dare he. How dare they. Geowyth’s cheeks flushed. Not two nights ago she had boasted that Braedel did things by merit, not gender. And here she was handed off to be a royal plaything by her brother and uncle without so much a thought to her feelings.

The day was bright when she forced open the door to outside. The sun was not quite at its zenith yet. Before noon. Geowyth still had a few hours until she was to meet Helaena. Perhaps this would be the day she introduced her to Mearl. It seemed as though an entire day spent out of doors was the remedy Geowyth needed.

Geowyth made directly for the Godswood, yet something paused her steps. The dagger tucked in the secret pocket of her skirts. It burned there, the cold metal. Turning swiftly on her heal, she made instead for the armoury and training yard. If Herumbrand and Geodred were not there, and the Seven knew she wished to fight him, then some other rider of the renward surely would be. All she needed was an hour to exorcise her frustration, and a partner with whom to do so.

Cole was slow that morning. Unusually so. Aemond could see his attacks coming almost before the knight had decided on them. When Ser Criston swung his morning star in the prince’s direction, it slipped from his hand and plummeted into the ground.

Aemond hissed in annoyance.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Cole’s sentiment was quite at odds with his face, which was stony as he glared at Aemond. The prince hummed in reply and swung his sword as he jumped from foot to foot.

Aegon had retired a few minutes ago and was currently stood beside his wife. Helaena, for all her angelic beauty, seemed despondent as she listened to him prattle on in her ear. A few metres off, Ser Harrold stood in conversation with Ser Herumbrand, who was flanked by riders of the Renward. Each watched the prince and Cole with interest.

There was something about Ser Herumbrand that Aemond found disconcerting. From his battle-scarred visage to his imposing height, there was much to be wary of. But Aemond was not intimidated by the brute’s size. It was the slow way his eyes followed Aemond’s every move, a smile playing at the corner of his thin mouth. Beside him, Ser Harrold was indicating certain movements and whispering to this counterpart, who nodded, his eyes never leaving Aemond all the while.

While Cole regathered himself, Aemond’s eyes cast around, and landed on Helaena. She’d turned away from Aegon, who uttered one last sentence and made his way up the steps to the royal apartments. Helaena’s seemed to follow him, but when Aemond looked they were not on her husband, but the woman passing him.

Aegon took a step closer to the shieldmaiden but she stepped away. As she stomped down the stairs, Aemond was reminded irresistibly of his nephews. Of the petulant way they stomped about the keep, longing for it to be theirs. Her dark frizzy hair, usually hanging long past her shoulders or in front of her face, flew behind her. The bronze brocade of her skirt caught light in the midday sun and her eyes blazed fire. She was angry.

When she reached Helaena, Geowyth bent down and whispered in her ear. Helaena smiled kindly and took Geowyth’s hand as if to calm her, running her thumb across the back of her hand. Just as Aemond did to soothe her. Helaena too came alight before Geowyth, but due to happiness, not anger. Aemond huffed and bounced more vigorously on the balls of his feet. Cole was taking forever.

His eyes followed Geowyth as she let go of Helaena’s hand. She made her way to stand next to Ser Herumbrand. In a move Aemond had not seen between a noble and a knight, at least not in view of others, Herumbrand placed his arm around the young woman. Ser Harrold and Ser Criston both bowed, and together the four talked lowly.

Aemond hissed again. He was anxious to spar. He was in full swing just as Cole dropped the ball and, as yet, did not have another partner.

“Cole!” Loathe as he was to admit it, Aemond wanted the attention to turned back to him, not the angry woman Cole now conversed with. The knight looked in his direction. “Another spar?”

Ser Criston placed his hand against the breastplate of his armour. “My Prince, you are becoming too proficient a fighter for me. Soon we will have to find you a new partner!”

Ser Harrold smiled. Ser Herumbrand continued to stare. Geowyth had moved to talk to some women of the renward. Aemond scoffed. Then, an idea swam into his mind. Spinning his sword elegantly in his hand, Aemond stood still and called across the yard.

“Lady Geowyth,” he watched as she turned slowly to face him. Her amber eyes still blazed with agitation and he knew he was right in his idea. “Your brother commanded I spar with you, owing to your ‘wits’, as he put it. And you yourself demanded I owe a spar or dance.”

As he spoke, Geowyth picked a sword from the armoury rack and slowly approached him, nostrils flared. She raised the weapon as he continued.

“The latter of which I wish to avoid,”

“I shall ignore that, Your Grace,”

Aemond laughed, though it did not reach his eyes. Instead, he watched how she held the sword. Certain, strong. At that, she was confident. He looked for other weaknesses. The lady was nearly as tall as him, but still smaller. Geodred had said he outranked her in strength, not wit. Even if only a spar, he had betrayed his sister. Aemond would make quick work of this.

Geowyth had stopped in her tracks and the sword she held was now at her side. It was a long, its pointed tip just scraping the yard dirt. The way she held it there, loosely in her hand was almost nonchalant. Her eyes had shifted from that blazing fury to something more dangerous. Confidence. She leant against the weapon as if leaning on a walking stick, waiting for Aemond to strike first.

Her second weak point; complacency. Aemond made a plan. A defensive attack, playing on her confidence. Let her think she was winning. Then, launch a dominant offence when her guard comes down.  

Aemond’s biggest advantage was his eye. Or lack, thereof. Since the very incident that struck it from him, he and Cole trained tirelessly to develop a combat style unlike any other. Let no opponent underestimate him; two eyes or one, Aemond Targaryen was one of the best swordsmen in the realm.

It seemed, however, the Braedel’s did not know this. Geodred was confident in his sister’s abilities, and stood as she was, the maiden seemed to agree.

Aemond raised his sword. So too, did Geowyth. For a while they circled each other slowly, and the surrounding crowd stirred with excited anticipation. A prince fighting a lady! From the corner of his eye, Aemond saw Harrold and Herumbrand still watching. Cole, too, had his eye on the prince, though this was more of an assessing gaze than admiring one. Let’s see how well I’ve taught him.

The air stilled. Geowyth’s eyes narrowed to slits. Aemond heard the faint caw of a rookery crow. Senses alert to all around him. This was it.

With one great stride, Geowyth swung the sword above her head, bringing it down hard over Aemond. He blocked it just in time; he hadn’t expected an attack such as this to open their spar. No matter. He pushed her away and once more they circled. Geowyth span the sword in hand and made for him again.

Much like his own fighting style, Geowyth’s was not like any he had encountered. Though she was tall she was slighter than Aemond, and compensated with a light-footedness to match his own.

Over and over their swords clashed. Aemond spinning away so that his good eye was always trained on her, the action causing Geowyth’s arm to twist uncomfortably. She in turn span circles around Aemond, making sure to dizzy him as he fought to keep her in focus.

On and on they fought, so long that a few uninterested onlookers left for other activities. The renward remained to watch their future commander, and so too did Cole and Princess Helaena. Far from being worried for her brother and newly found friend, a delighted smile crossed her face as she clasped her hands happily.

Geowyth was charging at Aemond now, all her might focussed on putting him on the back foot. He let her. It would not do to embarrass is parents’ guests, even one so irksome as this.

Underestimating your opponent is a mistake. In battle, a fatal one. In a spar, embarrassing. Geowyth was so forthcoming with her quick attacks, and Aemond so keen to fool her, he had not noticed she’d pushed him to the edge of the fighting circle. His foot slipped on the well-worn path that cut around the training yard and he fell to one knee. A few things happened simultaneously.

Just as she had begun, Geowyth swung the sword high above her head. Some watchers in the crowd gasped, one woman let out a faint cry. Ser Criston drew his sword. Aemond, from his position on the ground watched, as if in slow motion, as Geowyth brought her sword down above him. With one arm, the muscle burning with her weight, Aemond managed to block her. To hold her off. They were both panting, neither sure who would make the next move. When Aemond looked up into her red face, he was astonished to see her smiling. His dragon blood boiled. Does she really think it over? That she has won?

With great effort to push her off, Aemond tried to stand. Geowyth’s small laugh prevented him and he looked at her in anger.

“Be careful, my Prince,” she whispered, looking down. Following her eyes, Aemond glanced at her other hand. A dagger, glinting in the midday sun, was held beneath his ribs. “You can yield to me,” Geowyth said in light tone. “Or I can save your blushes and pretend you have bested me. Maybe a little more fight for show-”

Geowyth was not allowed to finish. With a ferocious growl, Aemond pushed himself to standing and ended their dance. How dare with horse maid mock him. Assume to think she is better than he, a prince.

Aemond wasted no time. The barrage of hits he bore down upon Geowyth were relentless, brutal. Madness flared in his eyes as, teeth bared, he struck the sword from her hands. She stumbled quickly backwards, a flicker of fear flashing in her mesmerising eyes.

“My prince!” a voice was calling out to him but he did not hear it. “Prince Aemond!” He had her. She slipped on her skirt and Aemond took his chance. With his own hand he knocked the dagger from hers. It clattered to the ground and all was quiet but for its metallic ringing and their panted breaths.

They stared at each other. Aemond’s eye fuelled by hunger and pride, Geowyth’s with shock and consideration. He raised his sword perilously close to her neck. She did not budge.

“AEMOND!” The voice bellowed. Ser Criston was at his side. “They are watching,” his eyes gestured to the crowd, staring with horror and trepidation. Aemond shrugged him off and lowered the sword. Still, the prince and the shieldmaiden stared at each other.

Then, slow as time turning, Geowyth curtsied, her eyes never leaving Aemond. “Well fought, Your Grace,” she said quietly, turning her back and leaving the training yard as though nothing had happened.

The bustle of the yard resumed, and a few people glanced at Aemond warily as they went about their business. All, except Ser Herumbrand, whose pointed stare was unrelenting. Unnerved, Aemond watched him.

“She had you rattled there, son.”

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[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Forgive These Bones I'm Hiding (Part 2 of 2)

Pairing: Serial Killer Marcus Pike x f!Reader (Reader is a police officer with the nickname “Cricket”)

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 13.8k

Warnings: This is a Spoooooooky fic for Halloween season. Please heed the warnings; this is not darkfic, per se, but it explores dark themes and contains elements of suspense and horror. The following subjects are mentioned in the context of cases that the reader deals with. I do not go into explicit detail about any of these themes and any violence is implied rather than seen, but please heed the warnings for: child abuse, domestic abuse, alcoholism, drunk driving, implied sexual assault, suicide, drug use, drug overdoses. Whew. Okay, for the story itself, please be warned that there is: derogatory language (someone calls reader a “bitch”), murders, body horror (corpses!), Marcus Pike being a bit unsettling, Very Enthusiastic Pussy Eating, unprotected PIV sex (this is fiction! use protection and also maybe don't fuck a serial killer!)

Summary: When five paintings are stolen from their frames, an unusual crime for your small-town precinct in Hannibal, Missouri, it's easy for you to project your insecurities about being a female police officer in a tiny, Midwest town onto the handsome FBI Agent from Washington who arrives to help with the case. But as your disposition--and the solid walls you've built around yourself--begin to soften, you quickly find you have bigger problems than the charming man you can't help but develop feelings for. One by one, bodies are starting to pile up. Bodies that all seem to share one connection… You.

Additional A/N: OKAY, so things definitely pick up in this chapter! Please heed the warnings, as Cricket’s past cases feature in a big way. There are more corpses, more unsettling!Marcus, and, of course, more MURDER. Thank you to @littlebirdsbookshelf for being an amazingly supportive human, beta reader, and crime consultant! Thanks for making sure my self-indulgent fanfiction always has its roots in reality!! They can’t fuck if I can’t make it make sense first. PLEASE check out our Playlist for all the spoopy Midwest Gothic vibes. The title of this fic itself comes from Family Tree by Ethel Cain, which is of course on the song list!

Masterlist | Part 1

The next morning starts with a headache.

"Wha'th'fuuuuck," you croak. You’re so disoriented that it takes you a few moments to realize your alarm is going off. 

You fumble for it, surprised to find it on the charger. You don't remember plugging it in. For that matter, you don't really remember getting home last night. Did… Did Marcus…?

Confusion and dread cut through the hangover, and you switch on the lamp as you sit up in bed. 

You're still in your clothes from last night, but your boots are untied and placed neatly on the floor next to the foot of the bed. 

You look around your bedroom, looking for more clues as to how you got here. There's a glass of water on your nightstand, and upon further inspection, two ibuprofen next to it.

You rifle around beside it looking for a note, but you come up empty-handed. It doesn't really matter; you can pretty much guess what happened: You got so wasted that Marcus Pike had to help you get home. He took off your boots, but clearly didn't feel comfortable taking off the rest of your clothes. He made sure your phone was on the charger and even went so far as to anticipate your need for water and pain medicine in the morning. 

Something still feels off, though. Just call it a gut feeling, an instinct, some vestigial part of your hindbrain that's telling you something.

Maybe you forgot your purse…?

But no, when you finally drag yourself out of bed to check the entryway, your purse is there, hanging on its usual hook. 

Shaking your head (probably a mistake, going by the ache that shoots through it when you do), you chalk up the odd feeling to the hangover. You don't remember the last time you had that much to drink, after all. 

You feel slightly better after taking a shower and downing another glass of water, but your stomach still roils and your head still hurts as you throw on your uniform. You're thankful for the dark sunglasses that come with it when you step outside your house. 

Fuck. Why did you drink so much?

You pull into the station about thirty minutes late, which isn't that bad, considering how many glasses of whiskey you had. How many, exactly? You lost count after three, but you know there were more. You were upset about Bobby and unsure of whether you even made a difference in this town and… wait, did you cry last night? In front of Marcus? An image flashes through your mind: Your head buried in the crook of his neck. A wet patch on his white dress shirt from your tears.

Oh, fuck. 

The man in question gives you one of those characteristic grins when you enter, still wearing your sunglasses. 

"Moving a little slow today, are we?" Marcus asks playfully. 

"Jesus fuck," you murmur, collapsing into your chair with a sigh. "I guess so."

"I've never seen a woman put away that much whiskey," he comments with a wink in your direction.

"And you never will again," you groan. "I'm swearing off the stuff for life."

"I don't blame you."

"Jesus, I don't even remember what happened last night. I woke up this morning with no memory of how I got there."

Marcus laughs. "You don't?"

"I barely remember what the hell we talked about. Oh, God–was I an ass? Would you tell me if I made an ass of myself?"

"You didn't make an ass of yourself," Marcus promises.

"I feel like I got all maudlin about the job," you say, frowning.

"You did, a bit."

"Sorry if the evening was a sob-fest."

"I think you're allowed to be upset after finding Bobby Pearson like that."

Cold dread shoots down your spine. Heart in your throat, you stare at Marcus open-mouthed.  

"Did… Did I tell you that last night?"

"Didn't need to." He holds up a copy of the Hannibal Courier-Post with a grim expression. Oh. Right. There it is, right on the front page, accompanied by a picture of you deep in conversation with the Coroner. 

You shake your head, laughing slightly. "Jesus, guess I really am out of it this morning."

"You up for a ride?" Marcus suddenly asks.

"Huh?"

"To the St. Louis field office," he explains. "I texted you yesterday about forensics, remember?"

"Shit, that's right! I'm–I'm sorry–"

"Don't be. There was a lot going on," Marcus insists. "But they've got some stuff for us to look over. Wanna go for a little drive?"

"Only if it's you who's doing the driving," you say. 

"Done."

"And if we stop for coffee."

"You drive a hard bargain, but I accept."

An hour later, with a latte in your hand and your head tipped against the cool glass of the passenger-side window, the fog of your hangover begins to clear and you start to feel much better. The sun glints off of the pavement of State Road 61 as Marcus speeds along in the left lane on the way down to the city. Everyone steers clear of what’s obviously an unmarked police car, and like all officers before him, Marcus takes full advantage. The tall grass next to the road blurs as you stare out over endless fields, dotted with the occasional farmhouse. The day is crisp; one of those beautiful fall days where the temperature stays low even though there’s not a cloud in the sky. If you squint your eyes, you can pretend you’re flying.

At the Field Office, Marcus breezes through security with his badge and his characteristic toothy grin. After you’re presented with a visitor’s badge, the two of you walk down the stairs to the basement, and down a dimly lit hall until you reach a door that reads “Forensics - Art Crimes.”

"Basement, really?" you ask, wrinkling your nose.

"Windows are bad for the degradation of paint," Marcus points out. Then, with a grin, he adds, "Plus, they always give Intelligence the prime real estate."

When he opens the door, your face brightens. Unlike any forensics department you've been in previously, this one is full of… well, art. You aren't sure why that surprises you, but Marcus chuckles as you gaze, open-mouthed, at the selection.

"It's like our own little secret museum, huh?" he says, eyes twinkling.

"Okay, I think I get why you like your job now," you say quietly as you examine what looks like an ancient Greek vase on one of the tables. 

"Is that…"

"Fake," one of the lab workers says with a shrug. "Art museum still purchased it for two mil, though. Oops, right?"

"Oh. Is most of this stuff fake, then?" you ask.

"Nah. This one's a genuine Picasso that was recovered from the black market," the woman says, waving her hand at a colorful painting leaning against the wall. "We're in the middle of returning it to the rightful owners."

"Holy shit," you breathe. 

"New to art crimes?" the woman asks.

"Not a lot of paintings to steal in Hannibal," you say with a smirk.

"Ah, so you're Rockwell.”

“No, I’m–oh. Haha, I get it.”

“Damon’s been taking the lead on that one. His office is there in the back; he’s expecting you two.”

Marcus greets Damon like an old friend while you stand by his side doing your best to look ‘official.’ Something about being here–in the FBI building–makes you feel like a country-bumpkin of a cop. Maybe it's just the ever-present chip on your shoulder (Okay, it’s definitely that.), but the moment makes you feel like you need to fight to take up more space, puffing out your chest and straightening your spine. And when Damon offers his hand for you to shake, you grasp it more firmly than strictly necessary, something you’ve learned over the years is an effective tool to assert yourself as a female officer.

“So you’re the lead detective on the case?” Damon asks as you shake his hand.

“Yessir.”

“Fantastic. Well, I hate to bring you all the way down here to deliver bad news, but running the prints didn’t give us any matches.”

Your heart sinks. 

"But," the agent emphasizes, "your team did excellent work canvassing the area around the museum for CCTV footage, and we got some hits at one am at a few different places. Compiled it in a presentation for ya, if you wanna take a look."

At your eagerness nod, Damon turns his second monitor around to face you.

"So, first hit is at Main Street Bed and Breakfast," he explains as a grainy, black and white, blurry photo appears on the screen. Hard to ID, but it looks like we've got got male, maybe six foot, two-thirty, on foot heading away from the museum, which would be just across the street over here–" he points at the corner of the screen. 

"Then the same individual shows up walking past Java Jive–" another grainy photo, not much clearer than the first, " –and then he turns down the alleyway behind the Dutch Country General Store, and gets into a white Pontiac Grand Am."

"He puts something in the backseat," you exclaim, pointing at the blurry shape.

"Mmhmm, something skinny and long," Damon says.

"...Like five rolled-up canvases," you offer, raising your eyebrows.

"It's not a lot to go on, but this is the only individual we saw out walking that night that didn't originate from any of the establishments we analyzed."

You watch the series of images, squinting as if it will help with the pixelation. The license plate, of course, is completely illegible as the car drives away.

"We've got people analyzing the plate, but best they can do is determine that the first letter is either a 'C' or an 'O.'"

"Better than nothing," you concede.

"Obviously, a Grand Am is gonna be a pretty common car in the area, but it's somewhere to start. We'll start pulling state records, and we'll be in touch if we–"

The loud ringing of your work phone interrupts Damon, and you wince apologetically as you pull it out and see 'SGT HUBBARD' on the caller ID.

"Hullo," you chirp amiably.

"Hey," Hubbard says on the other end. "We've got a body."

You straighten with a sharp intake of breath. Two deaths in Hannibal in less than a week? You don't think you've ever seen anything like it. Frowning, you duck out of Damon’s office and walk several paces away.

“I’m in St. Louis for the Rockwell case, but I’m finishing up,” you tell him. “I can be there in an hour and a half.”

“See that it’s quicker.”

You roll your eyes, mutter a “Yessir,” and end the call.

“Pike,” you bark, causing Marcus to look up with those pretty, soulful eyes of his. “We gotta go. There’s a case back in Hannibal that needs my attention.”

“Yes ma’am.” He gives you that wide, toothy smile again, and you remember how last night it had felt… unnerving to you. Like there was something lurking behind that earnest grin that no one else knew about. You shake your head. Jesus, you had way too much to drink last night. Get a grip, Cricket.

Lights on and sirens blaring, you zip past farms and woodlands. The official GPS time says one hour and forty-nine minutes, but you can do way better than that. Other vehicles automatically part for you, leaving them all behind in a blur of red and blue. Tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration and hands on ten-and-two, you think this might be the best part of the job. The part where you’re flying. 

You drop Marcus off at the Station with your apologies and race to the address Hubbard gave you.

The coroner’s office and a local news van are already there when you arrive, and the Sergeant looks disapprovingly in your direction, as if you could have shortened the drive from St. Louis through sheer force of will. 

“What is it?”

“Harold Dalton, 54. Apparent suicide.”

“What? What the hell is in the water that–”

“Hush. Keep your voice down. Right now, we’re waiting on State Police to come help with this one–there was a firearm involved.”

“He shot himself?”

Hubbard’s mouth is a thin line as he nods grimly. “Not a pretty sight.”

“Dalton…” you murmur to yourself. “Why do I know that name?”

“He’s got some priors,” Hubbard says. “Possession, some assault charges that were dropped, and–”

“Child neglect,” you whisper, as the realization hits you. “Oliver Dalton.”

“Shit, yeah,” the Sergeant says, realizing the connection at the same time. “God, how many years ago was–”

“Five,” you answer automatically. 

“That would make Oliver…”

“Sixteen.”

“Mm,” Hubbard grunts. “Ever check in on him?”

“He’s bounced around from home to home,” you answer, trying to keep the emotion and bitterness out of your voice. “Doesn’t last in one place for very long.”

“It’s a fucked up thing for a kid to go through,” Hubbard mumbles. “Can’t imagine he’s all that well-adjusted.”

The two of you stand in silence on the run-down, rotting porch. What a fucking shithole, you fume, scraping a piece of flaking paint with the toe of your boot. In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of sirens coming closer.

“Know we’re not supposed to say it,” the Sergeant finally says, as the State Police car pulls into the gravel driveway, “but good fucking riddance.”

Dalton. Now that the connection has been made, you can’t believe you didn’t remember immediately. You suppose you have tried your best to put his name–and several others–in a tidy little box in the corner of your mind. It’s easier that way.

Except… Why does it feel as though you were just thinking about him? As soon as you hear it, the pang of familiarity rushes through you, but you can't put your finger on why…

Hubbard is shaking hands with the two state cops that just arrived when your phone pings. You pull it out and glance at the thumbnail. 

“Hope everything’s okay! Talk to you later.”

It’s from Marcus. Something prickles across the back of your neck, and you slide your phone back into your pocket without responding.

“Officers,” you greet the newcomers, forcing a cordial smile and sticking out your hand to shake.

It was just the cold breeze making your hair stand on end. That’s all. 

“Sorry I had to dump you at the station like that this morning.” You tap out the message on your phone as soon as you get back into your squad car.

“It happens, don’t worry I know how it is.”

After a few minutes, Marcus begins typing again. 

“Want to meet up for a drink?”

“Fuck, no. You have any idea how shitty I felt this morning?"

"Noted. How about dinner, then? And some water?"

You pause. Drinks are one thing. But dinner? That could be considered "date" territory if you think about it too much.

You must be silent for too long, because your phone pings again.

“Had something I wanted to ask you about the CCTV sweep.”

It’s an obvious effort to sweeten the deal and get you to say yes, and you know it. You should tell Marcus you’ll discuss it tomorrow at work, pick up some fast food on the way home, and eat it in front of Jeopardy!–alone. 

Instead, you find yourself typing, “Dinner sounds good. Water sounds better. Where were you thinking?”

Marcus begins typing almost immediately. “How’s the Mark Twain Dinette?”

You snort to yourself. “Just as bad as you’re thinking. But Finn’s Food and Spirits is surprisingly edible if you’re looking for local eats.”

“Edible, huh? That’s not really a ringing endorsement, but I try not to go to chain restaurants when I’m traveling, so… let’s do it! :)”

It isn’t until you get into the shower that the reality hits you of how strange it is to be washing off the remains of two very similar cases in as many days. Not just two consecutive deaths–but two suicides, in a town of barely fifteen thousand people. 

And you knew them both. 

What you find most jarring, however, is the difference in your own mood between the two days. Yesterday, the weight of Bobby’s death felt as though it was dragging your body down. Today, though, there’s a weight off your shoulders. A burden you didn’t even realize you were carrying, suddenly gone. Hubbard had said it well, earlier–said what you’ve been thinking the entire day since. 

Good riddance.

You arrive a few minutes before Marcus, so you go in to grab a booth for the two of you–sitting where you can see the door, as you always prefer to do. Being a police officer has left you with some funny habits; it’s actually pretty nice to be able to talk to another person in law enforcement, for once. It isn’t like you go out much with Hubbard, who is both your supervisor and over twenty years your senior. Evan strictly works nights, so you don’t see much of him, either. You’re acquaintances with some of the officers in surrounding towns, but you don’t have much patience for their “I’m a cop” bravado–or even worse, the “Thin Blue Line” stickers on their car windows. 

Marcus seems different, though. Sure, he’s got an air of confidence around him, but you can tell it’s not an act at all. And yet, despite that confidence, there’s a softness to him: something in the upturn of his eyebrows, in the way his lips part when you speak, the way he seems enraptured by your every word–

When the man consuming your thoughts enters, you jump slightly, afraid, for just a moment, that he could read your mind. His expression brightens the moment he sees you, eagerness written all over his face, and you shake yourself.

This is why you can’t let him in.

“Everything go alright today?” Marcus asks amiably as he slides into the booth opposite you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, shaking your head. “Nothing big.”

The lie sits heavy on your chest. He’ll find out tomorrow–along with the rest of Hannibal–when the day’s Courier-Post arrives at the station. It’s just that you don’t want to talk about it, not tonight. 

“Yeah,” you say again. “So what was the thing with CCTV?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Marcus says, taking his eyes off the menu for a moment and giving you a discerning look. “Why don’t we just save work stuff for tomorrow, huh? C’mon, take a break–what’s good here?”

You shrug. “The catfish is usually fresh-caught from the river, if that’s your sort of thing.”

“Is it your thing?” he asks, a glint in his eye.

“I make it a point not to eat anything that was recently pulled from the river.”

Marcus hums in response, scanning the menu again. When the waitress comes by to take your orders, he gets the catfish.

“Country-fried steak,” you say, handing her your menu. 

Silence falls at the table; without reading material or decisions about food to be made, you aren’t sure how to talk to the man opposite you. He intrigues you; he attracts you… he also scares you, just a little. Is it possible to be too disarming? Too earnest? If so, Marcus certainly is, and something about his sincerity… puts you off.

Fuck, when you think about it that way, maybe you’re just an asshole.

“So the CCTV question was just a pretense to lure me here,” you say, raising one eyebrow in challenge.

Marcus holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “I plead the fifth. But I–listen, the truth is, Cricket–I can call you that, right? You, uh, you never gave me your first name.” When you don’t offer an answer, he forges ahead. “I’ve been told I’m forward, and that’s probably accurate, but the truth is, I think you’re one hell of a good looking woman, and I’d love to get to know you better.”

Your stomach flips over at his words. As much as you’d hate to admit it, you’re not immune to flattery, and certainly not coming from such a beautiful man in his own right. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“I find it easy to talk to you,” Marcus continues. “I’m on the road a lot, and it can be… lonely. You don’t know how much of a relief it is to have someone to talk to who gets it, who’s been there, you know?”

You nod thoughtfully, tracing the rim of your water glass. “I do get it. I–I’ve been alone for quite some time, too, and there are few people in Hannibal that I can really sit down and just talk to. I–I guess what I’m saying is, it’s a relief for me, too.”

Marcus reaches slowly across the table and, in a barely-there caress, runs his index finger across the back of your other hand. 

“I–” you say hastily, pulling your hand back and settling it in your lap, instead. “I want to be clear that I’m not in the stage of my life where I’m looking for anything temporary.”

“Me neither,” Marcus says, his eyes burning intensely into yours.

“Anything between us, is, by very nature, temporary,” you point out. “I live here in Hannibal. You’re going back to Washington upon completion of this case. I’m not against seeking mutual relief from loneliness, but I’m just… I’m not sure if I know you well enough to go down that road.”

Marcus’s eyes are full of understanding and acceptance. He draws his hand back and sits back against the booth with a small, wry smile.

“So, what’d’you wanna know?” he drawls, letting the Texan accent slip out in full force.

So… you talk. And talk. 

And talk. 

Your plates have long-since been empty and the ice in your water glass has melted, dripping condensation onto the checkered tablecloth–and you feel as though you’ve been given a glimpse past the toothy smile and confident demeanor, into a deeper, hidden vulnerability underneath. 

“...She–She broke up with you via text message?” you ask, dumbfounded at Marcus’s most recent admission.

“God, when you put it that way, it sounds… way worse than it was, but yeah,” he chuckles. “But honestly, when I look back, the writing was on the wall. I was rushing, she was dragging her feet. There… there wasn’t a future there.”

“Do you do that a lot? Rush, that is?” 

Marcus hums loudly as he seemingly deliberates his answer. “Mmm, I don’t like to see it as rushing.”

“How do you see it?”

“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” he says simply, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours.

It makes you shiver slightly.

“Has that made me hasty, on occasion? Impulsive? Sure. But I don’t see the point in hiding what I am only to be disappointed later. Eventually, I’ll find who matches me beat for beat. Someone who has the same ambitions, the same drive. The same passions.”

His eyes bore into you again, and you swallow. 

“You are forward,” you comment, somewhat breathlessly.

“I know what I want,” Marcus says again–quieter, this time.

“I wish I had that degree of certainty,” you whisper, laughing shakily.

“I think you do. In here,” he says, placing a palm over his heart. “But you second-guess it in favor of what’s up here.” He taps his index finger against his temple. 

“I happen to think humanity in general should obey their brains a little bit more, speaking from experience.”

Marcus laughs loudly, breaking the intense mood that had settled over the table. “I don’t think you’re wrong. But when it stands between you and your desires? Sad,” he comments, pouting his lip slightly.

“Some desires should remain just that–desires, nothing more.” Your voice wavers.

“I respect that,” he says lightly. Signaling to the waitress with a wide, friendly smile, he asks for the check. “But you don’t strike me as a person who indulges most of her desires. You put everything else first, don’t you?”

“Not always,” you object, bristling slightly at the blatant call-out. 

“I’m sure,” he grins as he scribbles a signature on the receipt. “Well, Cricket, I hope I’m wrong. I hope you chase the things you want, that you indulge in the little things that bring you joy, that you live your life not being afraid to say ‘I’m doing this for me.’ After all, I’m seeing such a fleeting moment of your life, aren’t I? A blink of an eye in the scheme of things. You and I are merely ships passing in the night, never to be seen or heard from again.” He stands. “Have a good night, Cricket.” 

And with that, Marcus gives you one last fond smile and disappears through the front doors, leaving you stunned–frozen to your seat as you absorb his speech.

You wake up confused for the second morning in a row.

Bright and loud. Why is it so bright and loud?

This time, the confusion resolves itself quickly as your brain comes back online and you realize that your work phone is ringing again. 

The old-fashioned alarm clock across the room reads 5:23 AM.

“Hullo?” you croak.

“You’re not going to fucking believe this.”

At the sound of the Sergeant’s voice, you switch on your bedside lamp and blink rapidly in the harsh light. 

“What is it?” you ask, trying to sound more awake than you actually are.

"Maisie Fletcher called the station around four saying her husband never made it home from the Waterhole. Evans drove the road from town to their house about a mile south just to take her statement, and found solid evidence of fresh skid marks leading into the river.”

Your heart sinks. The river. 

“Any sign of a vehicle?” you ask, already suspecting you know the answer.

“No.”

You take a deep inhale through your nose and let it out slowly through your mouth. Pulling a body from the Mississippi is miserable, unpleasant drudgery. First, you’ll spend hours directing boat patrols back and forth in a cross-hatch pattern for miles south of the suspected entry point. Then, once you finally find the vehicle, the work to exhume it from the water begins. The fire department will need to be coordinated with, and, depending on the depth of the car, a SCUBA team or a crane. 

“Fletcher…” you repeat, frowning. “Isn’t that–” 

“The domestic disturbance couple, that’s right,” Hubbard confirms. 

You snort. ‘Couple’ is a strong word, in your opinion. The husband, Gavin Fletcher, was single-handedly responsible for half a dozen trips out to their house along the river over the years, but every time you’d asked Maisie–with increasing urgency in your tone–if she’d like to press charges, she had declined. And every time, you’d leave the house with a lead balloon in your stomach. 

You always worried it was a matter of time before the “domestic disturbances” turned ugly. Or worse… fatal. 

And now… he’s in the Mississippi. Maybe. Possibly.

Is it bad if you find yourself hoping he’s at the bottom of the river?

Yes. Yes, it is. 

“Understood,” you sigh into the phone. “Let me throw on my uniform and I’ll meet Evans down at the bank.”

After a long day of standing on the banks of the Mississippi, watching patrol boats pass back and forth in slow, deliberate lines while drizzle slowly seeps its way down into the innermost reaches of your clothing, a vehicle turns up around six pm. You watch as the fire department uses the Jaws of Life to pry open the driver-side door, sending a cascade of muddy water onto the ground. 

It’s difficult to recognize the former person being pulled from the wreckage–even after less than twenty-four hours of being submerged, water can do a fucking number on a body–but a search of the wallet in the back pocket of its jeans confirms the identity of the swollen, bloated corpse that used to belong to Gavin Fletcher. 

Predictably, the task of notifying Maisie Fletcher is handed down to you. 

Your mouth is a thin, tight-lipped line as you drive down the gravel driveway that you wish wasn’t so familiar. You barely have to knock before Maisie is at the door and falling to her knees in a display of grief that you simply can’t find yourself to feel. Try as you might, you can’t force anything–any emotion other than ‘numbness’ onto your face as you deliver the news as gently as you possibly can. 

Maisie, still weeping, agrees to meet you at the morgue tomorrow to officially ID her late husband, and as she shakily rises to her feet, you can’t help but note the not-quite-healed-over bruise on her temple. 

You need a fucking drink. 

Thirty minutes later finds you at the Waterhole nursing a cold beer and an even-colder mood in your still-damp uniform. 

Palmer, ever the charmer, leans into your personal space with all the enthusiasm of someone attempting to disarm a bomb, and mutters, sotto-voce, “You smell like a goddamn fishmonger, Cricket.”

At your deadpan glare, he backs away, hands in the air, and makes a show of cleaning cocktail glasses instead.

You don’t much feel like talking. 

For one–yeah, the lingering smell of river brine–with the barest hint of ‘bloated corpse’ underneath–doesn’t put you in a sociable mood.

But what’s really bothering you is all of those old “domestic disputes” hovering in the forefront of your mind ever since Hubbard said the name ‘Fletcher’ at 5:30 this morning. God, you had all-but-begged her to press charges; in hindsight, you probably sounded insane. And each time, you took her refusal personally–as if it were happening to you, not to her. You’ve worked hard over the years to put that hurt, that anger away in a tiny little box in the corner of your mind, but the death of Gavin Fletcher seems to have released it all over again.

He’s dead, you point out to yourself. There’s no point in resurrecting your demons.

“Back at it, I see?" a slightly amused voice calls out from your periphery, and you close your eyes in exasperation.

You can't do this dance now.

"Marcus," you say with a resolute sigh. 

"Fancy seeing you here," he grins, and slides onto the barstool next to yours. "I'll have the same," he says to Palmer, who nods.

Seated next to you, you can tell exactly when the odor of your uniform hits his nose. He pauses, beer bottle halfway to his lips, and cocks his head in a way that would be comical, had you been in a better mood. His eyebrows pinch together, causing a little crease to appear between them, as he looks at you. 

"Did you… get dumped in the river earlier?"

You sigh again. "Not exactly. Had a car go into the river last night. Had crews searching all day, and finally found it this evening."

Marcus lets out a low whistle. "Roads must have been slick last night with all the rain," he points out.

"Yeah, exactly," you agree. "Honestly, it's probably worth it to put a feature on hydroplaning in the local paper after the news comes out. Not enough people take it seriously."

"Occupants?"

"Just the one. Male, forties. I can't release any names until tomorrow, though."

"I know," Marcus says, smiling fondly. "So after a day in the rain and the Mississippi mud, you're so ready for a beer that you don't even change out of the wet uniform, huh?"

"Fishmonger," Palmer grunts from the other side of the bar.

"I wasn't going to say it, but…"

"If you two are gonna gang up on a woman drinking, I'll damn well go home and do it alone," you grumble.

"Nonsense," Marcus grins. "If I bought the second round, would that convince you to stay?"

"One," you say, holding up your finger. "You have me for one more drink. Then I'm going home and getting into a hot bath."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawls, a glint in his eye when you mention the bath. "Guess I'll have to get my fill in the span of two beers."

You drain your first bottle and set it down challengingly. 

"...One beer," he amends.

"It's just as well," you tell him. "I'm less than pleasant company tonight."

"Impossible," Marcus promises. "Your company becomes more and more entrancing to me the more I'm graced with it."

"I guess if you can't handle me at my 'smelling like rotten fish,' then…"

"Don't make me beg to 'handle' it."

"Marcus!" You bark out a surprised laugh in spite of yourself. 

"Ha! There it is," he crows triumphantly. 

"Are you trying to cheer me up or piss me off?"

"You looked like you could use the former. Seems as though you already have enough of the latter."

You can't help but chuckle again. Damn him that it's working.

"Is it so wrong to desire the company of a beautiful woman who smells like the bottom of a river?"

"Leaving," you sputter through your stifled laughter, although you make no move to get off of your stool.

"You wound me."

"I'm not the one habitually insulting your smell.”

“If I smelled like that, I’d hope someone would ask why,” Marcus points out with a teasing grin.

"I guess if I had known I'd be doing… this, I would have gone home and showered first."

"Doing… what?" Marcus asks, a flirtatious glint in his expression.

"This. This… dance, this back and forth." You gesture between the two of you.

"This… dance?" he repeats teasingly. "Cricket, if you wanted to dance, all you had to do was say so."

"Do you ever stop?" you laugh, rolling your eyes.

"Of course I do," Marcus answers, sounding affronted. "I'd never push someone if I didn't think my feelings were returned."

You close your eyes and exhale shakily. "You know I do… I do feel the same way, Marcus. And it isn't like I haven't thought about what you said last night–in fact, I've thought of it a lot. But I keep coming back to the fact that I just… I don't want to just scratch an inch. I'm looking for…" 

"Connection?"

"Yes," you say emphatically. "Exactly. Not to be melodramatic, but I'm just too damn old for anything else."

"I feel the same way," Marcus murmurs.

"If you feel the same way, how the hell do you reconcile the fact that we're from two different parts of the country?" 

"I don't know," he says softly. "But I know I can't ignore what I feel for you–the connection I feel between us. I know that's real, don't you?"

You drain the last of your beer and set it down on the counter. 

"Guess that's my time," Marcus chuckles resignedly.

"Walk me to my car," you say quietly. 

Marcus nods, throwing some cash onto the counter and extending his hand to you. "Shall we?"

Not taking your eyes off of his, you gently slip your palm into his own. He walks you to your car, one hand resting perfectly at the small of your back and making the skin there tingle slightly.

“I won’t ask to kiss you,” he announces as you open your door. “But from one passing ship to another, I’ll just say that you look so goddamn beautiful right now under the streetlights.”

You turn carefully around. Marcus’s expression is open and earnest. His lips are parted, his eyebrows upturned as he watches you. He’s made his desires clear, and you… you simply want to bask in that all-consuming attention of his for just a few moments. 

Slowly, achingly slowly, you bring your palm up to lay against his sternum. Your eyes meet–a question in his, an answer in yours. 

Just as unhurriedly, Marcus steps closer. He gently cups your chin in one of his large hands as he tilts his head just slightly and lowers it to meet you. 

His lips are soft when they slowly brush against your mouth. The kiss is sensual, full of longing and barely restrained passion lurking just under the surface. His lips are parted, but he makes no attempt to deepen the kiss; you never feel the careful slip of his tongue into your mouth or the sting of teeth. Despite this, it might be the most sexually charged kiss you’ve ever received. A wave of pure want surges down your spine and into the base of your core and your grip on his shirt tightens to steady yourself as a small, involuntary noise escapes from deep in your chest.

You expect things to escalate from there. You wait for your back to hit the side of your car, to feel the weight of Marcus’s body against you as he pins you against the door. You wait for his hand to grip your hip, his fingertips to dig into the back of your neck as he takes control.

Instead, he pulls back–breathing shakily as he does–and rests his forehead against yours.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have done that,” you laugh breathlessly, thinking of how the hell you were supposed to to work with him now.

“Maybe not,” Marcus chuckles back. “But I don’t regret it. I can’t.”

The orange light from a nearby lamp casts half of his face in shadow, making his features stand out in dark relief: the bow of his upper lip, the angle of his cheekbone, the strength in his brow, the line of his nose… 

He’s the one who looks beautiful, you think. Out loud, you say something else. 

Just one word.

Your name. 

Marcus’s lips part in surprise, eyebrows turning upward as he realizes the gift you’ve given him. He could have used it all along, of course, had probably seen it in the city directory before he’d even met you. 

But he waited for your consent, instead.

And oh, how sweet it sounds when it falls from his lips for the first time like this, his mouth just inches from yours.

“I can’t believe I let you kiss me smelling like this,” you joke, trying to dispel the heavy cloud of tension.

He laughs quietly, and murmurs your name again, his thumb brushing delicately back and forth against your cheekbone. “Go home,” he whispers. “Take that bath. It’s late.”

You nod, swallowing thickly. “See you tomorrow.”

Marcus steps back, giving you a fond, warm smile. “Sure will.”

Christ, what have you done?

The thought doesn’t hit you until the wee hours of the morning, when you bolt upright in bed before your alarm and realize that you’re going to have to continue working alongside Marcus for the foreseeable future. 

You don’t know him, not really; you don’t know how he’ll act in a professional setting after a very unprofessional moment between the two of you. He brings out a softness in you that you don’t recognize, a deep yearning at the very core of you that had been shoved down and suppressed for years. Vulnerability is punished in your line of work, especially as a woman, and you’ve gotten so well-practiced at stamping out any trait that could be perceived as weakness that you, unknowingly, eradicated it from your personal life as well.

How long has it been since you’ve let someone in?

How long have you denied yourself the comfort of another’s touch?

Damn him.

He’s brought all of these feelings to the surface, and now you have to worry about not only his reaction to seeing you at work today, but yours as well. 

Will you be able to hide the way your body seems to gravitate toward him? Can you keep your face from betraying you? 

Will he be able to remain aloof and businesslike, or will the mask drop–showing everyone the hunger in his eyes? 

You shudder slightly. Please, let the day go smoothly. 

As it turns out, all your nerves were misplaced. There’s no awkward reunion, no shy smiles or stilted small talk. 

“They ID’ed the guy!” Marcus exclaims loudly as you walk into the bullpen. 

The outburst from the typically softspoken man surprises you so much that you nearly drop your coffee.

“What?” 

“Your Norman Rockwell thief! His name is Reuben Porter, and he lives in Moberly.”

A slow smile spreads across your face. “No way.”

Marcus grins back, dimple on full display. “Fancy a drive to the field office today?”

“Hell yes. Gotta be sooner than later, though,” you add, thinking of Maisie Fletcher. “I’ve got a meeting at three.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smirks. “Shouldn’t take too long. They’ll share all of their files, and you and your precinct can be the ones to make the arrest.”

“Wait… you’re not doing that?”

“Told you it was still your case,” he points out. “Yeah, before you know it, I’ll be out of your hair and on a plane back to D.C.”

“What a relief,” you joke, but the words hardly have any bite to them. Back to D.C.? Part of you wants to have your fill of him first; that kiss last night only left you craving more. All you can think about is his lips on yours, and wonder about the feel of his body as it pins you to the bed. 

“I’m sure it is.” 

Marcus’s voice deepens, his tone tinged with amusement, and you fight the urge to avert your eyes like a schoolgirl. 

“Shall we, then?” you say lightly, raising your eyebrows and tilting your chin upward.

“You’re driving, this time,” he says with a boyish smile.

The car is where the tension finally returns. The air feels dense, each lull in polite conversation pregnant with what goes unmentioned and unacknowledged. To your surprise, you find yourself itching to address the elephant in the squad car, even after what feels like hours of giving yourself pep talks before work, promising yourself you wouldn’t be the one to slip.

“When… when is your flight?” you ask instead.

“Tomorrow.”

“...Oh.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Marcus says seriously.

You blanch. “You do?”

“Mmhmm. ‘Good Riddance,’ right? Mister Big City Agent, finally getting out of your way so you can arrest the jerk who had the audacity to defile the Mark Twain Museum.”

You bark out a surprised laugh. “I can’t tell if you’re making fun of Hannibal or not.”

Marcus makes a show of appearing offended. “I would never poke fun at the birthplace of Samuel Clemens.” Sobering, he adds, “I hope you know by now that I care very deeply about every art case.”

You can’t help but beam at him. Taking a leap of faith, you respond. “And I hope you know by now that I’m not hoping the door hits you on the way out.”

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. 

“‘Course.”

Marcus slowly reaches his hand over to you and drags just the tip of one finger from your wrist and down your hand to the end of your pinkie finger in a barely-there caress. 

You let out a shaky exhale as the squad car pulls into the lot of the St. Louis field office.

Damon greets you and Marcus cheerfully as you enter the Art Crimes Department. He shakes your hand, offering his congratulations, as you follow him back to his office.

“Here you go,” he says, handing you a singular flash drive. “The final identification reports identifying Reuben Porter as the thief, and all related case notes.”

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Oh,” you say, turning the flash drive over in your hand. “Why not just email it?” 

“File’s too big,” Damon shrugs.

“Got some stuff for you, too,” Marcus adds, pulling out his field notebook and a manila folder and handing them to you. “My notes, and my formal report of my involvement in the case.”

“Thank you,” you say, looking at Damon, and then at Marcus. “For your expertise and your support. I’ll–”

You’re interrupted by the loud ringing of your work cell. Grimacing, you give the agents an apologetic smile and duck out of Damon’s office.

“Yeah,” you say impatiently into the phone.

“Hey,” Hubbard replies, sounding, for once, incredibly hesitant.

“...What’s going on?”

“Can you go on a call?”

"I'm at the St. Louis field office with Pike," you tell him. "You'll have to call Evan in."

"Evan is already here," the Sergeant says, making you frown in confusion. 

"He is? Then why–"

"We’ve got a body, but Cricket? …It's Johansson."

You don't realize your legs have given out until you feel the cold chair underneath you. Your breath comes in short pants after hearing That Name. That fucking name.

"Jakub," Hubbard continues, as if you needed to be told.

"H-How?"

"Looks like an overdose, but the autopsy will have to confirm it, obviously."

You feel as though you're floating above yourself. That fucking case. You hadn’t been on the force long; it was the first time the system had failed you. Failed her. 

"I just thought you should know," the Sergeant is saying. "If you need to take a few days–"

"I don't," you interrupt. "Thanks for telling me. You still need me to come?"

"Nah," Hubbard says. "Have fun in St. Louis."

"Yeah," you hear yourself saying over the blood rushing in your ears. "Thanks." You robotically set the phone down on the table, eyes unseeing as you process the conversation. 

A warm palm lands on your shoulder, and you exhale shakily. "S-Sorry, just give me a minute."

"Are you okay?" Marcus's voice is full of concern.

"Yeah, it's um… just a name I haven't heard in a while, is all."

But that’s not true… is it? The name is fresh in your brain, feels familiar when you silently form the shape of it with your mouth. Jakub Johansson. You’ve tried your best to put him–and all the other cases that keep you up at night–in the past, but ghost after ghost keeps turning up this week, in more ways than one. 

“Do we need to get back to Hannibal?” Marcus asks.

“Nah. No. They’ve got it handled, they were just–it was one of mine, so… informing me, I guess.”

“One of your… what?”

“Sorry. Just an old case. Someone connected with it, anyways.”

“Everything alright?”

“They’re dead,” you deadpan. And even as you say the words out loud, a weight you didn’t realize you had been carrying seems to lift from your shoulders. Finally unparalyzed, you turn and look at Marcus. His gaze is burning, his eyes searching your face with unrelenting intensity. 

“Do you need to take a moment?” he asks softly, plush lips barely moving and his wild eyes never once leaving you.

Suddenly, the windowless Art Crimes Department feels stifling, like there’s not enough air. You can’t speak; you can’t breathe. Instead, you nod as you quickly rise from your chair and all-but-bolt from the room, walking quickly down the hall and up the stairs until you reach the lobby, then rushing out of the main entrance. It’s only then that you feel as though you can suck in a deep, ragged breath of crisp autumn air.  

You’ve carried this case with you for almost seven years. Seven years of feeling like you were the one who failed–not the system. You. You could have collected more evidence, you could have fought harder, you could have–no. You pace the sidewalk, repeating the statements the Force’s therapist gave you all those years ago. You did everything you could do. You helped a woman in need and brought a bad man to justice. His light sentence is not your fault. 

And now he’s dead.

Why doesn’t this feel like relief?

That feeling, the one you've been having all week, returns. That feeling of wrongness, like you’re forgetting something important. 

“Hey.” A soft voice cuts through your thoughts.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” you murmur, not turning to acknowledge Marcus. “What the fuck is happening this week? Pearson, Dalton, Fletcher, J-Johannson… I’ve seen more dead bodies in one week than I’ve seen in a fucking lifetime.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Marcus points out, “not a dead body.”

“The case with Johansson, it… it fucked me up for a while,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “I had to take time off, I was appointed a therapist to speak to, I–” 

“The details must have been really upsetting to you,” he says gently, laying his hand on your forearm.

“I had panic attacks,” you whisper, feeling the leftover shame wash over you. “We’re supposed to keep our own emotions out of the job, and I… I failed–”

“That’s not a failure–” Marcus starts, but you interrupt quickly.

“I failed her,” you grit out through clenched teeth, spinning to face him head-on. “I thought I was doing everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.”

The soft sound of your name causes a sob to catch in your throat.

“Listen to me,” Marcus says softly. “You did everything you could, I know you did. You’re a caring, capable, brilliant cop, and you did everything in your power. And besides, the universe has a way of making things right, doesn’t it? He came to justice in the end.”

You snort. “He fucking overdosed in his own home, and his victim was left with a lifetime of trauma. If that’s justice, the universe has a funny sense of humor.”

You deflate with a sigh. Checking your watch, you give Marcus a humorless smile. “We’ve gotta go, anyway. I need to be back to meet with the wife of a drowned man at the morgue.”

Maisie Fletcher’s demeanor is far more stony than it had been the day before. Head held high and lips pursed, she strides confidently into the observation room and watches expressionlessly as the sheet is peeled back to reveal Gavin Fletcher.

“That’s him,” she confirms with no emotion in her voice.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say, because it’s what you’re supposed to do.

Maisie snorts, the first time her facial features have changed since she walked in. “Really? Knowing what you know about him? You might be the only other person who knows the truth about what he really is.”

When you don’t answer, she speaks again.

“This might be the best thing that's ever happened to me." The words are whispered, barely audible even in the cryptlike silence of the morgue.

You nod at the mortician, Milo, who you remember from a few grades below you in school. He nods back and carefully replaces the sheet.

You escort Maisie back out to her car with a heavy heart and brooding thoughts.

"What are you going to do?" you ask quietly.

"I'm leaving town. Soon as I can. I–I never meant to stay here, but…"

"It's hard to leave," you murmur. "The town, mean," you correct quickly. "It sucks you in. Believe me, I know."

"You could go, too," Maisie points out. "Every town needs cops."

"And leave all this?" you joke. "I'm good. Really. Just been a week for the record books."

As Maisie drives off, you turn and see that Milo is watching you from the front entrance.

"There a problem?" you call out.

"Nah, just wanted a second opinion on something. You busy?"

You shake your head, walking back into the morgue behind the mortician.

"Lot of new tenants this week," Milo says. He pauses, looking over at you as if waiting for your laugh. You manage a weak one, but it seems to satisfy him. He stops in front of one of the metal drawers and turns toward you. "This one, the one they found yesterday? The autopsy hasn't been completed yet, but I wanted to run something by you to see if you agree with my analysis."

You shrug, holding your arms out in a gesture for him to continue. He grabs the handle and pulls, revealing the pale, stiff corpse of Jakub Johansson. You suppress a flinch.

"It doesn't take an autopsy to conclude that the overdose killed him," the mortician says. "We've got all the classic signs of a fatal dose of Fentanyl. Should be cut-and-dry."

You pause, a small frown on your features. “If it’s cut-and-dry, why am I sensing a ‘but’ there?”

“Well, the overdose is cut-and-dry. No one walks away from that many drugs in their system, but… well, it looks like he got into a fight or something right before.”

“A fight?”

Milo sweeps the sheet back from the corpse’s arm. “Here. See, there’s the puncture from the needle, but look–” he gestures at the upper arm, where, through the discoloration of the already-decomposing skin, you can clearly see five purple marks. 

“Someone grabbed him,” you say quietly. 

“Mmhm. And here.” He points to the forearm, where a larger bruise runs horizontally across the skin. 

Staring at the marks, the image starts to crystalize in your mind. “It looks like… like someone grabbed his upper arm, and held his forearm in place with their knee, or something.”

“That’s exactly what it looks like,” Milo nods grimly. 

“He was held down,” you murmur, barely audible in the silent room. “He was held down and given a fatal dose.”

“The injuries were perimortem,” the mortician adds. “They would have been sustained just before he overdosed.”

“How long before?”

“No way to be precise, but…” he clicks his tongue, “...no more than an hour or two.”

You thank Milo in a daze, heading back out of the morgue with rapidly swirling thoughts. You can no longer ignore the facts: All the people who have died this week, with the exception of Bobby Pearson, were on your list of ‘Cases that Haunt your Dreams.’ That list… subconscious, but so vivid that you may as well have it written down on a piece of posterboard and hung opposite your living room couch. They were the cases that kept you up at night, the reason you… 

… the reason… you…

���drink… to… forget.

The phrase seems to set off a chain reaction in your mind. You hear it again and again, but not in your own voice…

In the voice of someone else. 

“They say there’s only two kinds of people,” Marcus says. “Those who drink to remember, and those who drink to forget.”

You remember his soulful eyes, the understanding in his expression as he acknowledged that he knew exactly which of those people you were.

“I drink to remember.”

“The living, and the dead.”

The dead.

Images flash rapidly in your brain. Him telling you the work matters. Urging you to tell him the names. Pouring you another drink. You, crying against his dress shirt. Him pleading with you to let it all go, the burdens you carried.

The names…

Nothing makes sense, anymore.

Well, actually, everything makes sense, it’s just that you don’t want it to. 

Everything that’s happened over the past week is leading you to one conclusion–and you simply aren’t ready to face it. Not yet. 

You can’t face it… but you can’t let it go, either. It would be against everything you thought you stood for. So rather than go home and drown your suspicions in more whiskey, you go back to the station.

Not bothering to turn on the lights, you sit down at your desk and power on your computer. The blue light is harsh in the dim bullpen as you open the FBI’s website and search for the Art Crimes department. You glance at the directory–Supervisory Special Agent Marcus Pike at the very top, of course–then navigate over to the department’s news page and scan the recent case headlines. 

Wilton Man Admits Operating Fraud Scheme

Palm Beach Art Dealer Sentenced to Federal Prison for Laundering Money From Art Fraud Scheme.

Lips pursed, you open up a second tab and search for ‘Wilton.’ It’s a small town in Connecticut–and you find the town’s local newspaper easily. You click back to the FBI page, look at the date the man was arrested, and look through the newspaper archives on and before the same day. 

No major headlines stand out, but when you read the obituaries for the week, goosebumps begin to rise at the back of your neck. Elliott Bradford, 42. Overdose. Mark Hampton, 38. Suicide. 

Those kinds of deaths are common everywhere, you try to tell yourself. But, pulling up yet another tab, you search for the first name. Immediately, article after article appears in the results. Heart in your throat, you click on the first. 

Sex Offender Elliott Bradford Implicated in Trafficking Ring. The news is from over a decade ago–but the details are enough to turn your stomach. He’d been sentenced to ten years in prison, which means he would have just been released… last year. Mere months before Marcus would have been there for work. 

When you search for Mark Hampton, you find a similar story. Marjorie Hampton Files Suit Against Husband Mark Citing Repeated Abuse. And just a few years later, he’s dead, too.

A little voice in the back of your head tells you to stop digging, but you can’t seem to quit. You repeat the search with Palm Beach, and find that again, the obituaries are filled with accidental deaths and suicides from the town’s most violent men. 

Minneapolis. North Hollywood. Palmdale. You’ve gone as far back as 2016, and every town has the same pattern: Marcus Pike arrives for a case, and days later, known abusers start turning up dead. 

Every. 

Single. 

One.

It’s nearly two in the morning when you finally force yourself to stop. Your mind is swirling with names, dates, and heinous crimes. And all of them died within weeks of the town being visited by a certain FBI Art Crimes Detective. There’s still a part of you that can’t believe your conclusions are real–that the sweet, kind man you can’t deny your feelings for any longer is actually a killer. Which is why, hands trembling, you do the one thing you definitely should not do at this moment.

You text Marcus Pike.

“I need to talk to you.”

You regret it almost immediately. Part of you hopes that he’s asleep. He has to be, right? It’s two AM. Shaking your head and inwardly chastising yourself, you slip your phone into your pocket and start shutting down the computer. 

When you get up to leave, however, your phone pings.

“Where and when?”

"I–I need to talk to you,” you blurt out the moment the hotel room door opens, but the sight before you almost makes you swallow the last few words.

Marcus is shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sleep pants low around his hips. You can’t help but stare at the sight, taking in his broad shoulders, the light musculature of his arms, his slender waist and the soft skin on his stomach. A light trail of hair disappears below the waistband of his pants, and you swallow thickly as you drag your eyes back up to his face.

"So you said," Marcus says quietly. If he’s amused at your obvious staring, he doesn’t show it.

"You–what're you doing up so late?"

"Never did sleep much," he says with a crooked grin. One of his eyebrows raises as he looks you up and down. "Why are you up and at my door at this time of night?"

"Losing my fucking mind," you murmur shakily.

He steps forward, reaching his hand up to tenderly cup your cheek. Your eyes flutter closed as your body instinctively responds to his touch.

"Marcus," you whisper. 

"And why does that bring you to me?" he asks, his voice deepening. His thumb traces back and forth across your cheekbone.

To confront you, you want to say. To make you tell me I'm not crazy. That I figured out your secret.

Instead, you reach out and touch one trembling hand to his sternum, indulging in your desire to touch that expanse of golden skin. 

You open your eyes to find him watching you with a hooded, coal-black gaze. His eyes flick down to your hand on his chest, then back up to your face.

The moment feels like the drawing back of a bowstring. It seems to linger, seconds stretching out longer and longer until the inevitable moment where everything snaps.

Suddenly, Marcus is pulling you forward, shutting the door, and pressing you back against it in one swift, fluid motion. 

His entire body molds to you–hips, hands, lips–with far more ferocity and less restraint than the night before. You feel the sting of his teeth, the grip of his fingertips as he takes from you.

You aren't exactly idle, either; your hands map the planes of his chest, hips canting up to grind against the hard length you can feel there. When he pushes right back, you groan loudly and dig your fingernails involuntarily into the meat of his upper back, and he hisses.

"Sor–"

"Again," he growls, so you scratch harder.

A low, feral sound escapes from deep in his chest he breaks away from your lips and kisses a frenzied path down your neck.

"This was always going to happen," Marcus rasps into your skin. "You, and me. Can't you feel it?"

"Feel–?" you gasp, arching your back at the little nip of teeth at your shoulder. What you feel, right now at least, is the hard, thick length of his cock pressing insistently against your stomach, and it empties your mind of all other thoughts. 

"Feel the electricity between us. The connection," Marcus clarifies between kisses back up your neck until he gently nibbles your jaw. 

"Mmhmm," you whimper. Your knees almost buckle.

"Tell me," he orders. 

"I feel it."

You reach down and grasp his erection through his clothes as if to punctuate your meaning, and Marcus’s knees do buckle slightly as he sags against you with a broken groan.

"Every fucking night," he growls, "I pictured how you would look spread out on this bed. You'll forgive me for indulging that, now."

"Tell me," you parrot coquettishly, staring up at him coyly from behind your lashes.

Another low sound emanates from deep within Marcus's chest at your command. Spinning you around so fast you nearly lose your sense of direction, he pulls you further into the room and deposits you on the bed before crawling over you. 

"Tell you, huh? Tell you what? How I would close my eyes and think about the sounds you'd make for me? Or about how I'd get so worked up imagining the way you'd taste, the way you'd look coming undone beneath me that I'd have to fist my cock just for a little relief?"

"I wanna see that," you say lazily, licking your lips and making a show of pulling your shirt over your head. 

"Next time," Marcus promises darkly. “Next time I'll do it just like this, with you staring up at me, watching me fuck myself for you. But I don't think I can go one more night without being inside you."

"Please," you whisper, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

"Yeah?"

"Fucking… yes, Marcus, shit–"

He chuckles, straight, white teeth showing as he grins and starts to unbutton your pants. You let him draw them down your hips, along with your underwear, your breath getting shakier as you see the hungry look in his eyes. It makes you feel powerful, the way just the sight of your bare center seems to affect him. 

When your pants reach your ankles, he yanks them off the rest of the way and casts them aside in the corner of the room. His gaze is almost predatory, but you get the feeling you are the one who has him under your thumb at the moment. Giving him a sly, crooked smile, you spread your legs wide.

Marcus pitches forward onto his elbows, dropping down onto the bed as if deep in prayer, but everything about the man in this moment is sinful. With his mouth inches from your pussy, he breathes in, closing his eyes and shuddering visibly. When he opens then again, they're deep obsidian. They don't move from your face as he lowers his mouth to you.

You aren't sure who moans louder at the first generous lick of his tongue into your pussy. Rather than start at your clit, he dives in; thrusting the wet, warm muscle as deep into your cunt as he can while his nose presses deliciously against you. 

He devours you greedily, licking up into you as if he could pull pleasure out of your channel with just his tongue. He seems to be getting almost as much satisfaction out of doing it; his eyes are closed as if savoring you, low, muffled moans from deep in his throat punctuate every lap into your pussy, and every so often, his hips thrust slightly against the bed as though he can't help but seek a little relief.

His hands scrabble at your hips, yanking you closer as soon as he can find purchase, and you throw your head back on the pillow as he buries himself even deeper than before.

Christ, how is he even breathing?

His nose rubs back and forth against your clit, and you can feel your orgasm starting to build. Growing bolder, you rock your hips subtly against Marcus's face, and by the loud groan that escapes him when he feels you do it, he enjoys it.

He pulls at your hips again, wordlessly commanding you to continue. 

"Fuck," you murmur. "Marcus, your mouth–"

You slowly grind on him, gyrating your hips as you chase the sensations that feel best for you. It causes everything to pull up tight, and before you even realize what's happening, you're falling apart on his tongue.

"Have to have you," Marcus pants in your ear, having surged up to cover you with his body even as you were still trembling with aftershocks. "Tell me I can have you."

"Yeah," you agree. "Fuck, take it. It's yours." Make me forget.

"Condom?" 

"Clean. You?"

"Clean. You–You sure? Tell me now, because I don't think I can wait any longer."

"Please," you whisper, reaching up to gently wipe away some of the slick above his upper lip with an amused smile. He looks wrecked already–the only time you've seen him with a hair out of place–and it's incredibly endearing. 

You don't have time to dwell on that thought, because with a broken sound, he sheathes himself within you. 

The noise that escapes you is involuntary–an instinctual, guttural reaction from somewhere deep in your subconscious brain. You can feel Marcus everywhere at once, pressing against nerves deep inside of you, nerves you didn't even realize you had. 

Anyone would be forgiven for expecting sex with this clean-shaven, softspoken man to be just as gentle and sweet as the man himself. You would have thought the same thing, except for one feature of his that always made you feel as though something darker was lurking underneath: that smile. Wide, toothy, eager; the rows of straight, white teeth; the boyish little dimple it exposes.

It's his eyes when he smiles like that that have always made you wonder what he's hiding; what demons are being concealed behind pearly whites and laugh lines.

But you think the way Marcus fucks might expose far more than anything else about him. 

The fire that dances in his eyes has certainly hinted at a deeper passion, but you've yet to experience anything like the way it feels to be on the receiving end of this much intensity. 

He's unrelenting in his pursuit of pleasure; fervent and raw and so very physical. He doesn't shy away from the messiness of sex; he licks an escaped tear as you reach your second peak, he spits on your clit and rubs it in with his fingers, and when he finally pulls out and finishes on your chest, he immediately covers you with his mouth and sucks himself off of your nipples.

You'd also be forgiven in thinking Marcus was done with you. That, given the late hour and the vigorous, explosive way he had fucked you, he'd collapse on the bed with a tired, sated sigh.

Instead, he pulls at your hip and guides you to turn over on your stomach. You're about to open your mouth and question his motives when you feel his hot, wet tongue press against your other hole.

You squeal involuntarily, burying your face in the pillows as you surrender to the onslaught of Marcus’s attentions. In this, just as in every other way he's already had you tonight, he's incredibly vocal. He straightens his tongue and pushes it inside, and moans loudly as he feels you give way for him.

"Good girl, so fuckin' good, gonna make me hard again, aren't you? Mewling so prettily into the sheets like that while I take you apart. You like that, don't you? Filthy fucking girl, huh? Good. I am, too–told you we were made to do this."

Marcus is merciless, giving you his tongue, fingers, tongue again, over and over and over in your pussy and your ass until you come undone again with a wail. 

You're boneless and pliable as he hauls your trembling body up onto your knees and enters you again, this time from behind. 

He's equal parts brutal and reassuring: ample, generous praise spills from his lips with every rough punch of his cock. 

You're so overwrought with pleasure, you can't even speak. Marcus is destroying you in every delicious way, and you aren't sure how you're supposed to come back from this. How you're supposed to confront him after he's made you feel things you didn't even know how could feel.

His lower hands are pressing down on your lower back, intensifying the arch in your spine and causing his cock to hit the perfect spot inside you.

"Gonna–" you gasp.

"I know," Marcus answers. "Together, this time. With me, yeah? I'm so close, but I'm waiting on you. Cum for me, let me feel it baby."

You sob into the pillows as he fucks you through your orgasm, your walls aching and ultrasensitive from the relentless onslaught of his cock. 

You're only barely aware of him pulling out and letting you collapse forward onto the bed. You aren't sure why it surprises you–perhaps just the intensity of the moment before–but you aren't expecting the warm, gentle arms encircling you as Marcus follows you down and wraps you up, pulling you into his chest. 

You're still panting, trying to catch your breath and regain equilibrium as you hear his voice behind you. It's not rough and rasping like before, but soft and soothing as he croons into your ear.

"So good for me, so perfect. Took me so well, look so good in my bed. Incredible.”

Giddy and overwhelmed, you start to laugh breathlessly.

Marcus chuckles too, nuzzling the spot behind your ear with his nose with a satisfied hum. His fingers start to trace a path up and down your stomach, and you sigh bonelessly and settle against him.

"This… this wasn't what I came here for," you murmur after a few moments.

"No?" Marcus nips playfully at your jawline just below your ear.

"No, I… I…"

The teasing kisses continue, causing sparks to shoot up and down your spine.

"Marcus," you sigh, as you feel another little nibble on your neck. "Marcus. Stop."

Slowly, cautiously, he pulls back. You turn in his arms, frowning slightly.

"I came here… Jesus, this sounds–I need you to convince me I'm just being jumpy. That I've been spooked, scared of my own shadow…"

“You’re under a lot of stress,” Marcus says gently. “You’ve had a hard week.”

You scoff. “Hard week? I’ve had hard weeks. This week was devastating. I’ve seen more deaths in one week than in almost my entire time on the force, and–” you swallow and look up, meeting his dark eyes, “–they’re all connected to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “They were bad men, and they all had their vices…”

“Every single one,” you forge ahead, “was connected to a case assigned to me. But that’s not the only connection, is it?”

Marcus cocks his head to the side, not dissimilar to a confused puppy. “What do you mean?”

“They were all connected to cases that keep me up at night. Cases that didn’t end in justice. Cases that I confessed… to you.”

Confusion melts away into an easy, casual smile. Marcus chuckles softly. “I thought you said you didn’t remember anything we talked about that night.”

“Details might be blurry, but it’s the only thing that makes sense,” you say, laying back to stare at the ceiling. “I was upset over Bobby. I was disillusioned with the job. You were all too eager to lend an ear, to let me drown my sorrows and whisper the names of the men whose faces I’ll never forget. I cried on your shoulder, Marcus. And you… you took those names, and—”

“Are you saying you’re accusing me of being some kind of one-man vigilante justice machine?” Marcus asks, beginning to laugh outright. “Cricket, do you have any idea how that sounds?”

“It sounds crazy," you say, turning toward him again. "So convince me otherwise. Tell me I've lost my fucking marbles on this one."

"I think it would be natural for anyone to look for some kind of reason behind a string of deaths of people they know," he offers gently. "And these men, they've… they've affected you more than most–let's not mince words, you were traumatized by these cases. It's only natural that you would look for answ–"

"Answers?" you interrupt. "My job is to find answers, you should know that. I've been researching you on your own website, what do you have to say about that? I know where you've been for other cases."

Marcus chuckles, although it seems… deeper, this time. "That's publicly available information on the government's own servers. I'm not sure what your point is."

"I also looked up all the newspapers from the times you would have been there," you say. "And just like in Hannibal, there's a rash of suicides and accidental deaths, and all of the victims? They all had rap sheets miles long."

"Cricket," Marcus intones softly. "I know you're desperately trying to find connections here, but you have to realize these all sound like huge coincidences–"

"You got sloppy," you accuse, picking up steam and confidence as you continue to talk through it. "Did you know that? Johansson's death was no accident. He was held down and given a fatal dose. It was rough; whoever did it wanted it to hurt–"

"Stop." Marcus cuts you off, his voice harsher than you've ever heard it. "You're grasping at straws. You're under a ton of stress, and you've concocted a wild fantasy to cope. It's a good story, but that's all it is. The things you're accusing me of, the person you've made me out to be… it's not rational, and it's dangerous. I'm an agent with the US Government, and you're throwing around some pretty serious allegations."

"I know what I've seen…" you murmur, shaking your head.

"You haven't seen anything," Marcus insists. "I'm not sure what your game is here. You come to my hotel room in the middle of the night saying you want to talk, you come onto me, we have sex… and now you're telling me you think I'm, what? A serial killer?"

"I–I think I should leave," you say quietly, getting up from the bed and padding over to pick up your uniform–where your gun is still holstered in your belt. You grab the pile of clothes and retreat to the bathroom to breathe and regroup. You splash cold water on your face, trying to ignore the fact that your hands are trembling slightly. 

Get it together. 

The pull you've felt for the man all week doesn't matter. Put it aside. Do the job. 

You take a few more deep breaths, then pull on your clothes. With a set jaw, you unholster your gun and slowly open the bathroom door.

"Marcus Pike, you're–"

You freeze mid-sentence, staring at the now-empty room.

"...gone?"

Epilogue (1 year later)

“I know it’s not much, but–”

“It’s perfect,” you breathe, walking into the small office, carrying a paper box full of your belongings, all waiting for a home among the bookshelves and desk space.

“Sure,” the other agent laughs.

It might not have a window. It might not have much charm. But it has a door–a real door that closes and everything–and even more importantly, it bears your name on a plaque.

A real office.

Yours. 

“You’re coming to us from… Saint Paul?”

“Saint Louis,” you correct amicably. 

“Welcome to White Collar Crimes,” your new coworker says with a wan smile. “It’s like Organized Crime, except instead of bodies, you’re examining accounting spreadsheets.”

“Good,” you say emphatically. “I’ve had enough death for several lifetimes.”

The other agent makes a face. “What the fuck was going on in Saint Louis?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “You don’t wanna know.”

You set the box down, taking out some of your most prized possessions: A Mark Twain bobblehead, your Bachelor’s Degree in Criminology from the University of Missouri, and more recently, a certificate from Quantico labeling you as a Special Agent with the FBI.

It had taken most of the year to coordinate your exodus from the tiny town of Hannibal where you grew up. Sure, you could have simply gone to another city to be a cop, but the endless parade of speeding tickets, accidental overdoses, and orders to break up tent cities was wearing on you. Were you really making a difference where you were? 

No.

No.

You wanted to go after the real criminals. Those who swindled the vulnerable out of their hard-earned money. Those who gamed the stock market only to make a few million more than they already had. 

White collar crime.

“Well, welcome to D.C.,” the other agent says, his tone tongue-in-cheek, but your smile is genuine nonetheless. He leaves you to your task–setting up the tiny, cramped space that serves as your office. 

You unpack a box of your favorite pens, your stapler, a potted plant (fake) to add some greenery. Maybe when you get an office with a window, you can get some real plants, you think as you rearrange your notebooks on the small bookshelf beside your desk.

You glance down at the badge on your lapel and smile.

It had been a year since your strange run-in with the Art Crimes Agent that changed the course of your career. 

After Marcus Pike fled the scene of his own hotel room–leaving most of his belongings behind–you couldn’t find it in yourself to continue down the road of being a small-town police officer, handing out tickets and misdemeanors and investigating every tragic case that came across your desk. And they were all tragic, make no mistake. 

After a few months of being angry and indignant, you’d grown to respect Marcus Pike. You’d realized he was telling the truth all those months ago: he’d felt useless as an Agent, cutting through all the red tape and bureaucracy, and he’d simply taken matters into his own hands in the end.

He used his connections within law enforcement to gain access to the world’s undesirables: the violent, the unhinged, the maladapted, the unacclimated. 

The bad men who had gotten light sentences or slaps on the wrist when they should have been removed from polite society for the gain of humanity.

Compared to you–fighting through the red tape of Government at every turn–Marcus was unstoppable. You guess that’s why so many people like to read about comic book heroes who spend their time doling out vigilante justice. Fighting for prolonged sentences within the criminal justice system was one thing. Living by your own creed of law and order? That was another.

Marcus simply… went around the law.

Did the ends justify the means?

That was a question that kept you up for months on end–that still causes you to shoot up in bed, panting and sweating, fighting off the remnants of a nightmare.

Even now, you aren’t sure of the answer.

That, on top of the real job opportunities that the FBI awarded you, is what really brought you here.

Marcus Pike… is a murderer.

You’re here to keep an eye on him.

Putting aside your… more personal connections, the man is dangerous. After all, you have no way of substantiating that his moral code, the way he kills for his own perceived sense of good, will always match the general sense of human morality. Is Marcus the type of man who would take a personal slight and warp it into his own twisted sense of justice? Would ever kill to satisfy his own grievances? Would he ever simply kill for the sake of it? You have no way of knowing.

A soft tap on your office door interrupts your reverie.

“Got a briefing on the Waters case in five. I’m assuming you read the file I emailed over?” 

At your nod, the other agent continues. “It’s in conference room 2E63. Since this place is a bit of a labyrinth, thought we could walk there together.”

“Appreciate it,” you say cheerfully, snapping your laptop shut and grabbing your notebook. 

Time to work.

“Got any questions for me before the meeting?” your coworker asks as you navigate through the halls.

“Are other departments involved in this case?” you ask. “There’s the embezzling scheme, stock fraud, that’s obviously us. But what about some of the company’s other operations? The file mentioned something about illegal smuggling and money laundering, surely that’s–”

“Organized Crime, yup. We’ve got two representatives from that team, they’ve been heavily involved. It was recently discovered that some of the goods smuggled were uh, famous paintings or something? So we’ve recently added someone from—This is us, by the way.”

Your coworker opens the conference room door, and across the room, a familiar set of deep brown eyes flicks up in surprise.

“Anyway, yeah, we also recently added someone from Art Crimes to assist in the recovery of the, uh–” your coworker trails off, turning to the only other agent in the room that you happen to know, apparently hoping for him to complete the sentence.

He doesn’t. Agent Marcus Pike is still staring at you, lips parted, his face white as a sheet. Fear lurks in his wide eyes.

When he blinks, though, the mask suddenly drops back down over his expression, his agitation replaced with cool confidence.

“Cézanne,” he answers patiently. To you, he extends his hand. “I haven’t seen you around here,” he says carefully. 

To anyone listening, the words are straightforward, said by a stranger, but you catch the hidden, underlying message. I’ve seen you before, but in a different world. You are out of context. 

“Just started today,” you comment lightly before giving him your name, taking his hand, and shaking it firmly. Very firmly. Marcus blinks. You see a flash of that wild intensity that you know lurks beneath his unassuming exterior.

When he smiles, you take in the rows of perfectly straight, white teeth and his singular dimple. 

A warning. Or a promise.

“I look forward to working with you.”

[mae-gi-writes]

dial 199 | jeon wonwoo

In which you think you’re past saving, but the person on the other end of the line manages to pull you out of your dark waters.

Genre: angst, suicidal thoughts, reader is showing signs of depression.

If you believe you have symptoms and need to consult someone, please take that courage and do so. I swear life gets better.

———

“Hello, how may I help you?”

The gruff male voice at the other end of the line sounded raspy, as though the guy had just woken up from sleep. Or maybe you had interrupted him in mid-doze.

Your fingers tightened over the receiver. From your spot on the bench, nobody would see you amidst the darkness of the campus. It was practically midnight, after all.

“Is this WGU?” You managed to whisper in half-shame ad half embarrassment.

You were glad this wasn’t an in-person service because by god you would’ve never stepped foot in their office. But as desperate ass you were, you had no choice.

“Yes, this is WGU, also known as the “We Got You” committee. Anything I can help with?” The voice on the other end softened slightly, “are you in a safe space where you can talk without being interrupted?”

“I—“ you debated on lying, and decided against it, “actually I’m in the middle of the courtyard. I’m still on campus.”

“In the dark?”

“Yes. Not wise I know. But I couldn’t risk calling from my house, my housemates are there,” your throat ran dry. You swallowed thickly, “and honestly I just didn’t feel comfortable knowing that they might hear.”

“That’s understandable. How can I help?”

He said it so casually, as though he was a mere employee at a grocery store helping you pick out a shade of lipstick. Your grip on your phone was so tight your knuckles turned white.

You took a deep breath. Exhaled softly through your mouth. Then, spoke once more.

“I—This is confidential right? And nothing that I speak about will go beyond this conversation?”

“You do not have to give me your name nor do you have to give me any details. Everything is, and will stay, anonymous and confidential,” he then added, “unless you want to tell me. But that’s up to you.”

“Okay,” you bit your lip, “okay. So uhm—what shall I call you? Sir?”

“Call me Woo,” he said, “that’s what my friends call me.”

“Ah okay, uh, Mr. Woo—“

“Just Woo will do.”

“Uhm yes so, Woo—“ you stumbled over your words, “I—I’m really sorry to be calling at such a late hour, first of all.”

“That’s fine. I’m on the night shift anyway so you’re right on time.” You heard him shifting, “tell me, what’s been on your mind? Anything I can help with?”

“Well, the thing is—“ you felt the hard lump in your throat, the one that you couldn’t swallow, “I—I have a problem. I’ve been feeling very…how to say this? Negative, lately.”

“Negative? Can you try to explain what that means?”

“Like, very overwhelmed and just tired. I can’t seem to focus in class and my mind’s all over the place. My brain can’t stop thinking and I’m so homesick that I barely go out and—“

The tears came out by then, flooding over and taking you by surprise as you tried to silence your sobs. Woo waited at the other end of the line as you silently cried into the receiver, shoulders shaking and lips trembling every time your chest shuddered with emotion. It ripped through you like a cord that had snapped and suddenly you found yourself crying for so many reasons; the stress that came with midterms, the fact that all your other friends seemed to have settled and not you, the fact that maybe you were never going to fit in. The fact that you missed home more than you could imagine.

There were so many things, so many reasons to be angry at the world. And as you cried and cried and cried, you wondered briefly whether Woo had known he was going to sign up for this when he decided to join the WGU community. Probably not.

The poor boy was probably regretting all of his decisions right then, right now.

“Miss? Are you okay?” His familiar baritone seeped back through the receiver, which you kept a desperate clutch on like it was your lifeline, “I’m still here,” you gasped out.

“Alright we’re going to talk about all the things you just mentioned, okay? But first I want you to do something for me,” he instructed in a manner so calm you found yourself listening, “you’re going to take a super deep breath. And then breathe in. And then you’re going to hold it for as long as you can. Ready?”

He breathed in and you did the same, listening to the sound of air getting sucked into his chest before you held on tight. The air burned through your lungs and somehow, everything went quiet.

“Breathe out,” he murmured, and you followed.

You did that two more times before you managed to find your breath. It stuttered, it spun and sobs kept bubbling up your throat. But Woo drew your focus back in, not letting you get distracted just for one second.

When you finally managed to come down from whatever chaotic minefield in your brain, Woo murmured out, “feel better?”

“A little bit,” you admitted somewhat shyly.

You didn’t know this man. Yet he felt so comfortable to talk to, so reassuring.

“You want to try and re-explain what you’re really struggling with?” He asked tentatively, in a manner that felt so ope and non-judge mental.

“I think,” you bit at your lip, squeezed your eyes shut and let the words fall from your mouth in a whisper, “I think I might be depressed.”

There was a pause. Before he said, “okay, can you elaborate a bit more? What makes you think that?”

“Well, I—I’m always thinking of negative things and even when I try to cheer myself up I can’t. I want to go out and hang out with friends, but I can’t because I feel like—like nobody wants me there anyway, or that it doesn’t matter if I’m there or not. I don’t make a difference,” your shoulders lift in a shrug, capturing a sob mid-way, “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere and I’m constantly questioning why the heck am I here, am I still alive when maybe, maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Thank you,” Woo said, “that must’ve been hard.”

You laughed, though it was more to mask the fact that what he said was true. It had been the hardest thing you’d ever done.

“Sometimes, when you’re in that negative headspace, you tend to overthink and over feel quite a lot. It’s a normal reaction when you’re stuck in your head,” he started out, “and, by the way, I’m not just saying this to make you feel better. It’s—I know how it feels like. I’ve been there, too. And the thing is, it’s so hard to get out of your own head sometimes. It feels like drowning.”

Yes. It did feel like drowning. You nodded, before realizing he couldn’t see you, “yeah, it does feel a bit like drowning.”

“And it feels lonely, because you’re the only one who knows what it really feels like. You’re the only one trying to catch your breath. Everyone just seems to be going on with their lives and you’re there, wishing for someone to see you.”

“Yeah, sounds about right. I just—“ you sigh, “there’s no point in living if people don’t even know I exist.”

“You want someone to care, after all. Even if you want to be alone.”

“It’s complicated. I want someone to see me, but then again I don’t want to be a burden.”

“We were made to be burdens. People have to rely on other people to live,” Woo said softly, “and it’s okay to be a burden once in a while because that’s what makes us human. We’re not superheroes.”

Relying on other people meant to tell people what was hidden in the grooves of your heart and honestly, you weren’t sure whether you wanted to share that with them. Those deep, dark secrets that made your insides churn just at the thought. Who would entertain such thought? They’d merely brand you as crazy and drop you off at the psychiatrists as quickly as you’d come.

You didn’t want that. If you were to find professional help, you’d do it on your own.

But you weren’t ready. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

“Look, I don’t think it’s fair to ask you to be better as soon as you reach out. That’s not how it works,” Woo said, “but imagine that you have with you a super big guard dog. It’s all black and people don’t really like it. Actually, they’re scared of it.”

You tried following his suggestion. Your guard dog would be a husky, despite the fact that Woo said he’d be all black. Maybe an all-black husky?

“Okay,” you whispered into the receiver, holding it closer to you on instinct.

“Great. Now this dog. People fear it and normally you don’t mind it’s presence. Actually, you never really wanted a dog but he suddenly showed up one day. As a pup. So who were you to resist him right?”

You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with this, but you hummed in agreement anyway.

“That dog takes up a lot of your free time, and at some point he might become so big that it overwhelms you,” Woo said, “isn’t it a bit like what you’re feeling right now?”

You blinked. Somehow, that kind of made sense. You replayed his words in your head and felt your brain clear a little, like mist suddenly evaporating in the dead of night.

Your fingers loosened on the phone. Somehow, air seemed to go through your lungs a little easier. Your heart felt a little lighter.

A black guard dog filled with negative emotions. That was what you ultimately carried around. Woo had found the perfect metaphor to make you realize that this wasn’t entirely you. It was something that perhaps was uncontrollable and yet, could be controlled to some extent.

It didn’t have to rule your life. It didn’t have to rule your emotions. It didn’t have to make you sad all the time and angry at the world for not understanding the tremors inside you.

The words felt like butter as they left your mouth. It felt like a breath of fresh air the next time you spoke, “thank you.”

“Did that potentially bring down your sadness by at least one percent?”

“It really did,” the faintest of smiles played along your lips, “thank you.”

“No need. That’s what we do after all. I’m glad you’re feeling a little better.”

“Well I still feel like I should thank you anyway, because—“ you paused, “you’re the only one who actually listened.”

He chuckled but didn’t say anything more. You sat there for a few long, drawn out moments, wondering how just five minutes ago you were practically a ball of unrestrained feelings that seemed on the verge of breaking. And now there was a soothing calm that made your mind pause, that made everything still and steady until it was easy enough to breath again.

It was almost as though you’d managed to break out of the water, breathing in fresh air like your life depended on it.

“Thank you,” you said again, “thank you so much.”

“Just remember me next time, if ever you call.” Woo teased, “if someone else answers the phone you can say that you’re used to talking to Woo. They’ll transfer you straight over.”

“Are you on shift the whole night?”

“Until five in the morning.”

“You don’t have classes the next day?”

“Thank god no. I don’t think I would’ve survived. I have a free day tomorrow until four in the afternoon, so it’s not that bad.”

“That sounds nice. I have an eight in the morning. English Lit.”

“Wha—the wonder of people choosing morning classes will always be a mystery to me.”

“The logic is that you can get everything out of the way quicker so you don’t have to linger around on campus for nothing.”

He hummed, “I do agree, that sounds smart.”

“I should probably go to bed though, it’s late,” you check your watch as you spoke, eyes rounding at the clock showing one in the morning, “oh shit. I’m really going to struggle tomorrow.”

“Do you really have to wake up early?”

“Well yeah, otherwise I’ll miss my bus and I’ll have to catch up.”

“Maybe it’s good that you get to sleep in, don’t you think?” He prompted, “don’t you deserve that much, after the night you just had?”

A knot of anxiety settled in your stomach, “but—then I—“

“No buts,” he cut you off, “you deserve that much, Y/N. Trust me. You deserve to take a break and enjoy just being.”

there was a moment of silence as you pondered over his suggestion and your mind was already assessing the pros and cons, only for you to shut them all up and say, “you’re right. I think I deserve that much.”

“Good. Now will you do me a favor? Go home and get some sleep?”

“I will.”

“Alright. You’ll be okay, right?”

“I will,” you softened, “Thanks a lot, Woo.”

“Goodnight, Y/N. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight Woo.”

It wasn’t until you were halfway to your house that you realized you’d never told him your name.

———

Wonwoo watched you go from his perch on the streetlight lamp. It wasn’t the steadiest of landing points but this was the best way to watch your figure walk without catching attention. He just wanted to make sure you were safe and sound, especially at this hour where everything could happen.

His wings brushed against his back as he kept gazing at your retreating figure in the distance, the softest of smiles gracing his face, “you’ll be alright, Y/N.”

———

A/N: Hoped you liked this little one shot, inspired from true events. I’ve been feeling severely under the weather to the point that it’s taken two days of reality away from me and I wish it never happens again. This is a gentle reminder to all of you to take care of yourselves, and that someone out there is always going to care, and to want to listen.

Love you all, friends <;3

[spindle-and-nima]

funnily enough, i dont think gas is the issue right now; weve been giving him simethicone but it hasnt done anything, all his symptoms remain. we think its probably dehydration instead. (theres no way for us to know for sure because they couldnt xray at the time, hes too squirmy)

i know you probably get tons of asks for help and stuff, so you dont have to answer if you dont feel like it, but do you have any tips for getting them to drink? overall we are doing very well though, back to his primary doctor on thursday! his appetite is still there thank god ❤️‍🩹 glad spindle and his bangs are ok!

- ⭐

Is he eating at all? Like pellets or greens?

You can make a mix where you soften pellets with water, blend with some greens he likes, and make a runny slop and try to syringe feed him. Oxbow used to make this stuff called critical care which can help get food and water into his system. If he's eating greens, make them super wet so he's inevitably taking in water.

I would consult your vet to see if making a pellet/hay slurry is a good option. Refrain from treats high in sugar because if it's not dehydration it's a blockage in his gut and fiber will move stuff along.

I say to use a slurry because as some of you know I'm doing my doctorate degree in immunology and microbiology and work with a lot of lab animals. When certain gene knockouts make some of our kiddos under the weather we make what I call sad soup where we soak their chow in water to make this gloppy mix they can lap up to encourage food and water intake and it tends to help.

Ask your vet ofc but that's part of the rationale behind things like oxbows critical care.

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A slice of dark brown cake garnished with dried sorrel on a plate dotted with dried raisins and currants. End ID]

Jamaican black cake (optionally halal)

Black cake is a kind of fruit cake flavored with rum and spices and colored with burnt sugar. Variations on the cake are eaten throughout the Caribbean, primarily during Christmas but also for Easter or other celebrations such as weddings or birthdays. Dried fruits soaked in rum and wine, molasses, lime juice, warm spices, and sometimes rosewater produce the signature deeply fruity taste of Jamaican versions of the cake. Black cake often has a dense, smooth, pudding-like texture; I’ve made my halal version reduced gluten, to mimic the gluten-inhibiting effects of alcohol and produce that melt-in-your-mouth effect.

This recipe was requested by a patron; you can request recipes or vote on what I upload next by joining my Patreon.

Recipe under the cut!

Makes one 8" cake.

Ingredients:

For the cake:

1 cup (120g) all-purpose flour (substitute almond meal for a gluten-free version)

1/2 cup (55g) almond meal (substitute all-purpose flour if using rum)

1/2 cup non-dairy margarine, softened

1 cup unrefined sugar (such as muscavado or sucanat), or organic light brown sugar

3 Tbsp Jamaican or Caribbean molasses (if using brown sugar instead of unrefined)

3 Tbsp neutral oil, such as canola

2 Tbsp water or rosewater

1 tsp ground cinnamon, or 2-inch piece cinnamon stick

1/2 tsp ground nutmeg, or 1 tsp freshly grated

1/2 tsp ground allspice (preferably Jamaican), or 16 allspice berries

1/2 tsp ground cloves, or 16 whole cloves

1/2 tsp ground mace, or 1 head

5 Tbsp Caribbean browning (store-bought may be too bitter; taste and maybe use less)

Juice of 1 lime (about 2 Tbsp)

Zest of 1 lime

1 Tbsp baking powder

1/2 tsp table salt

2 cups (460g) soaked fruit mixture

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 tsp almond extract

My freshly ground spices totalled 9 grams; because freshly ground spices incorporate more air, you may want to include a bit more than I used by volume to account for settling.

Organic brown sugar is evaporated from cane juice and retains some of its original molasses, but less than unrefined sugars do. Non-organic brown sugars may be refined sugars with molasses added back in. Organic brown sugar is sure to be vegetarian (not filtered with bone char)—other refined sugars may or may not be suitable for vegetarians.

Unrefined sugars such as muscovado retain more of their original cane molasses, but they may clump and need to be grated before they can be used in baking. Sucanat is an unrefined sugar that should be pourable.

For the soaked fruit:

1 1/3 cup (130g) mixed black raisins, dried prunes, dried currants, and dried cherries

About 1/2 cup white rum (Wray and Newphew overproof rum is popular in Jamaica)

About 1/2 cup sweet red wine (commonly, Wray and Nephew red label)

Black raisins, prunes, currants, and dried cherries are the most typical fruits to use in black fruit cake. Many Jamaicans today also include mixed peel and red or green glacé cherries. Most recipes include more prunes and raisins than other fruits, but prunes make the cake too bitter for some people's taste; consult your own preference.

Most recipes call for “white rum,” but there is no clear dividing line in terms of flavor between “white” and “dark” rum. Some light rums are the result of ageing and subsequent filtering, while some dark rums have been aged less but have had color or molasses added in. If in doubt, just use something you like!

For the halal rum and wine mixture:

My halal 'rum' uses fruits, herbs, and spices that mimic the funky, fruity, vegetal notes of a Jamaican rum; it also takes inspiration from other drinks common in Jamaica. Ripe fruit is a source of the esthers that give rum its signature fermented taste, while sorrel and malta help to produce a well-rounded flavor. The point is not necessarily to taste ‘like’ rum, but to replace its complexity in the cake.

1 cup water or coconut water

1/2 black overripe banana or plantain, with its peel

Other ripe fruit, such as a handful of raspberries or a few slices of mango (optional)

1 Tbsp (2g) dried sorrel (hibiscus; optional)

1/2 inch chunk (5g) ginger

2-inch piece (2g) Ceylon cinnamon

2-inch piece (2g) cassia cinnamon (I used a mix of Chinese and Indonesian)

4 whole cloves

6 allspice berries

1/4 tsp grated nutmeg

A few pieces (1g) dried orange peel, or zest of one orange

2 ciliment (bay rum) leaves

1 Indian bay leaf (tej patta)

2 Tbsp West Indian molasses, or malta (Jamaican soft drink)

1/2 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 tsp almond extract

1/2 cup red grape juice (in place of the wine)

Any ingredients you don't have (except for the grape juice) may be omitted.

Instructions:

For the halal rum and wine mixture:

1. Roughly crush ginger and spices in a mortar and pestle or with the flat of a knife. Simmer fruit, sorrel, spices, bay leaves, and orange peel, covered, in water or coconut water for 10 minutes. Remove from heat and allow to steep for about an hour, still covered.

2. Strain mixture through a nut milk bag or coffee filter to remove fruit pulp. Mix in extracts, molasses or malta, and grape juice.

3. Top up mixture with more water if necessary to achieve a total volume of 1 1/3 cup (315mL).

For the soaked fruit:

1. Combine all fruits (including mixed peel and glacé cherries, if using) with enough rum and wine mixture to cover in a large glass jar. If using the halal rum and wine mixture, you should have at least 1/4 cup of it left over.

2. Soak dried fruits for a minimum of a week and up to a year (if using rum). Some bakers begin soaking fruit for the next year's cake immediately after Christmas! Keep fruits at room temperature while soaking if you're using rum, or in the fridge if not using alcohol. Occasionally check back and top up the liquid if the fruits soak some of it up and are no longer covered.

You may also choose to simmer the fruits for a few minutes and then soak them for a few hours if you're in a hurry.

3. Optionally, grind soaked fruits in a blender or food processor until smooth and paste-like. Whether you keep the fruits whole or grind them depends on what texture you want in your cake; I ground them to create a smooth, dense texture.

For the cake:

1. Whisk together all dry ingredients except for sugar (flour, almond meal, lime zest, spices, baking powder, salt) in a large mixing bowl.

2. Beat 1/2 cup softened margarine in a medium bowl with an electric beater until smooth. Add 1 cup sugar and beat for several more minutes until creamy to incorporate air.

3. Place 2 Tbsp water or rosewater in a small bowl and slowly add 3 Tbsp oil while whisking to create an emulsion. Slowly add the mixture to the creamed margarine, continuing to beat.

4. Slowly add 2 Tbsp lime juice and vanilla and almond extracts (1 tsp each) while mixing with a wooden spoon or rubber spatula. Add 2 cups (about 460g) fruit paste, 5 Tbsp browning, and 3 Tbsp molasses (if using brown rather than unrefined sugar) and mix.

5. Add flour mixture a little at a time and fold until well combined, with no remaining dry spots.

6. Bake in a parchment-paper-lined 8" cake pan at 250 °F (120 °C) for about 2 1/2 hours, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. The low temperature and long cooking time help to give the cake its smooth, dense texture.

7. As soon as you remove the cake from the oven, pour about 1/4 cup of your rum and wine mixture over the cake—this makes the cake very moist, as well as ensuring that the more volatile aromatics in the rum don’t disappear during baking.

8. Spray the cake with the wine and rum mixture every few days. It will be at its best a few days after baking!

The cake may be stored in an airtight container at room temperature for about 5 days (then moved to the fridge and stored for another week) if containing rum; a halal version will need to be stored in the fridge from the beginning.

[hairtransplant-stories]

What is The Connection Between Hair Loss and Water Quality?

Water plays a vital role in maintaining healthy hair, but did you know the quality of water you use can directly affect your hair’s health? Dr. Pratibha Pradhan, a dermatologist and hair transplant surgeon at Hairfree And Hairgrow in Kolkata, explains how water quality, particularly hard water, impacts hair and contributes to hair problems like dryness, breakage, and frizziness.

What Is Hard Water?

Hard water contains high levels of minerals like calcium and magnesium. You may have noticed white deposits around faucets or taps at home — these are caused by the mineral content in hard water. While soft water, commonly found in hilly areas, leaves hair feeling soft and smooth, hard water can make hair feel rough and dry. The reason lies in its interaction with shampoo: hard water reduces shampoo’s cleansing properties, making it difficult to wash away dirt and oil effectively. This leads to mineral buildup on the scalp and hair, leaving it brittle, frizzy, and prone to breakage.

Does Hard Water Cause Hair Loss?

While hard water doesn’t directly cause excessive hair loss, it can weaken hair by increasing brittleness. Brittle hair is more likely to break while combing or styling, giving the appearance of thinning. Additionally, the mineral buildup from hard water can block hair follicles, potentially slowing down hair growth over time.

Other Water-Related Factors Impacting Hair Health

Acid Rain: In urban areas with high pollution levels, rainwater can become acidic, containing sulfuric and nitric acids. Washing hair with acid rain can cause severe damage, leaving hair dry, brittle, and prone to breakage.

Chlorinated Water: Swimming pools are often treated with chlorine for disinfection, but this chemical can strip natural oils from the hair and scalp, making hair dry and fragile.

How to Protect Your Hair from Water-Related Damage

Use Chelating Shampoos: Shampoos with chelating agents like EDTA can break down excess minerals from hard water and reduce buildup on the scalp.

Switch to Filtered or Soft Water: Use a water softener for taps or rinse hair with filtered water after washing.

Avoid Hot Water: Wash hair with cold or lukewarm water, as hot water strips natural oils and makes hair more prone to damage.

Protect Hair in Pools: Always wear a swimming cap to minimize exposure to chlorinated water.

Limit Rain Exposure: Avoid getting your hair wet during the initial days of rain, especially in cities, as acid rain can be particularly harmful.

Other Factors to Consider

If you experience excessive hair loss after moving to a new area, it could also be due to lifestyle changes, stress, or nutritional deficiencies. Adjusting to a new environment can cause temporary hair shedding, but these issues can often be resolved with a balanced diet, proper hydration, and stress management.

When to Consult a Specialist

If you’re dealing with persistent hair fall or sudden bald patches, it’s essential to consult a dermatologist or hair expert. They can assess your scalp condition, recommend appropriate treatments, and guide you on how to manage hair health effectively.

Take Control of Your Hair Health Today

Understanding the relationship between water quality and hair health is the first step to protecting your hair. With the right care and expert guidance, you can minimize the impact of hard water, acid rain, and other water-related issues. For personalized consultations and advanced hair care solutions, visit Hairfree And Hairgrow.

Have more questions about hair care? Explore our blogs and watch our expert videos for more insights!

[floorbe]

Writing commission for @shirimoyita !

Prompt: Short fic of Taka and Hiro being step bros (Hiroko and Takaaki got married)

Thank you sm sm for your comm!! <3 <3 <3

~

It was… odd, to say the least.

Seeing Hiro move in along with Taka to their new apartment. Takaaki watches as Taka futilely tries to organize Hiro and Hiroko, (his now wife, he thinks, almost smug) as they move in. Taka is growing increasingly passionate about his planning, already thrusting his hand out to direct Hiro.

Hiro, as always, tries to laugh him off, tell him to chill out, push him away, which only seems to irritate Taka. Takaaki lets out a quiet sigh as he prepares to step forward, his expression hardening. A gentle hand rests on his shoulder before he can do so, and he turns to see that wife has walked up to him, a softer smile than usual on her face as she gazes at their boys.

“Let them. You gotta let them figure out how to deal with each other on their own,” she soothes him, voice flowing smoothly and making his expression soften, shoulders relaxing. He’s silent for a moment as he watches their boys argue, Taka pointing passionately at Hiro, who keeps trying to wave him off.

“You’re right,” he finally states, and she hums.

“Usually am.”

Before Takaaki can reply, he sees Hiro suddenly thrust his hand out to point into the sky behind Taka.

“Whoa! Dude, what is that?!” he shrieks, covering his head with his hands.

“What?! What is it?!” Taka shouts, whirling around to look for the source. As soon as his back faces Hiro, Hiro pivots on heels, sprinting away from Taka and into the house.

Takaaki masks his laugh with a cough, sneaking a glance at Hiroko to see the same expression. They brace as Taka turns around, a surprised shout leaving his lips before he chases after Hiro.

“Brothers already,” Hiroko laughs, and Takaaki can’t help but agree.

—

Later, after most of the basic stuff has been moved in, Takaaki finds Hiro lazing in Taka’s room on a beanbag. Taka sits across from him in his pristine office chair, and Takaaki chuckles as he realizes Hiro’s brought his own beanbag into Taka’s room.

Hiro is consulting his crystal ball, moving his hands over it with eyes squeezed shut. Taka is staring at him intently from his seat, anticipation obvious in how he bounces his legs and leans forward. Takaaki is only mildly surprised. Despite Taka’s strictly logical outlook, Takaaki had always found his son to be a bit naive and superstitious. It’s nice to see him openly show interest, Takaaki thinks.

“…You—…. will totally become a rad as hell politician!” Hiro suddenly shouts, thrusting out his hands with a dramatic flair. Taka gasps, his mouth dropping wide open.

“Really?! Wait, are you telling a joke?!”

“No, no! Dude, I’m serious-!”

Takaaki can’t help but chuckle as he walks off.

—

Takaaki is stumbling down the darkened hallway, still half asleep as he searches for a glass of water. He pauses as he hears a muffled conversation come from… Hiro’s room? At 3 A.M.?

He resolves to only peek inside, and he stifles a gasp at the sight. Taka and Hiro, sitting across from each other, with what seems to be an Ouija board between them. Takaaki bites his lip to muffle a chuckle. He can already tell what’s happening: Taka wanting to show Hiro that ghosts aren’t real.

Even still, they both look nervous. A wicked thought comes to mind as he watches Taka gulp. He silently snakes his hand into the room, and flicks off the light.

Screams erupt into the house, and as Takaaki hurriedly rushes back to his bedroom he has to clap his hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter. Nothing like promoting a little sibling bonding, Takaaki commends himself.

[lara1lara2lara3]

Jonathan Mitchell was a man who epitomized power and authority. As CEO of a major multinational corporation, his word was law, his decisions final. Every morning, he entered his sleek glass-walled office on the top floor of the skyscraper with the confidence of someone who believed the world was at his feet. His assistant, Claire Thompson, was a sharp, capable woman in her early thirties who had worked with Jonathan for nearly five years. Efficient and driven, she handled everything from his schedule to his high-stakes meetings with poise. She respected his position, but she was not blind to his weaknesses, especially his growing arrogance.

One afternoon, after a particularly long meeting, Jonathan asked Claire to stay behind. She sat down across from him, her usual composure unshaken as she noticed a change in his tone.

“Claire,” Jonathan said, leaning back in his chair, his gaze lingering on her. “We’ve worked together for a long time now, haven’t we?”

Claire nodded. “Yes, about five years.”

Jonathan paused, a smirk playing on his lips. “I think we make a great team. And, well… I was wondering if you’d consider having dinner with me sometime. Not a business dinner—something more… personal.”

Claire’s face remained calm, though inside she felt a flicker of disbelief. Was he really asking this? Jonathan Mitchell, her boss, was crossing a line, one that he seemed to think his position would allow him to cross without consequence. She knew the dynamics of power in the corporate world and how such advances could easily lead to disaster, especially for women in her position.

With a slight smile, she responded, “Jonathan, I appreciate the compliment, but I think it would be inappropriate. You’re my boss.”

Jonathan’s smile faltered. He wasn’t used to being told no, and for a moment, Claire could see a flash of irritation in his eyes. But she wasn’t done.

“Also, let’s be honest,” she continued, her voice cool and measured, “it could complicate things around here. And I wouldn’t want anyone to misinterpret our professional relationship.”

Jonathan shrugged, trying to brush it off, but her words left a mark. He nodded, though he looked a bit unsettled.

“Of course, I understand,” he replied, though his usual confident tone had softened.

As the days passed, Claire noticed that Jonathan had become more distant. He delegated more responsibility to her, trusting her to handle decisions that once would have required his input. At first, she thought it was his way of regaining composure after her rejection. But then she realized something deeper was at play—he was slipping, losing focus, as if his authority was beginning to unravel.

Claire, ever observant, saw an opportunity. Slowly, she began making decisions without consulting him. A slight adjustment to a contract here, a rescheduled meeting there. Nothing major at first, just enough to test the waters. Jonathan, preoccupied with his personal distractions, didn’t notice—or perhaps, he didn’t care. He began arriving late, and on occasion, he didn’t show up at all. Soon, the board began asking her for advice directly, bypassing Jonathan altogether.

It wasn’t long before Claire was effectively running the company. Jonathan, once a titan of the corporate world, had become a mere figurehead, his role diminished without him even realizing it. Then came the board meeting that changed everything. Claire had prepared for this moment meticulously.

At the meeting, the board expressed concerns over Jonathan’s performance. Claire, with a calm yet commanding voice, laid out the facts. She emphasized the company’s recent successes—successes that, as she subtly reminded the board, were largely her doing. By the end of the meeting, the decision was made: Jonathan would be removed from his position. The board didn’t need much convincing. Claire was offered the CEO role on the spot.

Jonathan was devastated, but the reality of his situation had not fully sunk in. He was stripped of his title, his office, and left with nothing but a severance package that was far smaller than what he had imagined. Claire, now the powerful executive, watched him with a mix of triumph and pity.

A few weeks after Jonathan’s dismissal, he found himself adrift. Job offers didn’t materialize, and his financial situation worsened. One day, Claire invited him to dinner—not as an equal, but as a gesture of mercy. Jonathan, feeling humiliated, but desperate, accepted.

During dinner, Claire surprised him with an unexpected offer. “You know, Jonathan,” she said, her tone casual, “I could use some help around my place. It’s a lot to manage with my new role. How would you feel about coming to work for me? I’m thinking more… domestic help. Live-in.”

Jonathan was stunned. The thought of working for Claire as her maid was demeaning, but he was out of options. After a long pause, he nodded. “I’ll do it.”

At first, the arrangement was simple. Jonathan moved into her apartment and took care of household chores. But over time, Claire began to make more demands. She insisted he wear a French maid outfit—a humiliating costume that made him feel small and powerless. Jonathan resisted at first, but Claire’s authority was overwhelming. He needed the money, and slowly, he found himself complying with her every request.

As the months passed, Claire’s control over Jonathan deepened. She began pushing him further, suggesting he try on women’s clothing beyond the maid uniform. Little by little, she coaxed him into a more feminine role—softening his demeanor, changing his appearance, until he hardly recognized the man he used to be. At first, Jonathan felt humiliated, but as time went on, he started to adapt to his new reality. The corporate powerhouse he once was had vanished, replaced by someone who now existed to serve.

Eventually, Jonathan came to terms with his new life. He was no longer the powerful CEO, but Claire’s maid—a submissive role he had never imagined. And yet, in an odd way, he felt a strange sense of peace. He had surrendered his ambition, his pride, and in doing so, he had found a kind of freedom.

Claire, now in complete control, watched as her former boss embraced his new identity. She had risen to the top, and in the process, she had turned the tables on the man who once sought to dominate her world. Now, the power was hers, and Jonathan, once a king in the corporate world, had become her loyal servant.

[momspregladder-12]

Coping with effacement discomfort: Tips and strategies

As the due date approaches, many expectant mothers experience a range of physical sensations and changes. Cervical effacement, or ripening, involves the cervix softening, thinning, and shortening to prepare for the baby’s passage through the birth canal. Effacement is measured in percentages, ranging from 0% (no effacement) to 100% (complete effacement). When the cervix is fully effaced, it can no longer thin or shorten, indicating that the body is ready for labour. Signs of effacement can include Braxton Hicks contractions, loss of the mucus plug, feeling the fetus drop, and increased vaginal discharge.

Here are five tips to ease the experience:

Stay active

Gentle exercises like walking or swimming can help keep the body in shape and promote circulation. Physical activity can also help distract from discomfort and prepare the body for labour.

Practice relaxation techniques

Techniques such as deep breathing, meditation, and prenatal yoga can help manage stress and discomfort associated with effacement. These practices can also prepare the body and mind for labour, promoting a sense of calm and relaxation.

Ensure to stay hydrated

Drinking plenty of water can help reduce Braxton Hicks contractions and keep the body hydrated, which is essential for overall health during pregnancy. Dehydration can increase discomfort, so maintaining adequate fluid intake is crucial.

Adjust your position

Finding comfortable positions to sit, stand, or lie down can significantly reduce discomfort. Using pregnancy pillows for support and experimenting with different positions can help alleviate pressure on the cervix and pelvic area.

Use heat therapy

Applying a warm compress or bath can soothe muscle tension and relieve discomfort in the pelvic area. Heat therapy can effectively ease the aches and pains accompanying effacement.

Consider prenatal massage

A prenatal massage by a trained therapist can help reduce muscle tension, improve circulation, and promote relaxation. This can be particularly beneficial in managing the physical discomforts associated with effacement.

Consult with your pregnancy coach

Regular check-ins with your pregnancy coach/healthcare provider can help monitor the progress of effacement and address any concerns. Personalized advice and reassurance can help you feel more at ease during this stage.

In gist

Cervical effacement is a natural and pivotal part of the pregnancy journey, marking the body’s preparation for labor and delivery. While it can bring about discomfort, understanding the process and implementing effective coping strategies can make a significant difference.