#and i feel like my followers should know this about me

[hipstersfoundmyrobot]

Over the past ten years, Danny Fenton’s life has been a whirlwind, and that’s an understatement. Nonetheless, despite being the Ghost King and a consultant for the JLD as Phantom, Danny’s life is ordinary. Or as ordinary as a halfa king could manage.

Danny remembers being 17 and feeling so helpless and overwhelmed, especially when Jazz moved away for college. He didn’t expect that to be the end of his struggles. His sister coming back for Christmas break with the Justice League in tow was not on his bingo card, nor were his parents and Vlad being tried for supervillainy or the Anti-Ecto Acts and the GIW being a hoax. However, according to Tucker, the most surprising part of their senior year was their trio graduating with near-perfect attendance and good grades.

Nowadays, life is good for Danny. While his responsibilities as the High King of the Infinite Realms and his attachment to his haunt keep him from leaving Amity Park, he has found balance. After his identity as Phantom was revealed to the town, the community rallied in support of the half-dead teenager who saw his parents go to jail. Following Jazz’s insistence, he has enrolled in an online Astronomy and Engineering degree, which he finds much easier than high school. He doesn’t even have to worry about money, being the new owner of FentonWorks and DalvCo.

All in all, life is, finally, cutting the halfa some slack, which is why he now has more free time to fill, ergo his current situation. Sam, Tucker and Jazz are debating on his computer screen about what hobby he should try.

“Danny, dude, I’m telling you, you should take programming classes. We could make our own video game and-“Tucker’s excited rant cuts off as Jazz mutes the both of them.

“After the ecto-contamination of everyone in Amity, you’ll probably find a lot of people willing to join an environmentalist group. You know my activism rubbed off on you.” Sam’s voice is almost covered by the deep sigh that escapes Tucker and Danny can’t help but smile at his best friends’ antics.

“You guys, we’re trying to figure out something Danny would like. Baby brother, what is something you’d like to do ?” Danny can’t help but miss his sister when he sees her exasperated smile at his friends’ insistence that he tries something they like.

Leaning against his desk, his face in his hand, he shrugs, a bit embarrassed. “Actually, I did have an idea but I’m not sure.” On his screen, his sister’s face is open and supportive, meanwhile, Sam and Tucker don’t seem to have noticed they were inaudible. “I, maybe, wanted to try streaming ? You guys obviously don’t have as much time to play video games with me and it’s really not the same on my own… I like the idea of finding a community of people who enjoy listening to my weird space and ghost rants without having to leave Amity. Not that the Parkers aren’t my friends but—” He pushes his hair out of his face with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. “I guess I want to meet new people ? But I don’t actually want to meet them.”

“That sounds great, Danny.” Jazz, supportive as always, finally unmutes the two.

“Yeah dude, I’m down to help you set it all up. You’re gonna need equipment-“

“And you’re gonna need to ectoproof it too. Are you going to hide your identity ? Acting like ghosts and your powers are the norm would be so funny.”

“Right, you could ask a ghost artist to make your channel art. You clearly already have a niche thing going, you know ?” His Fraid’s excitement makes Danny feel more confident in his idea.

“What do you guys think of the name CosmicSpecter ?”

Jason has been back in Gotham for about two years. His relationship with his family is still strained but it is improving. He has a good thing going with Red Hood and his gang. However, he is still plagued by the Pit Madness, despite his best efforts he still doesn’t feel like himself. Meanwhile, everyone around him has accepted, however reluctantly, that this is who he is now, but Jason refuses to. He knows this isn’t him, but he is resigned that the foreign rage trying to control him will torment him until his (next) dying breath.

Maybe it’s fate, maybe it’s boredom, maybe it’s the scary TubeYou algorithm that has him clicking on the livestream thumbnail while tittering close to the Pit Rage. The guy has 463 subscribers and 6 current viewers and he’s halfway through a burrito when Jason joins. The light is dim, and his eyes seem to be reflecting the light. A meta, maybe ?

“Hiya ‘botched-resurrection’, nice to see a fellow undead here.” He takes a swig of a too green liquid from a soda bottle and flashes the camera with a wide smile. “We’ll go back to playing once I’m done eating. This new joint opened a few years ago, since our town isn’t under a fake government lockdown anymore, and honestly, I’m pleasantly surprised. My sister is probably relieved I’m eating something other than a burger.” The guy’s eyes widen slightly when a $20 donation comes through from one ‘jazz_hands’. “Really Jazz ? ‘Twenty whole American dollars in hopes you’ll eat healthier food one day’. There are real vegetables in here you know ? You’re being too harsh. Also stop sending me money as an excuse to embarrass me on stream.”

This is the start of the prologue I'm posting on ao3 tomorrow probably, I'll link once it's up

Streamer Danny AU, but he’s a really minor streamer. Like, he does it mainly just for his own fun and only has a few intermittent viewers.

But somehow Jason finds his channel anyway, and something about his voice is captivating. The pit rage quiets down in his presence. So he starts tuning in to basically every stream, or just putting on the VODs in the background to fall asleep to.

And on the other side, Danny takes note of this new subscriber who’s quite possibly his first truly dedicated viewer. So he starts interacting with him on stream sometimes - greeting him when he shows up in the chat, specifically asking/answering questions, etc

Needless to say, this did not help Jason’s growing semi-parasocial crush in the slightest…

[juniperskye]

You’re…intimidating.

Based on the following ask: For Hotch x reader, could I please request charming witty reader who Hotch has an obvioussss crush on and he's trying to flirt but he's out of practice and she's pretty extroverted, confident so she just doesn't register he's interested and he's getting grief from the team for being all puppy dog eyes at her? Pref non-BAU reader but maybe she works in a different FBI dept or she's a lawyer/consultant they work with often and Hotch is always the first to suggest working with her so he's not being subtle in wanting to spend time with her lol. Feel free to adapt!! Thanks!! ❤️Okay pookie!!! I’ve been thinking about this one and it might end up pretty self-indulgent and for that I am sorry – girlie works for cybercrimes (but transfers to the BAU – sorry it felt right) and she’s the best of the best like Penelope worships her…she’s a little alternative so Hotch admires her from afar because she’s not his usual type just PURE FLUFF

Aaron Hotchner x FBI! Fem Reader

Fluff

Word count: 2674

Not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, age gap (reader is late 20’s, Aaron is 45), some explicit language, not an OC but reader is described to have some tattoos and piercings (nothing specific though), reader works for cybercrimes and is SUPER tech savvy, idiots in love, Hotch pining hard, tooth rotting fluff, canon typical violence, mentions of hacking and breaking laws, reader is an extroverted introvert, Reader is called “Agent Z” or “Z” because she is a gen z, let me know if I missed any

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

“Hotchner, this is the third time this month you’ve requested her. I’m beginning to think we should be offering her a spot in the BAU.” Director Cruz teased.

“If she’d be willing, I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.” Hotch shrugged.

“I’ll put in the consultation request and maybe I’ll bring up the idea of a transfer to her.”

Hotch stood and returned to the sixth floor, promptly running into Penelope, as she was making her way back to the Batcave.

“So, I heard I might be getting some assistance on our next case! You know if you keep inviting Agent Z to join us, I’m going to get used to having her around.”

“Would that be so bad?” Hotch asked.

“No, it definitely wouldn’t…unless she stops coming around.” Penelope retorted.

The look on Hotch’s face gave him away, there was a brief flash of disappointment at the suggestion of you not coming around anymore. He couldn’t bear the thought…which made him even more nervous than you did. Speaking of…

“Hey Hotch!” You called effectively startling him.

“Hello! I uh – I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“Ah well, Cruz emailed the request over and I got the notification, so I figured there was no time to waste.” You shrugged.

“Well, we might as well debrief the team then.” Aaron offered, gesturing toward the conference room.

--

Here’s the deal, Aaron had feelings for you, you had captivated him the first time he saw you. It was a Tuesday in July, the weather had been unforgiving…hot and humid, not ideal for the business attire of FBI agents.

As he made his way into the building, he’d taken note of how nearly everyone had their suit jackets or blazers slung over their arms, their sleeves rolled up as they hurried into the air-conditioned building.

But then there was you. You were wearing these chunky black loafers and black trousers, your top had been a simple black tank, it was hugging your skin in a way that made Aaron’s mouth go dry. You had a checkered cardigan tossed over your forearm that you had clearly removed. It allowed Aaron a view of the tattoos that adorned your arms.

He couldn’t explain the pull he felt…you had been so different from any woman he’d ever had any interest in before, but maybe that’s why things never worked out with them. Maybe the others were too stiff, too proper. Maybe he needed a little chaos in his life.

--

During the debriefing, Aaron had made sure you were sat next to him. He let Penelope present the case as usual and allowed time for theories. While Derek and Emily were talking back and forth about the possible age and gender of the unsub, Aaron’s eyes were trained on you. He could see your mind running a mile a minute.

“What is it?” Aaron asked, tapping your arm gently.

“Oh, no. I was just thinking. There’s something about the photo’s that were left at the crime scene…it feels familiar.” You shrugged.

“Have you seen another case like this?”

“I think so…” You pulled open your laptop and began searching through old case files and evidence you’d logged over the years. “Here! Hotch, look at this!”

Aaron leaned over, leaving hardly any space between the two of you. His gaze shifted from your profile to your computer screen, taking in the images before him. On your screen were photos that were nearly identical to those in the file the team had just reviewed.

It seemed as though this unsub took photos to document their work. Leaving some behind at the crime scenes, taunting law enforcement.

“We didn’t have very many leads back when this came across my desk, but I have new programs I can use to run these photos through now and with Penelope’s help, I think we could finally get this guy.” You explained.

“Alright, why don’t you travel with us so you can access the physicals of the photos.” Aaron suggested.

“Okay!”

“Alright then, wheels up in thirty.” Aaron commanded.

--

“Hey Agent Z! You joining us again?” Derek nudged you gently.

“Not this time, I was just asked to come and consult on a case.” You replied.

 “Oh, I see. Bossman calling in his favorite once again.”

“Stop! It’s not like that Derek.”

“Girl…you and I both know that it is.” Derek laughed and walked off.

You made your way to Aaron’s office, knocking on the door. When he calls out for you to enter, you go straight for the chair in front of his desk, plopping into it with a huff.

“You alright?” Aaron asks, concern lacing his tone. “We could do this later if you’re not up for it.”

“No! I’m happy to help! I’ve just got a decision to make, and I don’t know what to do.” You sighed. “Let’s talk about this case!”

Aaron and you went through the case that had been sent in from the NYPD. You were confused as to why he’d called you in to consult, the case had seemed pretty cut and dry…something Aaron would typically delegate to Derek or Dave. The tech aspect to this case was so minute, it was common sense…but you didn’t want to call him out on it.

--

“Thanks again for your help, hopefully the NYPD can close that case pretty quickly now.” Aaron walked you over toward the elevators.

“Any time. I like working with you and the BAU.” You smiled cheerfully.

“So um, what was that decision you have to make?” He inquired.

“Oh, uh…well, Cruz asked me if I wanted to transfer from Cybercrimes over to the BAU actually.”

“That’s great! I mean – I uh. Do you think you’ll do it?”

“I’m thinking about it for sure! It’s just, I’ve been with Cybercrimes for so long, I’d feel bad leaving them…ya know?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

You said your goodbyes and you headed back to your office on the eighth floor. Aaron stood there for a bit, looking after you as you made your exit. He stood there a beat longer before turning and heading back to his office. Only he didn’t get that far. Upon walking through the glass doors, he was met with the whole team standing there waiting for him.

“You’re down bad Hotch.” Emily said.

“Yeah, that was almost painful to watch.” JJ agreed.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Hotch shook his head and made his way back to his office.

--

Agreeing with the director to have you transferred was, quite possibly, the dumbest decision that Aaron could have ever made. He already struggled just being near you when you’d come and assist, but the thought of having you around all the time…what was he meant to do?

Subject: Agent Transfer – Effective immediately Good afternoon, This email is being sent to inform both the CCU and BAU of the immediate transfer of Agent Z. In discussing this transfer, she assured me that should the CCU need her assistance in a case, she’d happily help. She does, however, know that the agents on the team are more than capable of handling things. As for the BAU, given her expertise and background, she will travel with you as needed. I just want to remind you that Agent Z has a background in hacking, computer forensics, criminal justice, psychology, behavior analysis, amongst others. Utilize her skills – I believe she will make an incredible contribution to the BAU. Hotchner – her file was delivered to your office this morning. Also, she needs firearms training, please ensure she completes this before travelling with the team. Let me know if you have any questions. Mateo Cruz - Section Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit

Aaron read the email four times. You would be starting with the team today…he needs to get you scheduled for your firearms training and qualification exam. He figured he could do that while you get settled in the office adjacent to Penelope’s.

--

“Hey Hotch.” Your fingers rapped against the doorframe.

“Hi-Hello. Can I uh, show you to your office?” He asked.

“Penelope already beat you to it.” You teased. “But if you want to help me bring the last of my boxes down, that would be awesome.”

“Oh, I um-I…can-”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to! You’re a busy man, and I can ask Spence or Derek!”

“No, I’d love to help.” Aaron recovered.

“Okay.” You smiled.

Aaron led the two of you over to the elevator, allowing you to enter first, then following suit and pressing the button for the eighth floor. It slowly lifted before signaling your arrival on the CCU floor.

You guided Aaron to your old office where the last two boxes remained. There was an IT guy loading your monitors onto a cart, getting ready to move them for you. You looked around at the now empty space…it felt empty now, like it no longer belonged to you, and you supposed it didn’t anymore. Aaron couldn’t help but notice the slight sadness that took over your features.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“Oh, yeah, I’m okay. It’s just odd, having had this office for the last four years, and now it’s empty…it’s not mine anymore.” Your gaze shifted downward. “It feels like the end of a chapter. While the feeling isn’t bad, because I’m really excited to be joining the BAU, it just feels kind of sad.”

“I know what you mean. I felt that same way when I left the law firm I worked at.” Aaron looked over at you.

You met his gaze, and he offered a small smile. You returned it, feeling this sense of comfort. He’d always brought up that feeling in you though. It was like this glowing warmth that spread its way through your entire being…but that flame only burned in you when he was around.

--

“And hold it just like that, good!” Aaron praised.

You fired three consecutive shots at the target, forming a neat cluster in the outlines chest. Pride bloomed in Aaron’s chest, and you squealed with excitement, throwing your arms around him!

“Thank you so much for helping me! There was no way I was going to pass this exam without you!”

“I’m not sure how you’ve been with the bureau this long and not had to get your firearm qualification.” Aaron shook his head with a laugh.

“Hey! I have been confined to the eighth floor for the last five-ish years, I haven’t needed to carry one.”

Aaron took note of the freckles that dusted your nose, and the way the light reflected in your eyes. He thought for a moment about how close you were, and how easy it would be to just lean in the last few inches and capture your lips in a kiss. But he had to shake the thought away.

--

“I PASSED!” You shouted, running your way through the BAU bullpen.

“Good lord, what are you yelling about?” Dave asked, coming out of his office.

“I PASSED! I PASSED!” You waved your firearms certificate in the air, making your way over to Aaron’s office.

He exited his office to see what the commotion was all about, seeing you shaking your hand, waving a piece of paper around like a mad woman. He was mesmerized by you. You were 100% yourself and he admired you for it, you weren’t worried about how others perceived you. You only worried about your own opinion; you wanted to be the best version of yourself always.

“HOTCHHH, I PASSED!” You ran over to him and jumped into his arms, wrapping your own around his neck.

Aaron held you tight, lifting you off the ground for just a moment before noticing the look on Dave’s face. He placed you down and quietly congratulated you. He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at getting caught by Dave. He knew that he had done nothing wrong…but he also knew that Dave could read him better than anyone else.

--

“Okay, when are you going to ask that girl out?” Dave huffed, sitting in the chair across from Aaron.

“Dave.” Aaron scolded. “It’s inappropriate.”

“Aaron…you deserve it. Happiness I mean. So, are you going to let it pass you by or are you going to seize the moment?”

“Sir, I don’t mean to interrupt, but we have a case.” Penelope informed. “It’s a child abduction.”

“Let everyone know we’re leaving now – we will brief on the plane.” Aaron commanded.

“Is Z going with you?” Penelope asked.

“Yes!” Dave answered for Aaron.

--

Aaron always sat next to you on the plane. It had been purely accidental, you’d sat in his usual seat and though Aaron wouldn’t say anything, Spencer did. So, you moved over into the adjacent window seat and Aaron slid in next to you. Since then, you’d always sat there.

Like now for example, the BAU was headed home after a two-week long case. The unsub had been way too good at covering his tracks, he’d had the entire team stumped. Thankfully you’d found his slipup in a dark web chatroom. He’d posted video of him torturing his latest victim in a chatroom used by very sick people. It was flagged once you’d turned on notifications for keywords and certain video content. After receiving the notification, Penelope and you were able to track an IP address and narrow down the location.

It had been exhausting honestly, running around, back and forth, interviewing people, going through evidence, just going until you found this guy…and now that was finally catching up to you. Your head had been bobbing off to the side as you fought the throws of sleep. As you began dozing off once more, Aaron reached over and led your head to rest on his shoulder. You finally settled and snuggled a bit further into his side, and for once he leaned back and let himself rest on the flight home.

Emily pointed JJ and Derek’s attention over to the two of you and then giggled. Derek quickly snapped a picture and sent it in their group chat. Penelope was quick to reply with the happy tears emojis and saying “finally”.

--

Things had shifted slightly after that. And while the team still teased Aaron about his very obvious crush on you, he finally allowed himself to be more confident in his interactions with you. He realized that Dave was right…maybe he did deserve happiness.

He’d invited you to get lunch with him a few times during work and he’d brought you coffee. He thought he was making his affection for you more obvious…but you still didn’t budge. He was beginning to worry that you didn't feel the same.

But it all came to a head when he decided he needed to be direct. Not on his own…Emily and JJ had to confront him and then convince him that you did like him, you just didn’t think he liked you.

--

You walked into the elevator, just about to click the button to the sixth floor when an arm reached in to stop the door from closing.

“Oh! Good morning Hotch.” You greeted. “Sorry, if I had seen you coming I’d have held the door.”

“No worries.” He forgave. “Do you um – do you have any plans tonight?”

“No, I was thinking of ordering a pizza and watching an episode of The Great British Bake Off. What about you?”

You’re reply had been so innocent and sweet. Just a simple response to his question, not reading into what he was truly asking you.

“Sweetheart, though your plans sound wonderful…will you go to dinner with me tonight?” He asked.

Your jaw dropped, only for a moment as you worked to regain your composure. Had you really been that blind? The girls had told you time and time again that he was interested, and you’d brushed it off, not wanting to get your hopes up…but here he is now, asking you out.

“I would love to.” You smiled.

Taglist: @bernelflo@pastelpinkflowerlife@just-moondust

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 4

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Whenever Simon spares you a glance to remind himself that this new and strange arrangement is real, he finds you staring right back at him somehow.

Always making eye contact; holding his unwavering gaze with a silent expectation that makes his chest feel tight and his brain go numb, grappling for answers. Multiple times he's caught himself biting the tip of his tongue harshly to refrain himself from barking “What?” at you, demanding an answer in exchange for his cluelessness: What do you want from me?

He's building a mountain of expectations in his mind involuntarily while lacking the gear and a strategy in how to climb it properly. It's too high, and he knows he can never reach the top unscathed.

How can he possibly take care of you if he can barely take care of himself outside of what is required of him? He keeps himself fit, alive, able to function, always ready to follow an order and go in for the kill. That’s what he knows, what he’s comfortable with, but this?

Simon doesn't play house, doesn't know how to handle something so... domestic and delicate. He never experienced it growing up, never witnessed normalcy. If he would care about such things now, he’d have a wife or something akin to one, but he doesn’t–never even had a partner before, never bothered to believe himself fit for dating, for letting someone in like this.

Even the soft clothes you're wearing make him recoil; pastel colours having the opposite effect of red to a bull–so odd and out of place to him, and he knows the callouses on his fingers would simply catch on the fabric if he were ever to reach out to you for whatever reason, like a sheep’s fine wool catching on a thorn brush, scratching and tearing.

“What would you like for dinner?”

Simon blinks twice, thrice, before the question comes through his thick skull, vision slowly clearing despite him having stared at you for the past minutes while you were sitting on his couch patiently the whole time, eager as ever now that he willingly took you back to his flat again.

Why did you even sign the handlership without knowing him at all beforehand? Are you really that oblivious? That naïve? Or did the brass coax you into signing it?

“Simon?”

The way you keep saying his name so casually, makes his chest ache, makes him inhale sharply each time. What would he like for dinner? It should be such a simple question, but it seems like a puzzle to him–a thousand pieces, all in the same bloody colour.

“Why? Ya offering to cook for me, lass?” He snorts humourlessly. It's ridiculous. No one cooks for him unless he goes to the mess hall to get some grub.

“Of course, I'd love to!” You answer immediately, flashing a genuine smile. His eyes flicker to your tail when it starts to wag again and he curls his lips under his mask. Isn't he supposed to take care of you? What even is this bloody handlership? His brows draw together quizzically, making that deep crease reappear between them. Perhaps he should’ve read it before putting his signature on the damn paper.

Then he sighs in resignation. “Do whatever you want, just stay out of my room,” he replies and makes a half-hearted gesture towards the kitchen. “Not sure wha’s in the fridge. Been a few days since I went to the store,” he admits begrudgingly, kissing his teeth in annoyance when his stomach grumbles.

“Well then,” you say tentatively, tail stilling on the couch, “–why don't we go shopping for groceries?”

It’s already late afternoon, when Simon pulls up to the parking lot in front of the local supermarket in town with a truck he borrowed, deciding it’s better for his own nerves to take you somewhere else but the stores they have on base.

He just can’t bring himself to keep you on a leash around his peers, to parade you around wearing a pink collar around your neck with his rank and military ID number stitched into its leather–a ‘gift’ from the bloody gift basket Price had delivered to his flat along with the initial shock of your presence.

And, by god, he wants to drop the leash and run in the other direction as soon as the automatic sliding doors swoosh open and his boots step foot into the store with you in tow–a red shopping basket clutched in his other hand.

What an absurd picture it must be to other shopgoers–a behemoth with a skull mask and cargo pants buying veggies and snacks with a gorgeous hybrid woman on a pink leash and matching collar. Kinky, he muses unintentionally and grits his teeth, cringing at his own stupid thought. It’s then and there Simon decides to murder Price next chance he gets.

“Mummy, look!” A toddler exclaims, pointing at you as he peeks his head into the produce aisle. Simon’s eyebrow raises beneath his mask as the little boy approaches shyly, his wide eyes fixated on you. Civilians, especially kids and women, usually avoid him like the plague whenever he’s out and about in public, looking like, well–himself.

“Hello there,” you coo at the toddler, crouching down to his level while Simon keeps as much distance as the leash allows him to, knowing better than to interfere. “Are you looking for your mama?” You ask attentively, ears twitching as you look past the boy, already searching for his parents.

The boy shakes his head with a big smile, rocking on his feet. “Nu-uh, she’s–”

“Noah!” The frantic voice of a woman calls out. “I told you to stay by–” Her eyes widen, steps faltering briefly as she catches sight of Simon, who has already anticipated the reaction, slumping his shoulders to try and make himself look smaller, less threatening.

“He’s okay,” you chime in swiftly, straightening up to be on eye-level with Noah’s mother. “We were about to help him look for you, madam,” you assure her, and the boy giggles when you ruffle his brown unruly curls briefly. “Isn’t that right, big man?”

The conversation fades into the background just like Simon’s whole presence seemingly does as you go on to hold a friendly and effortless conversation with the mother and her son. Meanwhile, Simon doesn’t quite remember the last time someone approached him so casually and jovially, and he gets lost in his own rotten mind with flashbacks of the past again–seeing the ghosts of Beth and Joseph in these strangers in front of him, and his heart is gripped by icy tendrils of grief and melancholy until your laugh breaks through the vision, pulling him back to reality at once.

“Oh, no worries! I’m sure it is strange to see someone like me in a quaint town like this,” you chuckle softly, giving a small wave with your hand while Simon’s pale lashes flutter as he tries to follow the conversation once more after what he’s missed. He notices how the toddler is giggling, petting and hugging your fluffy tail while you continue talking to his mum like it’s nothing unordinary. “But working for the military has brought me to the strangest places where hybrids are either a common occurrence or completely rare and more like a myth,” you explain patiently.

And the woman smiles coyly, already smitten with your charms. “Well, you certainly are a looker if I dare say so, miss.”

Once Alice, as she'd introduced herself, and Noah go about their own shopping, Simon catches the odd look on your face, something akin to sadness or longing hidden behind your smile, before you rapidly blink it away as a grumpy-looking elderly man approaches you, asking for help as if you'd know your way around while Simon groans internally, already despising all the attention.

You really do turn heads in a rather positive way if you manage to make the most grumpy old geezer smile in a heartbeat.

“You always this chipper?” He gruffs as he watches you add a pound of butter and coffee creamer to the overflowing basket, not that he'd care about that. You've been nothing but mindful of prices and proper nourishment while strolling through the aisles.

“Hm?” Simon snorts, in amusement this time. There's no way you didn't hear him; he saw your plush left ear swivel in his direction. “Ya heard me jus’ fine, lass.” He mutters, grabbing a box of his favourite biscuits as he walks past them and shoving them in between the other goodies, feeling like a child sneaking candy into their parent's shopping cart.

“Oh, yeah,” you chuckle, keeping your eyes trained on the shelves with different brands of toast before grabbing a packaged loaf. “I guess I am.” Then you stop, glancing up at him over your shoulder, and Simon nearly bumps into you. “You don't like people coming up to us to chat?”

Simon's brows furrow. Us? “They wanna talk you, not me. 'm basically–” He shrugs, making a vague gesture at himself as the leash clinks in his hand.

“A Ghost?” You quip, beaming at your little joke while your tail swishes proudly.

“Right,” Simon huffs quietly. “Smooth.”

He's rather thankful for his balaclava as he continues trotting after you through the store, hiding the tiniest crack of a smile underneath the black cloth.

There’s a match on the telly, an ice cold bottle of his favourite ale on the coffee table on a coaster he didn’t even know he owned, though all Simon can really focus on is this bizarre situation he finds himself watching as you go about doing your own thing in his kitchen.

It’s almost mesmerizing, the way you rummage through the cupboards and drawers, taking out pots and bowls to your liking as if you own the place already, preparing a side salad while the steaks sizzle in the pan–all while you’re wearing that frilly, pale pink apron that you’d fetched from your suitcase earlier, the one that makes Simon wonder if one of your previous handlers is responsible for your peculiar wardrobe, or if pink simply happens to be your favourite colour.

He takes an absentminded sip of his drink when another thought pops into his head: What if you wear all of this hyper-feminine bollocks because people forced you to like it? What if they manipulated you into enjoying stuff to state their own perverted fantasies? Would you rather wear something else?

And Simon imagines it briefly–you wearing something cosy, perhaps one of his hoodies that would most likely swallow you whole. He takes another swing of ale and his nose wrinkles, though it’s not the bitterness making him squinch.

“Dinner is ready in five,” you croon suddenly, popping your head into the living room from the kitchen as the savoury aroma of steak and chips wafts through the flat, engulfing the usually sparse space like a warm, comforting blanket.

With a soft groan and a cracking knee, Simon gets up from his seat on the couch. The least he can do is set the table.

@lucienofthelakes @kakashiislut @jggykhug09090 @edgarapoecolouredglasses @kerst666 @whos-fran @d1zzy-r1v3rs @userinaliel666 @annoyingstrawberryballoon @vmaxis @tessakate @dneicjefx @sushiumex @yourfavreggie @cmbghost @brokexintroverted @mysterygrl555 @bunnybeaches @fmlmf @teapartydreams @nachofriess @slut-lmao @sweetnanah @kodzukenwhore @thefutureastronaut @arael-asuka @oliver-1270

[oceantornadoo]

ch11 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: a little piss bc reader is refused a toilet. some light torture scenes and violence.

“Where. Is. She.” Ghost slams John against the wall, his forearm to John’s throat. The man’s snarling, an unrestrained beast in a mask. The world zeroes in on the gaze between them, the terrible acceptance that they have a shared weakness. A shared weakness who is gone, potentially dead. All they can do is beat the rotted carcass of this feeling until it breaks. 

Thirty minutes earlier

For the past two hours, there’s been something vibrating under John’s skin. It was there when he pulled Gaz by his collar in the store, searching the man’s eyes for deceit. It was there when he eventually let him down, satisfied with the steel reflecting back at him. It was there when someone handed him his wife’s phone, the screen filled with unread text messages from him asking to get dinner and talk it all out. It followed him all the way to the Castle.

Gaz relocates them quickly, saying he has more devices back at home. John’s home, your home, your shared home. The whole car ride John’s knee shakes up and down, nervous energy permeating the air. All he does is replay your last conversation over and over. 

“I am trapped, John.”

“No matter how I feel about you now, I didn’t pick this marriage.” 

“I can’t even tell if you like me for me or my proximity.”

“I need to go to work before I say something I’ll regret.”

The words swarm through his head like wasps, picking at the insecurities he hides everyday. The worries that you wouldn’t pick him in a normal world, that this has been pillowtalk to pass the days. If you love something you’re supposed to let it go, but he can’t decide between being noble and hoarding you until you forget what life was like before captivity. And of course, all of these thoughts assume you’re alive. He hasn’t let himself consider the full possibility that Shepherd has hurt you in ways that would defile your mind and your body, never leaving you whole again. It all coalesces into an evil energy, vibrating under his skin as the London streets roll by outside the car.

Gaz leads John into the security room with words not meant for him. Murmurs to the house staff, directions ordered over ear pieces. They blur and buzz in John’s eardrums, these damn wasps becoming parasites. He’s too old to consider hunting you himself, knows that he has to trust his man, but the urge is there anyways. Thoughts of escalating into straight warfare, bombing Shepherd’s home without any care for the innocents within. 

That’s what he’s thinking about when Ghost arrives, dragging in coattails of vengeance and dread.

Now

“Stand down, Ghost. This ain’t helpin’.” He croaks out against the pressure in his throat. Ghost’s eyes flare, soulless black pits that see too much. They search John’s, within and around, poking and prodding at the emotions he’s been holding in for the hour since he learned his wife is gone. Whatever Ghost finds is enough, John deemed worthy not to die by the loosening of Ghost’s grip. They pant as one, wishing they had never let themself love a woman enough to destroy their dynasties for her.

The world resumes as Ghost turns away. No one mentions the threat, the way John would have let the guilt drown him if Ghost didn’t. John should have pushed harder, should’ve accompanied you to the store instead of letting you go in his shirt with a faint goodbye on your lips. Like you knew what would happen and went anyway, just to see how far his heart could stretch until it tears.

MacTavish is murmuring low calming words to Ghost, unintelligible over the hum of computers and screens. In this room, all pretense is given up, one man’s hand stroking the other’s. To have a half of a soul live outside the body is a dangerous thing, even more when attacks come from all sides. If he squints, there’s a flash of your glare in Ghost’s, the same half-tilted frown hidden by the mask. It’s like you’re haunting him, no, taunting him with the fact that he’s lost you and now he has to deal with your ghost. It’s all his fault, but he lets the pity fester inside instead of releasing it on everyone else.

“Update, Garrick?” Another croak, a near two minutes after the incident. This is why Gaz is his heir - all he does is hand John the nearest iPad without a mention as to what happened. John reads the screen fast, a list of possible abandoned warehouses near Shepherd locations. It makes sense but the timing is all wrong. He’d expected this if things had been quiet, but there was another scrap between Price men and Shepherd men last night. This kidnapping must have been calculated by someone separate, someone like Phil with a solo mission. He should’ve killed the man when he found out he was working (almost) alone with his wife.

“It’ll be somewhere symbolic. Shepherd likes to make a statement.” Garrick mentions. John hands the tablet silently to Ghost, an offering of peace. In the corner of his eye, he can see MacTavish conferring with Mare, the head of the weapons team, speaking a language only the two of them know. The man frowns, then shakes his head at something Mare says. “Dinnae work like tha’.” It travels over the distance of the room, confusing John enough that he walks over to learn what’s happening.

“Report?” Mare is a bit skittish but cool-headed in times of need, the reason he hired the first ever woman on a Price Family leadership team. He trusts her and her chemistry degrees, plus her sense of urgency. “Sir, we’ve just received word that the weapons stores have been compromised.” It’s like a pin drop, other conversations falling silent as she speaks. “Meaning?” He asks, toeing the line of impatience. “Shepherd’s men struck last night, around the same time as the street fight. We believe it was coordinated between that and the kidnapping to hide it as long as possible. They cut the WiFi, so we only found out during the shift change. All the guards were killed and the weapons taken.” 

John prides himself on acting like a real corporate boss, restrained and professional. However, this is his last fucking straw. “You’re saying Shepherd took my fucking weapons, then my fucking wife? How the hell does this happen?” Ghost grunts at the word ‘wife’ but John ignores it, too focused on the situation at hand. Instead of answering, Mare’s eyes flit around the room. Since it was converted from two bedrooms, it fits up to thirty people and is currently at capacity. He can read his employee too well, and knows she’s nervous about the many ears around. While he usually trusts his people with his life, it’s been an odd day and he decides to err on the side of caution. 

“Mare an’ everyone related t’ me, this way.” There’s an elevator to the upper floor in the back of the room. Ghost and MacTavish fall in line, but Garrick seems frozen and unsure. “Gaz, that includes you.” They don’t acknowledge the head nod, brushing elbows as John hits the elevator button. Once all five are in, John hits the emergency stop between floors, leaving them in purgatory. “Speak.” He instructs Mare.

“There’s a mole. It’s the only way they could have gotten in. I designed that facility myself, sir, and there’s no way they could have gotten in with the tools and soldiers they have. Unless our intel was wrong, and I don’t think it was, we have a rat.” Her words echo in the metal chamber. She meets MacTavish’s eyes and he nods in confirmation. 

“Price.” Ghost grunts, his first words in a while. “It’s someone in that room. They’d hav’ to be on yer security.” John nods at his words and turns to Gaz. “How much longer to narrow down locations?” The man still seems flustered by John’s earlier words and needs a nudge to the shin to spit it out. “An hour, tops. We’re thinking of an abandoned weapons facility or church. Something about what he stole, weapons or marriage.” John grunts at the symbolism of it all. “I’m the first one there.” He demands. “Sir, I-” John turns to look his second in the eye. “I’m the first there.” Gaz nods. John turns back to Ghost and MacTavish, staring at him with twin glares of violence.

“Right, men. We got a rat t’ catch.”

-

“You don’t know what I’d do to find ya and keep ya.”

John’s words echo through your mind as you eye Phil, standing in the corner with a water bottle. You haven’t peed since this morning, 12 hours ago, and he knows. Taunting words sung with a Southern accent, promising a toilet in return for the weapon codes. He’s banking on your embarrassment, that you won’t want to piss yourself in this hellhole. Too bad for him you don’t like to listen to what men tell you to do.

“C’mon, sugar. Know ya got t’ go. Give me the codes an’ I got a nice lil’ bathroom for you. Even has one of those bidets.” You shake your head, refusing. Your bladder is pushing against your stomach, tension growing with every breath. It wouldn’t be too bad if he hadn’t kept feeding you water. You think you’re on bottle six now, what seemed like a blessing turned into a curse.

“Fine. Time f’ another one.” He unscrews and steps to your side, checking your handcuffs before coming near your mouth. It’s like he’s under orders not to hurt you physically. There’s been no beatings, no threat of knives or guns. He needs you alive, and you’re pretty sure you know why. The weapons require both a code and an eye scan, something you can’t fake with a dead body. Johnny created the code section and Gaz added the eye scan later, his coding skills a thing of beauty. His quick thinking is the only thing keeping you alive.

Water pours down your throat. He presses down your tongue to force you to swallow every last drop. When he leans over you, it’s like rose-colored glasses have been removed. His blond hair is limp, face sweaty with concentration. Gone is the charming assistant, bright and fun. You bet he needs you to stay alive for his own safety, his life relying on it.

As water slips into your belly, the pressure to pee goes stronger. With a dirty hand, he pushes on your stomach, and you whine in discomfort. He shouldn’t be touching you, especially in a place so sensitive. The loss of body autonomy is your biggest fear, whether it be motherhood or this. Only John would understand, you think, berating yourself for being so stupidly stubborn. That’s when you make up your mind, to still have control over the one thing you can.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re fuckin’ disgusting, you dirty bitch.” The piss soaks your jeans and, with enough force, dribbles on his shoe. Phil jumps away in disgust, eyes hardened into flint as he glares at you. “Fuck you.” You spit out. A glob of it lands near his shoe, making him jump again. You almost pity how weak he is enough to torture a woman for a living. Almost.

“You’re gonna be sorry you did that.” He bites back. Phil glances at the mirror and for the first time in hours, you let yourself feel a lick of fear. You’re pretty sure you know who his boss is, someone too violent for the games you’re playing. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” Is what you can muster. Instead of answering, he shakes off his shoe and knocks on the door. When it opens, there’s a person in full PPE, holding a metal tray with a filled syringe. You jolt back, but the chair is bolted to the ground and doesn’t allow you to move.

“Wait, please, Phil-” He’s fast, shooting something into your arm. Everything goes dark after that.

-

Gaz was right. It only took an hour. 

But it takes longer than that to rule out each location. It’s been 24 hours, and they haven’t found you yet.

John insists on checking out every place by himself, as does Ghost. They’re even-keeled enough to split up to make it go faster but insist on Gaz scrounging up more earpieces so they can keep in constant contact. They slept in shifts too, six-hour blocks once it hit midnight, so they weren’t trudging through their search. Johnny stays back to work with the engineers on testing the security system he designed, while Gaz comes along with whoever is searching. The four of them stay on their own radio channel like a task force, acting more military than mafia. 

They start from the inner city and expand outwards. It’s methodical. It’s calculated. It’s the exact strategy Gaz planned months ago when the marriage was proposed. He’s the clearest headed out of all of them but there’s still a bite to his tone, a tension in his shoulders, a furrow in his brow. If John wasn’t so out of it himself, he’d be glad that his right-hand man seems to care for his wife. 

They sweep warehouses top to bottom. John tugs on every alliance he has, every favor owed. They get pledges of loyalty from smaller gangs, who do their own searches as well. It’s so much and yet not enough because John Price does not have his fucking wife in his hands. Your shampoo scent is not in his nose, your laughter is not in his ears, your waist is not in his grasp. You are gone and he is at fault for not protecting you.

“Focus, Price.” They’ve both slept and are now in their third church in the past 90 minutes. It’s abandoned like the rest of them, creaking doors and blown out windows. They’ve gotten into a rhythm now, sweeping the building efficiently. You’re not there. They finish in twenty minutes, Gaz outside on the phone with the rest of the crew. When they emerge, he stands tall at attention. 

“Sir, we’ve got a hit.”

-

“How you feeling, hun?” The world is woozy, half-tilt on a rollercoaster. You sway from right to left, only steadying when firm hands grasp your shoulders. Your eyes flutter, vision blurring in technicolor. You’re somewhere else, with paintings on the walls and carpet on the floors. That’s when you do a body scan and realize you’re not in the clothes you were kidnapped in.

You jerk away from the man touching you. The wooden chair you’re strapped to falls to the floor and takes you with it. He tries to pick you up, moving in a blur of dark grey, but you thrash away like a fish out of water. His touch is poison, and you fear it was him who undressed you, him who saw you naked against your will. “Get away from me!” You screech, vocal cords sore from disuse. The man’s hands are gnarled crooked things, clawing at your shoulders until your chair is straight again. You try to flinch but your miniscule reactions are still slurry from whatever you were injected with. Once you’re straight, you bite back a gasp.

It’s him. The General. Shepherd. 

Square face with a buzzcut. Weathered and old with a cruel gleam in his eye. He sits back down into a chair in front of yours. This one is red leather, squeaking comfortably with weight as he sits down. The man was in the army in a past life, hence the styling of The General. He wears dark slacks and an army-like jacket. The bravado of it disgusts you. A title like that should be earned, not worn like play clothes. You put on your brave face and sneer at him, a cat backed into an alley.

“I see why John likes you.” He looks you up and down like he can see through your clothes. You flinch against your will. “You don’t deserve to say his name.” You bite. He laughs jarringly. “Fucking brat is what you are. Even got Phil under your spell.” That’s news to you. It’s certainly at odds with his behavior. You don’t react, easing your features into a smooth mask.

“I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t have the codes.” He stares at you dead-eyed. “Not necessary. We don’t need the codes.” He’s bluffing. You’re willing to bet your life on the hard work of Johnny and Gaz. There’s absolutely no way, no workaround. That’s when you get an idea.

“Oh yeah? You’re just going to put me in front of the eye scanner and go from there?” He frowns like you’ve figured out his plan. You almost laugh. “Too bad. You’re still missing a step.” That reels him in. Shepherd sits forward, elbows on his knees, searching your gaze for a lie. You raise your brows defiantly. “What, don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out?” He squints harder at your words. 

“My brother’s old school. Doesn’t trust technology, or anybody else.” It’s certainly true. Simon’s well-known for not trusting people. Even the General looks intrigued. “What are you sayin’?” He murmurs. It’s like you’re holding a prophecy in his hands. Men are so easy.

“There’s a key.” He scoffs and looks away. “And I’m Robin Hood.” You shrug, leaning back as much as you can into your chair despite the ropes tying you to it. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying, my brother has more checks than you can imagine.” Another truth to reel him in. He scratches an invisible itch on his knee, then gets up. He pulls something from his pocket, and you flinch, thinking it’s a gun. He laughs at your reaction. “Fucking brat.” He murmurs. Shepherd turns to the corner of the room and calls someone, talking in low tones.

When you examine the room, it sends a shot to your heart. You’re in a church. There’s blood red carpeting with paintings everywhere, but it’s not wellkept. There’s dust and no windows, the lighting frail. Perhaps recently abandoned?

Shepherd is back, knife in hand. He thrives on watching you flinch and thrash as he comes closer. You stop when he’s in your face, knife trailing down the length of your nose. “Where’s the key?” You answer without hesitation. “My father’s grave.” It’s the kind of sick shit Ghost would do, and Shepherd knows it. That’s when the knife slips through your ropes, freeing you. There’s a gun in his other hand pointed straight at your head. “You’ll take me to the key. And if it’s not there, so help me God, I’m blowing your brains out on your father’s grave.” You nod, short and shallow.

It’s only halfway up the dilapidated wooden stairs when you hear it. Pounding footsteps and a low British tone. Shepherd was stupid enough to trail behind you, and even stupider to stop at the noises as well. That’s when your years of self-defense classes with Johnny kick in, quite literally. 

You aim a kick to his head. He dodges, of course, but all that body mass has to go somewhere, and quite slowly. It knocks him off balance, a half-step down, giving you enough leverage to elbow the nose. One of the most sensitive places on a man, as Johnny told you. The door above you opens as Shepherd gets one more insult in as he goes down.

“Fuckin’ bastard.”

-

Yes i was thinking of the 21 savage song snitches and rats

Also sorry for comparing motherhood to torture i just really needed to justify reader peeing LOL

Oops shes a girlboss SORRYYYYYY

-

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[wanderingmind867]

I have some time to kill now, so let's add to this list. I'm going to aim for all my mutuals, plus some people who either follow me (and i don't follow back, for complicated reasons), or just some people i've had decent relations with before. I don't even know as many people in real life as the amount of people i'm probably going to tag here. So maybe social media has been good for my social skills? I wouldn't go so far as to say they've made me a lot better, but it might have helped a little. Anyways, let's start on the list.

First, all my mutuals: @ihauntmyhouse @thewordsmith3 @yourfriendlyneighbourhoodaries @v4guelyv4mpiric @marvel-and-moor @c00c00pig @kryptonbabe @moss-the-irishman @0asta0 @munchkinmarauder @billybatsonmylove @supersonicdp @ltwharfy @southernfreakinggothic @snapcandle @beauty-queen-official @istilldontlikemyusername @dougielombax

@demigod-jack-hearth @berf-a-smurf @loganjptaylor @one-of-batmans-orphans @spiritbox713 @molovesbooks @ness-marsh @ace-looking-4-parkingspace

I think that's almost all of my mutuals, but I am kind of worried I missed someone. But wow. You look at that list, and then you realize that when people have told me i'm a decently popular blog...was that true? I don't feel popular. I certainly don't feel like someone anyone should admire. So i'm amazed. Kind of existential to think about for too long, honestly. But i guess this happens when you've been on here for at least 2-3 years. And at least now i have a list of all my mutuals? But i'm now going to take a break. Maybe later (if i can work up the energy), i'll return and try to tag all those other categories of people I mentioned.

reblog to tell the person you reblogged this from that they are deserving of love and affection

[zzbubblegumbitchzz]

teach me? // Quinn Hughes

a drunk conversation leaves your best friend wondering.

AN: based off this anon, this is the first of a few ideas i have for this topic so enjoy part one!🫶🏻

WC: 1.1k

CW: smut, quinn talks you through it, fem masturbating, a little bit of possessive quinn.

Quinn knows he should leave, he knows he shouldn't break your trust and listen but his feet won't move. He can hear your giggles, not a sign of discomfort in the conversation. A drastic difference from anytime you've been around the guys when these topics are brought up.

“y/n! Are you telling me you’ve never gotten off?!” There was another laugh, he couldn't tell who. Too focused on your answer. How could no one treat you right? No one’s found pleasure between your thighs? Tragedy for them, he thought to himself.

“Oh my god, no. I have gotten off, just not manually? If that makes sense. Like, no one else. No hands, nothing but the handy dandy vibrator.”

He needed to leave, his mind wandering and he knew all the guys would just chirp at him if he walked back with a hard on.

Everyone started to slowly make their way to bed, calling it a night yourself around 1:30. Your room right across from Quinn’s. You knew he was already locked away, trying your best to stay quiet while you were in and out of the bathroom that shared a wall.

Finally settling in your bed and grabbing your phone, seeing a text from Quinn. Come here, please. Followed with another text, Don't knock, just come in.

“Hi Q.” He was quick to pat his bed, “I need to ask you something, and you can tell me no or to fuck off and I wont ever bring it up again. I just, I need to ask.” You nodded at the man, who's now pacing. “I’m telling on myself and I'm sorry in advance. I was walking by when you and the girls were chatting and somethings been stuck in my head since and it makes me feel so bad because you absolutely don't deserve that kind of shit treatment. Oh god, I'm rambling. Anyways, no one ever made you cum? I can show you, oh my god I need to shut up.”

Your face was flushed, your nerves were setting in. Did Quinn just offer to get me off?

As if he could read my mind, “I don’t have to do it! I can just tell you what to do. Like you get yourself off and I just kind of lead the way.”

“You wanna teach me how to make myself cum?” Your voice was small, he was sure if he wasn’t staring at you he wouldn’t have heard. He nodded.

“Yeah, okay. Teach me, Quinny.”

That dumb conversation led you here. On his bed, pj shorts on the floor, legs spread and Quinn watching you from his desk chair.

You were both giggly about it. The nerves settled, it seemed a little funny, silly even. But he's your best friend. Who cares? All bad thoughts went away the second your legs spread and the man's eyes went a little wide, pupils blown as he watched your hand roam down your body.

“Fuck. You’re pretty.” He whispered to himself.

This wasn't sexy, well it wasn't meant to be, at least to your brain.

“Uh, like this?" you asked, a little embarrassed. "Fuck, this is stupid."

You were against his pillows, unable to fully look at Quinn who was still at his desk, starry eyes watching you intently.

Your hand was down the front of your body, shaky fingers searching for something you shared you'd never been able to achieve on your own.

Quinn adjusted himself, his growing cock pressed against the fabric of his shorts. Forever wishing he put on boxers before you came to his room.

He didn't know the rules when it came to getting yourself off in front of your best friend. So he kept it a little light, laughed breathily and asked, "Are you even touching your clit?”

His words ran through you, a simple question truly but it was bordering on the dirty talk you desperately craved to come from his mouth.

You squirmed, shrugging, but he was watching your hand move, content with seeing your fingers moving through your folds.

"I think so?" you claimed. "I don't know. It's just, it's too wet to feel anything really."

Quinn felt his breath get stuck in his throat.

You finally looked up at his face and watched his cheeks burn, wondering if he'd move closer if you asked him to.

You dont know what fell out of your mouth, your brain is just on autopilot. Quinn’s now at the edge of his bed. Hands holding your ankle, rubbing softly.

"No, I know. fuck, um-" Quinn swallowed, shifting again. "Move in circles, be a bit softer. Fuck, sweetheart. Yeah, you'll feel it."

So you did, two fingers exploring slowly, up and down between your folds, moving a little higher until you reached the spot he was just picking on you for, the pads of your middle and pointer touching a little bump that made your breath hitch.

“There you go, just like that.” He spoke.

You laughed to yourself, feeling stupid, and floaty, searching for that high. You crinkled your nose, as you did slow circles, soft and shy.

"Oh," you mumbled, mouth parting slightly. Still watching Quinn. He pressed his lips together, eyes flickering from your hand to your face.

"Yeah? Does that feel good?"

"Uh huh, feels good."

You thought you heard him let out a groan.

"Will I come?" you asked, still feeling small. "If I keep doing this?"

You were squirming again, moaning softly, chasing your high. He was watching you, open mouthed.

He was too far gone to try and hide it anymore, when he dragged his palm over himself, you moaned, eyes following his movements.

"Yeah, fuck. just keep doing that. Do what feels good, okay?" voice hoarse and wrecked, "you're doing so good, baby."

The praise made your hips lift from the bed a little, fingers moving down a little further, confidence building as Quinn kept rubbing over his cock, "Holy shit, that's fucking hot. You gonna show me how tight you are?" he croaked.

"Uh huh", head tipped back into the pillows. you wanted him to keep talking. You just didn't know how to ask him.

Your foot slipped, bumping into Quinn’s arm and he caught your ankle, wide palm wrapping around as he held you, making you shiver. "Oh, there you go," he murmured. "That's it, baby. Fuck, you're so good. Gonna have to stretch you out more if you ever want me in there, baby. Fuck. Can't believe you're gonna let me watch you cum. Gonna be a good girl and show me how bad you want it? Won't ever need anyone else after this. Just me and you."

[gold-onthe-inside]

flu season

who? aaron hotchner (s7) x fem!reader summary: when you catch the same bug that's been going round at jack's school, your favourite person returns the favour to take care of you. content warnings: sickness obv, lots of praise (smart/best girl) word count: 0.8k a/n: wrote this for my best girl @minswriting to help her feel better <3 love you bby ; listened to flu season by koffer

You don’t fall sick that often — your record had been 6 sick days last year — but flu season gets to everyone, especially when you spent the better half of a week taking care of a 10 year old with your boyfriend while he was working on a case. You’d felt the odd tickle of a sneeze but nothing more, and Aaron had shown his gratitude in more ways than one. You didn’t mind, you never minded. Just like Aaron, Jack had made a home for himself in your heart, complete with a pillow fort and all.

Except come Tuesday, you’ve got the same bug he did, waking up much later than you normally did, your whole body aching and sore and your head woozy. There’s no choice, you have to call in sick - for fear you might pass out behind the wheel. You wouldn’t have called him if there was another choice either, but it’s just your luck that you’re out of any medication that might help — no painkillers, no cold syrup, nothing.

He can hear it in your voice, the frail hoarseness to it, the stuffy nose that means your voice is a little more nasally than usual. It’s a no-brainer; he tells Rossi to hold down the fort for a day, to which he receives a knowing smirk, and then he’s out of the office, stopping only at a general store in your neighbourhood to pick up everything you need. He splurges on the hypoallergenic eucalyptus tissues, the softest ones he can find, and strawberry cold syrup because he’d be a lousy profiler to not remember your favourite flavour. The next stop is groceries — chicken, eggs, and vegetables, seeing as you wouldn’t go shopping until Thursday — and then he’s at your apartment, sliding the key you’d given him for emergencies into the door.

You look, and feel, like death warmed up, all laid up on the couch with your red-tinged nose and pale skin, tissues scattered around you. “Hey, honey, how are you feeling?” he asked, instantly making a beeline to kneel at your side. He doesn’t even take off his dress shoes first.

“M sorry,” you managed, reaching out for his handsome face, which he covers with his own large palm, kissing the inside of your wrist.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he murmured, closing his hand over your hand and frowning with concern. “You do seem a little warm, though. You check your temperature?”

“Mhm, was 100 degrees this morning. Figured I should stay warm.”

“Smart girl,” he praised, pressing his lips to your temple. “Food?”

“Toast and orange juice,” you said, looking at him as he stroked your hair. “Were you very busy?”

“Never too busy to take care of my best girl,” he replied. “Let’s get some medication in you and then you need to rest, okay?”

You nodded, uncaring of how childish you felt yourself being. Not when he was so caring. He measured out the exact dose of cold syrup for you, had you follow it with a painkiller to help with the body ache, praising you the whole time. “Stay with me?” you asked in your sleepy voice, and he can’t say no. You shift to make space for him on the couch, laying your head on his lap, drifting off to his hand stroking your hair.

You stirred a couple hours later, rubbing your eyes groggily as you try to make sense of everything. Aaron’s suit jacket hung on the back of a chair, and the curtains had been drawn to help you sleep better, and you feel too hot in your hoodie and blanket. You pulled off the hoodie, leaving it beside you just as Aaron walked over, carefully holding a tray with bowl of chicken soup.

“This is officially too much,” you said, your voice a little stronger than it had been when he’d come through the door.

“It’s not nearly enough,” he said firmly. “Go on, sit properly.” He waits until you oblige, his look firm, but a fondness in his eyes as you crossed your legs, leaving him plenty of space to sit beside you. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, drifting down to check your neck. “Not as warm as before, but you can do better,” he said and you pursed your lips at him.

“You may be a boss at work, but you don’t boss me around here, understood?” you told him, threatening him with your spoon and he tried not to laugh.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, sinking back into the couch while you return your attention to the soup, his hand rubbing your back. “Anything else I can do for you?” he asked, and you know he’s being genuine, because there’s nothing he loves more than being of service.

“You’re here,” you said softly. “That’s enough.” And you mean it, of course. You also make him watch Moulin Rouge, even though he hates watching movies that make you cry, and he doesn’t leave your side, spending the day in his slightly unbuttoned dress shirt and slacks, letting you use him like a large body pillow for the rest of the day.

[cea-tide]

I skimmed through it and while it has some valuable advice here and there, when it comes down to giving specific examples, they give sub-optimal or actively privacy-hostile suggestions. I find that odd, as that is the opposite it claims to want to achieve. It falls right into the trap of false privacy the text is talking about. I put more details about my reasoning under the cut. I'd urge you still to follow along, but instead of taking the recommendations they give at face value, check out these two sites and compare: privacytools.io prism-break.org As a general rule of thumb, if the software is free, (libre) and open-source [F(L)OSS], everyone can check the code on malicious or faulty code (including trackers). These are preferred over closed-source solutions, which don't have any such accountability. This does not consider privacy-focused architecture per sé (though people certainly check for that), but the FLOSS community is generally privacy-focused, and you are at least (extremely likely) not tracked by the software itself. Exceptions to everything. Also, I want to mention this because I did not see them talk about it: If you change your details (email, etc.) on an account, all your old tracking data linked to that account (or even email) may now be linked to the new details too! Make an entirely new account wherever you can (and switch to privacy-focused services). This is where those email masks are incredibly useful; one mask per account. Feel free to ask me questions; I'll try to answer them.

They start with linking to Amazon lol, but they do acknowledge that

The RSS reader they recommend is actively promoting (generative) AI

Browsers: they do mention Chromium and its Google ownership, but they fail to mention most of the browsers are based on it, its problems with MV3 (see my #firefox tag), and then they recommend the very browsers that are Chromium-based... Just use Firefox or a derivative of it.

Password Managers: LastPass is not recommended; android app has/had trackers and it has had numerous data breaches.

"Most Privacy Isn't Private". Indeed, the moment you connect to the internet you can be traced eventually with enough effort. You can only make it harder (to the point that it is practically private). That does not mean that you should not try of course :)

Yes, store as much locally on a disk. What is not on the internet cannot be tracked or data-harvested.

Data balkanisation: That's not about giving your data to as many rival companies as possible (???), it's about country data legislation. Are you really relying on the assumption that Google/Yahoo wouldn't want to make a profit by selling more data, regardless of its buyer? Second example: just use Signal where possible because it doesn't share your data...

Ceasar: if you absolutely can't switch from a platform, yes minimise its usage

Firefox extensions: Ghostery is not recommended; it has/had trackers itself, and ads too (according to user reviews on the internet; no personal experience). I have reblogged plenty of FF addon posts before; see my #firefox tag.

Email clients: the default Windows mail app is of course controlled by Microsoft; do not use. I also recommend Thunderbird, but check your options above (and elsewhere). Note, an app is not required if your email provider also has a webmail (e.g. proton). Up to your preference.

Calendars: No comments, beside check the above sites.

Signal is not the only one out there, but it is certainly the most mainstream popular. And the more popular, the lower the social network switching cost, yay

Password Managers: LastPass is not recommended; android app has/had trackers and it has had numerous data breaches. Neither is 1Password recommended, because it is closed-source.

VPNs: I do not trust that list. Again, check above. There is also an outdated VPN privacy overview from 2019 on this website. I will write my own eventually, because that has been abandoned, but that will not be anytime soon. Because I know this specific example, I'll also say explicitly to not use ExpressVPN, because it has been taken over by Kape Technologies.

Collaboration clouds: One of them is powered by AI again... These are all closed-source; I do not recommend them. Instead I use: cryptpad.org, which can also serve as cloud storage, but indeed is a collaboration suite.

No comments on home assistants. They're spot on. All I will say is allowing tunnelling into your home network and connecting Internet of Things, is a massive security risk in general. Also consider setting up a Pi Hole on your network.

Mobile OS: I don't have enough experience on this; no comment.

I urge folks to check out this link. Its a very approachable roadmap to improving your digital privacy. As a consequence, it usually means you'll be supporting tech giants much less. Its not all or nothing either, do what you can.

[hivemuthur]

Hi! Thank you so much for your beautiful work!! I hope it’s okay to make a silly little request

So I’m in my 20s (late 20s I might add) but I’ve never ever even kissed anyone yet and I kinda really want to so… Would you consider writing modern au!Viktor with a virgin!f!reader? Something about a first kiss or maybe having sex for the first time or first relationship..? Anything first in general 👉👈

Anon, I am beating my chest that it took so long and hope that you will get a notification that it is published (I sometimes don't when I ask anon questions). I was a late bloomer myself and it has some massive advantages. Though I hope you get to kiss someone nice soon!

First Rites

viktorxfemale!virgin!reader mature, kissing and making out :)

author’s note: Nothing smart to say here, really, other than I will probably write a part two of this :') @rennethen beta read!

word count: 1,8K

—

Your eyes sweep over Jayce’s tongue on Mel’s before you catch yourself staring. And even that doesn’t stop you. You analyse the movement of their hands, the way Jayce’s hips press into Mel’s, memorising all the smacking sounds they try to muffle into gentle giggles, hoping that you and Viktor are doing a decent job of not looking. When in reality, it’s the exact opposite.

It always goes the same way: the clack of heels echoing through the corridor outside the lab already has Jayce perking up. He grunts, clears his throat, and gets up slowly to avoid raised eyebrows and Viktor stating the obvious, like, “I guess this means you’re off for the day?”

Then, Jayce gives an apologetic smile and strolls toward the door, opening it before Mel can even knock. He exchanges a shy, stupid, cheek-reddened “Hi” for her sultry, thick “Hi yourself.” Their greetings die somewhere in their mouths when their lips meet in a first hello kiss. That one doesn’t last very long—soon, it shifts into an I missed you kiss. That lingers before melting into an I want you kiss or an I’d rather eat you than dinner kiss. And those are your favourites.

Even when you try very hard not to imagine what kind of kiss might follow that, you can’t help yourself. You end up blushed and flustered, your mind spinning with curiosity.

So you stare—impolitely, some might say—but for you, it’s research. You study and memorise, committing their courtship to memory so you can replay the scene later, your fingers wandering over your own lips as you imagine what it would be like. To have someone’s lips on yours, someone’s tongue in your mouth. It doesn’t sound all that appealing or hygienic, but it looks fantastic. It makes you feel a very much welcomed weirdness in your chest and belly, and having nothing else to supplement those feelings with, you just outright stare.

“It’s quite rude, if you ask me,” Viktor’s voice cuts through your thoughts just as Mel lets out a small, startled sound at Jayce’s hand cradling the back of her neck.

“Uh, I know. They should take it somewhere else, really,” you whisper back, but your tone is far from condemning. You say it absentmindedly, your eyes still glued to their mouths, chin propped on your hand, your scribbling abandoned the moment Jayce stood up.

“I meant your intense staring. But yes, such activities should be performed outside of work areas,” Viktor mumbles, not looking up from his notes.

Your blush deepens into an intense red hue as you finally look away and cover your face with your hand.

“Oh, I um… I didn’t mean to, it’s just—”

“All right, we’re off! Don’t work too hard while I’m gone!” Jayce’s beaming laughter cuts you off. Before you or Viktor can reply with a snarky comment, he sweeps Mel by the waist, and they disappear into the hallway. The sound of Mel’s giggle and the uneven click of her heels on the stone floors make you wonder if Jayce is kissing her neck or pressing her against a wall.

“It’s just?” Viktor insists, finally looking at you, his face forming an unamused expression.

“Nothing. It’s just nothing,” you respond quickly, picking up your pen with a shaky hand. You force yourself back to scribbling, even though your handwriting comes out ragged, suffering from both the excitement and the fear of Viktor’s prying eyes. But you do it anyway, desperate for any kind of shield.

“It does not look like nothing,” Viktor pushes, rotating in his chair to face you fully. You deepen your hunch, almost pressing your nose into the paper. How mortifying.

“I understand the concept of unrequited attraction, but you should really do yourself a favour and quit this self-flagellating practice of ogling every time Mel picks him up. It doesn’t lead to anything beneficial and impacts your focus,” Viktor drones, his nasal tone close to scolding.

You feel so scrutinised that you don’t even bother to correct his misunderstanding of your habit. You just sigh and continue your fake note taking.

“Trust me, I would know,” Viktor adds.

That catches your attention. How would he know anything about what you’re going through?

“Whatever do you mean by that?” you ask, keeping your face turned toward your notes, though your eyes wander to glance at him. He looks… unhappy? Mildly irritated? Annoyed at your lack of shame and focus?

“I am merely stating that lusting after someone out of reach is, at best, futile and, at worst, a path to ruin. For your own good, I would refrain from such practices,” Viktor says quietly.

You blink a few times as the words settle in your mind. He thinks I’m in love with Jayce? Lusting after him? It’s almost funny when you think that what you’ve been doing is in fact, just lusting.

“I can assure you, I am not attracted to Jayce. Or Mel, for that matter. I just—”

“Oh?” Viktor’s head snaps up so fast it surprises even him. He internally scolds himself for the involuntary reaction, but the undeniable punch of hope makes him lose control of his body for a moment. His pupils are wide, his brows lifted all the way to his forehead. “You’re not?”

“Uh, no,” you sigh, finally turning to face him properly. Your head dips as embarrassment weighs you down, but maybe admitting it will make it easier to carry. “I’m just… collecting research. For whenever I’ll have the opportunity. If ever. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever—”

“What?” Viktor’s voice comes out too sharp. Shit. He scowls at himself—internally, of course—for how poorly he masked his shock. Way to be sensitive.

You wince, sinking deeper into yourself.

“Oh. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to… offend you,” he says carefully, trying not to sound too excited. His hand hovers over your knee while he calculates whether it would be proper to comfort you with a gentle touch. If you would like that. If you would like him to touch you.

But before he can decide, you turn back to your side of the desk, avoiding his gaze. “I’m not that easy to offend. It’s just not something I’m comfortable with. I’m a bit… too old for that, you know.”

And as if having a mild upper hand in this situation pumps Viktor with extra courage, he twists your chair back and rolls it close to his, until the sides of your thighs touch. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, then. I actually mean for the opposite of that,” he breathes and allows himself to glance over your lips, briefly. But you notice.

“Viktor?” you whisper, feeling an invisible force pulling you closer to his face. His arm extends over your legs, gripping the edge of your seat, and you feel the mild heat radiating off his body. You can smell his scent lingering in the space between you as you indulge in small glances at his eyes and lips.

“If you allow me, I could provide you with… some hands-on experience. Unless, of course, I am not—”

“Yes,” you answer quickly, and Viktor exhales into a relieved smile. He mumbles an “okay,” as if bracing himself, and closes the little distance left between you. His mouth presses against yours almost innocently as he takes your upper lip between his. His lips are soft and warm. It’s a long, lingering peck that has your eyes fluttering shut and a pool of heat blooming in your belly. You find yourself leaning into the kiss, your hips on the edge of the chair, to the point that your chests almost press against each other.

When he disconnects from you, it’s only to breathe against your mouth, “Is this alright?”

“Yes,” you say shakily, your lips brushing his. You open your eyes only to see a pretty pink blush splattered across his cheeks and ears. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when he asks, “Would you like me to continue?”

“Please, continue,” you exhale, and something glints in Viktor’s eyes. Emboldened by your enthusiasm, he slides the hand gripping the stool to the back of your seat, pulling you closer until you can almost feel the flutter of his heart against yours as your chests meet. His other hand cradles the back of your neck, and oh, it’s the same gesture Jayce granted Mel that you’ve longed for so dearly, and you feel your skin prickling under Viktor’s touch.

His mouth is back on yours, this time the press is firmer, as he parts your lips with his tongue and—oh. Just oh, as your eyebrows knit together and the warmest of feelings floods your chest, making your hands jolt out to fist his vest, and you sigh the sweetest of sounds into his mouth. And he doesn’t stop there—the hand from the chair slides up your side, rests on your ribcage, fingers digging in when he—oh—also makes a sound. The hottest of sounds, a honey-dripping moan that makes you bite his lower lip, craving to eat him up with a long spoon.

And when he loses himself a bit—grunts and sighs into you, his hands wandering to rest at the base of your spine and cradle your cheek in a firm grip—you don’t even know how it happens, but you slide your hips to straddle his and press yourself down on him. To your delight, he has many more of those pretty sounds, some even forming something close to your name, making you melt into his arms.

When he pulls away, it’s only for an inch. “Oh, my,” Viktor mutters, rubbing his face against yours and kissing your neck. You like that too, but you already miss his hot tongue in your mouth. “A natural talent, I see,” he chuckles, and you blush even more at the thought of what he would say if he knew how much practice you’ve done on the crook of your fist alone in your room.

He looks up at you, all flustered and pretty, swiping his thumb across your glistening lip. He doesn’t know what’s come over him when he says, “If you wish to explore this further, I can offer my… expertise.” What he wants to say is that he’s been thinking about this too many times to count, leaving him flustered and pretty countless times before, but he doesn’t want to scare you away. So he just keeps looking at you expectantly, willing his mouth to shut.

“I would like that,” you mutter shyly, noticing how Viktor’s chest sags with relief. To think that he was there, willing and within your reach all this time makes you feel silly for all those times you stared at Jayce and Mel longingly. And you’re convinced you’ll continue to watch them—not with longing, but with anticipation for when they finally stroll off to their date, so you can sink your lips onto Viktor’s.

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 10

Added dividers because I felt like the time skip/scene change would become confusing without any indication of it.

I really need an answer on how y'all feel about Immortal x Dupli-kate cuz depending on the popular opinion stuff will change 🤐 I'm willing to split a lot of people up for the drama and/or miscommunication nonsense

Enjoy!

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 10 >>next

Some place where the supernatural meets the normal, a little place called The Oblivion Bar, John Constantine simply sat shocked at the words he managed to hear and process through his mushed brain. Bobo closes his hung jaw, drinks his whiskey, and pats his friend’s shoulder as the man mumbles a sobering spell, cringing at the effects. “I should go. Good luck, John.” And so, the chimpanzee quickly makes his exit, leaving the Laughing Magician and Death of the Endless to their business.

“I need you to walk me through this again, luv- wasn’t quite paying attention.” Constantine shook his head as he fully turned to face the smiling entity. “You and who did what?!” He hissed, voice barely above a whisper as he tried not to bring attention to what they were saying. This was bad. Really bad.

“Lady Gotham and I took a liking to Batman’s youngest daughter and-“ John quickly interrupted her. “And gave her magical powers beyond my comprehension and immortality- yes, I heard that, did you?!” The man rubbed his face, the thought was making him want to get drunk until he dropped. ”Have you gone mad? Giving a mortal immortality is more of Dream’s style you should know better-“

Death only smiled at him, amusement filling her eyes as she gently laid a hand on his shoulder making him tense up. “She was lonely, she deserves every happiness those powers and eternity are bound to give her. You’ll understand once you see her.” And boy, did John laugh his gut out at that as he shook his finger. “No- no, no, no- there’s no way I insert myself into that mess- Bat’s family is already a mess and reeks of you without magic- No- There’s no way- that’s bonkers-“

Death gets up with a bright smile. “Thank you, John.” Her words make him stutter almost choking on his breath at the audacity. “Don’t thank me ya loon! I’m not going to help her, I’m not even going to see the moppet!” He can only yell and cuss as she leaves.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

 “Alright, Cecil-“ The old man immediately interrupted you, the little communication device in your ear buzzing with life as he told you to not use names. “… Dude… I’m miles in the air, first of all! Second, that was like a really common name once. it’ll take a while to find you specifically, and I doubt anyone could anyway- you seem like the type that would erase himself from the gov’s documents.”

“Anyway-“ You didn’t give him time to say anything else. “What house am I supposed to go to again? And why?”

The old man sighs at your antics, rubbing the side of his forehead as he feels the headache coming while he gives the address once more. “Your brother’s teacher, Mr. Hiles, has been the mall bomber. It took us a while, he was smart about it, kept his search into biological bomb-making off the internet but he wasn’t that thorough about his paper trail.”

“Be prepared for anything and a confrontation.” The older man cleared his throat. You always made him nervous; you were an unexpected equation in everything, something he couldn’t control without risking Earth. Donald and everyone else just took his weariness and suspicion as him being overly cautious, but Cecil could tell something was clinging to you that just gave him nightmares.

“And thank you- usually I would have sent someone from the Teen Team but…uh-“ His eyes followed the action on another screen. “They’re busy. Your brother and father are helping them.”

“You’re nervous. Yapping again. Chill, I’ll take care of it. Just because I don’t want to be your little puppet doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep people safe.” You found the man irritating, but for now, he was being sane, actually doing his job, so you couldn’t complain. “Getting closer to the target. Going dark.”  Was the only warning the man got before the com was powered off.

Finally ready to land you politely greeted the man, walking through the training both Cecil and Nolan provided at the start of your vigilantism. “I didn’t expect to get caught quite this early, and I certainly expected… more conventional authorities when the time did come.” Professor Hiles just sighs and welcomes you in by your birth name. “How did you-“

“Are you kidding me? Mark is unable to shut up about you. And you forget to wear your hood more times than you do wear it.” The man said as he took off his sweater. “Follow me, I’ll show you to the fourth missing student. I assure you, I have no intention of resisting.” Well… This was easier than expected.

As he started to confess about how he started doing this, he led you to his basement. “Mr. Hiles, while I understand the loss of a child to suicide, a divorce, and the loss of a job ruined you until you hit rock bottom, avenging your son like this-“

“I’m not avenging the death of my son. That would be far too cliché.” Your eyes landed on the teen strapped to the table once he turned on the light, breath hitching as you saw the skin of his arms merging sloppily with the metallic torso the professor modified. “It’s the destruction of my life that has me seeking revenge.”

“The domino effect of pain and sorrow that these monsters create. Children who spend too much time at the mall, attend parties, consume alcohol, and play sports when they should be studying and doing homework.”

“I understand your ire, I’m not one for parties or drunks, but not all kids who do that stuff go to extremes, that’s a flawed logic- it does not give you the right to play god and do-“ You tried to placate him, keeping your tone soft and even, to try and make him see reason. “What I did to all of them, turning them into living bombs, an instrument with which to exact my revenge… my crusade to end the pain and sorrow by these- ‘popular’ kids… I feel no guilt for.”

“I can’t think of a more appropriate end to my crusade-” Mr. Hiles ripped open the shirt he was wearing, revealing the same mechanism the unconscious teen had. “-than the death of a superhero!” You quickly acted, not letting him talk more beyond that as the timer set to 50 seconds started trickling down while you grabbed him, breaking through his ceilings and roof and flying high in the air.

“Is this really how you want to die? Suicide bomb? You still can make this right- you don’t have to die like this just tell me how to deactivate it!“ Your eyes remained on the clock. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen. The man just chuckled a dry, humorless laugh. “Do it. There is nothing for me anymore.” Five, four, three.

You couldn’t tell if what you felt was sorrow or shame, but you knew you were defeated. The man was going to get one final death, but it won’t be yours. As your flight came to a stop well above the clouds, you threw the man higher in front of you as the clock struck one second, and as it hit zero, the bomb detonated, the range and heat of the explosion destroying any remains while pushing you back a bit.

Your eyes remained on the cloud of smoke it created. If the cops found him before you did, the bomb would have wiped out the neighbors, too. That’s what hero life was, what it is. Sacrifices left and right that only made you feel more at odds with this job than before.

As you went back to the house, you activated the com, putting it back into your ear. Cecil immediately informs you that the police are en route as well as his clean-up team. “Get an explosive ordnance disposal technician, too. There is a teen in the basement, the bomb doesn’t seem active yet, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I’ll send a report of what happened soon.” You stayed until Cecil’s people showed up, just to be sure the boy was still breathing and that the bomb wouldn’t activate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Helping Brit and the other heroes clean up the rubble from the alien attack helped keep your mind off things. The Brit enjoyed talking about his kid and wife, yapping until he needed to take a breath and then starting again keeping a smile on your face.

You enjoyed helping clean up, especially when there were no casualties, today wasn't that type of day. But it had become the easy, relaxing part of the job, pick big rubble up, place it into the waste trucks, pick another piece up, make sure to not hit the man in the trench coat, put it in the waste- wait…

Your head snaps back to the man, squinting as your eyes meet. You each take a second to take each other in before your eyes widen in surprise. “Hello, luv. I’m-“ You couldn’t help your excitement as recognition finally settled into your brain. “I know you-“ Your words made John cringe and tense up. When others said that it never ended well for him. “You’re Johnny Con-Job, the lead singer for Mucous Membrane, dude, your band got me into the punk culture.”

That… wasn’t what he expected. He wasn’t sure if he should be proud of that or fight back the mental breakdown that was creeping up his spine. “You’re a bit young for that slop, no?” You just shrug. “Your songs got me to finally put myself first, to get the courage to sneak out, see other stuff beyond the walls of my first house, help others, and leave my neglectful family before they could seriously hurt me.” Her words worried him. John never took Bruce as the “lock his kids up” type, but the man was as paranoid as they came, he wouldn’t put that above him.

“It may be slop and shitty vocals, but it’s what I needed to hear.” You teased him while putting the rubble in the waste collector. He watched as you approached him with a soft smile and sparkling eyes. He could see what Death meant. “I need to talk to you. I’m not quite sure about what luv, but I think it’s about Batman-“ He didn’t get to finish, as soon as the name left his mouth, he was grabbed by the throat and lifted well above the clouds, way too close to the ozone layer. “Did he send you?” you hissed, giving his neck a warning squeeze.

Yup. He definitely saw what Death meant as your eyes glowed a Lazarus green. “Nno-“ He choked out. “Did Bruce Wayne send you?” her question was met with the same answer. Your grip softened, grabbing him by his coat instead of his neck as you brought him closer. “Then why are you here?”

“We need to talk in private…” He whispered as he realized the situation.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

This was a whole mess that John Constantine knew he should have stayed out of- he knew! From Bruce to the whole family basically ignoring the kid, not even telling her about the vigilantism, to the rogues taking her in and doing a better job of raising her to her running away and getting adopted by another hero- a hero that John knew wanted to conquer the world, the whole fucking race wanted to, the fucking demons had a problem with that and wouldn’t stop complaining to him like he can fix it- he takes a deep breath in. “Why are you telling me all of this?” He whined, rubbing his face as he sat on the edge of some skyscraper with you.

“I’m not hiding my past, I’ll happily snitch and tell a reporter that Bruce Wayne is a shit father, they all just assume I’m Nolan’s actual kid that was in the hospital for a deadly something or whatever.” You shrug. “Please don’t- not because I care about the bellend- I just don’t want to deal with… Huh. Now that I’m thinking about it, that may be great blackmail.” His words only made you snicker.

He didn’t know where to begin. Did she know about the Viltrumite? Was she in cahoots with him? Should he tell her any of that? Would she even believe his ass? Maybe he should get the JL involved...

The scruffy man shook his head. “Not why I’m here. You said your hero name is Sorceress? Great, so you know you have magic powers, that makes it easy-“ John took in your shocked expression. Of course, it wasn’t that easy, it never could be. “If this was another world, I’d call you crazy.” You told him simply. “But Midnight City is cursed, and I guess that makes sense… Is that why I can hear the shadows speak?”

John nodded before doing a double take, asking you to elaborate on the shadows speaking part.  “They just speak, whisper, giggle the whole thing. They can also emit what they feel. They’ve always been present, they’re not as strong here, but I think that’s because they’re more tied to Gotham and Midnight City… or just- where there is more darkness.”

“Well, you’re not far off there, love.” The man nodded in agreement as his eyes drifted to the dark dome around the cursed city. He knew where to start. “This is going to be a long explanation, you better strap in, hen, and let me finish before you ask questions.”

“You remember the painting and murals you made of gods and other entities, demons, angels, the whole sort, in Gotham and here? Yeah, they brought the attention to you from the entities you drew. Some of the moppets took them as a higher form of offering than others, a few of them decided to stick around you.”

“Those have also decided to- ‘bless’ you with a few gifts, I’m not sure of all of them, but I know specifically that Lady Gotham offered the shadows as a companion and protector, and I know that Death of the Endless has blessed you with… well, immortality.” There was no way of walking around that fact. “I don’t remember if any of these two also gave you your powers, I was quite sloshed, but someone did.” John looked at the kit, taking in her shocked expression before he nudged you a bit. “Come on, kid, say something. You got me all worried here.”

“It’s all just- a bit much.” You mumble. “Yeah, I get it. A lot for you to shoulder, but I’m sure you’ll power through- oh, thanks love… Wha- How-“ John’s eyes moved from the beer in his hands to the energy can you were looking at. You just shrug. "I wanted to know if I could, thought…” You narrow your eyes at the can in your hands. “I’m not sure if this is made out of thin air or just- teleported or something.”

Constantine just slowly looks back at his beer mug… She was taking this better than most. He hoped it was because the shock hadn’t worn off yet. Well, he’s had worse things in his mouth, he's sure, so with a shrug, he takes a sip, humming with delight at the taste, muttering something about this being real beer. “You’re here to help me, right? Like- with my powers… I- I think I need help with this whole worshipping gods and demons- entities- thing, too.”

He knew the easy way out would be to say no, to just leave, she had done just fine without him… But that isn’t what came out of his mouth. “Sure, poppet. Just keep on giving me this fine beer.” Given his track record with people and magic, he shouldn’t feel this accomplished at your happiness, but he was always quite selfish, so he returned your hug, even if he was a bit stiff.

“Now- usually the normal thing is to go from small stuff to big, teach the basics, but I’m not one for rules. Have you ever wanted to teleport via portals?” The big mischievous smile you gave him was all the answer he needed.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You came home at the same time as Nolan and Mark, everyone’s first stop after greeting Debbie was their bedrooms to refresh themselves before going back to the dining area. “I’m going to be honest, Nolan, the longer hair and full beard fit you better than the silly mustache. Right, mom?” You couldn’t help the teasing as the whole family ate. Debbie looked at Nolan with a scrutinizing eye, before sighing and giving an amused smile. “I’ll definitely miss the beard.”

Mark snorted at the teasing as Nolan pouted, brows furrowing. “It’s not silly- it’s a rite of passage into manhood by the Viltrumite culture-“ you couldn’t help but interrupt. “It’s still a silly-looking mustache. What does the Viltrumite rite of passage for women look like?”

Nolan’s momentary displeasure at the mustache comment was overlooked as the inquiry about the Viltrumite women was brought forth. “Huh… I’m not sure, I never really paid attention to that. I think some cut their hair.” A puff of air escaped you in amusement before deciding to tease him some more. “Well, you clearly weren’t planning for a daughter that’s sure.”

Debbie just took in the chatter. She enjoyed the easy atmosphere, the laughter of her kids. “So, how was everyone’s day?” She asks once the chatter stops. “Oh, I met the Teen Team and helped them with the Flaxan attack, dad got kidnapped by them while I was trying to gather up survivors, made friends with Atom Eve, and met an alien called Allen who apparently got the wrong planet.” Mark shrugged.

“I spent the last eight months enslaved by an army from an alternative dimension, although it seems much less time has passed here. About a week ago, I led a revolt against my captors and regained control of my powers. Today, a team of scientists from the rebellion found a way to get me home.” Nolan lied as easily as he breathed.

“One of Mark’s teachers was turning his classmates into organic bombs in order to take revenge on kids he felt were like the ones who led his son to commit suicide. He turned himself into a bomb also and tried to take me out with him but clearly, it didn’t work in his favor. Helped clean up after the Flaxan mess, and met the lead singer of Mucous Membrane who apparently is a mage. He was here on behalf of Death herself to help me and tell me that my powers aren’t because I’m a meta, they’re magic. Oh, and also, I’m allegedly immortal.” You took a sip of water. “Lex also wants to know if anyone would be interested in attending one of his rich folk parties.”

At the quietness of the room, you lifted your eyes from your plate to look at everyone’s shocked glance. “What?” you ask with a mouth full of food.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

That night, the teens wanted to sleep with their parents, both needing reassurance. Debbie and Mark were already gone, sleeping deep and peacefully. “Dad… You awake?” your question was whispered as your head lay on Deborah's shoulder. He answered with a warm hand squeezing your shoulder and a quiet hum. “...How do you move past people you can’t save or the people we have to sacrifice?”

Nolan wasn’t sure how to answer that, he’d never felt anything for the people he couldn’t save. He knew that if he had to save earth’s people or his kids and wife… Well… Earth can be populated again. “You look at the people who you did save. We can’t always save everyone, that’s the sad reality. It’s… painful. But it’s a truth all heroes have to come to terms with. Even I can’t save everyone.” Nolan wrapped his arms around his girls and son tighter, pulling everyone closer. “If all you could save was a person, you still did everything you could. If you couldn’t save anyone, you just have to keep your head high and try again.”

You snuggled closer into your mom, feeling her arm instinctively wrap around you as you draped yours over her and Nolan’s stomach, your fingers laying on Mark’s wrist. The sad reality of being a hero...

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami @enchantingarcadecreation @alishii @d3nnji @itsberrydreemurstuff @yuyuzi-ling @welpthisisboring @1abi @mxvoid26 @persephone-kore-law @bluevenus19 @ryuushou

I'M REALLY SORRY IF I FORGOT SOMEBODY- MY DOC SOMETIMES FORGETS TO SAVE AND I HAD TO READD PPL

[willowsnook]

an experiment pt. 3

lando norris x reporter!reader

a/n: 😈

pt. 1, pt. 2

tags: @sarx164 @wildflowerrsszz, @jaematthews15, @opastries81 @armystay89 @hadesnumber1daughter @dying-inside-but-its-classy @chlmtfilms @freyathehuntress @ashley-k @charlesgirl16 @widow-cevans @cmleitora @rawr-123s-stuff @majapapaya4 @fullmugwolffish

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

Y/N: ABSOLUTELY NOT LN: non-refundable, sorry. See you tomorrow

You threw your phone across the room, furious. Hadn’t he done enough? You had your resignation letter typed out, for god’s sake. Begrudgingly, you moved across the room to find your phone, calling your best friend. 

“What’s up?” David asked.

“Lando Norris is coming to Austin to see me,” you said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Wait, why?” David questioned. You could hear his confusion over the phone. 

“I don’t know, he posted that thing on Insta and then texted me that he bought a flight,” you complained. 

David snorted, "He posted that thing and then immediately bought a flight? Sounds like someone's feeling guilty," David said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed. "I don't care if he feels guilty. I don't want to see him."

"You sure about that?" David asked skeptically. "Because it seems like you two have some unresolved tension."

"The only tension we have is me wanting to strangle him," you muttered.

David laughed. "Right, because that's totally normal behavior between two people who hate each other."

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn't see you. "What am I supposed to do? He's just going to show up here."

"Well, you could always not be there when he arrives," David suggested. "Or you could hear him out. Maybe he genuinely wants to apologize.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” you complained to him and you heard him laugh in response. 

“I’m always on your side, but let’s just say that Carlos isn’t the only one betting on when you two will get together.”

Instead of answering you hung up, not interested in hearing what he had to say anymore. You groaned before pulling yourself off your bed to begin cleaning. Deep cleaning your apartment always cleared your head and it killed two birds with one stone considering that Lando was coming the next day. 

Lando didn’t answer any of your texts the rest of the night and you started to convince yourself that he wasn’t coming which had you relieved. That was shortlived when you heard someone knocking on your door the next day as you were eating lunch. 

“You’re kidding,” you said, shocked as you opened your door to see him standing there, exhaustion written all over your face.

“I don’t have the energy to fight with you right now,” he mumbled, pushing past you with his small suitcase. 

“I didn’t invite you to come,” you shot back, following him angrily. He set his stuff down near the kitchen island before turning back to you. 

“My guilt was eating me alive so I had to come,” he said plainy.

You rolled your eyes, “I would have saved you the trip if you just would have called.” 

He gave you a pointed look, you both knew you wouldn’t have answered. 

“Can I please take a nap before I read the apology speech I prepared?” He asked and you fought hard against the laugh threatening to escape. It didn’t go unnoticed by Lando who smiled triumphantly. 

“Fine,” you agreed, showing him to the guest room. “Why do you have your suitcase?” 

“I didn’t book a hotel,” he replied nonchalantly. 

“Then where are you going to stay?” He didn’t answer and you furrowed your eyebrows. “No. No way. Do you not remember that I don’t like people staying over?”

“I remember every single thing about that night. In detail,” he shot back and your face flamed red. “We won’t be in the same room so it should be fine by your rules.” 

You stormed out of the guest room and slammed the door. You paced back and forth in your living room, trying to process the fact that Lando Norris was currently napping in your guest room. This was not how you expected your day to go. After about an hour, you heard the door open and Lando emerged, looking slightly more rested but still jet-lagged.

"Feel better?" you asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of your voice.

He nodded, running a hand through his messy hair. "Look, can we talk?"

You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall. "Isn't that why you flew halfway across the world?”

"I had no idea what was happening y/n, you have to believe me,” he said honestly. “I got rid of social media mid season because of the amount of hate I was getting. I’m so sorry this happened.”

“The things that have been said about me Lando…” you trailed off, resolve cracking. “How could I want to keep doing this?” 

Lando's face fell as he saw the pain in your eyes. He took a tentative step towards you, his voice soft. "Y/n, I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. What they've been saying, it's not okay. Not at all."

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "It's not just what they're saying. It's... everything. The threats, the harassment. They found my personal information, Lando. I don't feel safe anymore."

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt evident on his face. “You’re too good for us to lose you. That article you wrote? It was brutal, but it was honest. And that's what makes you great at your job.”

You didn’t say anything but didn’t stop Lando as he stepped even closer to you, his hands coming to cup your face. 

“I need you there,” he admitted. “I need you to keep me on my toes, to keep me accountable. Don’t let them win.”

A tear escaped your eye and Lando brushed it away with his thumb, staring intensely at you. You laid your head against his chest, taking a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you again. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” you replied softly. Pulling away, you tried to collect yourself before turning back to him. “How long are you here for?”

“Couple of days,” he said sheepishly. 

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you again just because you’re here,” you said and he rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll try not to be offended that you thought that was what I wanted,” he replied. 

“Whatever,” you said, heading towards your room. 

“Pain in my ass,” you heard him mutter under his breath as you left. 

The next day was actually enjoyable, as much as you didn’t want to admit it. You and Lando got brunch before walking around the city, you showing him the touristy sights. 

As you walked along the river, you couldn't help but sneak glances at Lando. He seemed more relaxed here, away from the pressures of the F1 world. You had to admit, when he wasn't being an insufferable prat, he was actually quite charming.

"What?" Lando asked, catching you staring.

You quickly looked away. "Nothing. Just surprised you haven't complained about the heat yet."

He chuckled. "I'm not that delicate, you know. Besides, the company makes it bearable."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't hide your small smile. "Careful, Norris. That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Don't let it go to your head," he teased back. “What are we doing tonight?” 

“Maybe just a movie back at the apartment,” you said. “Thanks to your apology speech, I actually will have to go back to work tomorrow.” 

He grinned at you. “Glad to hear that.”

“Yeah my first piece back will be ‘Why Oscar Piastri is my pick to win the 2025 championship.’”

You squealed as he moved into you, tickling into your sides. 

That night, you and Lando were curled up on opposite ends of your couch, watching a movie. You kept sneaking glances at him, noticing how relaxed he looked in your space. It was a far cry from the tense interactions you usually had at the track.

As the credits rolled, Lando turned to you with a soft smile. "This was nice. I'm glad I came."

You nodded, feeling a warmth in your chest you weren't quite ready to examine. "It was. Thank you for coming, Lando. I know I gave you a hard time, but... it means a lot that you cared enough to fly out here."

He reached over, gently squeezing your hand. "Of course I care, y/n. Despite our... complicated history, I've always respected you. And I hate that you were hurt because of me, even indirectly."

“I appreciate it,” you whispered. He stared at you a little longer, his eyes flickering down to your lips before he spoke again. 

“Sequel?” He asked and you smiled, nodding your head. 

As the next movie started, he didn’t move back to his spot, instead staying very close to you. As you felt yourself drifting off, you snuggled into his side, much to his amusement. The last thing you remember was him placing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. 

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, gently rousing you from your slumber. As consciousness slowly crept in, you became aware of a warm presence beside you, a steady heartbeat beneath your ear. Your eyes fluttered open, and the events of the previous night came rushing back.

You were still on the couch, curled up against Lando's side, his arm draped protectively around you. Sometime during the night, he had pulled a blanket over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. The TV screen was black, the movie long since ended.

Panic seized your chest as the full weight of the situation hit you. You had spent the night with Lando. Not just in a physical sense, but in the most intimate way possible - wrapped in each other's arms, vulnerable in sleep. This was exactly what you had always feared, the reason you never let anyone stay over.

Slipping out of his arms, you tried to calm yourself down as you headed back into your room. Your mind was racing as you showered, your feelings for Lando bubbling to the surface even though you pushed them down. 

Lando was sitting up and scrolling through his phone when you came back into the living room. He looked up at you, face instantly scrunching as he saw you. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked. 

“Nothing, what time is your flight?” You asked, without any emotion. Lando moved off the couch towards you, grabbing your arm as you turned away from him. 

“Y/n, what’s wrong? Is this because of last night?” He asked and you flinched, giving him the answer he needed. 

“You need to go Lando, thank you for coming, but it’s time for you to go.” 

“Wow,” he said in disbelief. “I’ll go when you can look me in the eye and tell me that all you still feel for me is hatred.” 

“Lando please,” you said, begging. 

“Why are you pushing me away?” He asked, frustration evident in his voice. 

You took a deep breath, finally meeting his gaze. "Because it can't work, Lando. We can't work."

His eyes flashed with hurt and anger. "Why not? Give me one good reason."

"We live in different countries, for starters," you said, your voice strained. "Our careers are completely incompatible. I'm supposed to report on you objectively, and you're supposed to trust that I won't use anything personal against you in my articles."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Lando snapped. "Look at Fernando and Melissa. We could make it work if we wanted to."

You shook your head, wrapping your arms around yourself. "It's not just that. We're too different, Lando. We argue constantly. Half the time I want to strangle you."

"And the other half?" he challenged.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said. 

“It does to me,” he shot back. 

“What would happen if we were together Lando?” you asked tirelessly. “If your fans hated me for writing about you, how would they treat me for dating you? I’ve seen how they treated your exes.” 

Lando was quiet for a moment, anger steaming off of him. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he finally said, coldly. “I guess I’m not worth it.”

You started to call after him but he was already gone. 

—--------------------------------------------

Lando’s season started off incredibly, winning the first three races all by over 5 seconds minimum. You would think that he would be ecstatic, his boyish energy returning to interviews and PR videos but that was not the case. He was pissed. Anyone that tried to talk to him was met with short answers and anytime McLaren made him do anything, he looked like he was being held at gunpoint. 

He wanted to get over you but he couldn’t. He’d never had anyone challenge him the way you did and he could still feel you sleeping in his arms that night from a couple of months ago. His friends were walking on eggshells around him and Carlos was about to lose it. 

“Please just call her,” Carlos begged, sitting next to Lando at dinner in Monaco. They had a couple weeks in between races and what was supposed to be an enjoyable break, was turning into a nightmare for Carlos due to Lando’s moodiness. 

“She doesn’t want anything to do with me, she made that quite clear,” Lando replied. 

“She’s just scared Lando, she’s literally been checking up on you,” he told his friend. A look of interest flashed across Lando’s face so Carlos kept going. “Oscar said she asked how you were doing just last week.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Lando finally said and Carlos groaned, resting his head into his hands. 

You were miserable. The past few months since pushing Lando away had been some of the hardest of your life. You threw yourself into work, covering IndyCar and trying to ignore the ache in your chest every time you saw news about Lando's incredible start to the F1 season.

But no matter how much you tried to distract yourself, thoughts of him kept creeping in. The way he looked at you that morning on your couch, hurt and confusion in his eyes as you pushed him away. The feeling of falling asleep in his arms, more content than you'd been in years.

You knew you had valid reasons for ending things before they really began. The complications of your careers, the distance, the intensity of F1 fandom. But the longer you went without talking to him, the more those reasons felt like excuses born out of fear.

OP: Hey, you asked about Lando last week. Thought you might want to know he's in a pretty bad mood lately. Carlos is at his wit's end.

You frowned, guilt gnawing at you. Was Lando's mood because of you? No, that was ridiculous. He was probably just stressed about the season, despite his early successes.

Y/N: Thanks for letting me know. I'm sure he'll snap out of it soon.

OP: c’mon y/n, I know you’re just as miserable as he is. 

You cursed your friend David who you knew told Oscar about how depressing your life had become. As you sat in your apartment that night your mind wandered back to that last conversation. 

Why did you push him away? Because you didn’t want to get hurt? 

The truth was, you were terrified. Terrified of letting someone in, of being vulnerable, of potentially getting your heart broken. But as you reflected on the past few months without Lando, you realized you were already heartbroken.

With shaking hands, you picked up your phone and dialed a number you had been avoiding.

"Hello?" Lando's voice was hesitant, guarded.

"Hey," you said softly. "It's me."

There was a long pause. "Y/n? Is everything okay?"

You took a deep breath. "No, actually. Everything's not okay. I... I miss you, Lando. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for pushing you away."

Another pause. And then nothing. He hung up.

[capquinn]

what about quinn just basking in the way bug and mom interact?? its like they have their own secret language and he loves to watch it happen, makes him all fuzzy and warm and just honestly fall in love with you even more (if thats even possible) seeing you as a mom

i just know quinny would find himself tearing up every once in a while when he sees them all soft like this 😭😭

Quinn leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

The house is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the living room lamp. It’s late — Bug should be in bed by now, but instead, she’s curled up against you on the couch, her tiny body tucked into yours, head nestled beneath your chin. She’s talking, voice soft and sleepy, her words tumbling together in that half-lucid way they do when she’s fighting sleep. Quinn doesn’t catch all of it, but he doesn’t have to. Because you do. You always do.

And God, he loves watching it. Loves watching you. Loves watching you as a mother. It comes so effortlessly to you, like instinct, like something woven into your bones. The way you smooth your palm over Bug’s back in long, steady strokes, the way you hum in just the right places, murmuring quiet encouragements, responding to things Quinn doesn’t always follow, like you and Bug are speaking in a language only the two of you understand.

Bug pauses, her little lips pursing, fingers absentmindedly tracing tiny shapes against your arm, a habit she’s had since she was a baby. You don’t rush her. You just wait, patient, steady, your fingertips brushing through her curls, giving her all the space she needs to find her words. After a beat, she exhales, relaxing against you as the words come together in her sleepy little head.

“— and then the bunny had to go home,” Bug murmurs, voice getting sleepier by the second, “but the bear didn’t want her to.”

You tilt your head, waiting, because she always has more to say.

“Mm,” you encourage with a small hum, shifting just enough to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. “That’s tough, huh? Bear and bunny are best friends.”

Bug nods against your chest, letting out a little sigh. “Yeah. But… but bunny said, ‘I have to go, bear. My mommy’s waiting for me.’”

You hum again, warm and soft. “Because her mommy misses her?”

Bug nods again, slow, eyes fluttering shut for a beat. Quinn thinks she’s finally given in, finally let sleep take her...

But then, in the tiniest voice, she murmurs, “You’d miss me too, right?”

Your arms tighten just slightly, your lips pressing to the crown of her head, fingers tracing slow, steady paths down her back. Quinn watches it happen — watches the way Bug knows the answer before you even say a word. She doesn’t need to ask again. She feels it in the way you hold her, in the warmth of your touch, in the way you keep her close like you never want to let go.

It’s something innate passing between the two of you, this quiet understanding that doesn’t need words.

Bug breathes out, a tiny, content hum slipping past her lips, her whole body going boneless against you. A smile, soft and sleepy, tugs at the corner of her mouth as she burrows impossibly closer, little fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, clinging without urgency, without fear. Like she’s heard you loud and clear, even though you haven’t said a single word.

But you do, because you know she still wants to hear it.

“Oh, baby,” you murmur. “I always miss you when you’re not with me.”

And that’s all she needs. She sighs, long and slow, her body going completely slack against you, safe and sure in the way you love her.

Quinn watches, his heart caught somewhere between aching and overflowing, the kind of fullness that makes his chest feel too small to hold it all. Because this — this quiet, sleepy moment, the two of you curled up together, Bug safe and sound in your arms — it’s everything.

Quinn swallows, stepping further into the room, perching on the armrest of the couch.

“She out?” he murmurs, voice hushed.

You glance up at him, smiling softly, your fingers still stroking through Bug’s curls, lulling her further into sleep.

“Almost.”

Quinn reaches out, his knuckles grazing Bug’s cheek, and she makes a tiny sound — somewhere between a hum and a sigh — before burrowing deeper into your warmth, her little hand still gripping onto your shirt even in sleep, like she never wants to let go.

Quinn feels something tighten in his throat. Because he remembers when she was just a baby, small enough to fit in the crook of one arm, when her cries could only be soothed by your voice, your touch. And now, here she is, still finding her safety, her comfort, her home in you.

And God.

He thought he knew love before. Thought he had felt it in all the ways that mattered.

But this? Watching the way you hold her like you were made for this, made for her? Watching the way she leans into you like she doesn’t even need to think about it? This kind of love? It’s something else entirely. Something that makes him want to reach out, to touch, to hold.

So he does.

His hand drifts, skimming over your arm before curling around the back of your neck, his thumb tracing a slow, grateful line against your skin. He leans in, presses his lips to your temple, lingers there for a moment longer than necessary.

You tilt your head just slightly, leaning into him the way Bug leans into you, and that’s all it takes. That’s all he needs. His family, his girls wrapped up in the kind of love that’s steady and sure and so achingly pure that he doesn’t know what he did to deserve it.

You sigh softly, shifting just enough to look up at him, your features soft in the dim light.

“You okay?” you ask, like you can sense it — how full he feels, how something inside him is stretching, expanding, trying to make room for all the love pressing against his ribs.

Quinn just nods, thumb still brushing lazy circles against your skin.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quieter than he intends. “I just… I love you.” His gaze flickers down, taking in the way Bug is tucked against your chest. “Both of you.”

Your smile is small, knowing, like you already understood before he even said it. Like the secret language you and Bug share, that unspoken understanding, somehow it extends to him too.

“We love you too,” you murmur back, your free hand reaching for his, fingers threading together, squeezing gently. “So much.”

Quinn leans in again, kissing you slow, deep, the kind of kiss that lingers, and Bug stirs between you, sighing softly. You both pull back, sharing a quiet chuckle, and Quinn shifts, slipping off the armrest to settle beside you properly, his arm curling around both of you.

The three of you sit like that for a while, wrapped up in warmth, in love, in the quiet certainty that there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

Because if there’s one thing Quinn Hughes knows for certain, it’s this:

Bug has the best mom in the world.

And him?

He’s the luckiest man alive.

[sunflower1experiment]

Children (Risk's Prequel 2.0)

pt1, pt2

Harley is so full of himself, sometimes dating him was like dipping your hand in a rose bush. Like him they were beautiful. charming, hell you even considered the relationship with him to be a thorn bush without the roses. But it was the day something happened in the labs, you went in and noticed the toys were crying? "What happened?"

You march by and comfort them, "What is wrong with them!?" The other scientist who fails to answer at first, backs away but then she feels you lean in. "What happened? Answer."

"You really don't know? Of course not, not when you're busy playing work wife for Sawyer." You glance at Leith, eyes filling with animosity.

"Mind running that by me? What is wrong with my children?"

"Ah so you claim them. Well, let me break it down, your children, they are not just toys. You of all people should have noticed the vast majority of the new high rise of emotions and tension between them and us." What is he spouting about!? You look at Stelle with a curious eyebrow quirk, she avoids your gaze and once more you return to Leith's cold side glance.

"Sawyer didn't....inform me..."

"Of course not, why would he want to break his favorite sentimental experiment's heart." It goes quiet.

The toys who coward behind you, look up as he leaves, as everyone leaves. You kneel down to study them, then your eyes begin to well up. "......Prototype was serious."

The little ones start to hug your feeble form, while you realize how terrible and naive you are the sounds of shoes fill your ears. "You, you're different..." A pink hand holds your shoulder, a long arm follows after and hugs you.

"No need to cry, Mommy's here." You look at this so-called Mommy, and realize why you recognize this voice, it couldn't be, not her.

"Marie Payne?" She backs up with a slight chuckle and the little toys cling to your hand sadly while Mommy stands on the ground, "So you know, or you did know. What makes you think you're different from them?"

"I'm not, I failed...I-"

"Then stop wallowing and do something!" Mommy's hand punches the ground, this was obviously Marie talking. You firmly nod but then hug the toys again, Banzo bunny, the mini huggys, Daisy, Cat-Bee, so many of these little ones.

When you leave the toys behind you take one more glance at them, Mommy watches with a somber stare, Harley took you for a fool didn't he? Or did he simply know how senstive you were.

You couldn't let these children starve, going back home, it meant missing dinner, breakfast, sure but they had to eat. Risking your job would be worth it regardless, Leith calling you an experiment was one thing but to be embarrassed by everyone? Over his dead body, whenever you returned to work with food, you'd just make a simple curt excuse, then place the boxes and containers down.

"What is this?" Mommy grabs the food, "This will feed you all, starvation leads to difficult actions. Now come on. We have to take care of the kids."

She was in shock, for you to get back up after a day, why weren't the adults who hurt her like you? Even if you played a role, the willingness to do better still prevails. Maybe, she looks at your lab coat while you feed the children fruits, "Maybe there are some good people."

It was a lot to handle, a bit overwhelming even but you didn't pull any punches, but when you met with Harley, you both were quiet. He was sent to sleep on the couch that night. Three days would pass, and he’d check on you, “Dear?”

“What did you do with those orphans I cared for?” Harley kicks himself, cursing Leith, Stella and Eddie. Those three were told to keep you away, how can he adore you if you know too much!? Your face of revulsion or disappointment, so he gently holds your hand, “What do you mean?”

“Harley, do not play dumb with me, you’re smart and that's what I love about you…” Of course, of course he should be honest…. “I, well Elliot said we should do this for the betterment of humanity, I’m simply following orders.” The audacity, you were there when he argued with Elliot and everyone knew he had anger issues. 

That was why you chose to avoid Harley but you both attracted each other, he was enamored by your genuine curiosity and adoration for simplistics, meanwhile he always had such charisma with that gentle tone, polite demeanor and fascination with anatomy. Were you in love with a facade perhaps? “So you knew, and didn’t tell me?”

 He didn’t deny the knowledge but to deliberately not tell you, why? So Kissy, her stress, Mommy, Huggy, and who else? Harley hated it when you cried, he knew when the tears fell that you’d rebel or probably not speak to him. Relationships were complicated, but you both communicated and that was what made Harley stay, yet this time he knew you’d speak your mind. So he did what he could to try and change the perception of the situation.”You know I love you, I would never lie.” 

His hand falls flat and he clutches it, your face wasn’t shedding tears but they looked disappointed. You then hold your stomach before hugging him sadly, “.....One more question, what did you do…with him?”

No, not him, not the boy… 

“Him?” That was the answer you needed, “How can I trust you if you won't even tell me the truth?"

Why? Why were you so sentimental!? Did you not realize the risks? No, of course not.

--

NSFW, CW and TW // Minors DNI (signs of pregnancy, intimacy for NSFW)

CW// Signs of emotional abuse, self-loathing, child experimenting, and abuse

TW// Slight suicidal thoughts. (If you ever feel this way, be sure to call a trusted friend/adult or the hotline, know that you are not alone, you are deserving of care and to be heard.)

"I'm sorry, I’ll make sure to do better..." You nod into his hand while his gentle gaze remains on you, he may be a liar but Harley knew he adored you, you’re perfect. His perfect experiment, the only one who understands him, the only responsive and reactionary force he wished to invest in after he was tired from his other sets of experiments. He slept in the bed beside you, his larger hands resting along  the arm while you remained in Harley’s arms, you were naive even when you held so much unconditional love for him. His lips travel to your neck, hands intertwined together in the moment where Harley’s lips touch, he notices how much your lips embellish his growing adoration. 

When things start to heat up, Harley is there, his arms will wrap around your waist while you admire him, those worry wrinkles, his gentle hands with calluses, and most of all his gaze. Bed creaking, your soft sounds of breathing filling the doctor’s ears whenever those hands of his would roam your frame. At some point he had a moment of lingering, a longing, and it makes him wonder what would you have done if he told the truth? Would you love him enough to fix things, perhaps give him a chance. It was wishful thinking on his end, especially when it comes to his lover. In the intensity of this heated moment between you both, he could feel your hands resting along his face or they’d move to hold him close. 

His deep chuckles and breaths, while you both share more kisses than one can count, Harley would let himself sink into your arms while he indulges in everything he loves. About you, it was strange to be in love with someone, someone of his intellect falling for you. A scientist with a bleeding heart and someone who was always willing to cater to him.

Harley would simply lose his mind at the idea of not being able to cradle your form, in life or death maybe but, he simply wouldn't allow it. Not when someone as perfect as you, could fit his standards of experimentation.

Every fiber of your being knew something was wrong, even after you began cuddling again, his grasp of you was firm with the iron grip. The way he’d kiss your forehead while you lean into his bare chest, “Hey....if Leith ever talks to you poorly, let me know…and, try not to worry about the toys. You should be focused on our work.” It goes silent, as you cuddle into him with a distant sad gaze, taking note of his slightly serious tone. 

“Okay..”

--

You lied, now you were worrying for the children more than ever, feeding them and then the visit to Kissy’s room, carefully feeding her you note the long gaze. Kissy slowly moves forward and then her slender arm moves carefully; she begins hugging you close. “It's okay Kissy, I’m fine.”

How could someone of your caliber be so naive and caring? Especially when she and these children rely on you, the only adult to make this right?

"So, you and Harley?" Stella tries to make conversation, you merely nod in agreement, even if he had to sleep on the couch for a couple of days. Somehow it always worked out, because you'd still feed him, tend to him, you could be angry right now and he's already slipping through those cracks and crevices. But when he was angry, he was never one to aim it at you but when he did, you'd offer a hug, some time alone or just to talk.

The thing is this anger wasn't ever aiming to you: his partner, but instead your coworkers who could feign innocent all they want, yet none of them were any better than you or Harley. That is why you hated your sense of morals; how could you date a potential child abuser? What if, he hurts....

"Mz.?" You startle when Stella speaks again, gently moving the Candy-cat toy so he wouldn't get hurt. "I- need to check on the children."

She frowns, "Hey, um...If...Harley is..."

"What?"

"You'll come to me if he does anything right?" Stelle asks, you pause then turn to her while she gives a somber smile to assure any form of Desolate emotions that threaten to spill out.

"Stelle, you and Leith know what he is doing. You never told me; we are no better than him and you shouldn't try to be of help when these children are being treated this way. The least I can do is comfort, nurture and love them." As your back turns to the woman who watches your retesting form she looks down, gripping the Zinnia while Harley, as if to mock her walks by with a Tuberose flower.

He places it in your vase, then looks to Stella, "You should focus on work. I'm sure you both will find a way to rekindle whatever friendship you had."

Whatever Harley told you it was obvious he didn't realize how much it would hurt you at the end, Stella saw the signs clear as day. She was your friend, easy to socialize with, but you always took the time to listen to her dreams and desire to care for the children. As you place more food down for the little ones, Mommy finally speaks again.

"I saw you with Kissy, she's being moved...further down, and... there are more...down below."

"Down, below?" Mommy couldn't help but scowl at your naivety, she felt sorry for you. ".....That boy, Quinn?"

What about Quinn? She tells you softly while you listen, her hands grip your arms to keep you from running. Being outraged, it was quiet...

Down below, Quinn, Marie, how many children...

One last thing to do.

You step into the lab, where Prototype remains. "gOoD tO sEe-E you, mY dEAr.." His metallic hands carefully hold your soft fleshy ones.

But you merely look away, he senses the hesitation to speak and realizes how much you knew. "s0 thE dOcTeR t-TRu-TRULY! Truly did fail, you know a lot but how much?"

Enough to where you were sitting before his creation, "I...I am not any better than him. I asked him to stop hurting you, he was...."

"Angry?" The experiment says in his voice to which you wince and then nod slowly, "Yes but it wasn't enough, you and I both know that." Prototype lifts your chin up.

"oF cOurSe."

"I'm sorry, I cannot apologize enough, I so badly wanted to think that, not everyone is truly a monster, and these children deserve the best....as many have said: Children deserve parents, but parents do not deserve children or deserve to even be parents. But I was truly naive, Mommy knows this." As the Prototype listens, he also twitches.

Harley was coming, so he gently shushes you and then points. You stand, grabbing the files but before you leave. You speak one more time, "Please do not hurt the children, and don't let vengeance cloud your perception."

With that you leave with the door shutting behind you, Harley walks in and notices the files. At first, he wanted to start a long lecture about his experiments being disturbed but you hand him the files. "Sorry, I wanted to help you work..."

Harley smiles at you for a quick moment but then you both go your separate ways, until you stop. "Harley."

"Yes?"

"Have you ever considered the thought of children?"

He pauses at the question, thinking of the implications of you having his child...the thought occurred to him during your intimate nights together. But he truly didn't see the resolve, especially when there are children surrounding you every day. "No, not when we have the Playtime Co. You and I are truly different."

It goes quiet and you leave, but not after chuckling to his little banter. Of course, Harley Sawyer is so full of himself. Very apathetic, very....

Foolish.

Sometimes, life felt like grappling at a thread just to see you survive, the more food you'd distribute the more guilt you felt.

The last straw was probably when you asked him to go down below. ".....Of course, is there a reason?"

"Of course, I want to see my partner's work up close." Harley couldn't help but crack a smile, he holds your hand, like always as if trying to form some sort of emotional power balance. Then his lips connect to your head, "I'd be happy to."

.....

What have you done?

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 3: Flower District]

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap relationship, entertainment industry misogyny, some body dissatisfaction/dysmorphia, medical stuff, a creepy dude, a special surprise is found in Aegon's office!!!

Word count: 6.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

You sleep in late and wake to the sound of excited voices out in the kitchen. When you follow them, you find Baela using a pink Click ‘n Flame utility lighter to ignite the candles on a sloppily but lovingly homemade cake, Pillsbury Funfetti according to the blue box left upturned on the countertop, lumpy white icing dotted with multicolored sprinkles. Jace must be responsible. You panic, thinking that you have forgotten a birthday, but no: you quickly recall that Baela is a Sagittarius and Jace is—somewhat improbably—a Capricorn.

“What are we celebrating?” you ask.

Baela looks up from the cake, the candlelight luminescence radiant on her face. She is beaming, she is glowing, she is definitely meant to be an actress. She shines too brightly to belong anywhere but among the stars. “I got the part.”

“Which part?”

“The one in the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie!”

“No way!” you shout, and you rush over to hug her; but already there is a sinking feeling that you are dimly aware of through the rush, and when the revelry is over you will lie in bed alone with these thoughts, treasonous yet true: When will it be my turn? Why can’t this happen to me? “That’s so exciting! I’m so happy for you!”

“It’s about the French Revolution,” Baela says when you pull away, still grinning hugely. “I’m getting third billing, my name will be on the promo posters! I’m flying to Paris for filming next month!”

“Wow.” Your smile is frozen on your face. “Wow, wow, wow, I can’t believe it. This is so awesome!”

Then Baela realizes how it must feel for you, and she is sympathetic, rubbing your shoulder as her expression twists into something soft and bashful. “But hey, your luck is turning around too!”

“Yeah,” Jace says. “You got to be in Episode 5,000 of Grey’s Anatomy.” Baela gives him a reproachful glare. “What?” he asks, clueless.

“No, it’s totally cool,” you insist. “I’m really, really thrilled for you, Baela. You have to take a million pictures in Paris so I can see all the architecture and desserts and hot French dudes!”

Jace snorts. “Are French dudes even hot?” He sounds skeptical.

“You can be my date to the premiere,” Baela tells you. Jace gapes at her, incredulous. “We can pose together on the red carpet and you can do some networking! Maybe Yorgos will even like you and cast you in his next project!”

But something about the way she says it makes the prospect sound ludicrous, fantastical, fictional. Baela’s breakthrough is reality, yours is unicorns and mermaids and the Loch Ness Monster. “You are so wonderful, but you should take Jace.”

“Yeah, you should take Jace,” Jace says.

Baela pulls a knife out of the bamboo block on the kitchen counter. Her parents bought it, like they bought almost everything else in the apartment; they believe in her, lots of people do. “Do you want some cake? When’s your appointment?” The appointment you didn’t cancel, contrary to Aegon’s explicit instructions. Technically, you never agreed to, so you haven’t lied to him. That makes you feel better. Baela glances at the calendar and reads the time written there in red ink. “Oh good, not until noon. You definitely have time for cake!”

“Babe, you gotta blow out your candles first,” Jace says. Baela closes her eyes, becomes still and serene, extinguishes the tiny golden flickers of light with one delicate puff. Then she begins cutting the Funfetti cake. You get three forks from the silverware drawer. Jace hands you a plate from the cabinet as he complains about having to go to class today: Music Aesthetics, Analysis, and Philosophy.

“Just a little one, please,” you tell Baela. A moment later, she plops a skinny slice of cake onto your plate. “Thanks, Becca! Wait, no, I mean Baela. Sorry.”

She laughs, still wielding a knife covered in white frosting. “Who’s Becca?”

“Aegon’s fiancée.”

“Oh, your agent’s future wife? The agent that you are definitely not into at all?”

“Yeah, that one, you got it.” You give her a wink and take a bite of cake: frosting so sweet it hurts your teeth, tiny kaleidoscopic flecks of candy like gold in a stream.

~~~~~~~~~~

“So, which one are you liking the feel of?” Dr. Cunningham asks, smiling in a way that is effervescent and yet impersonal, vaguely impatient, a real estate agent type of charisma. He must be in his mid-fifties, and yet his face is nearly entirely purged of wrinkles, smooth and shiny and evenly tanned. His teeth are too perfect to not be veneers. People keep suggesting those to you too; you need more time to wrap your mind around the idea of having your canines and incisors shaved down to helpless nubs.

“Um…” You go down the line again, squeezing all three samples that are arranged on the stainless steel utility table that Dr. Cunningham wheeled over to you. “I walked in wanting the gummy bear implants, and I think I feel the same way now.”

“Excellent!” he says, wearing that same smile. His eyes, very blue, never change; they are alert yet vacuous, like the fatal error screen on a Windows computer.

“And they’re safer, aren’t they? The gummy bear ones?”

“Statistically, yes,” Dr. Cunningham agrees, somewhat briskly, as if he is eager to change the subject. “But I wouldn’t worry about that. I hardly ever see ruptures in any of my patients.”

Hardly ever, not never. “That’s good!” you say spiritedly, like a star pupil.

“As I mentioned earlier, they are a bit more expensive than the other options, but we have several financing options available.”

“My parents are paying, so no worries there.”

“Fantastic.” He’s still smiling. You kind of wish he would stop. “You want to be an actress, I assume?”

“I do, yeah! How’d you know?”

He chuckles as he rolls the small metal table away. “That’s what all the girls are doing out here, right? And if it’s not acting, it’s singing, or modelling, or…what do you call that, when you make money on TikTok or wherever?”

“Being an influencer.”

“Right,” Dr. Cunningham says. “Well, I wish you the very best of luck.” It’s chivalrous but hollow, an echo of the encouragement he’s given to thousands of women just like you, except probably more beautiful and more talented and actually getting some of the parts they audition for.

I got a part, you think, and your mood lifts a bit. Aegon finally found me one. And he believes I’ll get more.

“Is it okay if I take a look?” the ever-smiling Dr. Cunningham says, and your heart begins to pound beneath the gown you’re wearing, scratchy white polyester-blend fabric that opens in the front. But this is all standard procedure, and you knew to expect an exam, and you should not feel like you’re lining up for the firing squad.

“Of course!” you exclaim too enthusiastically; your voice cracks. You undo the tie down by your waist and the fabric across your chest and belly goes slack. Your tan TOMS wedges are scattered on the linoleum floor that’s supposed to look like wood. The sundress you wore to the appointment, patterned with large sunlit palm leaves, is folded on a chair. Your eyeshadow matches: matte green Thorns by Anastasia Beverly Hills, sparkly gold Whisper by Natasha Denona.

As Dr. Cunningham opens your gown and begins the exam, you stare at a framed print of Venice Beach on the wall, and you pretend you are there under the hot glaring daylight instead of here in a frigidly air-conditioned office being prodded and manipulated, measured not to be admired or understood but only to be improved upon.

Dr. Cunningham is saying: “Just so you’re aware, due to how firm a gummy bear implant is, we typically have to make a slightly larger incision in order to insert it. Saline and traditional silicone implants, being more flexible, can be squeezed in through a smaller opening, for example using a transaxillary incision in the underarm. But they’re also more prone to wrinkling and rippling, and they must be replaced more frequently, so that pliability comes at a cost. I think gummy bear implants are a very good choice for you.”

“And…where exactly would the incision be?” Your heartbeat is still thunderous; you can hear the scorching red blood flow throbbing in your ears. Dr. Cunningham either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mention it.

“We’d go in right here,” he says, skimming his gloved fingers just beneath your left breast, your raw heart just two inches away. Goosebumps prickle on your arms. “It’s what we call an inframammary incision, and it gives us more room to work with to ensure the implant is placed properly, and…”

He loses his train of thought, interrupted by a commotion out in the lobby. Through the closed exam room door, you can hear people arguing and then something being spilled—the jar of pens on the receptionist’s desk? the glass bowl of mints?—and heavy sprinting footsteps. Dr. Cunningham pulls his hands away and you snatch your gown shut just as the door bursts open, and Aegon stands there breathing heavily from the exertion, hair in disarray, white Nike Killshots with a red slash of a Swoosh, dark jeans, salmon-colored t-shirt that’s too big for him, tan sport coat jacket yanked off of his shoulders. His attacker, the elderly receptionist, has chased him to the doorway.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she’s shrieking. She smacks him with a massive leather purse. “You can’t just go barging in on patients! What are you, some kind of druggie? We don’t keep any opioids in this office!”

Dr. Cunningham yells: “Will you call the police, Barbara?!”

“No wait, I know him,” you say, and both Dr. Cunningham and the receptionist stare hostilely at you. You ignore them and look at Aegon instead, stunned. “Hi.”

He straightens his jacket. His eyes, that dark and turbulent blue, are fixed on your face as you hastily retie your gown so it stays shut. “Hi. What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s just a consultation.”

“For a surgery you’re not going to have?”

You shake your head in disbelief. “How did you know I was here?”

“I just had this feeling you weren’t going to cancel,” Aegon says. “So I went to your apartment and you weren’t home, but your roommate told me where you were and gave me the address that you wrote on the calendar.”

“Oh.”

“She’s very nice. Your roommate, I mean.”

“Yeah, Baela’s cool.”

“She offered me a piece of Funfetti cake.”

“Did you take it?”

“No. I was in a hurry to get here.”

“Right.” You remain seated on the edge of the exam table with your hands clasped together in your lap. The receptionist and Dr. Cunningham’s bewildered gazes fly between you and the intruder.

Aegon sighs and nods towards the hallway that leads out to the lobby and the front door of the office. “Come on,” he says gently. “Get dressed. Let’s go.”

“I can’t,” you reply.

“Why not?”

You don’t answer; your eyes dart to the print of Venice Beach on the wall and stay there as they begin to water. Aegon crosses the room—the receptionist and Dr. Cunningham shuffle around the cramped space to keep away from him—and stops when he is standing right in front of you, his hands in the pockets of his rumpled tan jacket.

“Why not?” Aegon asks again, very softly now.

You look at him. Your voice is a quivering whisper. “I don’t want to have to give this up.” The city, the potential, the dream.

“Hey,” Aegon murmurs, leaning in close. You can smell the ocean and sunlight and Juicy Fruit gum. Strands of blonde hair, ripped from the sheen of gel, shag over his forehead. “You’re bright as hell just the way you are. You don’t need surgery to be an actress. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

And immediately, you are ready to leave. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” You wriggle down off of the exam table, check your gown to make sure you’re still covered, and turn to Dr. Cunningham. “I guess I’m not interested anymore.”

“Please never set foot in my office again,” he says.

“No problem,” Aegon snaps. And then to you: “I’ll meet you outside. We’ll get lunch.”

“Sure,” you reply, still a little dazed.

Aegon hurries out of the exam room before the police are summoned. Dr. Cunningham and the receptionist leave too, muttering to each other and casting you appalled glares. When you are alone, you throw off the gown and put on your bra, wedges, and sundress…and as you are smoothing the creases from the soft cotton patterned with palm leaves, you smile to yourself, kind pink heat swirling in your cheeks.

Aegon is in the parking lot and leaning against his white Chrysler Sebring convertible. He has put on his black aviator sunglasses to blot out the intense afternoon sun. Dr. Cunningham’s office is on a busy street in Beverly Hills; you can hear car horns, pedestrians shouting into their cellphones, toy dogs yapping, Shape Of You chiming from a passing Mercedes. Across the street is a series of shops in a row, Starbucks and Neiman Marcus and Gucci. Aegon says, pointing to your 2003 Honda Accord: “I’ll drive you back to get your car later.”

“Okay. Where are we going?”

“Chinatown,” he says, opening the passenger’s door of his Sebring. “And from now on, you listen when I tell you to do something, just like you said you would.”

“I’ll be your best client ever,” you promise, climbing into the car. The top is down, the wind blowing in from the Pacific Ocean to the west.

“I’m here for a reason. It’s not to be ignored. I can be your advocate, but you have to be honest with me.”

“I completely understand. I won’t mislead you again.”

“The Grey’s Anatomy people really liked you, by the way.”

The hope unfurls across your face like dawn over the earth. “Really?”

Aegon gives you a teasing, crooked grin. “Don’t pretend you’re shocked.” He shuts the car door, jogs over to the driver’s side, drives east through thick midday traffic.

At the same restaurant you went to the day you met, seated beside the same large fish tank, you and Aegon place the same orders: moo goo gai pan, boneless spare ribs. The waitress, Lanying, asks Aegon about how his siblings are doing before she speeds off to tend to her other customers.

Aegon watches the malevolent ember-colored oscars for a while, then taps his paper Chinese zodiac calendar, rimmed in red and gold. “Which one are you?”

You laugh, thinking he’s joking. “You already know.”

But Aegon doesn’t smile; he only stares at you blankly. “What?”

“I told you about my zodiac sign. The first time we had lunch here.”

And he looks at you as if his skull is as clear as the transluscent blue-tinged water of the fish tank, all the lights on but nobody home, and for a split second you almost feel as if you don’t recognize him, as if he is a stranger wearing Aegon’s windswept blonde hair and ill-fitting clothes and the crow’s feet around his eyes. Then Aegon repossesses himself and he is flippant, casual. “Oh yeah, right. Totally. I remember now.”

But you have the sense that he doesn’t. You try to hide how much this wounds you. It must not have been memorable. It must not have meant anything to him. “I’m a dragon!” you say brightly, and hold up your hands as if they are claws, opening and closing your hooked fingers.

Now he does smile, a little preoccupied, a little forced. “Of course you are.”

You scan the calendar. “What year was Becca born?”

“Uh…1994, I think.”

“She’s a dog,” you say. You read the description silently to yourself as the tea and wonton soups are brought to the table: Loyal and honest, you work well with others. Generous yet stubborn and often selfish. Look to the horse or tiger. Watch out for dragons.

~~~~~~~~~~

You arrive at Aegon’s office twenty minutes early, mostly because you miss him. It’s Wednesday, June 25th, and you park your Honda on the narrow sloping street and step out into 80-degree sunlight, ambient dog barking, powerlines crossing overhead. A lady walking her chihuahua waves at you and adjusts her sunglasses. Window air conditioning units whir. The trees, ginkgos and pink trumpets and Victorian boxes and palms, are still in the bright breezeless afternoon. The skyline of Downtown is a mirage on the horizon. From the barber shop across the street, you can hear a radio playing Bailamos by Enrique Iglesias.

When you clop into the lobby in your TOMS wedges, you see that Aegon’s door is closed. At his desk, Brandon is on the landline phone and jotting notes down in his planner, his flower pen scribbling rapidly across pink paper. When he spots you, he covers the phone speaker with his hand. “Hey girl!”

“Sorry, I know I’m early. Is he busy with another client?”

“No, go on in!” Brandon reaches down to dig around in the minifridge and sets a Perrier on the ledge of his desk. You take it, thank him, and go to Aegon’s door. You are puzzled to hear people talking on the other side, muffled indistinct voices. You wear an ocean blue sundress and cool metallic shades on your eyelids: Shellshock by Urban Decay, Strike by Natasha Denona. You open the door.

Aegon has his Nike Killshots up on his untidy desk and is playing the Nintendo 64. Mario is running through what appears to be some sort of underground maze, foggy and strewn with gold coins. The greenish haze must be toxic. Mario’s Power Meter is slowly ticking down; each time Mario snags a coin, it is partially restored. Aegon is watching the screen as he talks to a woman whose back is turned to you: tall, willowy, long dark hair. They don’t realize you’re here.

Aegon is saying as he clicks the transluscent orange Nintendo 64 controller: “That’s great, babe.”

“And the charity thing is on July 19th. I got a custom suit from Tom Ford, it’s powder blue, all you have to do is show up to the fitting.”

He sighs euphorically. “You’re the best.”

She giggles. “I know.”

Then Aegon notices you, and for a moment he seems shaken—not in a good way—and for some reason you feel like you’ve made some horrible mistake. The woman spins around to see what he’s looking at. She is stunning and ethereal and wearing a plain sack dress that hangs perfectly on her, a young Cher, and she smiles at you, kind and dazzling.

“Hi!” you say. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m a little early, I mixed up my appointment time because I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re fine,” Aegon replies, but he’s still distracted. Mario suffocates in the maze and drops over dead. Aegon turns off the game. He clears his throat. “Uh, this is Becca.”

You shake her hand when she offers it. Gold bangle bracelets jangle on her wrist. “It’s so nice to meet you, Becca!”

“And you must be the new client!” she says warmly. “The one from…where was it, Michigan?”

“Minnesota,” you reply.

“Oh, brr!” Becca says, pretending to shiver, and you laugh.

“Yeah, I’m really happy to be here. And you’re getting married soon, I hear!”

Becca beams, clapping her hands together. “Yes! I’m so excited but so stressed. The planning is endless.”

“Are you going to do it here in the city somewhere?”

“Aegon didn’t tell you?” Becca is perhaps a tad disappointed. “It’s a destination wedding.”

Aegon says from his desk, somewhat recovered: “Turk…something.”

“Turkey?” you say doubtfully. An interesting choice.

“Turks and Caicos,” Becca clarifies.

“No way! My sister just got engaged there, she said it was gorgeous.”

Aegon asks you from his desk: “Have you ever been?”

“I wish. Not yet, maybe one day.”

“You’ll have to come to the wedding!” Becca says cheerfully.

“Me?!” It’s ridiculous; you’re a nobody, you barely know her, you have a crush on her future husband.

“Yeah, all of Aegon’s clients are invited. Aren’t they, babe?” Becca glances at him, and then her eyes catch there and they stare at each other, Aegon slumped in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, Becca standing next to you, and there are several slow awkward seconds of silence. Aegon gets a piece of Juicy Fruit gum from a pack on his desk and shoves it into his mouth. Becca looks at you and then back to Aegon, who is pretending to organize the clutter on his desk. You notice for the first time that there is a ceramic bowl of Honeycrisp apples there.

“I thought you didn’t like those,” you say to alleviate the tension that you don’t understand.

“Well, Brando eats them,” Aegon explains.

“That makes sense.”

“And I guess they’re growing on me.”

“They’re really good for you,” you say. “Helps to balance out all the boneless spare ribs.”

Now Becca is studying you, and instead of being warm she is now cold and rigid and perplexed. After a while she asks stiffly: “What are you two up to today?”

“We’re going to the Flower District,” Aegon tells her as he rolls his gum wrapper into a ball between his palms. “I’ll be done in a few hours, I just have to get some current pics of her to send to people. So we’re going to do a quick impromptu photoshoot.”

Becca nods, still scrutinizing you. You open your Perrier and start gulping it so you have an excuse not to talk.

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Aegon asks Becca, and she perks up a bit.

“Beef bourguignon. It’s a new recipe, I’m really excited to try it.”

Aegon pretends to drool. “Amazing. I can’t wait.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Becca says, and goes to leave.

“It was so nice to meet you!” you call after her.

Becca replies curtly without stopping: “Yup. You too.” You hear the two-inch heels of her gold sandals tapping on the scuffed wood floor and then the rough opening and closing of the front door of the half-duplex.

“What just happened?” you ask Aegon.

“Nothing,” he says, standing from his desk. His shoes match his shirt, a green plaid Ralph Lauren button-up that isn’t tucked into his jeans. His hair is slicked back and shiny with gel.

“I’m sorry, did I…did I do something wrong…?”

He sighs. “No.”

You toy anxiously with your Perrier bottle. You don’t want Aegon to fire you; you don’t want to lose him. He’s the only person who understands. “You should have told me we were going to be taking pictures. I would have done my hair and worn normal eyeshadow.”

He smiles. “I wanted you to look like you.” Then he heads off to his Chrysler Sebring, and you follow him.

The Flower District is on the other side of Chinatown in Downtown Los Angeles. It’s the largest wholesale flower market in the country, six blocks of vendors selling every plant imaginable, from ordinary daisies and tulips to bamboo shoots, ferns, herbs, cactuses, succulents, baby trees, house plants like monstera and ivy. The aroma is overwhelming; when you breathe deeply, you imagine prismatic blossoms bursting up through the alveoli of your lungs, roses and irises and calla lilies and orchids. Aegon weaves through the aisles and frowns at the magnificent flowers, none of them right for some reason. You are endlessly pausing to sniff petals and gingerly graze your fingerprints over leaves. Aegon has to backtrack to find you when you stop to watch a demonstration of a Venus flytrap being fed.

“Here we go!” Aegon announces triumphantly when at last he is satisfied, and he lifts the large bouquet from a plastic bucket for you to see: massive sunflowers, water dripping off the cut stems. “They’re sunny, just like you. You like them?”

“I love them,” you say, taking the bouquet and beaming. Aegon pays in cash.

Outside under the harsh cloudless sunlight, he poses you in front of one of the flower shops, pedestrians walking behind you and a rainbow myriad of blooms out of focus. He uses his phone to take a series of photos, some up-close and some full-body shots, and you had assumed it would be awkward but it’s not, Aegon is making jokes and you are laughing and trying weird angles and spinning around so the skirt of your sundress swishes despite the lack of a breeze.

“Cool, got some good ones,” Aegon says, scanning through his phone. “We’re done.”

“What should I do with these?” you ask about the sunflowers. “Do you want them back?”

“Why would I want them back?”

“I don’t know. You paid for them, it feels weird for me to keep them.”

“They’re yours. Enjoy.”

You inhale the faint floral scent that emanates from the yellow petals. “I’m going to put them in a vase on the kitchen counter and buy them flower food so they live as long as possible. And I’m going to talk to them, because that’s supposed to be good for plants.”

Aegon chuckles. “You are ridiculous.” He slides his phone into the pocket of his jeans and sees an ice cream vendor up the street, then gestures for you to come with him. The ice cream is allegedly homemade and only comes in five flavors. Aegon orders for you both. “Hi, one vanilla and one strawberry.”

The vendor scoops the ice cream into two waffle cones. Again, as he always does, Aegon pays in cash. You locate an available bench and you and Aegon sit together with the sunflower bouquet lying between you, watching the pedestrians stroll by with their friends and partners and children and dogs.

“Tastes better when you make it,” Aegon says, licking melting strawberry ice cream from his waffle cone. “I might have another job for you.”

“Really?! Yay!”

“It’s a little unorthodox, but you said you’d take anything.”

“I definitely will.”

“It’s a music video for Maroon 5,” Aegon cautions. “It’s honestly pretty uninspiring and stupid, but it’s work. It’s another last-minute thing, at first the girlfriend of one of the band dudes was supposed to be in the video but I guess now they’re fighting all the time and the guy doesn’t like the idea of having a permanent reminder of her if they break up, which seems likely.’”

“I want to do it,” you say immediately. “When?”

“They’re planning to film the first week in July at a mansion in Beverly Hills. They already have a male actor cast. And you don’t even have to kiss him or anything, you get to argue with him in the first scene and then the rest of it is mostly you just moping around the mansion in designer outfits. Again, it’s super unoriginal. Boy and girl have a miscommunication and split, boy regrets it afterwards, they both secretly and photogenically yearn for each other. It’s very Edward leaving Bella in New Moon.”

“Sounds fantastic! Do I get to meet Maroon 5?”

Aegon is disappointed. “Are you a fan?”

“Well…not really.” You both laugh. “But I feel like it’s always cool to meet celebrities in real life.”

“Yes, you get to meet them.”

You cheer. “You are the most talented agent ever!” You take a lick of your ice cream; it’s almost gone now. You look over at Aegon, serious now. “You’re the only person who doesn’t think I’m absolutely insane for trying to do this.”

He crunches his waffle cone with his teeth. “Your roommate’s an actress, right? She must get it.”

You shrug. “Baela is confident, and magnetic, and she wants to be famous. She’s very obviously meant to be in this industry, and agents and directors respond to her. But I’m not like that. Most people don’t notice me. And that’s okay, I don’t really want to be famous. I just want to be able to be a working actor and get to stay here. If I’m not making significant progress by the end of the year, I have to choose between going back to Minnesota or being disowned and impoverished.”

Aegon watches you, thoughtful, maybe a little sad. “I like you the way you are, sunshine.”

You smile shyly at him. “Thanks. I like you too.”

“And I don’t want you to change. It’s horrible to watch someone disappear.” He devours the rest of his waffle cone. “You know…I think helping you get to where you’re going, and making sure it’s done the right way…that will be the last good thing I ever do here.”

“You don’t have to retire.”

He shakes his head. “Circumstances change. Priorities change.”

“Do you want kids?” If Becca is in her thirties, perhaps now is the time to start planning for that.

“No,” Aegon says, flinching. “Definitely no kids. You’re anti-horse, I’m anti-kid.”

“Then what’s the rush to leave L.A.?”

“It’s the right time.”

“Not for me.” You grin. “I just got here. You can’t abandon me yet.”

“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of before I go. I’ll get someone I trust to sign you.”

“But I don’t want another agent.”

“The music video director asked to meet you before filming,” Aegon says, deflecting. “It’ll be quick, just ten or fifteen minutes. We’ll swing by his office on the way back to Elysian Park.”

“Okay,” you agree. You take a makeup compact out of your Patricia Nash purse and use the mirror to make sure you don’t have any ice cream on your nose or chin.

“I haven’t worked with him before,” Aegon says. “But I’ve heard very good things and obviously I’ll be there at the shoot.”

You snap your compact shut. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

In a spacious, glass-walled office in Downtown, the director introduces himself as Dan Sacco. He is tall and broad through the shoulders and extremely welcoming, offering you drinks and snacks and asking about your hometown as Aegon stands in the corner of the room, his hands in his pockets and his eyes watchful. Two jobs in two weeks; Aegon is a miracle worker.

When you get home to your apartment, it’s empty. Baela and Jace must have gone out somewhere for dinner. You put the sunflowers in a vase and then scroll through Instagram. Aegon has posted a new story: a photo of you standing with your bouquet and smiling, not sexy or alluring or arrogant but simply happy, and he must be very knowledgeable about filters because you think you look great.

Future Hollywood Walk of Fame star recipient, Aegon has added as a caption. If you want to book her, you know where to find me. He finished with a sunflower emoji. You press the heart button in the bottom right corner of the screen to like the story. Your own heart is racing now in the best way possible, feverish and loud, intoxicated, needful, seams ready to rupture.

You look up Becca’s Instagram, but her account is private. You send her a follow request. She doesn’t accept it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The night before the shoot, there is a knock at your door. It’s 8:30 p.m., a strange hour, not early enough for Amazon deliveries or a visit from one of Jace’s eccentric PhD program friends, not late enough for a drunk tenant to have mistaken your apartment for their own. When you open the door, you are at first so shocked you can’t place him. Then you remember where you know the hulking man in the tan suit from. It’s Dan, the director of the music video.

“Oh my God, hi!” you welcome him. You have just gotten home from Cold Stone Creamery and are still in your drab grey uniform. You always drive to and from work now, per Aegon’s insistence. You promised you’d listen, and you’re trying your best. Jace is in Baela’s bedroom banging on his Yamaha keyboard. From the velvet orange couch in the living room where she is watching The Vampire Diaries, Baela peeks curiously over at where your visitor fills up the doorway.

Dan seems pleased by your enthusiasm. “Hello again.”

“Can I help you with something? I know the shoot is tomorrow, I’m really excited. I was about to get ready for bed so I can go to sleep early and be well-rested. There’s not a problem with the music video, is there? Please don’t say it’s cancelled or that I’m fired or something.”

Dan chuckles, a deep slow rumble. “No, nothing like that. I just wanted to give you a heads up that we added a scene to the script.” He holds up a thin packet of papers held together by a single staple. “I’m not allowed to leave it in an unsecured location, so I have to take it with me when I go. But I thought you should be aware so you’re prepared when you show up to set.”

“Aw, that’s so thoughtful of you!” You take the packet and flip through it, skimming for an unfamiliar scene. “Did you get my address from Aegon? Or Brandon, his receptionist?”

“It was in your file that they sent over,” Dan says, perhaps a bit guardedly, and before you can ask anything else you stumble upon the scene, and your stomach drops. The actress—me, you think, that’s not some other woman, that’s me—will be lying in a vast empty bathtub, soaked hair, dripping skin, black lingerie, writhing and whimpering as she mourns the loss of her lover.

“Um…the bathtub scene?” you squeak.

“It’s going to be so cinematic,” Dan says, his large hands painting a picture with dramatic gestures. “Sunlight streaming in through a window, your skin glowing, you’ve drained the tub but you’re too heartbroken to get up so you’re just sprawled there, still drenched from the bathwater. Obviously it would make more sense if you were naked, but…we can’t do that in a music video.” He laughs. “But the aesthetic will be divine, like sexy mourning widow. And we’ll get all kinds of shots, you crying, you angry, you pining, you flirting and beckoning the camera closer, and we can get creative, you can just kind of crawl around all over the tub and we’ll see what you come up with.”

You gaze at the script until all the words vanish, imaging a room full of men watching you roll around in underwear, black lace wet and clinging to your skin, no secrets, nowhere to disappear. I can’t do that. But you can’t say no. “Is there going to be a woman on set to…you know, to…like…supervise, or, or something…?”

“You mean an intimacy coordinator?”

“Yes, thank you, that’s the term I was looking for.” Does Aegon know about this? He has to, right?

“Well, it’s not a sex scene,” Dan says rationally. “It’s not even a kissing scene. So we would never pay to have an intimacy coordinator around for this, it’s completely unnecessary.”

“Oh.” I can’t do that. I can’t do that. You feel nauseous; you feel dizzy, like you might stagger if you try to move.

“Look, if you’re uncomfortable, that’s totally cool,” Dan says. “I get it, a job like this isn’t for everyone. I have a list of backups I can call, and I can find somebody else—”

“No!” you cry out, then give the script back to Dan and manage a smile. “No, sorry, I was just a little confused, but I understand now. Thank you for letting me know about the new scene, and I can absolutely handle it.”

“Great.” He grins proudly. “I knew I could count on you. See you tomorrow.”

“See ya.”

Dan lumbers down the hallway, and you close the door when he’s out of sight. Baela asks from the couch: “What do they want you to do?”

You swallow noisily. “Roll around essentially naked in a bathtub.”

Baela nods; she doesn’t seem alarmed. Is this normal? Are you unreasonable? “Bikini?”

“Lingerie.”

“Want to know a trick?” she says. “After you shave, run a Stridex pad over your skin. I have a container of them in the bathroom cabinet, use as many as you want. It’ll burn at first, but it kills any bacteria and prevent razor burn. No bumps or ingrown hairs!”

“Thanks,” you reply weakly.

Baela squints at you. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A lie.

“It’s not that bad,” she says reassuringly. “I know it seems like the end of the world, but once you do a nude scene or a sex scene once, the nerves go away and it’s just another day at work. You’ll get through it. You’ll do an incredible job.”

I don’t want to give up the dream. I don’t want to leave Los Angeles. I don’t want to leave Aegon.

“You’re probably right,” you tell Baela, and you pretend to be fine so she won’t worry, or pity you, or be further convinced that you don’t belong here.

You shower, shave, scrub your skin with stinging Stridex pads, and long after you were supposed to be asleep you’re still staring up at your bedroom ceiling, a deep blue shadowscape with no stars.

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Part 15 - Special Delivery

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic. CW: Death, use of weapons, violence, military inaccuracies. AN: I'm sorry but none of you are ready for the next part...

Previous parts - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

It feels like every time you walk into a room with them it’s more and more awkward. You feel like eyes are digging into you as you walk over to the table in the room and put the laptop down.

“Give me your boots.” Johnny says coming over to you. Before you even question him you’re already taking them off. “I’ll dry them by the radiators.” You nod, Gaz walks up to you as you open the laptop.

“Can you help her set up a keyword search or something?” Price asks.

“What are you looking for?” Gaz asks, pulling the laptop towards him. You look over at Ghost sticking a cloth into some part of a broken down weapon. 

“Here, type in what you want to search for.” He says turning the laptop back to you. 

“What should I search for?” You ask the room. 

“Try Makarov.” Price asks from the doorway. You type it into the search bar, you have no idea what Gaz has done or how he managed to get it working so quickly. In fact the search part seemed to take the longest. You pull a chair over and sit down clicking through each thing. 

“Just some emails, nothing really. They’re talking about the post being shut down.” 

“Try missiles.” Gaz says you nod typing it in if you try Arabic first and nothing comes up so you switch to Russian. There’s only one document, you open it and there's a list and pictures of missiles, at the end there’s a link. You click it and it opens to a video. 

It’s Makarov, he's talking about something, it looks like he’s in some kind of lab or something. He picks up a vial of something. Everyone but Ghost have moved over to the table now.

“What’s he saying?” Gaz asks. 

“He’s talking about a chemical. Those missiles in the garage they’re-” You stop continuing to listen to him. “Chemical bombs, he's using the missile casings to make chemical weapons.” 

“If those are empty shells outside, where are the insides?” Johnny asks.

“Probably with Al Qatala.” You say, the video finishes on a freeze frame of Makarovs face. You look up, Ghost has started putting the weapon back together now. 

“What kind of chemicals?” Price asks. You go back to the document turning it so Johnny can see, he scans over it for a few seconds. 

“That's like white phosphorus.” He says pointing at something. “This is some kind of gas.” 

“Like in Urzikstan?” Gaz asks.

“Like Urzikstan?” You ask.

“He had sarin gas. This is different though.” Johnny says you raise an eyebrow looking up at Price who has his arms crossed with a concerned look on his face. 

“What do we do now?” Gaz asks. 

“We send this to Laswell, let her start looking through it. Tomorrow when we follow them to Makarov we’ll know more.” Price says then moves away from the laptop. 

“I can keep looking.” You say moving the laptop back towards you. 

“Laswell’s programs are faster, besides we need to get some rest. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.” He says. You nod pushing the laptop back to Kyle.

…

Everyone wakes before the sun is up. You slept uncomfortably, not because you had no bed and you were basically sleeping on the hard floor. Because Johnny had the building so hot you woke up in a pool of sweat. At least your clothes are dry though, mostly. 

“Tea?” Johnny asks, passing you a plastic cup. You yawn taking it from him.

“Carry tea into a warzone with you all the time?” You ask.

“Cause, how would we function without it?” You look over at Gaz sitting next to you, you smile at him. 

“No time for a tea break. They could be here any minute.” Price says. You sip the tea anyway; it's sweet and milky not like the kind you’re used to. You get up going over to where all the gear is drying and pick up your vest. It’s still damp but it’s better than being sodden. 

You walk over to the window where Ghost and Price are standing. 

“When do you think they’ll be here?” You ask, tightening the vest. 

“Anytime now.” Ghost says.

“How are we going to follow them without being spotted?” You ask.

“We’ll take the car they left yesterday, if they do see us we’ll hope they think it’s one of them.” Price says. You don’t know if that will work but you trust him. 

“When we get there what's the plan?” You ask. 

“Haven’t got that far yet.” Price smiles and turns to look back into the room. You raise an eyebrow, Johnny comes up next to you throwing his arm over your shoulders. 

“Hey, wanna cozy up with me in the back of the car when we leave?” He says winking at you, you feel heat rushing to your cheeks. 

“You’re driving.” Price says smiling. Johnny’s arm leaves your shoulder as he starts to complain. You chuckle going back over to the window. 

“C’mon, help me pack. You two keep a lookout.” Price says walking past you. You lean up against the window, looking out at the garages. 

“So. What's with the mask?” You ask looking over at Ghost, he turns slightly and crosses his arms looking at you. He doesn’t answer, you frown at him. 

“I think it’s cute.” You tease. He scoffs going to look back out the window. “Are you shy or something? You don’t seem shy.” 

“I don’t like people knowing what I do.” He says. It’s not really a satisfying answer. 

“What, you don’t want people knowing you're military?” You ask. He just lets out a sigh.  

“I get it.” You say looking back out the window. “You want to keep work and home life separate. Do you have someone at home waiting for you?”

“No.” He says quickly. “Not anymore.” 

You don’t press him any further, it feels like you’ve hit a nerve. You’re not waiting much longer, the sun has only just started to break over the horizon when a truck pulls up to the gate. You all make it outside and climb into the car they hid round the back of the building. 

You all wait in silence hearing the garage doors open and close. Johnny doesn’t turn the engine of the car on until you all hear the distant click of the front gates slamming closed. By that point everyone is getting somewhat restless, you’re sat in the back between Ghost and Gaz. Price is in the front with the laptop on his knees. 

“Laswell thinks they might be heading to an old cold war base a few hours from the border of Kastovia.” Price says. “Satellite images have been promising and Russia has no troops in that region.”

“And they would have no reason to lie.” You say raising an eyebrow. You shrug when Price looks back at you. 

“Let’s move, we don’t want to lose them if we’re wrong.” He says gesturing for Johnny to drive. 

…

Price was right, they end up driving into what looks like an old cold war air base. Grass is peaking through the cracked concrete of the runway. The surrounding fence is rusted and collapsed in some places the buildings look rundown and barely functional but you all watch as one of the doors to one of the hangers open and the trucks drive in. 

Price orders Johnny to drive round to a forest about a kilometre away from the place and you all get out. 

“How can we be sure he’s there?” Gaz asks as he closes the boot of the car. 

“He’s there.” Price says confidently. 

“What about the others, The Butcher and Khaled?” You ask as you follow them through the trees. 

“No, they haven’t been spotted. This is a cold war era building though. Chances are there’s an underground tunnel system they’re hiding in.” Price says.

“That explains why we didn’t see many guards.” Ghost replies. 

“Right, besides I don’t think it’s going to be getting in that's the problem.” Price says. You let out a sigh, this feels too easy. It feels like you’re rushing, he’s in that building but like Price said there could be miles of tunnels hidden underneath. He could have a whole army in there just waiting. 

You follow them in silence listening to them talk strategies. The plan seems to be to go in as quietly as possible, cut the alarms, locate Makarov and take him out. Then confirm where the bombs and chemicals are so the US and Russia can come in and clear them up. 

It was a plan, not one you’re particularly happy with but it’s a plan nonetheless. 

“Gaz, Soap. You get in to see if you can find a maintenance room of some kind. Something we can use to tap into their systems.” He hands them the laptop. Gaz takes it then they start making their way down to the building. 

You’re all hidden behind something you think was once a barn but now there's a tree growing out of it and it's collapsed on one side. Ghost has binoculars looking around the place, the sun is out and the sky is clear which is way better than the thunderstorm from last night. 

“Place is quiet. I don’t like it.” Ghost says after a few seconds. 

“Makes our job easier.” Price says. You straighten up when you see the doors of the hanger open again. 

“Eye’s up Ghost.” 

“I see.” He replies. You squint trying to get a better look, you can’t see anything really from this distance, you wonder if Soap and Gaz are having any better look. 

“Shit. That’s Makarov.” Ghost says handing the binoculars over to Price. He brings them up to his eyes. You see a smile on his lips. 

“Got you now fucker.” You hear him whisper under his breath as he takes the binoculars down and hands them over to Ghost. 

“Update Soap and Gaz. I’ll get Laswell in the loop.” He says before turning to walk away. 

“Soap, Gaz. Makarov is heading into the main building.” 

“Copy.” You hear Gaz call back. “How’s our way in looking?”

“You’re clear. Watch yourselves.” 

“Always.” Soap replies. You turn behind you to see Price talking on a phone. You try to look for them but you can’t see them at all. You watch as Makarov makes it into the building with his entourage. 

“We’re in, making our way to the building now.” Gaz says. 

“Copy, watch your step, we have no intel you’re going in blind.”

“Copy, won’t be blind for long though.” Gaz whispers. You’re holding your breath, your palms have gone sweaty. You’re nervous, you want to be with them, helping them. What if they get hurt? They know what they’re doing, they’ve been trained for this. 

“How’re we looking?” Price asks as he comes back standing next to you. 

“We’re in, looking for a maintenance room.” Soap whispers as if on cue. 

“Good. Let us know when you have access then we’ll move.” Price says. It feels like you’re waiting forever, the seconds feel like minutes, you find yourself constantly checking your watch. 

“Nervous?” Price asks. You look over at him and smile. 

“Never.” He smiles back nodding his head.

“We’re in. Looks like Makarov is sitting pretty at the top of the ATC. Can you get a visual Ghost?” You all look up at the tower, you can’t see anything from here. 

“Copy. I see him.” Ghost says after a few seconds.

“We can override the security and lock him in there?” Gaz asks.

“Good, do it. Any signs of tunnels?” Price asks. 

“Nothing, everything seems to be above ground.” Gaz responds, you look over at Price. It feels too easy. 

“How many inside?” 

“A few dozen, 30. Maybe 40.” Soap says.

“Civilians?” 

“Negative.” 

“Stay put, we're coming to you.” Price says tapping Ghost on the shoulder.   

It doesn’t take you long to make it to the part of the wall Soap and Gaz made it though. Ghost and Price are faster than they are. More sure in their movements, they handle their weapons in a way you’ve never seen before, its second nature to them. You all slip through a side door and walk into a dimly lit corridor. 

“Were in.” Price says. You see Soap stick his head round a corner with his weapon drawn before lowering it. You all walk over to him seeing Gaz kneeled down next to the laptop hooked up to what you assume is some kind of server. 

“Gaz, stay here. Guide us, we’ll clear floor by floor. Make sure Makarov doesn't try anything. He’s not getting away this time.” Price says. Gaz nods and the rest of you make it out the room closing the door behind you. 

“Which way Gaz?” Price asks as you all stand there looking to him for direction. 

“Door to the left will take you through to the main entrance, then right through the double doors will take you into the mess.” Gaz says. “You’re looking at about 15-20 people.” You swallow hard. That’s a lot.

“Are you sure we can take that many people at once?” You ask before you can stop yourself. Soap chuckles and you feel embarrassed. 

“We’ve dealt with worse odds. Besides, we have an advantage.” Price says. You frown, shaking your head at him. 

“They don’t know we’re here.” Price says, clicking the safely off his weapon and turning to the left. 

He was right again. Surprising them was a big advantage. Gaz was good at calling out hazards too. You knew where they were before they could even find you. It felt clinical, maybe you’re used to it now, all the killing. It’s not hard when you’ve done it a few times. 

You don’t think about it, you just shoot, shoot them or they will shoot you. You don’t think about if they have a life outside of this. They’re the enemy, they’re making bombs and chemicals to hurt actual innocent people.  

“Mess and kitchen are clear. You’ve got people coming from the west side of the building.” Gaz says. You all get into position before the first few soldiers manage to get shots off. You have to duck under a table slipping on something and fall on your ass. 

You hear Soap chuckle coming over to you and grab your arm pulling you up. 

“Change your mag, I'll cover you.” He says. You nod, pulling the almost empty one out and pressing a new one in. The firing has stopped by the time you’re ready to fire again. You look over at the pile of bodies in the doorway. The room stinks of blood and gunpowder. 

You don’t think that is something you can ever get used to. 

“Looks like you’re clear.” The last few soldiers are with Makarov. I would hurry if I was you. I had to trigger a security lockdown so they couldn’t leave the ATC tower. He’s trying to override it. I don’t know how long you have.” Gaz explains. 

“Copy, we’re moving.” Price says already jogging out the room. When you make it back outside the building you see people coming out of the hangar towards you. 

“Go we’ll hold them off!” Soap shouts grabbing your arm to stop you. You nod at him and watch as Ghost and Price run off towards the ATC tower. You fire off shots with Soap, some are hitting, your adrenaline is pumping and your hands are sweaty. 

He grabs your arm pulling you to cover behind a roadblock. Now it’s your turn to cover him so he can reload. You look over the block and fire off shots trying your best to make them land. You can’t tell if you’re getting better or not. The last one falls as he gets back up. 

“C’mon let's catch up with the others. You watch our six, yeah?” You nod and follow him up the winding stairs of the tower. 

You hear an explosion. You both freeze for a second, your eyes meeting before you’re sprinting up the stairs. It takes the wind out of you sprinting up the steps trying to keep up with Soap. By the time you make it to the top you have to brace your hands on your knees and take in lungfuls of air. 

When you look back up Soap has gone, the doors to the control room are open. You walk in hearing voices. 

“You think you can stop us all Captain?” That has to be Makarov, his thick Russian accent cutting through the air. 

“Maybe not. But we’re going to give it a damn good try.” You hear Price say as a shot is fired. You make it round the control panel just in time to see his body flop to the ground. 

“Gaz, target down. Where’s the control room in this place?” Price asks as he turns, your eyes meet. There’s something different in them now, you quickly look back down at the body. His eyes look dark, focused. This was personal, you swallow hard, your throat feeling suddenly dry. 

“Main building second floor.” Gaz says. You’re already turning to move back down the stairs before them. You feel a shiver up your spine. They got Makarov, they’ve got the weapons, now all they need to do is get the Americans and Russians in here to clear the place out. 

It felt weird, like something had changed between you all. Well something had changed, they’ve completed their mission. You feel a shiver run up your spine remembering the cold look in Price’s eyes. 

It’s not even over yet Jamal and Khaled, they're both still out there, they’re both probably involved in continuing Makarovs work. He was right, they can’t stop them all.

You make it to the control room first Gaz is leaned over a laptop. The room looks out of place almost like they just slammed a concrete box down in the middle of the building, maybe they did. You had to walk through a set of metal sliding doors to get in. 

“Where are the others?” he asks looking over your shoulder, you turn to see no one following you.

“They must have got turned around.” You say. 

“I’ll go get them, stay here.” he says. You nod, swinging the weapon off your shoulder and putting it on one of the tables. You hear them before you see them, they must have not been that far behind. You walk over to the door to meet up with them. It slides shut and you step back for a second then step up again. Nothing changes, you frown looking up at the sensor waking your hand. 

You sigh, maybe it can only be opened from the other side, you can see them walk into the little room you can only describe as an airlock. This building really is as old as the cold war. When they make it to the door it doesn’t budge. 

They look at you confused. 

“I don’t know.” You say reaching over to press the red emergency open button, it doesn’t do anything. Suddenly you hear a hiss and a clank, they all turn watching the door behind them slide closed and lock. 

An alarm rings out. They look at Gaz who looks down at the laptop, you can see him furiously clicking on the keyboard.  

“The whole system’s gone into lockdown.” He says, you see panic on his face. Fuck. Price looks back at you. 

“Did you touch anything?” He asks. 

“No of course not!” You shout back defensively. Suddenly there’s another hissing, this wasn't like the one in their room. This one sounds different. You look up trying to place it. 

“What’s happening?” Price asks. You look round, it’s the vents, a few seconds later a thick smoke starts to seep out of them. It almost immediately makes you gag and cough. You bring your arm hand up to block your nose and mouth. 

You look back at Price, now you can see panic on his face. 

Fuck.

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[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Parthenos ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter Five)

Masterlist

A/N: I got really frustrated that I didn't seem to write to flow of sentences that well and experimented with Grammerly (as english is not my first language) and it ended up amazing and just how I see it in my head, so yes it is still written and made up by me but without mistakes and with better wording. Enjoy!

Pairing: Emperor Geta & Caracalla x Noble!Reader

Warnings: Angst, angst and some angst, Acacius and Lucilla get reader into big trouble, Macrinus is just a fucking rat one again, hopefully more historically accurate?

Summary: The insurrection has been revealed...

Word count: 3.3k

The silk fabric of your garment was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the night before. For a moment, you lingered in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, but as your senses sharpened, reality settled in. The space beside you was empty. The warmth of their bodies, their presence- gone. 

Sunlight streamed through the open windows, casting golden streaks across the now more familiar chamber of your fathers estate. Had it been a dream? No. The ache in your limbs, the faint traces of their scent on your skin- it had been real. Finally they had taken you and you knew there was no going back, neither for them as for you.

Lazing around in bed all day would not help your state of mind, so you decided to rise from your bed and leave your chambers. After having searched for your servant, she helped you prepare for the day. Even though you did not know what the sunny day would bring, you hoped it would involve the Emperors. Your heart was already aching for their touch. 

Later, you found yourself in the solar, still no invitation from the Emperors. The fine thread slid between your fingers as the spindle hummed softly while you worked. This fine art required focus but yet you could not put your mind to it. Weaving was also supposed to calm the mind but it was not able to put yours to rest. 

All you could think about was them, anxiety ever growing as the day went by far too quickly. Why had they not invited you? Did something happen? Had Macrinus somehow gotten to them- A sharp snap pulled you from your thoughts. The thread had broken, once again. The attendant hesitated before speaking, sensing your tension. “Shall I fetch new thread? My lady?” She asked. 

“Yes.” You exhaled, it would be a long wait. 

The damp air of the Colosseum’s underground cells clung to General Acacius like a second skin, thick with the stench of sweat, decay, and something more rancid he dared not name. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows that made the passage feel like it was breathing- watching.

His boots pressed against the uneven ground, the squelch of filth punctuating each step. Water dripped from above, forming small puddles that rippled as he and his men passed through. He refused to consider what mixed with the water beneath his feet. The dungeons of the Colosseum were a place of suffering- forgotten men left to rot, their fates determined by the will of the crowd and the cruelty of the arena.

A sickly cough echoed from one of the cells, followed by a weak groan. A pair of beady eyes stared at him from the darkness- a rat, large and bloated, scurrying over the outstretched hand of a prisoner too weak to swat it away. Acacius barely spared the man a glance.

Lucilla had told him Lucius would be in a newer cell, all the way at the back. That meant he had much ground to cover before reaching his goal. Yet, as he treaded deeper into the halls of suffering, an unease swirled in his gut. There were no guards. Why did it seem so easy?

The absence of Praetorians gnawed at him, setting his instincts on edge. This place should have been swarming with them- watching, waiting. Instead, there was nothing but the soft footsteps of his men, their presence barely disturbing the silence. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, the rough leather grounding him.

As he turned corner upon corner, the walls seemed to narrow, the shadows growing denser, as though the Colosseum itself wanted to swallow him whole. He could feel it now- his goal was close. The weight of his mission pressed against his ribs, the danger of what he was about to do tightening around his throat.

If the Emperors discovered him before he secured the gladiator, all would be lost- his wife, his future, his life. And worse, so would his daughter. Everything he did was for her. Every betrayal, every secret, every risk. And she didn’t even realize it.

It was when the General turned the last corner, followed closely by his men, that his life went up in flames. A sudden sharp whistle sliced the air, followed by the familiar thud of an arrow hitting its target. He had no time to react as his loyal soldiers crumbled to the ground, his heart rose to his throat. The weight of his failure almost made him sink to the floor himself.

He recognised the man that stepped out of the shadows, Praetorians surrounding him as they demanded his surrender. The commander pointed the tip of his sword at Acacius, daring him to act now, but the General couldn’t. He then felt how the cold metal swiftly graced his forehead, before his face was revealed, and his hood had fallen from his head.

Acacius knew, all was lost. 

Night had long since fallen over the estate, the halls silent and dead. Still, no invitation had come. The flickering torches in the corridors had burned low, their golden glow reduced to embers. Even Lucilla had surrendered to the late hour, retreating to her chambers with a soft goodnight. Alone, you sat by the window, eyes fixed on the stars in the black sky, waiting. Hoping.

But hope had stretched thin. It was time to give up. With a quiet sigh, you rose and slouched towards your bed. But sleep did not come easily. You tossed, turned, thoughts circling like a vicious cycle in the dark. Had you misread the signs? Had they simply forgotten you? Or worse- had they already grown bored of you? At last, exhaustion weighed down your limbs, and you drifted into uneasy slumber.

The pounding at your chamber door shattered the stillness.

You jolted upright, heart thumping against your ribs as the sound echoed through the room. Disoriented, you turned toward the window. The moon was still high, shining over the estate grounds.  How long had you slept? Minutes? Hours?

Then came a voice- sharp, authoritative, and unmistakably male.

"My lady, open the door! By order of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla!"

The words sent a shiver down your spine. Your pulse quickened as you climbed out of bed, bare feet meeting the cold marble floor. Confusion and dread tangled in your chest as you reached for the door, fingers hesitating on the handle. What could they possibly want at this hour?

With a slow breath, you pulled it open.

A wave of torchlight flooded in, momentarily blinding you. When your vision adjusted, you were met with the gleaming helmets and rough faces of at least twenty Praetorian guards, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The man at the front stood rigid, eyes cold and unforgiving. But it wasn’t the soldiers that made your blood run cold.

It was Lucilla. She stood among them, shackled, her wrists bound in iron, her usually neat hair disheveled. Her eyes tired, red-rimmed, locked onto yours, pleading.

Then the soldier before you spoke.

"My lady, you are under arrest for conspiracy as well as treachery against the Empire and the Emperor's themselves. Go with us willingly, and we won’t have to hurt you."

The words struck like a blow. Lucilla stirred among the almost statue like Praetorians, her voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “My daughter is no part of this, I beg of you, leave her here. She did not know about this, she is innocent.” Lucillas words widened your tired eyes. 

But the soldier made it abundantly clear that he did not believe her. He grabbed your arms and pulled you with him, another man joined your wrists together by binding them with shackles, pulling a gasp from you. It was a grim scene, as both you and Lucilla left the estate as prisoners. 

They had seized you from the estate like a common criminal.

There had been no time to fetch shoes, no chance to wrap yourself in proper attire. The Praetorians had no mercy for a lady once cherished, now condemned. Your protests had fallen on deaf ears, your dignitas reduced to nothing beneath their grip. Even Lucilla, had been torn from your side, the two of you put into separate carriages as if mere slaves.

Tears traced down your cheeks, vanishing into the thin fabric of your night toga. What had you done to deserve this? The journey was long, the carriage rattling over the uneven roads as you stared into the endless void of the night, lost in the uncertainty of what awaited you.  

When at last the carriage reached Palatine Hill, another arrived as well- though from a different direction. You barely had a moment to register its presence before rough hands yanked you forward.

Gone was the courtesy once reserved for a lady of noble blood. Gone was the deference meant for a woman who had once held the favor of emperors. You hit the ground with a wince, your bare feet meeting the coarse, cold sand outside the palace steps. The night air blew over your exposed skin, you shivered, but not from the cold.

A flicker of movement caught your eye- your father. His gaze met yours across the courtyard, his lips parting as if to speak, to offer some explanation, some reassurance. But no words came. None were allowed.

Before you could reach for him, he was dragged up the steps, his towering form no match for the forceful hands of the Praetorians. Neither you nor Lucilla escaped justice, your shackles rattling as you were urged forward.

Your head throbbed from the night’s torment, your eyes raw from endless tears. You longed for answers, for assurance, for someone to tell you this was all a mistake. But the palace offered no such comfort.

Only the muffled shuffle of footsteps and the soft sniffles escaping your trembling lips disturbed the silence of the grand halls. The familiar path you walked sent a fresh wave of dread washing over you.

The throne room.

You had walked this path before, though never like this. Never with chains biting into your wrists, never with your very existence reduced to something so... insignificant. With every step, the weight of betrayal pressed deeper into your chest. A betrayal you did not commit. A crime you did not even understand.

And yet, here you were. Helpless. Small. Forgotten by those who once claimed to care. The golden doors loomed ahead, the flickering torchlight painting shadows against their towering frame. Beyond them lay judgment, mercy, or death. You could only hope the Emperors would believe you, but believe what exactly?

The towering golden doors groaned open, their weight echoing through the throne room. Cold hands shoved you forward, forcing you to step further onto the icy marble floor. Lucilla moved beside you, her chains rattling softly with each step as you both shuffled inside.

The room was eerily silent.

The Emperors had not yet arrived, and that only made the dread coil tighter in your stomach. Your own heartbeat pounded in your ears as your eyes flickered over the grand chamber- the towering columns, the burning braziers. The high ceiling that made you feel even smaller.

Then your gaze landed on him.

Macrinus.

A sickening wave of nausea clawed its way up your throat as you found him lounging on one of the lectus’, draped in smug satisfaction. His gaze met yours briefly before shifting away, as if you were beneath his notice. But it wasn’t just him. Next to him sat the man from that night. 

You tore your eyes away, fixing them to the ground, swallowing hard against the bile rising in your throat. And then- footsteps. Distant at first, but growing louder. Your breath hitched as dark forms moved between the marble pillars, shifting in and out of the flickering torchlight. You knew who it was before you could fully see them. Their presence was unmistakable.

The emperors.

When they finally stepped into view, a sharp gasp escaped Geta’s lips. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet their eyes. You stared at the cold floor beneath your bare feet, your heart hammering as silence stretched between you all.

Geta opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, his breath uneven. The silence was unbearable, you forced yourself to look up. Geta stood before you in a deep crimson robe embroidered with gold, his curls wild, his expression heartbroken. His eyes- red-rimmed, glassy- searched your face as though he could pull the truth from your form.

And then there was Caracalla.

His white toga mirrored your own, the contrast stark against the heavy shadows in his face. His chest rose and fell with uneven, heavy breaths, his eyes brimming with fury and betrayal.

“Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Thraex and Macrinus, your insurrection,” Geta’s voice cracked, “has been revealed. The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you, all of it you have forfeited by your treachery-”

“Your Majesty, please,” a voice interrupted.

Acacius.

Your father’s voice was strained, raw with desperation. “My daughter has nothing to do with this. She is innocent. She had no knowledge of tonight’s events- I am uncertain if she even knows now what has taken place.”

Your red-rimmed eyes locked with Geta’s teary ones, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You wanted to scream, to demand answers, to plead for your innocence. But before you could find the words, Geta spoke again.

“Macrinus told me something entirely different.” Geta’s voice hardened, his sorrow giving way to suspicion. He turned his gaze to Acacius, his fingers curling into fists. “He told me that you saw an opportunity to throw your daughter at us- to- to what? Distract us? So we wouldn’t find out about your little plot?” His voice twisted with disdain, the weight of betrayal thick in his tone.

The air in the room grew suffocating, the weight of their fury pressing down on you. This was not how you wanted to see them again.

“Caesar, I swear I had no knowledge of this plan,” you cried, your voice breaking with each word. “Nor do I even know the full extent of it now. Truly- I don’t even know why we are here.” Your voice was desperate, trembling with the fear that if they did not believe you now, there would be no hope left.

Caracalla stepped forward, his face burning with rage, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Why should we believe you?” he shouted, his voice shaking. “You are the daughter of a traitor!” His words burned through you, the hurt in his eyes far more painful than his accusations.

“No- no, please!” You stumbled forward, your chains clinking together as you dropped to your knees. “I will do anything! I’ll do anything to prove to you that I am loyal! I would never betray you- or the Empire!” Your sobs shook your frame, your voice barely above a whisper by the end.

Geta stared at you, something in his expression shifting. Doubt flickered in his eyes. He wanted to believe you. He needed to believe you. But justice conflicted with love. His gaze snapped to Macrinus, his jaw tightening.

“You were the one to bring this news to me,” Geta said, his voice unsteady. “What do you say, Macrinus?”

Macrinus barely glanced at you before stepping forward, leaning into Geta’s ear. His lips moved in a slow murmur, his voice just soft enough to remain unheard. Even Caracalla strained to listen, his fists clenching at his sides.

When Macrinus stepped back, Geta hesitated for only a heartbeat before straightening. His expression was unreadable.

Then-

“Take the General and Lady Lucilla to the cells.”

The words fell like a blade. Lucilla tensed behind you. Acacius’ ragged breathing filled the room, his entire body coiled in resistance as the Praetorians closed in. The guards hesitated. For a brief moment, there was uncertainty in their movements.

But Geta’s command was law. Hands seized Acacius and Lucilla, dragging them away as their protests died against the cold walls. Still on your knees, you were at their mercy as tears escaped you once again. “Get out.” Caracalla snapped, his eyes focusing on Macrinus. The man simply bowed and was followed by Threax as he left the dark room.

Your knees ache against the hard marble, the cold seeping into your skin. Your body trembled- not just from the chill that clung to your half bare skin, but from the uncertainty that clawed at your chest.

Then came warmth. A touch, too sudden, too intimate. You flinched as Geta’s fingers brushed against your arm, his hand reaching for you with something that felt like desperation. You jerked away instinctively, your breath catching in your throat.

“Stand.”

His voice was quiet, almost gentle. But there was no room for defiance.

Your legs felt stiff as you pushed yourself up, your bare feet settling against the polished marble once more. You tried to ground yourself on the ground beneath you, but it did nothing to still the quiver in your limbs.

A shift in the room- Caracalla’s gaze.

You could feel his eyes roaming over you, the tension in his stance tightening as he took in your disheveled state. His expression darkened when he noticed your lack of sandals, your vulnerable, exposed form before them.

“Swear to me,” Geta’s voice came suddenly. His hand found the back of your neck, his fingers curling there- not forceful, but firm enough to make you feel the weight of what he was asking. He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your temple.

“Swear to me that you didn’t betray us. Swear it.” Geta commanded. Tears clung to your lashes as you looked up at him, the fear in his eyes mirroring your own. Your lips trembled as you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “I swear it, Caesar, I do.”

For a moment, nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Then Caracalla exhaled sharply, stepping away from the heavy silence that wrapped around you all. His movements were restless, his frustration bleeding into the way he paced the chamber. His fingers flexed at his sides, his teeth clenched as if trying to hold back the fury simmering beneath his skin.

“You know we cannot let you go,” Caracalla murmured, his voice low, “And we can’t let your father go.” Geta straightened, his grip on you loosening, but the weight of his presence did not. “His fate will be decided in the Colosseum.” Geta then added. Was that what Macrinus had whispered to him?

Your breath caught. You had known—somewhere, deep down, you had known. But hearing it spoken aloud made you feel like you were suffocating. “And you…” Geta continued, his voice tired. “You will remain in a chamber close to ours so we can- keep an eye on you.”

There was something unspoken in those words, something that lingered between them like an unfinished sentence. Your throat felt tight, but you nodded, your body surrendering to exhaustion. You would have to prove your loyalty.

And you had no idea how.

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