#even here ten is taking something from her . and framing it as her giving it up of her own accord

[magnagaruzenmon]

Red Nose

A Christmas gift for @leafostuff

Despite me hoping onto the Chaehyun train late I think you solidified a lot of my love for this particular idol and while our realms and ideas don’t intersect. I wish you well.

I bumped into Chaehyun while she was wandering through the throng of guests, her eyes scanning every face anxiously. It was a little odd to see her here, knowing how hard it had been for both of you since the fallout. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere else, which only made me feel worse for her.

“Oh, Tiger, what’s wrong?” I asked, suppressing the urge to slip away to the guesthouse for a little longer. I wasn’t exactly eager to get involved, but her expression tugged at something in me.

She startled slightly at my voice, then relaxed when she saw me. “Oh, Rexy, it’s nice to see you.” Her tone was soft, like she was trying to mask something—whether it was nerves or sadness, I couldn’t tell. “Have you seen Mikey?”

I frowned. That was the last question I wanted to answer, especially from her. “No, I haven’t,” I admitted reluctantly. “But he was invited, so he’s got to be here somewhere, right?” I tried to sound reassuring, but even I wasn’t entirely convinced.

Chaehyun nodded, though it was clear my words hadn’t done much to ease her mind. “Could you… help me look for him?” she asked hesitantly.

Internally, I groaned. Babysitting an ex at a party was not on my evening’s agenda. But there was something in her voice, a vulnerability that made it impossible to say no. “Yeah, alright,” I said with a sigh, gesturing for her to lead the way.

We wove through the crowds, her small frame darting through gaps that I had to squeeze through. Chaehyun was quiet, her eyes darting around as if you might materialize out of thin air. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, she slowed, her shoulders slumping.

“You know what, Rexy? This was a mistake,” she said quietly. The weariness in her voice made my protective streak flare up.

“No, it’s not, Tiger,” I said firmly. “Let’s look a little longer.” And then, as if the universe finally decided to cut her some slack, I spotted him across the room. “Damn it—there he is.”

Chaehyun froze, her eyes following my gaze. When she saw him, her breath hitched. You were just leaving the bathroom, looking more polished than I’d expected—maybe you were hoping to run into her too. your eyes met, and everything around them seemed to blur, the noise of the party fading into silence.

I chuckled, stepping aside. “Go get ’em, Tiger,” I said, giving her a gentle push forward. She stumbled slightly but caught herself, throwing me a quick, grateful glance before she closed the distance between the two of you.

For a moment, I watched y'all, the air between you two charged with unspoken words. And then I turned away, heading toward the guesthouse. I figured I’d earned that quiet moment now.

Chaehyun looked at you nervously, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. There was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes as if she was summoning all her courage just to speak. Finally, she said softly, “You look nice.”

You nodded, your expression neutral. “You do as well.”

There was a beat of silence that stretched between you, thick with unspoken tension. She shifted on her feet, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Then, taking a deep breath, she asked the question she dreaded but had to hear the answer to.

“Why did you storm off like that?”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise at her boldness. For a moment, you hesitated, weighing your words, but frustration from that day bubbled to the surface. “Hunny, you were cheating on me with Dinozen,” you said bluntly, your voice edged with a hurt you thought you’d buried.

Chaehyun blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Cheating?” she repeated, almost incredulously. Then something clicked, and her face softened as the memory came rushing back. “No, not cheating. He was helping me get you a Christmas gift.”

You raised an eyebrow, skepticism clear in your expression. “Really? Prove it,” you demanded, crossing your arms.

She smiled faintly, reaching into her pocket to pull out her phone. “Here,” she said, holding it out to you. “Go through the texts. They’re all there.”

You took the phone warily, scrolling through the messages. What you found wasn’t what you expected. Line after line of texts between Chaehyun and Dinozen, discussing nothing but Pokémon strategies, trades, and gift ideas.

“Why do the two of you talk so much about Pokémon?” you asked, bewildered.

Chaehyun’s lips quirked into a sheepish smile. “I wanted to surprise you for Christmas by learning one of your favorite games,” she explained. “In all its forms—cards, games, whatever. Dino was helping me get a quick grasp so I didn’t look like an idiot. Also, can I just say that Pokémon is way more expensive than I thought it would be?” She sighed dramatically as if the memory of the prices alone was enough to drain her energy.

For a moment, you just stared at her, the tension in your chest loosening with every word. Then, unexpectedly, you burst out laughing—a warm, genuine laugh that made Chaehyun’s worried expression melt into relief.

“You’re serious?” you said, still chuckling. “You went through all of this just to surprise me?”

She nodded, her cheeks pink. “I wanted to make you happy. Dino was just helping me figure it all out.”

You shook your head, the last remnants of doubt fading away. “I can’t believe I let myself think the worst,” you admitted, the weight of the misunderstanding lifting from your shoulders.

Chaehyun reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing against your hand. “I should’ve explained sooner,” she said softly. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

You gave her a small smile, turning your hand to gently take hers. “And I should’ve trusted you,” you replied.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the two of you laughed together, the cracks in your relationship beginning to mend.

Chaehyun smiles as your hand finds her. "Can we go back home?" she asks softly. You notice her cherry nose and say,

"Sure Rudolph" the two of you head to your car that's covered in snow. Chaehyun ever determined hops into the driver seat and expertly navigates your way back home. When the two of you arrive. Chaehyun pounces on you excited beyond belief. You are a bit taken aback as she fervently kisses you up and down as the two of you enter your home.

"I need you," Chaehyun groans as she pushes you to the floor "NOW!" she growls as she lifts your shirt off and dives into your pants.

"Wow, the tiger really came out to play," you say before you watch Chaehyun tear into your pants.

"I HAVE NEEDED YOU FOR TWO WEEKS!!" she growls before freeing her sizable breasts from her bra and forcing you to grab onto them. As always she is delicately soft and pliant under your touch as you knead her mounds. She moans as she sinks into your cock. She groans as she begins to ride you. You moan as her walls clench you tight.

"Fuck! Did you get bigger?" she asks in the throes of pleasure, you chuckle then say,

"I think you got tighter," Chaehyun was about to scold you before you thrust into her causing you to hit her g-spot. She cums on the spot squirting all over you. When she recovers. she calms down and happily gets up. Her legs are a little wobbly but you steady her.

"let's continue this in the bedroom," she says

You smile and say, "Lead the way"

[theladyfae]

42 / lost brilliance, rita dove

[alisonwritesimagines]

Picture Perfect ~Batmom Imagine~

Summary: Damien wants to take the perfect photo for you.

Author’s Note: Posting this from my drafts because it is time for it to come out of hiding.

BatFam Masterlist

Reader’s Pronouns: She/Her

Warnings: none, fluff

Do not repost this anywhere!

"Dick, sweetie. Please go tell Damian that he's going to be late for school. He's been upstairs for a while," you tell your oldest son as you tried to feed Martha.

"On it!"

Dick found Damian standing in front of the bathroom mirror, combing his hair to his idea of perfection.

"Damian. Mom said you're going to run late for school," Dick tells him.

“I wanna look good for picture day for Ummi,” Damien tells Dick.

“You know mom will love your pictures no matter what.”

“I know that but I want this to be extra special. After she had Martha, she’s been busy,” Damien explains.

“You know mom loves us no matter what. Sure she may be busy with Martha but that’s because Martha’s a newborn. She needs the attention at the moment. But you know mom will give you attention again soon.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Just make sure you’re in the car in ten minutes,” Dick told Damien.

“Of course.”

“You look so handsome, Damien!” You tell your son as he rushed down to the kitchen. “Cassandra, honey. Your ballet is divine but please be careful.”

“Sorry mom.”

“Have a good day at school, Damien! I look forward to seeing your pictures when we get them!” You smile sweetly at him.

“It’ll be the best you’ll have,” Damien tells you as he rushed out of the house with a bagel.

The moment Damien stepped into the school, he felt victorious. He succeeded in going into school without messing up his hair. That was until a student tripped and spilled their water bottle onto Damien.

——

His picture was anything but perfect. Damien handed you the framed photo before looking down in shame.

“Aw. I love it!” You chirped happily as you hugged Damien.

“You do?” Damien asked, looking up at you surprised.

“Trust me Damien. I have at least one awkward photo of all my children and you have added to my collection,” you say as you kissed his head.

“You really like it?” Damien asked you.

“If you want to do a redo picture, that’s fine with me. But I will be keeping this one no matter what,” you tell him.

“So when Martha has an awkward photo…”

“I’ll keep that one too. As long as I continue to have photos of my children, I’ll love them all.”

“I’ll do something even more special for you to make up for this!” Damien promised.

“And I look forward to it. But for now, let’s go ahead and hang this up,” you tell Damien as you put it with your other children’s pictures on your wall. You admired the photo before looking back at Damien.

“As long as I have pictures of you all, I don't mind how they look," you tell him.

---

“Come on. What’s taking so long?” Tim asked as he walked into Martha’s room.

“Martha doesn’t want to wear the bow!” Stephanie tells him.

“Come on Martha. Put on the pretty bow. Please,” Tim asked. Martha stared up at her older brother as she shook her head.

“What’s going on?” Damien asked as he walked into the room.

“Martha doesn’t want to put on the bow,” Tim said.

“Let me try. Come here Martha. Let’s put on the bow,” Damien said as he put the headband on his little sister. Martha smiled up at her older brother before reaching up for him to hold her.

“Why does she like you more?” Stephanie asked.

“Because I spend more time with her. Now let’s hurry. Mom and dad will be home soon and I want this photo to be perfect."

Your birthday was always celebrated lavishly. Bruce would fly in your closest family and friends for a dinner and anything else you wanted to do. So Damien thought this would be the perfect time to make up that horrible picture he took for picture day. As well for his siblings to also make up their own awkward school photos.

“Thank you Bruce for throwing me my birthday party. And thank you all for coming and celebrating with us,” you say out loud to everyone at your party.

“We would actually like to surprise our mom with a present gifted to her by her children,” Dick announced after you. You and Bruce looked at them as the kids brought in a wrapped gift.

“From us to you Ma. Happy birthday,” Jason said. You opened up the gift to see a framed photo of all the kids dressed in suits and dresses with a smile on their faces. You teared up as you stared at the photo.

“I love it!” You say.

“Now you can have all of us in one picture,” Damien said.

“I love it. Thank you sweetie,” you tell him as you kiss his head.

“We also took some individual photos to make up for our awkward school pictures,” Tim mentioned as he handed you another present.

“Thank you. I love it so much,” you say as you cried from happy tears.

Bonus:

“Come on you guys! Damien promised me we’d go to the arcade after this,” Martha said as she dragged two of her older siblings into the room.

“Sorry! Traffic was bad,” Tim said as he stood in between Jason and Damien.

“Remember how Martha didn’t want to put in her bow until Damien asked nicely?” Stephanie asked Tim.

“Those were the good ol days,” Tim sighed.

“Alrighty! Ready?” Cassandra asked.

“Perfect! Okay kids. Smile right over here,” the photographer said before taking the picture of the batkids.

It had been a tradition for the kids to take a picture all together every year for your birthday present. It was to show how each of them have grown over the years. No matter what was going on, each batkid had agreed to meet up one day a year with no excuses to take the photo for you.

"I think this is our best one yet," Damien said as he looked at the photos.

"Aright, see you all next year," Jason joked as he walked out.

"Come on! We gotta go!" Martha told Damien.

"Okay. Okay."

[notlongtolove]

in the woods

three photos. three crime scenes. three notes. slowly, then all at once, it hits you. you know these words. you’ve read these words before. why do you know these words? where have you read them before? this work is part of the little red cap series

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff?

content: very brief mentions of a crime scene and blood. lit student reader helps spencer put together a clue he missed.

word count: 2.6k

note: this idea was truly so random but if you like it and are interested to see a p2 that includes her meeting the team feel free to lmk! i would love to develop this story but im having mad writers block rn lol anyways the linked poem is amazing, one of my favourites.

a line: Spencer Reid hardly swears, if ever, but the next words out of his mouth are nothing short of explicit.

But then I was young – and it took ten years In the woods to tell that a mushroom Stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds Are the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolf Howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out- carol ann duffy

Spencer’s distracted tonight. You noticed it the moment he breezed past you, pressing a distracted kiss to your cheek before disappearing into the study. Normally, you’d give him space, let him untangle the thoughts on his own, but it’s past midnight now, and you’ve decided enough is enough.

“Spence,” you call softly from the doorway. 

He doesn’t look up.

​​You take a breath and step inside, the floorboards cool under your bare feet. The study feels foreign to you. You’re hardly ever in here despite Spencer’s gentle efforts to make space for you after you’d started spending more time at his place. He’d cleared half of the mahogany desk for your own books and files—a space now claimed by a few framed photos of the two of you from last year’s Christmas market.

You’ve always preferred his bed over the confines of this room, the comfort of his sheets beneath you, his bedside table the perfect coaster for your copious cups of coffee as you slog over your essays. The study always felt too still, almost stifling. It’s the kind of quiet that breeds overthinking, though Spencer thrives in it—Especially when it’s work.

Which it does seem to be tonight, judging by the furrow of his brow and the way his hands are clasped, tense, as he pours over the file in front of him. You cross the remaining space and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, thumb moving in soothing circles. 

“Hey,” you murmur, leaning down to speak into the curve of his neck. He reaches up absently, fingers threading into your hair, but his eyes stay fixed on the contents on the desk. 

“Come to bed,” you whisper, quieter this time, softer, as though you might coax him away if you’re gentle enough. 

He murmurs something you don’t quite catch, his focus still locked on the papers. You frown, the corners of your mouth tugging downward as you try again, this time layering your voice with the soft insistence you know he can’t resist.

“Please?”

That gets him. He sighs, the sound heavy, before slowly swivelling his chair around to face you. There’s a small flicker of satisfaction in your chest—still got it, you think, though his tired eyes make it hard to fully savour the victory.

“Soon, honey,” he says, soft and apologetic, but it’s not enough for you.

“Missed you today,” you murmur, stepping closer.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, reaching out to pull you into him. His arms wrap around your waist as he presses his face into your stomach, breathing you in like you’re the first fresh air he’s had all day. And with the day he’s had, you might as well be. 

“It’s almost 1,” you remind him gently, brushing a strand of his hair back. “And you haven’t even showered.”

He makes a sound—somewhere between a groan and a half-hearted protest. Probably indignation, though he doesn’t bother to articulate it. When he finally lifts his head to look at you, your chest tightens. He looks so so tired. Handsome, always, but tonight, the weariness in his eyes is impossible to miss.

“Aw, honey,” you coo, voice soft with affection. “C’mere.”

It’s ironic, considering you’re the one climbing into his lap. The chair protests under your combined weight with a faint creak, but neither of you care. Just your presence alone is a comfort that Spencer accepts all too willingly. He doesn’t hesitate, pulling you closer and burying his face into you, fingers toying with the edges of your—his shirt.

“Tough case?” you ask quietly, your fingers slipping into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

He nods defeatedly, the motion slow and heavy, like even that small acknowledgment takes too much out of him.

“He’s already—” Spencer sighs, low and weary. “Already killed three women. And the profile is… flimsy at best.”

You nod quietly, your fingers gently tracing patterns on his shoulder. Though crime-solving and criminal profiling aren’t your expertise, the weight of what he carries is never lost on you. You’ve come to know the signs all too well.

You see it in the way he comes home after cases like this—silent, drained, his body curling into yours. You hear it in his voice when his worry spills over during arguments, like the time he snapped at you for drinking too much on a night out after a brutal final. It wasn’t out of anger but fear, raw, born from the evils he sees every day. He’d never explicitly linked it to the horrors of his work, but you didn’t need to be a profiler to piece it together. 

“You’ll catch him,” you say softly, keeping your voice steady despite the knot tightening in your stomach. “You guys always do.”

Spencer sighs, releasing one hand from your waist to rub the bridge of his nose. “There’s something off,” he mutters, words tinged with frustration. “I just... I can’t figure out what it is.”

“Do you… want to talk about it?” you offer gently, watching his face for any sign of what he needs.

He manages a faint, tired smile and shakes his head. “I’d rather not,” he murmurs.

You nod, letting it go. Spencer tries, always, to keep that part of his life separate from you. But even you know some things are impossible to leave behind. Shadows don’t adhere to boundaries. They’re stubborn and heavy, sometimes seeping into the cracks of his resolve. All you can do is try your best to hold him together when that weight gets too much to bear. Leaning into him, you rest your head against his, the silence between you filled with a kind of unspoken understanding.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Spencer whispers after a moment, as though he can sense your quiet disappointment at not being able to do more. His arm tightens around your waist as though anchoring himself. You press a soft kiss to his temple, a quiet gesture of acknowledgement.

“Now,” you say, standing up. Spencer leans forward instinctively, unwilling to let the warmth of you go. “Shower?”

He glances between you and the desk strewn with papers, hesitation in his face. “After I—”

“Nope,” you interrupt, grabbing both his hands and gently pulling him to his feet. “I’ll handle this,” you say, gesturing to the chaos on the desk. “You,” you point toward him, then toward the bathroom, “Shower. Now.”

Spencer lets out a long-suffering sigh, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “Bossy,” he teases softly.

“Maybe,” you reply, a playful glint in your eyes. “But you love me.”

Without missing a beat, Spencer wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer as he presses a kiss to your lips. “Wow,” he murmurs against your mouth, his tone warm and teasing. “Bossy and smart. How did I get so lucky?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling, nudging him lightly toward the bathroom. “Go,” you say, laughing. “Before I add ‘violent’ to that list.” At that, Spencer tears his arms away from your waist, holding his hands up in mock surrender as he backs slowly toward the door. “Go!” you laugh again, shaking your head at him before turning your attention to the desk strewn with papers.

You turn your attention back to the desk surveying the organized chaos, trying to piece together how he usually files them. The thin sheets—pale and slightly crumpled—belong in the manila folder. The thicker briefs, stapled neatly, go in the black case. And the photos…

Huh. 

Your hand pauses mid-reach, brow furrowing as your eyes fall on the glossy prints. You tilt your head. Something about them feels—almost… familiar, maybe. You stop to lay them out side by side, studying them more closely. 

Three photos. Three crime scenes. Three notes. 

The first note reads, ‘I burn.’ The words are scrawled haphazardly, the letters jagged and uneven.

The second is darker, more ominous, ‘Your knife.’ Its edges marked by splatters of blood.

The third is the most unsettling of all. Just two words. ‘All alone.’ Stark and final. 

Slowly, then all at once, it hits you. 

You know these words. You’ve read these words before. 

Why do you know these words? Where have you read them before?

It gnaws at you. The exhaustion you felt earlier is long gone as you find yourself sinking into Spencer’s chair. Your fingers trace the edges of the prints as you try to piece together your fragments of memory. You don’t know how much time has passed since you first laid eyes on the photos until Spencer calls to you from the bedroom.

“In here,” you answer absently.

When he steps into the doorway, your heart flutters despite yourself. He’s a sight to behold—hair damp, shirt slightly clinging to his chest, a towel draped over his shoulders as he dries his hair.

“Hey,” he says, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Why’re you still in here?”

“Got distracted,” you murmur, gesturing to the desk.

“Intriguing, huh?”

“She definitely is,” you reply, almost without thinking.

“I don’t know when he’ll strike next—” he starts, then stops abruptly. His expression shifts, his gaze sharpening as he looks at you. 

“What’d you just say?”

“Hm?” You blink, finally meeting his eyes.

“You said ‘she’s’ intriguing,” he repeats, stepping closer now. “You think the unsub’s a she?”

“Isn’t she?” you say, frowning at the question. “I could definitely use a lot of other words to describe her, but…” your voice uncertain.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, the poems, for one—I mean, they’re all about hurt and enraged women,” you explain. “And signing off with them? That’s definitely not not intriguing…” You trail off, puzzled by the sudden gravity of the conversation. 

Spencer goes rigid, every muscle in his body locking up. “Poems?” 

“Yeah,” you say, your voice small now, “The notes. They’re all closing words of Duffy’s poems. I thought you—Did you not…” 

Your words trail off as you see his face harden, eyes widening as the weight of your words hits him. 

“Oh my god.” Your hands fly to your mouth as the realization hits you, the pieces suddenly falling into place. “You didn’t know.”

Spencer Reid hardly swears, if ever, but the next words out of his mouth are nothing short of explicit. He’s already moving towards the desk, the towel falling unnoticed to the floor. “Show me,” he says, urgency in his voice. You get up quickly, wanting to make room, but he stops you. “No, you sit,” he says, eyes locked on the notes. “Show me.”

“Okay, okay.” You steady yourself before pointing to the first note. “Um, look, this one, ‘I burn.’ It’s from her poem Warming Her Pearls. She’s a maid who secretly pines for her mistress. She loves her but, well, she can’t be with her cause they’re from different societies.” You look up at him expectantly. “It’s about class inequality and…”

“Unrequited love.” Spencer finishes gravely, his voice low but certain.

“Right, exactly.” You glance up at him, searching his face for understanding. Spencer nods, taking it in, and you move on to the next. 

“And then this one, ‘Your knife.’ It’s from Valentine. The speaker, she doesn’t want the usual valentine gifts, so she gives an onion instead. But… she says it’ll make the receiver cry, because well, onions do that. It’s a basically a metaphor for love, how—” You take a deep breath, your throat tightening. “How dangerous it can become.”

Spencer stays quiet, but his eyes are fixed on you. His hand finds your back, giving a reassuring, gentle rub.

You hesitate before pointing to the last note. “And this one, ‘All alone.’” You swivel the chair around to face him fully, the tension in your chest growing. “I wasn’t sure about the first two, but when I saw this, I knew.”

“Little Red Cap,” Spencer finishes for you, his voice tinged with self-reproach. “Your favourite. God, why didn’t I see this?”

You nod, your voice softening. “Yeah. The opening poem of The World’s Wife. She uses Red Riding Hood to explore growing up, losing innocence and… well, you know the rest.”

Spencer’s lips press into a thin line as he nods grimly. “The wolf represents someone older, predatory. A lover.”

“Yeah, and she uh,” you say, barely a whisper. “She kills him.”

Spencer’s jaw tightens, his frustration evident. “How did I not—How’d you—” If the situation weren’t so dire, you might have joked about never expecting to hear those words from Spencer Reid. Instead, you force a shrug, casual, as if your analysis hadn’t just reshaped everything. “TA-ed a few classes on Duffy,” you say grimly.

The silence stretches, heavy and charged, until Spencer crouches down in front of you. His sharp eyes soften as they meet yours. “You’re… you’re incredible, you know that?” His tone is low, reverent. He presses a brief, warm kiss to your forehead before standing, running a hand through his still-damp hair. Then his expression shifts, eyes darkening with urgency. “I need to make a call.” 

You nod silently, still curled up in his chair. You don’t trust your legs to carry you to the bed that’s one room over, not right now. Spencer steps away, his phone already pressed to his ear. It takes only a few moments before he starts speaking.

“Hotch,” he begins, “I think the unsub is a woman.”

The reply on the other end is muffled, but you can follow the conversation through Spencer’s responses.

“Poems, yeah—Carol Ann Duffy,” he says, pacing a few steps. “We’ve been looking for patterns in the wrong places.”

He pauses, listening, before adding, “How’d I—? Just… from a friend.”

His tone is careful, protective. You know Spencer doesn’t want his team knowing about you. When Spencer told you he wanted to keep his professional and personal lives separate, you didn’t understand at first. But after he’d opened up about what happened to his boss—how it shattered everyone—you stopped pushing. You understood then why he was so insistent on drawing those boundaries, even if it meant staying in the shadows of his world. 

You watch him, eyes tracing the way his jaw clenches, the restless motion of his fingers. “This is the lead we need. What—No, we don’t need to bring them in.” ​​You can see the moment his patience snaps.

“What we need is to focus on her work—her themes, her voice. It’ll give us insight into the unsub’s mindset. No, I—” Spencer’s tone sharpens, frustration creeping in as he rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. 

“I know this is important, I’m not saying it isn’t—” He stops mid-sentence, the voice on the other end cutting him off. His lips press into a thin line, and he exhales through his nose, fingers pinching the bridge. “Fine,” he mutters, his tone tense but resigned. 

“Okay.” He pauses for a beat, “We’ll—she’ll be there.”

As he hangs up, Spencer turns back to you, his expression carefully guarded. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks, tentative.

You have two lectures. “Nothing,” you say, the word slipping out easily. He frowns, uncertain. 

“Kristoff’s out sick, and Burton doesn’t care about attendance anyway,” you quickly lie. The tension in his face eases just slightly, but you can still see the hesitation in his eyes.

“Right, um, my boss,” You can sense a hint of nervous energy in the way he shifts his weight. “He wants us in at 8, sharp. I’ll drive.”

The apology is clear in his expression as he crouches down, taking your hands in his. “I know this isn’t exactly what you signed up for,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But... I know he wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” 

A simple, quiet “I know” is all you can manage.

You can tell he feels bad about dragging you into this. You definitely hadn’t imagined this would be your introduction to his world either—messy, intense, and impossibly heavy. And from this brief glimpse, you’re not sure if you’re ready for it after all.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[for-a-longlongtime]

Guilty Pleasure (5/7) - dbf!Joel Miller x reader

One thing you weren't prepared for: the sight of Joel using the pool in the backyard. One thing *he* wasn't prepared for - you needing some help to put on SPF.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, mdni 🔞🔥 Series warnings (tba): Age gap (reader is 22, Joel is 43), masturbation (f), use of sex toys, oral sex, PiV, anal, hair pulling, dirty talk, getting caught, playful use of 'daddy', outrageous flirting, groping, reference to m/m, Joel's arms should always come with a warning. No outbreak!AU. Word count: 2.8K A/N: I'm excited to drop this chapter, because it was one of the first things I wrote for this series. Also - we have only two more chapters to go! @hellishjoel, I don't know if you accept multiple parts of a series for the #hotdilfsummerchallenge, but I'm submitting this one just in case - because dbf!Joel at the pool? WOULD.

< part 4 | series masterlist | main masterlist

Joel is fucking gorgeous in his swimming shorts.

Because of course he is. 

He can’t see you from up here, sitting in the bay window of your room that overlooks the backyard, but you’ve got ample opportunity to watch him. He’s been swimming laps in the pool for a while, and it was so pornographic that you actually considered filming him or snapping some photos. He’s tan all over, which doesn’t surprise you, with a soft belly but strong arms and thighs. Frankly, you could’ve watched him for hours, and maybe you would’ve if your mom hadn’t decided to walk out into the yard to ruin the moment.

At first Joel seems unaware of her, focused on swimming his laps, but when he gets back to the edge of the pool closest to the lounge chairs he notices her, and you hear their voices distantly. You watch as he gets out of the pool, brushing his wet hair back while he reaches for a towel with his other hand. You bite your lip hard as you track his every move, seeing how his wet swim shorts fit low - too low - on his hips, clinging onto his frame, clearly showing his large bulge.

“Fuck me,” you breathe without even realizing it, and damnit - if your mother hadn’t been down there, you would have your fingers between your legs so fast to get yourself off. You watch as he moves closer to her, tugging his shorts up a little in a feeble attempt to look a bit more modest. She says something to him that you can’t hear, but you do hear his laugh as he takes the drink she offers him, then sits down next to her on one of the lounge chairs, pointing at the notebook in her hands.

“Such a waste of the moment,” you mutter to yourself as you admire his back and broad shoulders, seeing a few stray drops clinging onto his curls before they drop on his sun kissed skin. For a moment you consider staying put so you can watch him some more once your mom leaves. But then you decide this little voyeuristic game will be a lot better when you’re at the pool too and can let your eyes wander from up close.

You know that he notices you stepping into the yard ten minutes later, but you pretend to not be aware of it and casually wander over some lounge chairs on the other side of the pool. You put your towel down over the chair, making sure to let your vape and book slip from your fingers, so you need to bend down and pick it up from the ground. He’s watching, that’s for sure, you realize as his conversation with your mom stalls for a second of two, three - and you can’t help but feel pleased as you place your book and vape on the little side table.

“Honey, come over and have a look. What do you think of this pergola?”, your mom calls over just when you’re about to settle in, and you try to not roll your eyes. She’s been talking about the garden party they’re throwing next week and her latest fixation seemed to be adding a pergola to the current setup in the large backyard. Typically her, to do that at the last moment. “Joel says Tommy is busy next week, but that he can build it on his own.”

Walking over to them at least gives you the opportunity to strut to Joel, wearing nothing but your swimsuit and a sheer sarong. You know it looks hot on you, the see through fabric swishing around your curves with every step you take. But you make sure to not pay any attention to him as you lean over to look at your mom’s notepad. Nevertheless you notice his eyes on you, which makes you feel giddy and almost distracts you from paying attention to what your mom is saying. Joel smells like sunscreen and a hint of sweat, no cologne, and it takes you serious effort to not reach out and touch his wet hair, play with the damp curls.

“Looks cool,” you say, not having a fucking clue about what exactly you should be looking at - this is probably the first time ever you’ve spend any time whatsoever thinking and talking about a pergola. “Pretty big though. You sure you can get that done in time though?”

“It’s not hard. Fair bit of work, but I can get it done within a day or two.” 

You can’t hide the smirk tugging at your lips as you watch him drink his ice water. “Welllll, if it’s not that hard…”

He gives you an amused look as he puts his drink down, and you wink at him in return before turning back to your mom. “It’ll be great, mom. Don’t stress about your party, everybody always loves them. Talk of the town, you know?”

She looks grateful for the reassurance as she nods, closing the notebook. “Yeah, I know, but this is a big one. There are a lot of eyes on your father these months, and if this goes well it’ll really help to build some contacts he’s been trying to make for a while.”

“Well, just as long as everything is about him, as usual…” You huff, unable to stop the irritation you feel creeping under your skin. “At least I don’t need to be there.”

“Actually…”

“Fuck no!” The words fly out of your mouth before you even give it a thought, and the frown on your mother’s face is almost just as instantaneous. “Mom, I don’t want to do these things. You know that.”

“It’s just a few hours of your time. I told you this before.”

“No, you didn’t.” Actually, you do vaguely remember her mentioning something like this, but you had expected to be able to get out of it. “Besides, I don’t have anything to wear, unless you want me to wear this.”

She rolls her eyes as she gets up. “This is not a negotiation. Use the AMEX you have to charge something to, unless you’d like my assistant-...”

“Yeah no, I don’t need her to pick an outfit for me,” you snap as you get up as well, pacing back to your own lounge chair. “Don’t worry, I’ll play The Perfect Daughter as I always do with this bullshit,” you scoff at her as you start scrolling through your phone for the Net-A-Porter app. Only once you hear that she has gone back into the house you look up again, your eyes immediately searching for Joel. He’s still in his seat, his head slightly cocked as he’s looking at you.

“You’re being a real brat again, you know.”

“Yeah?” You stare him down as you take another hit from your vape, feeling bold from the adrenaline rush of having him merely twenty foot away from you, wet and wearing just his swim shorts. “So spank me. Teach me a lesson.”

He laughs softly as he shakes his head. “Not my job, darling.”

“Are you sure about that, Daddy?” You bite your lip, pleased when he actually blushes, seemingly caught off guard by that. “It could be.”

You almost hold your breath when you see he’s half hard in his shorts as he gets up. Probably for the best, because else you may have whimpered at the sight. Shit. You need him in your mouth, now. Your mother is back in her home office by now, so if you don’t make too much noise…

“Can you put some sunscreen on my back?” You wave the bottle of SPF at him and see him hesitate, but you’re not giving up that easily. “Oh, come on. Don’t be such a fucking prude, Joel. You want me to burn in this hundred degree weather?”

He shifts from one foot to another, then sighs as he shrugs, coming over to you. “Alright. Give me that.”

“Thank you so much.” You move up in your lounge chair and sit with your back turned to him, hearing him sit down behind you as the cap of the bottle clicks. The moment his hands meet the back of your shoulders, you have to work hard to not let out a sigh - they’re so damn big, and the chill of the sunscreen is immediately alleviated by how warm his palms are.

You’re both quiet as his hands slide down your back, spreading the lotion with care. He’s thorough, and with every inch of skin that he touches you can feel yourself growing wetter, your nipples already hard and straining against the material of your top.

“Think I got it all.” His voice sounds a little hoarse as he finally takes his hands off you, and you immediately wish he was still touching you. So you don’t think - you just reach back and undo the ties of your bikini top, letting the flimsy material drop down. 

“Actually, do you mind?” You give him the most innocent, coy look you can muster up as you glance at him over your shoulder. You have to steel yourself, because his bare chest is so close to you since he’s still only wearing his wet swim trunks. “Nothing worse than getting burned under those strings because the spf didn’t protect everything.” 

He almost sighs, the slightest shake of his head this time as he holds your eyes - a little too diligently, really, seemingly doing everything to not look directly at your tits that are on full display with this angle. “Darling…”

“Please, Joel,” you whisper, letting your glance travel down to his mouth for a moment. His lips are parted, slightly chapped, and as you’re staring at them, he almost nervously wets them. You’ve imagined that mouth on you so many times already; kissing you, licking your neck, those plush lips pressed against your cunt as he explores you and makes you come on his tongue. Especially the latter has proven to be very effective when you’re masturbating.

He doesn’t say anything to your plea, just reaches for the bottle again, and moments after the squirting sound of the SPF bottle, his hand is on your back again. Retracing his steps to rub the lotion over the areas he missed earlier, ending with his fingers brushing the last bits of it over the back of your neck. While you’ve kept your eyes on him the entire time, despite the slightly awkward position of looking at him over your shoulder, his eyes were averted from your face - but now he’s done, he looks back up at you.

“You’re all good now,” he says, handing the bottle back to you, his voice sounding even hoarser than before. “I’m - headed inside, gonna get some lunch.”

You nod, but as he straightens up you reach out and grab his arm quickly to stop him. “Thank you, Daddy.” This time you drop the innocent act, your voice now hoarse to rival his, and you can see his eyes flit to your chest for a second before he shakes your hand off his arm. 

“Don’t say that.”

“What?”, you ask as you turn to him, now fully facing him and no longer covered by your bikini top, and he groans as he shakes his head and pointedly looks away, wiping his hands nervously on his swim shorts. “You don’t like Daddy? What do you like - Sir?” It’s clear he’s still half hard, so you push your nerves aside and reach out for his cock, wanting to feel him under your hand.

“DON’T.” This time he surprises you - his hand grabs your wrist before you can touch you, the grip strong and hard. His flustered expression from earlier is gone, and there’s just tension on his face now, his eyes dark but not in the way you were hoping for. 

“Don’t say another word.” Everything about his tone of voice and body language is a very clear warning, including the way he grits his teeth. And you know it’s fucked up, you really do, but it only makes you even more aroused. You want all of that intensity and his rough grip fully directed at you. But even through the haze of horniness you do realize that outside in the yard is not the way to go - and you’ve probably overwhelmed him. 

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you say quickly, trying to appease him, but the expression on his face makes it clear that he doesn’t believe you. So you dial it up a bit, making sure that your voice trembles. “Joel…? Please let me go. You’re hurting me,” you gasp at him, even though that’s far from the truth, but it seems a safe bet to make his anger go away. 

It works like a charm. The harshness immediately leaves his face and his voice as he lets go of you, now looking stricken as he takes a step back. His hands are carefully raised, indicating you’re safe - that he wouldn’t touch you like that again.

“Fuck. I’m - I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt ya,” he stammers, looking at your pouting face, then abruptly turns around and strides back to the house, going inside without uttering another word. 

You exhale deeply, suddenly shaking as you realize you’ve been holding your breath, and you quickly retie the strings of your bikini top, putting it back in place. Your mind is racing as you take a few hits of your vape, trying to process what just happened. 

Fuck, you have to approach this differently. If he didn’t dare to make a move, you just have to be more bold.

next: part 6 >

series masterlist | main masterlist

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[wileys-russo]

“i was sleeping” “yeah well now your not” leah williamson

4am wake up II l.williamson

"then there was a magician! babe you know i fucking love magicians." leah slurred as you hummed. "was he as good as the one at your birthday baby?" you questioned hearing a gasp.

"oh i forgot about him! fuck i told this guy he was the best and that was a lie!" leah groaned with a whine and you heard a bump and a mumbled apology.

"tripped over someones stupid table. who the fuck put that in the way!" leah huffed with a small hiccup on the other end of the line.

"how rude of them. hey lee? can you take a break from the rum and drink some water for me baby?" you smiled as your girlfriend let out a deep sigh.

"yeah i guess. but only for you baby girl cause you're the best and i love ya!" leah slurred, grunting as she sat down in a booth. "i love you too sweets. are you back with alex and jess again?" you questioned as leah hummed.

"can i speak with al please?" you asked as leah whined. "why! you're my girlfriend and you're not here. alex has her girlfriend with her she doesn't need mine!" leah scoffed making you chuckle, the blonde out at an event which you had to miss due to a clashing family commitment.

family just as important to leah as it was to you she'd completely understood and encouraged you go, even offering to skip the event herself but you'd never let that happen considering she was set to present.

though it was obvious you both had very different nights.

it was your grandma's 90th birthday so you'd had a couple glasses of wine and everything was nicely wrapped up by about ten in the evening, meanwhile it was now midnight and it seemed leah was just getting started at the after party.

much as she'd begged you to come and join her you were far too comfy wrapped up in bed to bother, so leah had settled for a phone call to 'wish you goodnight' which nearly a half an hour later she was still yet to actually say goodnight.

"oh shut up and give her here leah you idiot!" you heard the blondes best friend scoff and there seemed to be a tussle of sorts before the line cleared. "hi sexy. we miss you!" you heard alex greet, your girlfriend gasping in offence and sternly ordering her to never call you that ever again.

"hi scotty. can you get her a water please? if she doesn't have a couple inbetween drinks she'll wake up tomorrow an absolute nightmare to deal with." you chuckled, your girlfriends hangovers something else let alone when she was dehydrated on top of it.

"on it babe. jess isn't drinking so she'll drive her home, wouldn't dare put her in a taxi at this rate." alex chuckled as you heard leah start to sing along to something in the background. "bub we're gonna go dance. i love you!" leah snatched the phone back and blew you a kiss before the line cut off and you sighed in amusement.

you were sure alex would have fun dealing with that.

~

"babyy girll!" your eyes fluttered open at the sudden sound, wincing at the sharp pain which shot through your neck at the awkward position you'd fallen asleep in, phone tucked beside your head where you'd been watching tiktoks before you had.

you heard a loud thud and suddenly the room lit up as you nearly hissed, shielding your eyes as leah flicked the lights on and fell through the door frame stumbling forward and catching herself on the edge of the bed.

"leah?" you rasped out unsure if you were still dreaming or not as the blondes head popped up at the end of the bed where she'd fallen down to the floor.

"thats my name!" she slurred and pulled herself up onto the mattress with a grunt as you rubbed your eyes tiredly and pulled yourself into a sitting position. "you didn't wait up for me." your girlfriend frowned somewhat adorably.

"i was sleeping." you smiled with a shake of your head. "yeah? well now you're not!" the blonde slurred with a grin crawling toward you.

"oh jesus." you mumbled at the state of your drunken lover, unable to hold back the amused smile at her scruffy state.

"my names leah but you can call me jesus if ya want babe. but i know you prefer oh god! oh god! oh god!" your eyes widened and you lurched forward to cover her mouth now much more awake as your girlfriend started to mock your moans.

"oh i missed you." you were all but tackled back down to the bed by the taller girl, grimacing at the strong smell of alcohol on her breath as she tried to kiss you but missed as her lips instead kissed the pillow beside you.

"i missed you too lee. but time for bed i think!" you smiled, tapping your phone which glared back 3:56am. "i have a favour first." leah smiled charmingly as best as she could, pushing herself up and off of you allowing you to sit up again.

"mmm?" you hummed with a raised eyebrow, slipping out of bed and making your way round to help her get her shoes off where she was struggling with them. "make me some food? please bubba?" the blonde pouted, the term of endearment one that only left her lips when she was absolutely smashed.

"lee, darling its nearly four in the morning. sleep now and i'll make you the best breakfast in bed ever later!" you promised, pushing her hands away and helping her wiggle out of her suit pants next causing her to let out a sigh of relief.

"do you come on the menu?" the defender smirked, eyes starting to droop as you shook your head. "so i see we've had some tequila shots then yeah?" you laughed, the particular alcohol forever making the girl ridiculously horny much to her ongoing frustration that you refused to engage in anything when she was drunk.

"maybe a few. but i had some water! just for you." she pointed to you and attempted a wink which just wound up being an over dramatic blink. "did you now? how responsible you are." you teased, moving away to grab her some comfier clothes to sleep in.

"i am the responsible one in the relationship duh. i'm older and wiser!" leah sighed as you grabbed her hands and tugged her to sit up, struggling to unbutton her shirt as she smacked your hands away.

"i can do it! strip for you any day sexy." she wiggled her eyebrows and flopped back into bed, and sure enough though it took her a few minutes she managed to get the shirt off as you helped her up and into a large baggy t-shirt.

"do you want me to take your makeup off baby?" you asked softly, chuckling as her energy levels seemed to be dropping and she nodded wordlessly and laid back down as you darted into the bathroom.

"you're so pretty. my pretty girl!" leah sighed out, hands resting on your legs as you hovered over her gently wiping away her makeup with the micellar wipes. "you're very pretty too, even a drunken mess." you quickly pecked her lips as you finished and moved off of her.

ignoring the whines for you to come back you hurried into the kitchen grabbing some advil and a bottle of water for the blonde in the morning, checking the door was locked and chuckling at the wake of destruction she'd left in her path toward the bedroom.

"that's a tomorrow problem." you mumbled with a smile at the multitude of knocked over and dropped items all over the ground, only picking up your girlfriends suit jacket and draping it over a chair.

"baby!" leah yelled out with a whine as you quickly returned. "i'm right here." you promised, helping her get into bed properly and gently swatting away her hands which grabbed and poked at you demanding you give her attention.

flicking the lights back off you blinked a few times to adjust, not that you needed to with how your girlfriend was kicking off, easily able to follow her voice back to bed.

"where the fuck-oh hi bubba!" she grinned in the darkness finally feeling the bed dip as you moved in beside her, latching onto you. "cuddles please, love you." leah slurred quietly, patting your thigh affectionately as you shuffled down the bed, her head moving to rest right above your heart with a tired sigh.

"goodnight leah." you chuckled, tangling your hands in her hair and messing about with it like you knew she loved. you heard her mumble something back but had no idea what it was as you smiled pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head.

the only woman you'd let wake you up at four in the morning for a cuddle.

[sunlightmurdock]

Ashes, Ashes | One | Bradley Bradshaw

masterlist | prologue | next chapter

Synopsis: In which Maverick didn’t make it home after the Uranium mission. He’s missing, presumed dead. There are things that have to be done — someone has to take care of the house, the bills.

So, Maverick’s daughter is back in Fightertown for the first time since she was in elementary school. There’s a gaping hole in both of their lives now, and somehow, the world’s supposed to just keep on turning without him.

Warnings: bradley bradshaw x minimally descriptive oc avery mitchell, age gap (23/33), smut, angst, hurt / comfort, mentions of character death, mourning, military inaccuracies. This entire fic and my blog is an 18+ space, minors do not interact. Do not repost.

…

Crossing the threshold into Maverick’s home doesn’t come naturally to either one of them. This place is something that they had both left behind. Outgrown. It’s solely his. It’s not their home and it has never been, until now. Now, Avery, at least, is stuck here until things are figured out.

On that fourteen hour drive down to San Diego, she’d had a lot of time to think. How long is a person supposed to wait for a body to turn up before they go ahead and throw the funeral without it?

Three paces into the hallway, brown wood floors and white walls, she is met with a smiling family picture. Only, she’s not in it. 

Because, it’s not a picture of Pete’s family. Pete doesn’t have a family. Pete Mitchell has a daughter from a one night stand with a married woman.

This picture is of a real family. Hung on the wall opposite the front door is a picture of Nick and Carole Bradshaw holding their infant son. He’s bald and gummy. They’re grinning and showing him off like a prize trophy — so proud of him even though all he did in those days was drool and pee himself. 

These days, their infant son is up to more important things. Their infant son grew to an upsettingly grand height and is carrying two of her bags in one hand behind her today.

“C’mon, Mitchell — these are heavy.” Bradley huffs softly from behind her, reminding her that she’s standing stationary and blocking his path. 

The nickname stings. Avery’s last name isn’t Mitchell because her biological father had wanted it to be. It’s Mitchell solely because her mother’s husband knew she wasn’t his and would rather die before letting her take his name.

She shrugs her duffel bag closer to her body and turns left. Bradley huffs under the weight of her luggage, watching her walk her cute butt in completely the wrong direction. “Wait, where are you going?”

Not struggling at all under the weight of her single duffel bag, she turns slowly to face him and frowns slightly. “My room.” 

Avery doesn’t remember Bradley. Not in her own memories, anyway. She knows he was around, she’s seen him in pictures but the image in her head doesn’t match. Not quite right. Like puzzle pieces bent and forced together.

He’s taller than he looked at his high school graduation, which sits pictured and framed above Mav’s mantle. Older, but that’s to be expected. Up close, he looks more like his mother than his father. A slight bump in his nose and scars, nicely healed, but jagged and raised nonetheless dusted his cheek and his throat. 

Even with all those differences, there’s a very slight familiarity to him that makes this all feel a little bit less suffocating.

Bradley’s brows draw together. He gives a small nod in the direction of the spare room. “That’s… I usually stayed in that room.”

“Oh.” Avery realises with a hum. With Bradley being ten years your senior, the room was his long before it was hers. With him growing up so close by, it was probably his much more frequently than it was hers, too. It’s not like she had ever kept anything here anyway. It’s just a guest room that she would occupy every now and again.

There’s a brief quiet between the two of them. 

“I just figured you could take the big room. ‘Til you get settled. I’ll go home once your car is fixed, if that’s what you want.” Bradley adds on. That sad little look on her face, right in front of him, is killing him. 

The big room. The loft room upstairs. Avery thinks about it and finds herself pretty sure that she’s never even been upstairs in this house.

“You’re staying too?” 

Oh. Yeah. He hadn’t addressed that point yet. Truthfully, he hadn’t even been planning to stay. He hasn’t even packed an overnight bag. But, from the second that she had stepped out of the car and looked up at the house with that look on her face, he hadn’t even considered leaving her here alone.

“Just ‘til we get your car fixed,” He offers with a small shrug. “I’ll be here to run you around until then.”

Like he’s doing this for her sake. Natasha has her own life to get back to and Bradley can’t stand the thought of going back to his apartment alone. 

“Okay,” Avery agrees, turning to peer down the hall towards the spare room. It’s nothing special — it really never felt like hers, anyway. “Alright, I’ll take Pete’s room.”

Pete. She calls Maverick ‘Pete’ now. 

Bradley just nods, shifting the weight of her bags and nodding for her to head for the stairs. All the floors in this house are tan oak. The entryway is now herringbone. With the help of a friend, Pete had done the entire thing himself. 

Of course, as they walk silently across it, neither one of them would know that. Neither one of them was speaking to him last May, which was why he had needed a project in the first place.

Natasha’s outside on the phone. Bradley’s footsteps thud on the wood of the stairs behind her, following her up. She stops at the top, leaving just enough room for Bradley to stand there behind her.

The door to Maverick’s room is open. His bed is made. There’s a book thrown on top of it, the spine cracked and used, the pages yellow from years out in the sun.

“No way is he still trying to fucking finish War and Peace.” Bradley steps around her and heads straight for the book. Pete started this book before Bradley finished elementary school. Bradley twists and looks back at her. “He always gets bored and stops reading, then forgets his page and starts again.”

Another slow nod. One foot in front of the other, her shoes along the tan oak floors. Her fingers trail the white walls. Maverick wouldn’t have minded. This place was always messy before. It’s not now. 

This house is vacant and quiet, but it’s far from empty. It’s filled to the brim, practically pulling apart at the seams with everything that Maverick was and planned to be. He was finishing War and Peace — he made it to chapter 253 this time; further than he had ever made it before. 

Suddenly, Avery’s throat is thick with the knowledge that all she knew Maverick to be, is now all that he’ll ever be. An absent father, a fantastic pilot, a lousy cook. A thousand more things that she’ll never know.

Four days of knowing, a fourteen hour drive down here, and it’s a book that stings like a cold slap to the face, reminding her of why exactly it is that she’s here.

Fire burns behind her eyes, blistering and stinging as Bradley sets her bags on the floor with a soft thud.

He turns with his attention completely on the book, his fingers extending towards the peeling cover of the paperback. His fingers curl around its weathered pages and he lifts it tenderly, examining the front at first.

It’s too early to start this process bawling her eyes out, and Avery refuses to let Russian Literature be your downfall, again.

That thick feeling sits in her throat like a stack of weights as she sits down on the end of Maverick’s bed. The mattress is soft, taking her weight without a squeak of complaint. Maybe he finally listened to her and got a bed that wasn’t so harsh on his back.

It’s been almost two years since she had even set foot in this house last. If she had known that Maverick was going to be gone this soon… she sits and thinks to herself about if she would have maybe visited more. Probably not.

���I’ll change the sheets and stuff, then I’ll get out of your hair for a bit.”

Lifting her head, she blinks at him. He has already started to pull back the comforter and strip the bottom sheet from the bed, awkwardly forcing her onto her feet again. 

Mobile once more, Avery turns slowly to take in her surroundings. This is Maverick’s room. It’s his house, she was prepared for that much — but this is his room. The last thing she wants is to be alone in it all night.

“Oh. Sure,” She nods, setting into motion to help take the sheets off.

He’s so methodical about it, like none of this phases him at all. But then, she hasn’t seen how he has been for the past few days.

“I was thinking of just ordering food tonight, since I’m kinda tired — and Pete never had groceries. Would you want… to maybe join?”

“Sure.” Bradley nods, tugging the pillows out of the cases. He glances up to her with a strictly polite, neutral smile. Quiet settles between the two of them until the bed is just a bare mattress and uncovered pillows. 

Then, there’s a moment of total stillness between the two of them. Her gaze flickers up, meeting his, and the realization settles between the two of them.

Maverick’s favourite cologne was a French thing that some woman in the eighties had liked. Citrus in the shade of cypress wood. The scent fills the room like he’s standing between the two of them.

Bradley glances down at the white sheets in his hands. The snowy white peaks of those mountains, Maverick’s aircraft spiralling into them, engulfed in flames. In a sick way, Bradley hopes that he didn’t manage to eject. At least then, it would have been instant. Maverick wouldn’t have felt anything.

Avery watches his adam’s apple bob in his throat from the other side of the bed. The last you had heard, Mav and Bradley weren’t on speaking terms. She wonders if this is as weird for him as it is for you.

“I’ll put these in the washer. You can… unpack, or whatever.” He decides finally, already taking one step backwards, headed for the door. She stands there, blinking at him. Even with those steeped, broad shoulders, he makes it through the doorframe unscathed before he turns to check where he’s going.

He probably knows this house inside and out, just like he knew her dad. Once. 

When it comes to wracking her brain and trying to remember Bradley Bradshaw, Avery can’t ever come up with anything. Maybe a glimpse, here and there. A blue t-shirt with green stripes. His school backpack accidentally left in the backseat of Maverick’s convertible beside her shoddily installed car seat. 

Truthfully, her experience with Bradley Bradshaw is limited. He’s just as real to her as any of the other guys in the stories she grew up hearing about. Her very own Peter Pan is downstairs right now, trying to figure out Maverick’s ancient washing machine, just so that he doesn’t have to stand up here and stare across at her.

He can’t hide from her forever, though. Evening comes, and so does hunger. 

He stares down at the pizza between the two of them as he chews through a bite, brows drawn together slightly. He hates thin crust pizza — it’s the worst kind of pizza. But, when she had suggested it, he had agreed with a tight-lipped smile.

Natasha has gone home. It’s just the two of them, now. Sitting in this unchanged, all too familiar kitchen. Avery has barely unpacked. She set up a couple of things in Maverick’s bathroom, but it doesn’t feel right to be in the big room upstairs. That wasn’t ever her space to claim.

She chews absentmindedly at the bite she had taken. The TV in the living room is off. The record player is coated in a layer of thin dust already. It’s dead quiet. The kitchen light is dim above their heads.

There’s a chip in the corner of the table on Bradley’s side. It’s there because Bradley was running through this kitchen when he was four years old and had tripped and knocked his front tooth out right here. His thumb trails the tiny mark, wondering how his teeth had ever been that small.

Wondering why she isn’t angry with him, too.

Maverick had picked him up that day, turned him around and held Bradley while he cried, stemming the blood and quickly introducing the concept of the tooth fairy. He had done all that he could, and Bradley still found a way to resent him for what had happened to his own father.

Bradley hasn’t ever done a thing for Avery. Except maybe pay for this pizza. And here she is, calm as can be. 

The sauce base feels tangy and coppery, and the cheese makes him want to puke. He sets the slice down on his plate and wipes his hands on the paper towel beside him.

Finally, he lifts his head and looks at her. Her hair is up differently now, tucked out of your way after an afternoon of manual labour upstairs, tidier than it had been earlier. She’s wearing a stretched out old t-shirt. Bradley assumes she got it from a boyfriend.

Really, he doesn’t think she looks that much like her old man. He would really have to search for the resemblance. But, briefly, when she offers him a polite smile across the table, he knows that you’re Mav’s kid.

“I’m sorry.” Bradley blurts out. They both look across at each other, equally surprised that he has spoken.

“…For what?” Avery asks quietly, lips tugging into a small frown.

“I’m sorry that I’m here and he’s not.” He’s just got to say it. He knows she probably wouldn’t bring it up on your own, but there’s a big elephant in this room. Bradley knows what it’s like to sit in her spot, and not know how to talk about it.

It’s his fault that Maverick didn’t make it home.

She stops chewing. That last bite sits in her mouth, doughy and dry all of a sudden. She stares across at him, awkwardly making herself swallow down the last of her bite of pizza and picking up the paper towel to wipe at her mouth.

“We weren’t that close.” She tells him, like that’s supposed to make him feel better. It doesn’t. It’s like a blow to the chest. She’ll never get the opportunity to fix things, because of him.

But, he knows what it’s like to be told how to grieve. He just dips his head and nods awkwardly. “Right.” 

“I got a call from an admiral the other day,” She picks up the slice of pizza and pick at its toppings. There’s no one here now to tell her not to play with your food. Mav never really cared anyway. Bradley watches her, unhungry. “Invited me down to Miramar. He said he was a friend of Mav’s and that he could talk me through… this whole thing. How it works.”

Bradley rubs a hand over the neatly trimmed hair above his lip. It feels like he has swallowed a golf ball, sitting here like it’s normal to be discussing the measures.

He knows how it works. It won’t be as simple as it was with his own father. At least Maverick had afforded him something to bury. For her, there’s nothing.

“I’ll have to be there around eleven.” 

“Sure,” Bradley nods, scratching at the back of his neck. His legs tingle with stiffness. Clearing his throat, he shifts in the little wooden chair and stretches, knocking his foot into hers under the table. “Oh. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her teeth press into the inside of your cheek. Maverick hadn’t ever described Bradley as this nervous.

“It’s fine.” She hums, pushing back in her chair and standing up from the table. “Well, I’ve been up since like… four, so I might just hit the hay.”

“Sure.” Bradley breathes out, hands braced on his thighs, eyes focussed on that tiny chip in the corner of the table. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

The downstairs bedroom seemed bigger when he was a kid. The twin-sized bunks on the carrier feel bigger than the wooden-framed bed that Maverick put in here. Bradley’s shoulder is practically hanging off the side, and the old frame creaks with each movement he makes.

It’s not like he would be sleeping much anyway. When he closes his eyes, the only thing he can see is the fireball Maverick’s plane had turned into as it fell.

Bradley’s hunched over the coffee pot by the time that Avery wakes up. He hears her coming down the stairs and straightens up like he wasn’t three seconds from throwing the stupid thing at the wall, clearing his throat and turning around.

It occurs to him that he should have put a shirt on. This isn’t his place. It’s hers, now, he guesses — either way, he hadn’t considered making her uncomfortable. He folds his arms over his naked torso as she strolls into the kitchen, hair mussed and rubbing at her eyes.

She’s wearing big socks and the same big t-shirt she had worn to eat the pizza last night. He can’t tell if she’s wearing shorts or not.

“Morning,” He offers up, making her lift her gaze from busily tapping at her phone. Her gaze lands squarely on his navel — more so, how low his shorts sit on his hips and the way a soft trail of brown hair ventures from there to his bellybutton. 

Blinking, she finds his face.

“Coffee machine’s broken, we can stop somewhere on the way to base if you like.” He leans down a little bit, like an awkward teenager shrinking away from a family picture. She locks her gaze on his, trying not to glance back down at his muscles. 

“Oh. That’s not broken — if you hit it hard enough, it’ll work.” She heads right for him, fuzzy socks padding across the floor so softly that it really does startle him when she grabs the copy of War and Peace that now sits on the kitchen counter, and slam the book right into the side of the coffee machine.

He whips around as the machine whirs to life. Avery the book back down gently, and look up at him. He sets his jaw, brows knitted together, searching her face.

Maverick never taught Bradley anything like that. In fact — Bradley always, always was taught the opposite. You never take the easy way out; if something’s worth fixing, then you fix it right.

Then you, you on the other hand, beat the thing with the heaviest book you can find? He just doesn’t get it.

“Well. Thanks.” He guesses, turning his bemused expression back to the brewing coffee. 

He hadn’t been expecting you to do that. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, given the way he’s still glaring at the machine. That coffee pot is older than you are, and Mav never taught him that trick?

“So this guy, the one who called me,” Avery skims her fingers along the cool granite countertop, just to have something to do, “He was the guy calling the shots up there?”

Bradley blinks. He doesn’t know how much she knows about the way all of this works. He knew everything there is to know long before he ever enlisted, but that was because he wanted to know.

“Um,” Bradley grabs his mug and takes a step back for her to get herself one.  “He was our mission command so, kind of. He gives orders — but, y’know, everything happens fast, it’s… it’s hard to call the shots from back on the boat.” 

“Did he like Mav much?” She asks, head tucked inside the fridge door as you scan for anything to make her coffee a little less black. Nothing. A couple of beers and a block of good German cheese. She swings it shut with a resigned sigh, wondering if she’ll be here long enough to need groceries.

The thought flashes across her mind — what’ll happen to this place when she leaves it behind?

“Uh... No, not really.” After a routine training presentation at the very beginning of their attachment, Admiral Simpson had once become so agitated by Maverick that he snapped his own reading glasses in half. Mav got a good laugh out of it, at least.

“Great.” Agitation creeps into her tone as she curls her fingers around a plain white coffee mug. All of his kitchenware is plain white. 

“What?” Bradley tilts his head, trying to catch a glimpse at the look on her face, stuck between whether she’s sad or pissed off.

It’s an easy answer, rolling off of her tongue with a shrug of her shoulders and a deflated sigh. “People usually put us in the same boat — if they don’t like him, they don’t like me.”

That’s something that he thinks he can understand. There’s not an instant dislike, but there’s a pity that he finds in the eyes of people who once knew his father. 

He screws his mouth up, shaking his head and reaching for her without thought. His palm claps against her shoulder, platonic and soothing, but the first time he has touched you nonetheless. “I’ll be there. He won’t say a thing.”

Glancing upward, while his palm lingers on her shoulder, her eyes flit across his features. He doesn’t know quite what she’s searching for, or whether she finds it. His fingers squeeze softly against her skin before the touch is gone all together.

They drink their coffees in parallel, both subtly miserable in their silence but comfortable in it anyway. It’s difficult to prepare for a meeting like this — she doesn’t have a clue of what to expect. 

Bradley wears black jeans and boots with a plain white t-shirt, which convinces her not to wear the more formal dress she had thought she’d have to wear. She slips into his passenger seat in a skirt and Mary Janes.

He drives a loud, blue vintage Bronco. It sparkles inside and out, and makes her dusty old car look even worse. 

Bradley settles behind the wheel to the sound of chilled seventies music, the radio turned low. He drives with three fingers curled around the bottom of the wheel and the other hand resting absently on the stick shift.

Even though he seems calm enough behind the wheel, she watches him chew at the inside of his cheek for the duration of the drive. Gears tick away inside his head. His knee only stops bouncing nervously when it’s time to press his foot against the pedal.

He’s not as good at pretending as he thinks he is; she silently appreciates that he tries, either way.

Bradley, truthfully, spends the entire drive thinking about the last time he was face to face with Admiral Simpson. ‘Son, I’m doing this for you.’ He had sworn, face sullen, uttering the exact same words Pete Mitchell once had when delivering the words that had torn Bradley from him the first time.

Only, Admiral Simpson wasn’t pulling Bradley’s papers — he was just putting him on a month long bereavement leave. His protests had fallen on deaf ears once again, as they had fifteen years ago. He’s now a week into that leave, but it feels like longer.

It turns out that when sleep is cut from the equation, everything feels a lot longer. In his own apartment, his routine has been getting up at 2am after hours of tossing and turning, going for a run all the way down to the docks, coming back and showering, then waiting for the sun to rise.

Last night, he’d been awake in that creaky old twin bed, struck by the realisation that if he spent all night tossing and turning — one, he might actually break the old bed frame, and two, the squeaking of it would definitely keep Avery up. 

All it had taken was the focus of trying to sit still for so long to finally knock him out. It was the best that he’d slept since the mission.

He kind of hopes that it’ll take him a while to figure out something to do with her car; at least that way he’ll be able to sleep at night. 

“You ready?” His voice startles Avery from her daydream, the engine cutting out with a jingle of the keys as he stretches forwards in his seat to shove them into his pocket. “We’re headed just over there.”

“Yeah, let’s get this over with.” She’s stepping down and swinging the heavy door shut before she’s taking her next breath, leaving him to catch up to her. 

His long strides have him at her side before long, reaching ahead of her to pull open the glass door to the post headquarters. 

This process has already been easier with him at her side. He’d coolly handed over his service ID and greeted the guard at the gate by name, and he stops her from turning sharply down the wrong hallway with a soft bump of his shoulder against hers.

He catches her forearm as she tries to blow right past the front desk, his grip loose but firm. 

“Rooster.” The woman behind the desk stands up sharply, looking sharp in her service khakis, her entire face creased with a deep worry. She’s older, maybe around Mav’s age. “I heard, I’m so sorry.”

Rooster loosens his hold on her forearm, his lips flattening into a line. He stands up straight, his interaction with the woman nothing if not totally polite. His thumb trails across the bend of her wrist as he nods his head towards her.

“Thank you,” He says softly, seemingly unaware of the way Avery has stiffened in the presence of this woman. “We’re, uh… we’re just here to see Cyclone, Lynn.”

Her warm, brown eyes whip towards Avery, widening. Recognition floods her features as she pieces together who the girl at Bradley's side must be. 

Her boots hit the ground, Avery's lips parting slightly as she realises that this stranger is headed right for her. Bradley feels Avery's arm tug in his grip and turns his head, taking note of the way she's trying to shrink behind him.

Lynn is a hugger by nature, and she was a good friend of Mav’s for a long time. She means well, but Bradley isn’t going to let her touch Avery when he can see how unnerved it makes her.

“We’re a little late. I’ll catch you at the O-Bar this weekend?” His fingers uncurl from her forearm and his palm falls flat between her shoulder blades, giving her a gentle nudge and silent permission to avoid Lynn's hug.

The woman stops and there’s another polite, departing exchange between the two of them while Avery continues down the hall.

Bradley catches up to her as she raps her knuckles against the doorframe, fingers trembling when they come to settle back against her thighs.

“Miss Mitchell.” A chair scrapes along the tiled floor, Cyclone’s signature rumbling voice carrying out into the hallway. His boots tap across the ground, his face creased with sincerity and his hand outstretched when he notices Bradley standing behind the young woman he had arranged this meeting with. “Bradley Bradshaw.”

Avery checks back over her shoulder, glancing briefly at the man behind her, who has assumed his best bodyguard impression. 

Standing tall, his uniform crisp and his greying black hair combed neatly, Admiral Beau Simpson slips his palm into hers and shakes her hand curtly. The sunlight catches on his shining name badge, his face heavy with lines and sharp angles.

Letting her hand go, he then reaches to her right to shake Bradley’s. Bradley’s chest bumps her back as he leans into the handshake.

Avery steps away from him, angling yourself closer to the doorframe. “He just gave me a ride here. Is it okay if he comes in?”

“Of course,” Cyclone is far more polite to her than he has ever been to Bradley. “Anything you need. Please, take a seat.”

It feels a little bit wrong standing before his boss in jeans, and sitting before him. Everything about this feels a little bit wrong. Bradley rests his chin against his fist.

Avery sits in the chair beside him, shoving your trembling hands under your thighs, straightening up and trying to look as brave as you can. 

It shouldn’t be this stranger sitting beside you in this meeting — your mother should have come with you.

“Miss Mitchell,” The admiral takes his seat on the other side of his desk once again. “I want to first express my deepest condolences. Your father was a good man, and a… extremely skilled pilot.”

Bradley almost scoffs. Even now, Cyclone can’t manage to compliment him, not really.

“We are forever grateful for his service, and the sacrifices he made on behalf of our country. I understand that this is an extremely difficult time, and I’d just like to say that I’m going to personally make sure that this process is as easy as it can possibly be.”

Avery blinks at him. Jet engines rumble on outside of the window. People bustle on outside of the closed office door.

Cyclone glances towards Bradley. 

“When a man is lost in action, our resolve is to initiate a search and rescue effort as soon as possible,” The admiral explains, leaving out the part where that search and rescue effort had been delayed by seventy-two hours after Mav disappeared. “We’ve been working tirelessly, and our efforts to locate your father are ongoing.”

Her brows knit together, lips pursed, unimpressed.

“But— he’s dead.” She frowns abruptly, rendering Cyclone suddenly quiet. “He’s got to be. It’s been a week. No food, no water, sub-zero temperature. What’s the point in looking?”

Bradley grits his teeth. He looks across at her, her words like a jolt of ice-cold water, the muscle in his jaw ticking. There’s nothing in her expression, no fear or sadness. Pete deserved more than that.

“The point is to bring him home.” He bites from her side, staring straight ahead at Cyclone.

She shoots him a look. When it’s clear that she isn’t going to say anything else, Cyclone clears his throat to continue. 

“Miss Mitchell, we do have to prepare ourselves for the other outcome. If recovery efforts are unsuccessful, in two weeks time, he will be listed as formally ‘Missing in Action’. If that’s the case, we will honor him with a memorial service and all of his service records and personal effects are delivered to you.”

She drags her teeth across her plush bottom lip, swallowing hard and giving a small nod of her head. Closing her eyes for a moment, she pictures the moment that this is all over. She can get out of here and pretend it never happened.

“Okay. Two weeks?”

“This is going to be a longer process,” Cyclone warns her. He’d heard that she had come down specially for this, and he doesn’t want to mislead her about the time frame. “The recovery mission, if unsuccessful, will be suspended in two weeks’ time. After that, we’d like you to be local for the investigation.”

“Investigation?”

“Of ourselves. To ensure that the Navy had performed its due diligence, that kind of thing… I’d expect us to be here for a good few months.” He explains.

After that, it’s like Bradley can see a switch flip for her. 

She’s biting at the inside of her cheek so hard that she must be tasting copper, picking at the seam of her skirt and breathing like she’s trying not to cry.

He’s still confused when he’s all but chasing her across the parking lot, listening to her try to control her breathing.

“Hey, hey, hey,” He tries, approaching her cautiously as she crowds herself against the passenger side of his car. “It’s alright. We’ll get through it, it’s just a couple of months.”

“I— fuck. I don’t want to be here. I-I— I’m going to have to find a job, and I’ll have to call my mom, and— and my friends, and—“

“Hey,” Bradley mumbles, resisting the instinct to throw his arms around her. His brows draw together as he reaches out and squeezes her bicep, bending his knees so he can catch her eye. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of it.”

Avery knows that he’s just trying to be nice, but really, she’s sick of nice. It’s all that Maverick ever was and it left her with no idea of who he really is. “Of what? There’s so much that I have to—“

He nods, closing his mouth, swallowing dryly. Thinking of what he can, feasibly, take off of her plate for her. The idea sparks in him.

“You need a job. I can get you a job. Um, your friends, we can call them and bring them down for a weekend?” He squeezes again at her bicep, nodding his way through his plans, trying to will the tears in her eyes not to spill over.

She sniffs, turning her gaze towards the ground. The lump in Avery’s throat burns and bobs as she tries to swallow it away. 

Mav really is never coming back.

“I don’t want to go back to his house.” It comes out as a whimper, and really just reminds Bradley that she is in the same position that he was when he was just a little younger than her. It’s a scared kid type of feeling, being all alone in the world. Being in an empty house had made it even worse.

He licks his lips and glances towards the skies, watching the sun pass behind a cloud. 

“You could stay at my place, for a night or two.” 

…

[little-diable]

Carnal Sin - Priest!Tom Riddle (smut)

I desperately needed to get this out of my system, I ain't sorry for that. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: The reader's mother had begged Priest Riddle to let the reader join his bible study, a bratty woman who wanted to make his life a living hell. Now it was time to finally teach her a lesson.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, oral (m), face fucking, man handling, spanking, religious connotations, Tom being Tom

Pairing: Priest!Tom Riddle x fem!reader (2k words)

“How can you possibly believe that?” Her laughter echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls as if demons were carrying the sound. All eyes were focused on her, wide eyes that trembled with fear because of the blasphemous words she kept on speaking. But she didn’t care about them, didn’t even remember their names, no, all she cared about was the pair of dark pupils staring her down. 

“Excuse me?” His voice was sharp, urged on by the need to put her in her place. All other eyes snapped back to him, lowering their gazes in fear of the priest who was known for punishing those who didn’t dare listen. But she didn’t fear him, taunting him whenever their paths crossed. 

“Oh, don’t give me that. You and I both know you don’t believe in any of that yourself. Turning water into wine? That’s witchcraft, and witches should be burned, according to your little storybook at least.” Gasps followed her words, sounds that left (y/n) grinning as if she was the Devil herself, joining the bible study to make it a living hell for those who desperately clung to their belief. For a few seconds, he didn’t speak up, holding eye contact with her from his spot, but as she parted her lips to speak, once again set on laughing words she shouldn’t pronounce, he cleared his throat. 

“We’ll end our session here, I need to have a word with (y/n), alone.” She tried not to pay the heat his words shot through her any attention, trying not to squeeze her thighs together as she watched him rise to her feet. Neither of them spoke a word as the others hurriedly left the room, closing the door to give the two some privacy. Her eyes didn’t leave his frame once, the tall figure she’d imagine whenever she let her hands wander, chasing that high she was desperate for. Priest Riddle was dangerously handsome, fooling anybody whenever he wasn’t wearing his collar.

And yet she knew it was nothing more than a game, a game whose rules he was making. But she had never been good at following rules, set on breaking them like branches snapping beneath her shoes. 

“I wasn’t optimistic when your mother begged me to let you join, you know? I knew you’d only cause me more problems. But I promised your mother to try, to give you a chance. Well let me tell you, (y/n), I’ve never been a patient man. I think it’s time you learn a lesson.” The chuckle rumbling through her left him smirking, something she clearly didn’t understand fully to anticipate what he’d do to her tonight. 

“A lesson? What, should I fall to my knees and pray ten Hail Mary’s?” He crossed the room towards (y/n) with fast steps, hand shooting out to grasp her throat before she could flinch away. A shaky gasp left her at the touch, feeling his cold rings burn into her skin. Priest Riddle stared her down as if she was now living through her last judgment, set on taking her down to hell with him.

“A prayer won’t help you no more, God doesn’t answer the calls of sinners like you. The only one you’ll pray to will be me.” She was forced to her feet for a second, lips parted to let an excited sigh leave her. This is what she had been working for, knowing that he would eventually give in, eventually cross that line he had sworn to stay away from. But even a priest had his enemies, the carnal sin calling his name in quiet hours. 

“Let's hope your mouth knows what it’s doing. Onto your knees, let me fuck those bratty words out of you.” She could have sworn that his eyes grew darker as he spoke the words, watching her drop to her knees without a single protest leaving her. “I should have known, you’ll enjoy whatever I’m doing to you. It’s all about the power you think you have, forcing me to do something I promise I never would. Let me tell you, (y/n), even priests can beg for forgiveness, and forgiveness He shall always grant me.”

For the first time since meeting Priest Riddle, she felt some fear swapping through her, wondering if she was finally burning from the reckless play with fire. It was an unfamiliar sensation, yet so awfully exciting, she could only stare up at him with a smirk. 

He did quick work of his trousers, freeing his hard cock from the confines of his clothes. He was beautiful, a man crafted by God, what a shame he was destined to hide away beneath the black suits he wore. (Y/n) followed his ringed fingers, how he grasped his cock to push himself closer to (y/n). 

“Open that mouth of yours, let’s see how much you can take.” It was a dangerous game, and yet (y/n) had always lived for the thrill. She parted her lips, tongue exposed to his dark eyes. Within seconds he had forced his cock into her mouth, to the back of her throat. She gagged around him, had her vision instantly blurred by tears. 

Without waiting for any commands, she hallowed her cheeks, letting her tongue explore his cock for a moment before he began to move. Priest Riddle’s ringed hand found the back of her head, holding her in place as he fucked her mouth, high on the sound of her gasps, chokes, sounds he’d forever remember. She was a pretty sacrifice, worth the trouble she had forced him through, that much he was certain of. 

“How can there be no God when we get to experience something like this?” His raspy voice left her shuddering, words she could barely focus on, too concentrated on the feeling of his cock fucking her mouth. No other man had ever been this rough with her, and yet she knew that she had been addicted to Priest Riddle from the first day, hoping that they’d eventually end up like this. 

“Such pretty sounds for a woman this dangerous, it’s amazing how you try to fool those around you.” He spat his words as he used more speed for his thrusts, enjoying her gasps a tad bit too much, wanting to force his cock down her throat. But he wouldn’t give in, no, he’d only give in when he was buried inside of her, fucking her into oblivion. Perhaps she’d find her way back to God when he showed her the entry to the pearly gates, torn between two worlds as he fucked her breathless. 

Spit dripped from her chin, making a mess on the dark carpet she was kneeling on. She was desperate for some friction, trying to shuffle closer, and yet he didn’t allow her to go far, held in place by his tight grasp. Their eyes met, his full of danger, hers full of desperation, begging the man to finally pull her to her knees, to fuck her like she needed him to. 

“Do you think you deserve to be touched? Do you think you deserve to cum? I should have known you’ll turn into a cock-hungry whore the second I touch you.” A gasp left (y/n) as he pulled away, forcing her to her feet seconds later. She was pushed towards the black leather couch, trying to sit down though it seemed as if she was too slow for him. With his hand finding its way back to her hair, Tom manhandled her down onto the couch, drawing an excited moan from (y/n). 

“Open those legs, show me how wet you are from sucking my cock.” A whine left her at his words, legs spread to expose her soaked panties to him, hidden beneath her skirt. His cold fingers wandered up her legs, he shuffled her skirt up to her waist before he pushed her panties aside. The groan that left him at the sight of her bare cunt shot shudders down (y/n)’s spine, eyes close to falling shut. “Look at me, don’t you dare to even think of looking away.”

His palm came down onto her cunt, spanking the soft skin with more force than anticipated. (Y/n) choked on her gasps, eyes wide as she stared up at the smirking priest. Her lungs were aching, trying to hold onto her breath as she kept choking on the air flushing through her lungs, too excited to even speak up. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you stupid, force you to take every inch.” Priest Riddle’s words were enough to leave her moaning and gasping as he flipped her around. He had her pressed against the armrest while he positioned himself behind her.

“I’m on the pill, just fuck me, please.” His raspy chuckles filled the room, leaving her walls clenching in anticipation. (Y/n) felt him brush the tip of his cock through her slit for a second before he pushed into her, her eyes instantly fell close, fingers tightening their grip on the armrest with her nails clawed into the fabric. 

“God should strike you down for the sinful words you speak, allowing a man to fuck you because you’re selfish, wanting to give in.” She shuddered against him, unable to speak as he fucked her. His hips snapped against her behind with every thrust, forcing himself even deeper into her cunt, enjoying the way she felt wrapped around him all too tightly. 

“Fuck, feels so good.” (Y/n) mumbled the words, not trusting herself to speak up, voice caught in the back of her throat as he fucked her breathless. This is what they have been warned of, the carnal sin, a feeling so intense only those who weren’t allowed to touch one were able to make one feel. 

“And for that, you will submit to me from now on, you won’t go against me no more. You’re mine now, forever mine.” A sob clawed through (y/n), she didn’t understand the depth of the words he spoke, could only choke on a “Yes”, too focused on her high to overthink the consequences she’d have to face. Consequences of actions she had been desperate to go through with. Drunk on the feeling of her priest fucking her breathless. 

“Oh God, I’m so close, don’t stop.” Her words left him chuckling, she felt him near her ear, growling the words that were about to roll off his tongue.

“God can’t help you now.” She choked on her breaths, eyes rolling into her head as she sneaked a hand down her body. Her bundle of nerves pulsed against her fingers, giving herself the last final push to fall over the edge. The white, blinding sensation shot through her, leaving (y/n) trembling as he kept fucking her. 

His breaths grew shallow, she felt him twitch deep inside of her, about to cum with a devilish grin glued to his lips. (Y/n) had to cling to the couch, scared she’d faint from the intensity of her orgasm, unable to think straight as she was panting. The priest pulled out of her seconds before he came, painting her ass with his cum. 

Wordlessly he pulled away to reach for a towel. He cleaned her with a hum leaving him, staring down at her and the fucked-out expression she wore. Only slowly did she dare to turn around, looking up at him with wide eyes. She didn’t flinch as he cupped her cheek, forcing his thumb down on her tongue for a second. 

“I expect you back here tomorrow morning, don’t even dare to think that this was your only lesson.”

[thewriterwithnoplan]

Ferrari's Fairytale (1/3)

Summary: World Championships are the most important part of any Formula One team's history. Except perhaps, Ferrari's. Known for their rabid fans, filthy-rich investors, and pretty boy drivers it shouldn't be a surprise that the team has brought together Soulmates from across the globe. And fate, it seems, is working awfully hard to put all the pieces into place for Ferrari's perfect fairytale - one that's been in the works for decades now.

[Part 1 of Pretty Girls and Ferrari Boys]

Soulmate AU: Soulmates share injuries and pain.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader (Eventual)

Word Count: 1650

Warnings: Swearing, no Charles in this first part sorry it's his epic love story and those take time ;)

Masterlist

There was something wrong with your soulmate.

Really there had been something wrong with them since you were eight years old. But right now, there was something particularly wrong with them.

“Just some bruising over the ribcage, but no actual damage internally.” The medic presses a latex covered hand gently against your ribs.

“They feel broken.” You suck in a pained breath and glare over her shoulder, at the little framed picture of her cat, Terror, on her desk. “You’re sure I’m not about to sneeze and puncture a lung?”

“Funny.” Though the look she gives you as she pulls off her gloves is less than amused. “Which one of us went to medical school again?”

“My best friend. You might know her. She’s stunning, generous, gives me free check-ups, did I say stunning? Goes by Sunny.”

“It’s Doctor Sunny to you.” She slingshots one of the gloves at you. “But it’s good to know you only keep me around for the free check-ups.”

“My soulmate would bankrupt me without you.”

Sunny taps at her computer, “The fee isn’t that high.”

“Sure,” You shrug. “If you aren’t in here every other week.”

“Have we ruled out hitman as their profession?”

“Since we were eight?”

“I don’t know much about hitmen, maybe they start them young.”

You lower yourself carefully from the observation table and move stiffly toward her desk. “Give it to me straight Doc. How much longer have I got?”

“I’m afraid you’ll live, ma’am.” Sunny doesn’t even look up. “A tragedy for all, I know. I can give you a moment if you need time to process– Ow! Bitch.”

She rubs at her shoulder and huffs.

“I’m going to have to log that in the database, you know.” She says.

“Good, maybe we can both find our soulmates and be done with it all.”

“Real romantic, dude.”

“Your soulmate hasn’t been terrorising you since you were a kid.”

“I had my fair share of scraped knees,” Sunny wrinkles her nose when you stick your tongue out. “You do know it won’t stop after the two of you meet, right? That’s a schoolyard myth.”

“After the talking to I’m going to give him, you bet your perky ass it’s going to stop.”

“That’s the second instance of workplace harassment I’ve coped from you in the last minute.”

“Fine. Your ass is not perky.”

“Mature.” She hums, “What time did you say the pain started?”

“Ten-thirty-ish?”

“All good then.” Sunny makes a few more clicks before powering down her computer. “Your chest and my arm, all nice and logged.”

“You know, sometimes I think you became a Match Medic specifically so you could put every little thing into the database to make it easier to find your soulmate.”

“Perks of the job.” She scoops up her handbag. “Come on, let’s bounce before the front desk starts scheduling over my lunch break.”

“You remember how I said you were stunning and generous and stunning?”

“I’m not buying you lunch.”

“Could this week get any worse?” You throw your head back dramatically.

Sunny cracks a smile at your antics, “Only a few more hours and we’re free for the weekend.”

“Are we still on for pamper-night tonight?”

“Always. Mine or yours?”

You end up spending the night in Sunny’s apartment, covered in different rejuvenating oils and masks until you look like low-budget horror movie villains. In your fluffy robes with The Princess Bride on in the background Sunny tries to teach you how to make Hainanese Chicken the way her mother did. Terror cries at your feet when you tell him he can’t have raw chicken. Sunny pops a bottle of cheap champagne that makes you both grimace and promise one another that you would find an excuse to get a nicer bottle soon. You take turns washing the excess from the face, foot, and hair masks off. Then curl up together on the couch, sipping broth, digging into rice and slathering chicken in Sunny’s family’s super-secret chilli sauce. You both fall asleep at a very respectable eleven o’clock.

So, it’s fucking strange when you wake up feeling like you had spent the night inside a paint mixer.

“Are you okay?” Sunny frowns as she stands over a pan of eggs. “You look ill.”

You squint over your coffee cup, “Soulmate is playing up.”

She plates the eggs next to a small stack of bacon before turning to put a hand to your forehead. “They shouldn’t be making you feel sick, illness doesn’t transfer like that. Are you sure it’s coming from them? Could you just be hung over?”

“It’s definitely him, third weekend in a row, like clockwork.” You take your plate gratefully, “It’s like I always tell you. It’s not nausea. It’s more like…”

“Impossible to explain for you and every medical practitioner you’ve ever seen?”

You groan, “It’s like my brain spent the night trying to escape my skull and the muscles in my neck were in on it.”

“It’s not unheard of for soulmates to feel the repercussions of an intense work out. There was this study from four years ago on high performance athletes and their partners that–”

You groan again, “Oh god and now there’s a nerd in my ear!”  

She tosses a gelatinous bit of egg onto your plate. It lands with a splat that makes you fake gag. “Oh, grow up.”

“You should be nice to me,” You lament, “I’m wounded!”

“Your soulmate is wounded.”

“And I’m sure their best friend is taking very good care of them!”

She pulls a face at you but still takes your plate to the dishwasher for you. As she’s rinsing them, she asks, “What’s on for the rest of your weekend?”

“I got a call from my parents on Thursday and guess what?” You sipped at the cold dregs of your coffee, “The dentist finally figured out which one of them the toothache is coming from!”

“That’s great,” Sunny’s smile was genuine. “They’re going in to get it fixed?”

“Tomorrow morning, both going under local anaesthesia.”

You hip checked her lightly out of the way to rinse both your cups. “You want another coffee?”

Sunny propped herself up on the counter, “My caffeine addiction is rubbing off on you I fear.”

“Listen, we have to get through the day somehow.” You coaxed the machine back to life before leaning against the counter to look at Sunny. “Anyway, my parents were supposed to go to this race tomorrow. Dad is particularly devastated and has practically ordered me to represent the family ‘at our home race.’ It’s been tradition for him and mum since they got married. It’s kind of a big deal for him. The man is obsessive.”

“My parents had something similar to say about our family legacy and studying medicine.”

“Speaking of… You remember all the times I sat up with you studying, or brought you food when you forgot to eat, or ran errands for you, or made sure you took breaks, or–”

“Fine, I get it, I’ll go to the stupid race.”

“Oh, how kind of you to offer.” You passed her one of the cups. “It won’t be that bad. Motorsports are supposed to be fun live, right?”

Sunny snorted, “Thank God. Motorsports? I thought you meant like a horse race or a marathon. I was getting war-flashbacks to track-and-field.”

You put a hand to your heart, “You were willing to relive cross country for me?”

“I was willing to ogle fit, sweaty men for you, definitely.”

“Alright, first of all – fuck you. But also same,” You clinked mugs and nodded solemnly at one another, “Maybe we can find some fit, sweaty drivers to ogle instead.”

Sunny hummed, “What do I wear? Is it like sprint cars or more like V8s – ooh is it an illegal drag race?”

“Girl, no.” You swatted at her thigh, “It’s Formula 1, which is perfectly legal and safe and much faster than any of those options.”

“Alright, Miss Daddy’s-Girl, go off.”

“Shut up, I’ve had to hear him go on and on about it my whole life.” You pulled a face at your coffee. “The man has had a hard-on for Ferrari since before he met my mother, and then he met her in the Ferrari hospitality at an F1 race, and he’s fucking worshipped them ever since.”

“Oh my god, why am I only just hearing about this?” She grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks and cooing. “You’re a little Ferrari baby.”

You blew a rather unladylike raspberry at her and knocked her hand away, “Because it’s embarrassing! Dad was only there because he and his friend won tickets. So, when Ferrari marketing caught wind that soulmates had met in their pavilion, they practically fell over themselves.”

“Holy shit!” Sunny practically howled in delight, “Is that where all those baby pictures of you in little Ferrari onesies came from?”

“Ferrari’s own little fairytale, Mr-won-his-way-in and Miss-heir-to-a-real-estate-monopoly. It's like Romeo and Juliet; if Romeo and Juliet survived, had a kid and decided to make it the poster child of their love story.”

“Don’t sound so disgusted, that’s cute as fuck.” Sunny snatches up your empty cup and stacks it next to hers in the dishwasher.

You frown, “Not everything has to be a love story.”

“I don’t know, girl, I’m pretty sure you just asked me to play out your parents first meeting with you tomorrow.” She winks at you over her shoulder as she heads toward her room.

“Oh, fuck off, Sunny.”

“I think this calls for new outfits!” She emerges from her room, towel over one shoulder. “What was your Mum wearing when she met your dad?”

“We are not reenacting my parents meet-cute.”

“Who knows, maybe you’ll have your own meet-cute with a certain pain-prone soulmate, hm?” In the moment it takes you to reorientate yourself after her comment, she’s breezing past you with a bright, “I’m having first shower!”

You squark in indignation. Like hell, you’ll let either of those things happen to you this weekend.

(Part 2 : Ferrari's Prince - 03.05.24)

[storywriter007]

Hi!! First off, I love your work. You are amazing. Okay so my request is basically I have two, both being Percy Jackson x reader comfort fics. Feel free to do one or both of neither!

1) Percy Jackson x reader where the reader has a lot of mental health struggles and is feeling very anxious and overwhelmed and overworked and dissociates a lot more than normal, but is bottling it all up from everyone and trying so hard to be okay and fine, even to her boyfriend Percy who can definitely tell something is off but doesn't want to push it. Maybe show some times he tries to get her to open up but she brushes him off. Then, she just breaks and has a panic attack and complete breakdown, and she ends up dropping something glass and cutting herself on it, and Percy finds her in the middle of it and helps her and comforts her and then they talk about it after.

2) This one is Percy Jackson x reader who gets seriously injured on the Argo II and tries to act like it's not that bad but then Percy (her boyfriend) forces her to let him look at it and it is really bad and he takes care of her and comforts her (kinda like the Leo fic where he cleans the wound on her back because I love that one so much), and then helps her fall asleep after.

Again feel free to do neither or both or just one, thank you so much I love your work!!

I've Got You - Percy Jackson x Fem!Reader

author's note: thank you for the requests! i will answer them in two seperate posts, this one is the first one you asked for!

author's note 2: i'm so glad you enjoy my work like you have no idea how much it means to me

warnings: cursing, self-doubt, reader is struggling mentally, mentions of blood

genre: fluff

word count: 1.2k

-> heroes of olympus masterlist

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send me requests here! (these are my guidelines)

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"are you okay?" a voice called out, replaying itself in the background.

y/n felt someone shake her and she snapped out of her daze.

"y/n." percy said, looking into her eyes. "are you okay? what's going on? you've been staring at the wall for the past ten minutes."

"nothing." she responded, unconvincingly.

percy gave her that look. like the one a mother gives her child when she catches them with their hand down the cookie jar.

"nothing!" she smiled, cheering up. "i'm fine, just a little tired."

"do you want to sleep in my cabin? maybe visit the hypnos cabin?" he proposed.

he was so sweet.

"no, no. i'm fine, just worn out." she lied. "i'm gonna take a nap."

"okay." he said, his voice doubtful.

he kissed the top of her head before leaving her cabin. as soon as she was alone, y/n's head dropped into her hands as she clutched her hair.

what is wrong with me her mind screamed.

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"are you sure you don't want to go to sleep?" percy asked, sitting on y/n's floor.

"for the hundreth time, yes percy, i'm fine." she said, starting to get annoyed.

she knows, he just cares about her, but she just couldn't right now.

"you don't have to do all of this in one day." he reminded. "all of this is due in a week."

a week isn't enough time her mind yelled.

"percy." she said, looking him in the eye. "i'm fine. i swear."

then she shot her that stupid look again.

"i'm fine!" she defended.

"okay, okay." he said. "i'm going to go to bed. stop by my cabin if you need anything."

now she felt bad. he was just looking out for her.

"i'm sorry." she smiled. "and i will. but trust me, i'm fine."

he gave her a smile back. but, it wasn't a good-luck or i-love-you smile. it was a you're-a-fucking-liar-and-i'll-leave-you-alone-but-i-don't-believe-you. percy left and y/n rested her head on her bunk as she looked up at the wood. tears fell from the corners of her eyes.

how was she going to do it? she felt like the world was on her back even more than usual.

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y/n stood in percy's cabin after he insisted that she spend the night with him. she picked up a picture frame that was on his nightstand. it was cute, it was a picture of him and y/n laying down in the new york snow.

she smiled, but a feeling of dread crept up on her as she clutched the glass.

you've got so much to do. you have such little time. i mean, you're a weak excuse of a demi-god. i mean, c'mon, who gets this stressed out? who zones out this much? percy doesn't deserve this. he deserves better. he needs better. he needs someone who isn't a borderline psycho. he's a hero. what are you? a wannabe. a parasite. he's going to leave you sooner or later. it's just a matter of time. oh are you going to cry now? you're such a fucking crybaby.

she dropped the glass. shards hit the floor as tears fell from her eyes. she held her knees to her chest and put her head in her bloody hand as she wept.

"y/n?" percy asked, shutting the door behind him.

"oh-oh my god, percy, i'm so so so sorry." she said, cleaning up the glass that had just shattered everywhere. "i'm sorry, i'm so so sorry."

"hey, it's okay." he smiled, dropping down next to her. "it's just a picture, i have it on my computer."

"no, no, i'm such an idiot. i'm so sorry." she said, hiding her teary eyes from him. "i can't do anything right."

"what? that's not true, don't say that."

"but it is true." she whispered, tears falling from her eyes.

"hey hey hey." he said, turning her face so she was forced to look at his sea green eyes. "i've got you."

she couldn't keep it in anymore. wells of tears fell from her eyes as she violently trembled. percy pulled her into him, placing her head on his chest. she wept into him as the familiar smell of salt-water flooded her nose.

"i've got you, it's alright." he said.

his voice was so soft and calming.

"i'm so so sorry." she breathed out. "i've been so mean to you and i, i broke your picture frame and now i'm bleeding all over you floor, and you probably hate me."

he backed up for a minute and looked down at her hands. they were covered in blood.

"it's okay, it's okay, don't worry about it." he said, kissing her forehead. "i've got you. c'mon, let's wrap this up."

he stood up, and basically picked her up so she would stand too.

"i don't want to go to the infirmary-"

"we don't have to." he assured. "let's wash the blood off, and i have gauze in here."

she felt like a baby as percy rinsed her hands off and wrapped the hurt one in gauze. she sat on his bunk as he carefully cleaned up the glass on the floor. after a few minutes, he sat down next to her. she just couldn't help it, tears started falling from her eyes.

he let her cry into him. he just ran his fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head every now and then. he kept telling her that it was "alright" and that she was "okay" and that "he's got her." there was something about percy that made her feel so safe around him. maybe it was his soothing voice, or the way he smelled, or maybe it was his touch. whatever it was, it made hiding things from him draining. after half-an-hour, y/n's tears ran dry. she pulled back from percy's chest and looked up at him with red eyes.

"hey, i'm here, you're okay." he reassured, wiping her tears with his thumbs. "what's going on?"

he grabbed a water bottle and gave it to her. even he knew she was dehydrated after crying.

"i-i don't know." she sputtered. "i don't know. i've been in my own head. and i just keep feeling like i'm nothing but a screw up and a mess, and i'm so nervous for the next big quest. i-i can't. i feel like i'm just gonna lose you and i don't have enough time to figure it out. i just feel useless, like a failure whose just going to seal everyone's terrible fate."

"y/n." he paused. "you are the most capable, amazing, intelligent, kind, funny, beautiful, person i've ever met. you are more than enough. and you have time and if you can't get to things, so what? it's okay. and when the next big things happens, it happens."

she felt his firm hands around her arms, holding her tightly.

"and i'm not going anywhere." he reassured.

hearing him clear up all of the awful things her mind has been cramming into her head was cathartic.

"i'm sorry." she said, looking up at him. "i've been such a bitch to you when you were just trying to help-"

"don't worry about it. i knew you weren't doing well." he smiled. "it's alright now."

he bent down and kissed her. his arms wrapped around her upper-half as her arms wrapped around his neck. the kiss was slow and gentle. when they finally pulled away, y/n rested her head underneath his chin.

"i love you." she whispered.

"i love you more." he whispered back, kissing the top of her head.

[narraboths]

[inspired in great part though very obliquely by this iconic piece of fanart]

“You must make a good impression, daughter. And take care of the company you keep.”

She has to keep reminding herself of her father's words, to stand tall and smile, dutiful and pleasant, and not to pick at her nails. It is a royal ball, after all. The first in ten years that Lord Otto Hightower has been graciously invited to, recalled to court and to his seat on the Council. A triumphant, joyful return by all measures.

Alicent, as ever, is ill at ease.

She’s never quite gotten used to the Red Keep during the last of the old king’s reign. It’s a queer place, too young, too great, too foul already. Even now, with its great hall all illuminated, the walls reverberating with the sound of music and laughter, it feels dark, suffocating, the twisted shadow of the Iron Throne looming large on its walls. In Oldtown, there’s wisdom and piety at court, in Highgarden, chivalry and grace. Here, she’s only met with the dragonlords’ lewd, alien splendor.

And she faces it alone.

(There was, once, the princess Rhaenyra, then a scrawny, silver-haired menace. Alicent recalls brief flashes, a wide, toothy grin, her brazen tone, the petulant pout when admonished, the little bronze dragon perched on her shoulders, then later padding after her through the court. The enraptured, curious look of blue-violet eyes, listening to Alicent’s reading. It was long ago. It’s Crown Princess now, a woman grown, and wilder still than the Rogue Prince, or so the whispers that reach the Hightower from the ports say. Dragon’s blood, King Viserys is said to jest. Alicent tries to pay just as little mind to their tales as little Rhaenyra must be thinking about her. There must be graver things for the kingdom’s heir to think about than daughters of disgraced courtiers.)

Time passes slowly. Lords and ladies come to welcome her with their honeyed barbs, lordlings and squires ask for a dance and squeeze her hand too tight, all sweaty and overeager to ingratiate themselves with the newly-made Hand’s daughter. Alicent nods and listens and smiles and charms, always gentle and always delightful as her father would wish, until her cheeks hurt and her face feels like a rigid, half-cracked mask. She feels the court’s cold, prying eyes on her, knows how they must be seizing her up, measuring, judging. A good impression.

Yet there’s something else, too, a different gaze that she sometimes meets, the eyes of a lean, pale figure from across the hall, standing in the circle of a gaggle of courtiers. They follow her with such piercing intensity that she feels her face burn. (In confusion, surely. Embarrassment.)

She takes refuge by a pillar in the end, sinking into its shadow. She doesn’t even realize when she starts picking at her nails again. She only knows that suddenly, there’s blood running down her finger and she hisses in pain, almost tearing her handkerchief in her hasty attempt to cover it.

“You have not changed one bit.”

She flinches, shirks away from the unexpected company – or would, but there’s a hand wrapped around her wrist, gentle but firm, holding her in place. A laugh, low and delighted.

Alicent looks up. Her captor is the pale stranger – a youth clad in the royal red-and-black, a mess of short, silver-white hair framing a handsome face, lighting up with amusement as they watch her stammer and squirm. Not Daemon, not one of the Velaryons, certainly, not…

“I did not use to give you such fright.” They grin at her dazed stare, mischievous and eerily familiar, squeezing Alicent’s hand carefully, pressing the handkerchief just tightly enough against the bleeding scratch. “Not just by seeking you out, that is.”

“Rhaenyra.”

The name is half-sighed, half-choked. The world is spinning. There is so little of the bony, bratty child she once knew in the princeling – princess standing now in front of her, half a head taller than Alicent, wide-shouldered, dashing, that Alicent can hardly believe it. But the princess is smiling even wider now, all bright, brash joy, and that sight itself is more achingly familiar than any superficial mark.

“The Hand has hidden you from us for far too long. I could not yet ride Syrax when you went away, do you remember? She’s large enough now to saddle two.” She’s holding Alicent’s hand, still, drawing it closer to her, close enough that Alicent’s knuckles brush against the buttons of her doublet. It is not strange, surely, the Crown Princess talking to the daughter of the Hand like that. No-one should think that unseemly. “I hope your father does not mean to deprive our court from your presence once again. I should take very dim view of it.”

Her gaze is warm still, but her tone drops strangely deep, enough to make Alicent shiver. She casts down her eyes.

“My father has meant no offense, Princess.”

That earns, startlingly, only a scoff.

“None of that, my lady of Hightower. You know me.”

Alicent’s face burns. “I’ve known you once.”

Rhaenyra lets go of her hand. Alicent’s heart sinks, for a second – then Rhaenyra’s fingers wrap around her chin, instead, tilting her head back ever so slightly, gently, until they are eye to eye once more.

“You will know me again.”

[laiiaaa]

MY LOVE, MINE ALL MINE — CARMEN BERZATTO 1. BUTTERSCOTCH — you finally say hello to a familiar face in the city after a little girl bumps into you. (2.7k) masterlist | next | taglist

Carmen keeps track of the running grocery list in his head:

Green onions? Check. Shallots? Check. Rolled oats? Check.

“Alright,” he huffs into the phone, a stupid thing tucked snug between his shoulder and jaw.

“Carm, I’m serious—”

“Nat, I got it, alright? I’ll call the fuckin’ guy.” Strawberries? Check. Eggs? Check. “I’m at the store, ‘n I’ll be back, ‘n then I’ll call him. It’s fine.” Dino nuggets? Check. That way-too-sugary cereal Sofia likes—? Even though he wishes Richie never gave it to her—? Check, check, check, so fuckin’ checked. “Now, do you wanna talk to—”

He looks to his side, where Sofia once stood with chubby little fingers hooked on the cart, that raggedy old stuffed animal always caught in the other fist. Gone. Carmen’s heart stops and catches in his throat. 

Natalie’s voice again, much quieter now that the phone’s not at his ear. “Hello?”

He doesn’t even hear his sister, doesn’t process her words.

He turns around. “Sof?” But she’s not there.

He tries again, facing forward, a little louder. “Sofia?” Nothing. “Fuck,” he mumbles to himself, ending the call without a second thought. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—” 

He shoves his phone into his pocket, abandons the cart altogether, pokes his head into the aisle over. “Sofia.” Nothing. “Shit—”

He can’t breathe. A closed fist shoots to his chest to try and soothe the droughted ache. The ceiling’s closing in from above, every aisle looks the same, his feet are too heavy to carry him fast enough through the store.

Where’s his fuckin’ kid?

You’re spooked out of a fatigued trance by a clumsy little girl at your feet in the produce section. 

She can’t be older than four, her chubby little face framed by golden brown curls, dressed in a cute little black dress and pink tights, ballet flats to boot. By her hand is a well-loved stuffed animal: an orange tabby cat with lint fuzzies along its body, teetering on the edge of the display about to fall into the lettuce.

“Well, hello,” you start.

She peeks up at you through stray curls with a grin. “Hi.”

You do a quick scan of the immediate area but spot nothing other than a worker stocking bananas twenty feet away, another pushing a cart of mangoes. “Where’d you come from, hm?” You perch down next to her and try to offer a warm smile to keep her calm.

“I’m here with my daddy.”

“Yeah? Where’s he at?”

Her lips, shiny with drool, puff into a pout. “I…” Her little voice wobbles, and you know that fucking wobble, that precursor to something uncontrollable and wretched, and for a split second you consider letting her cry, just on the off chance her dad hears it.

But you come to your senses: it’ll take all but five, no more than ten minutes to cover the entire store ground. You graze your hand by her back and offer her the sorry excuse for a cat. “Hey, don’t worry, it’s alright. I’ll help you.”

“B-But…” Those pretty brown eyes of her turn glassy, ready for tears, and her lip quivers, her cheeks puff out.

“I’ll help you find him, okay? We’ll wait right here, and I promise he’ll find you. We won’t leave this spot til he does.”

She hesitates before she nods, gives you a warbled, “Okay.”

You give her your name—something you read or heard from word of mouth, how putting a name to your face makes you more trustworthy. “What’s yours?”

“...Sofia.”

“Sofia,” you repeat. “That’s a very pretty name.”

The dimples that come through with her smile have you swooning, your chest filling with something sweet. A supercut you’ve long since abandoned flits through one of the best and worst years you’ve endured: kisses at the door for hello and goodbye, chilly Chicago mornings spent in someone else’s sheets, serving coffee in thick handmade mugs and being thanked for it with lips pressed to your cheek. But that was a year ago, and it’s long gone. You’re better off now—occupied with work, and running a business, and trying new things, and finding comfort in the solitude of an apartment that’s filled with nothing but the smell of coffee grounds.

Your pointer finger lifts her toy’s head: “And who’s this?”

“Butterscotch,” she says, Butter sounding a whole lot like Buttah.

“Yeah? Where’d you come up with that name?”

“My daddy’s a chef, he teached it to me.”

A chef, you hum, No wonder he’s here at seven in the morning.

And you do just about everything you’d want someone to do if this were your kid: you keep her right where she is like you promised her, you listen to all her stories she has with Butterscotch, you answer the silly questions she asks while she holds your finger in a squishy hand and bears a gummy smile.

Until—

A man wrought with stress approaches. Fitted white tee, loose denim on his hips, beat up Nikes that’ve probably seen better days. Golden brown curls like the little girl’s, only thicker, darkened with age, and half-straightened, probably from the way he runs his fingers through them like he does as he walks toward you and the girl. Buff arms, built shoulders, and they’re littered with tattoos…

Not what you expected. And he looks so fucking familiar, yet you can’t put your finger on it—

“Sofia,” he huffs, and she scurries over to him in tiny yet quickened steps and jumps into his arms, his eyes closing and brows furrowing with a relief that’s palpable as he tucks his nose into her swirling hair. “What’d I tell you about comin’ to the store w’me, huh?” A veiny hand with the letters S O U inked on the fingers cups the back of her head as he sways her from side to side, failing to give her much of a stern look at all despite his frustration. “You gotta stay by my side, I told you, you’ll get lost.”

“But I wasn’t lost, Daddy,” she pouts, “I was right here, and—and I had to find Butterscotch, and you—you weren’t there—”

“Okay,” he soothes, rubbing his hand along her back before he thumbs away budding tears from her fleshy cheeks. “Okay, hon…” He props her at his hip. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You just scared me ‘s all, alright? Didn’t know where you were, had me lookin’ all over for you.”

“...I’m sorry,” she mumbles, clearly upset, nuzzling into her dad’s shoulder as he presses a sweet kiss to her head.

He looks to you, then, and you lend him a sympathetic smile.

“Sorry about her, she’s, uh…” He peeks at her, so lovingly— “She can be a handful sometimes.”

“No, don’t apologize, she was great.” Your eyes drift to his hands. They’re big, strong, like he knows what to do with them around the house, with a baby girl...with her mother, too, though you wonder where that stands. You try not to. “She’s talkative, makes for a fun conversation. A great storyteller, too.”

He smiles, and it’s hearty, with a twitch of a brow as he draws just a bit closer—it’s slight, so slight you almost think you’re imagining things. “Think so? She doesn’t usually, um…doesn’t usually wanna talk to people, y’know?” He hikes her up again, and she turns so that she’s facing you. “Get all grumpy, don’t ya, Sof? Like with your Uncle Richie?”

“But she’s nice,” she chimes in, lifting her head from his shoulder and leaving the cat’s head peeking through. “Not mean like he is.”

Again with that smile, he looks at her with raised brows, bobs her up and down as he holds her tight, like she’s his entire world. “Yeah?” He shoots you back a look, half-impressed. “You don’t wanna see him today, huh?”

“No,” she grumbles, face smushed into his tee. “Can she come to work with us instead?”

“Sof…” He scoffs, cocking his head to the side, and his eyes dart between you and his girl. “That’s not—we can’t just—”

“Pretty please, Daddy…” She pouts at him, pulls on his neck with her arms looped around it, starts trying to lean back to stir up trouble but his hands hold her firm to his torso. “You said Eva and Vivi can’t play today…”

“I—I know, hon— . . . It’s just— . . .” Kissing his teeth, he contemplates for a moment. “She probably has work to do, y’know? Just like I have to work? And how sometimes you can’t come with me?”

“Where does she work?”

“Uhhh…” In an awkward pause, he seems to realize the dilemma. The expectant glance your way is almost painful. “Shit,” he hisses, holding Sofia with one hand to run fingers through his hair, “I’m sorry, I should’ve—I should introduce myself, right?” The pained look on his face makes you think the question is genuine, and he offers his right hand to you— “I’m Carmen, but, um, most people just call me Carmy.”

It clicks: He’s Carmen Berzatto. Not just some guy or some chef in the grocery store you’ve happened to meet, but the guy. The guy who owns the fine dining joint across the street from your cafe; the guy who showed up to the city a few years ago only to revamp his family-owned sandwich shop in its entirety; the guy you’d heard so much about from the gossip around the block between vendors; the guy who left his roots to be something so much bigger than anyone could’ve imagined; the guy who came back with a reputation with none to rival and a shattered family in its shadow. The prodigal son of Chicago. You heard of him but never met.

“Y-Yeah, right, right,” you nod, stumbling for the right words. “I thought you looked kinda familiar.” You take his hand graciously as you give him your name. His handshake is firm, solid, sure of himself, with a callused palm and dry skin and cracked knuckles, an inked-on hand with a knife through its palm on the back of his hand. “You own The Bear, right?”

“I do.” Sheepish, like it’s embarrassing to be successful.

“Cool, cool, I’ve, um, I’ve heard a lot of good things about it, but I’ve never been.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Something warm in your belly comes to the surface and you try to drown it. “I own the cafe across the street—? Just a, uh, a smaller place—” You shake your head as if to dismiss the thought of him even knowing about it. “I dunno if—”

“No, no, yeah, I know that one, a few doors down—” he nods, fervently— “Etta’s, right?”

You smile. He knew of it so quick, with so little detail you want to think it means something. “Yeah, that’s the one.” For fuck’s sake, the guy probably just likes to support his local businesses. Get a grip.

“My sister loves that place, goes there all the time. But I, uh…” A soft smile at his girl. “I don’t usually have much time to go myself…”

“Yeah, I can imagine you’re pretty busy with her.” Unless her mom is in the picture…?

But he doesn’t take the bait—he only smiles, hums with a subtle nod, gives Sofia a pat on the back to get her attention, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Hey, cub, guess what?”

She comes to only slightly, with pale blonde locks like angel’s hair tickling Carmen’s neck. Grumbles something akin to a Hm?

“You know those chocolate chip muffins you like? The ones your Aunt Natalie gets for you?”

Her curls are already caught in her eyelashes. “With the sparkles on top?”

He gives you a knowing look: sugar, not sparkles. “Yes, with the sparkles. Did you know our new friend here runs that shop?”

Her head perks up with a gasp. “What?” Her excitement is so soft, and she can’t even stave off a smile now, tiny teeth shining through to show the dimples in her cheeks again.

“You heard me.”

From her mouth is only a whisper, a doe-eyed look targeted right at you. “No way.”

You smile at her. “Yes way.”

She puts on those puppy dog eyes, looks at Carmen with a pout as she tugs on him again. “Daddy, can we please—”

 In one fell swoop, his hand whisks her hair out of her face. “Uh-uh. Nice try.”

Oh, but she’s a stubborn one. “But please—”

“Not today, baby, we gotta finish shopping, hm? Then go to work?” His eyes dart to meet yours in a knowing glance, a silent apology and excuse to leave. “Maybe I’ll ask Aunt Natalie to get them for you tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

She huffs and buries herself into his neck again, turning away from you now that she’s in a surly mood.

“Okay,” he sighs, smiling to himself, and you can’t deny the comfort in seeing his little girl so cozy with him, like he’s either the only parent around, or he’s really just that good of a father—and husband, or fiancé, or boyfriend, or whatever he might be. You don’t know if you should feel guilty for wanting to pry.

The conversation lulls to a hesitant stop, like neither one of you is sure how to bid farewell—or whether you want to do so at all.

“Y’know,” he starts, with a finality to his tone, “I’ve still gotta—”

“Yeah, me too—”

“And I left the cart in the other aisle—”

“Right, right, of course—”

“And they need me at the—”

“Same here, I need to, uh—”

“Right, yeah, so um—”

“Yeah—”

“I guess I should—”

“Probably—”

“And, uh—…”

“It was nice to meet you, though,” you finish, maybe a little too enthusiastic for only having just done so minutes ago.

But if it were, Carmen doesn’t show it. “Yeah, it was nice to meet you, too. I’ll, uh…I’ll see you around.”

You offer a softened smile. “Guess so.”

And he leaves you with a curt nod before he turns around with Sofia’s face smushed into his shoulder, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck to leave Butterscotch hugged to the nape of it. That’s all you see, then: just a beaten up stuffed animal and springy golden curls as Carmen rounds the corner of the aisle, your breath gone short and face gone warm by the end of it.

Half of it, you’re sure, is the simple brevity of it all: consoling a lost child, to chatting with her father, to finding out he’s a business neighbor. And against your better judgment, the other half of it is a twinge of attraction to him.  Even though he has a kid, and he may very well be married, or at least in a relationship, and by the looks of it, stressed out of his goddamn mind…

But there’s just something about him.

The way he was worried about his daughter like he’s supposed to be, the way he holds her and dotes on her and rubs her back like it’s nothing but natural to him, the heartwarming smile that reaches his eyes just by looking at his precious girl. The hard-earned strength in his hands and arms, the symbolic imagery of his tattoos that you’ve yet to dwell upon in late night hours, the awkward demeanor about him like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to talk to you—or if he even knows how. And all this, you see in a man working down the street, a man you’ve never spoken to until today, who could be the worst person in the world for all you know.

You don’t, is the thing. You don’t know his middle name, or his favorite color, or favorite food, or where he’s even worked, really, other than here in Chicago. You don’t know if Sofia’s mother is still around, or whatever happened to her if she isn’t, or if it’s a topic he breaches freely or not at all.

You don’t know enough about him yet to judge. You don’t know much at all. You don’t know if you want to, whether it’ll send you head first into a mess of pasts not unlike the one you’ve been trying to crawl out of alone for the past grueling months, if it’d upturn all the good you’ve tried to make stick.

But if there’s one thing you do know, it’s that you want to see him again. 

And that you’ll have to make a batch or two of muffins first.

masterlist | next | taglist

@knight4xmas @ajourneyforjoy @penguin876

[bvnniz]

AHHH

How about either Vox’s or Val’s assistant got mad at bunny cuz she ran into him and knocked papers out of his hands and she pushed her down the stairs and told her if she tells Vox or Val about it he’ll hurt her and when Vox finds her and asks what’s wrong and what happens she’s to scared so he looks at the cameras and ya

Sorry it’s a long one 😝

i feel like u just own my requests atp but i ᥫ᭡ it

𝜗𝜚 warnings: dd/lg dynamic with bunny & vox , bunny calls vox daddy

you had woken up like every morning, running to the tower then running up the stairs except this time you had ran into valentino’s assistant, max. everyone at valentino’s studio had loved you but max was not a fan of you. you expected it was because max had a relationship with valentino before she was practically thrown out because valentino was spending most of his time with you.

“oh if it isn’t the little bunny brat.” you just started up at her a little scared. “first, you make my life with my boss a living hell, then you make me drop all the damn papers valentino sent me to get from vox. is all you do is ruin things.” you just shook your head no, absolutely terrified. max nodded, before she smiled down at you. “guess i can make it so you can’t.” she said before pushing you backwards, making you fall down the first set of stairs, which was roughly ten steps.

“oh and don’t think about telling vox or valentino. if you did your life is gonna be way worse, and believe me i will make them turn against you if you even try to say something.” you nodded waiting for her to leave before walking up the stairs and heading towards vox’s office.

“hey little one, i missed you.” he smiled at you as he saw your ears in the door frame, starting to get a little confused as you didn’t immediately run into the room. “oh how i do miss my little princess, i do wonder where she is.” you walked into the door frame, vox immediately opening his arms up for you. “c’mere princess.”

you walked over sitting in his lap, putting your back against him to hide your face of pain. he immediately kissed your head “hi princess.”

“hi daddy”

he looked at you confused, before noticing the bruises forming on your legs and immediately turning you to face him. “what happened.” you laid your head on his chest trying to give him false security that you were fine. “nothing happened daddy, i just fell, you know i’m clumsy.” he nodded. “okay princess if you say so, why don’t you go take a nap on the couch?” you nodded back before going and laying on the couch before drifting off to sleep

the second he saw that your small body was asleep he immediately checked his cameras, immediately seeing his little princess get pushed down the stairs by valentinos assistant max.

first thing he did, after being done with seeing red was send the cam footage to valentino, almost immediately getting a phone call from valentino “is that my little conejita being pushed down the stairs by my assistant?” vox let out a mhm “she’ll be dead within the hour.” was all valentino said before hanging up.

vox turned to you smiling, before picking up your smaller form and pulling you back onto his lap as you stirred awake. “it’s being taken care of princess.” he said kissing you on the cheek. “don’t worry, i’ll start working later so that you can get here at the same time as me so you don’t need to be alone again princess.”

[anim-ttrpgs]

Mage Player Character Rules in Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy

Eureka has six playable "monster" types, and about ten total supernatural character options all together. Each supernatural trait is taken basically as if it is a normal trait like the ones you have been seeing us post. You cannot give a character more than one supernatural trait--and from what you are about to read, you probably wouldn't want to. Playing monsters is recommended for "advanced" players only, people who like a lot of "crunch" in their games, as require you to keep track of a lot more mechanics than playing a normal human.

Here is the Mage Trait. Mage aren't actually classified as Monsters, they're classified as "Misc. Supernatural," but even then their mechanics can be crunchy. This is going under a Read More because it's long as hell but we really hope that you will check it out and comment. This is, like, the whole entire ruleset for playing a mage in Eureka.

You may also have read about "mage powers" in the Changeling, Fairy, and Fairytale Witch rulesets. Well, this is where those come from.

Mage (Misc. Supernatural Trait) 

A “mage”[2] in Eureka is an otherwise normal person with one or more inexplicable powers.[1] Unlike the Fairytale Witch, a Mage’s powers are always innate. They may or may not know where this supernatural ability came from, and having it may or may not have indirectly influenced the direction their life has taken, but it is easy enough to hide without structuring any of their day-to-day life around actively hiding it.

[1 off to the side in the final formatting] Though it is usually only one.

[2 off to the side in the final formatting] Though they are more likely to call themselves “something-kinetic,” “mutant,” or “freak.”

A mage has one or more Mage Powers [change mage traits to mage abilities], with their body under more strain the more of them they were born with. This strain is represented by the Composure roll they make when putting a non-skill supernatural ability to use. They cannot have more than six. [make it clear in the witch section that witches can only have one Mage ability at once.]

One Mage Power: +3

Two Mage Powers: +1

Three Mage Powers: +0

Four Mage Powers: -1

Five Mage Powers: -2

Six Mage Powers: -3

[snoop: A Genevya snoopette hovering while machetes are floating around her. Ask blue for more details]

Mage Power List

Glamor (Mage Power)

This character can make themselves appear supernaturally attractive for the duration of one scene. Turning on this power counts as using a supernatural ability and takes one Movement. While this power is active, apply a +2 Base bonus to this character’s Charm and Seduce skills. This investigator can also spend 1 Eureka! Point to completely alter their outward appearance and voice to look like someone else, so long as their general body frame and height are not altered significantly. This investigator can spend 2 Eureka! Points to completely alter their appearance, including height, apparent weight, and sex. In order to match a specific person’s look, the investigator must either have a reference to study, such as the person themself or a high-quality photograph, to make their disguise match a specific person’s appearance. Either way, this counts as use of a non-skill supernatural ability and only lasts for the duration of one Scene. 

Healing Touch (Mage Power)

This character’s touch has the power to restore and revitalize living flesh. Add +2 to the number of HP restored by any Medicine roll, even a Failure. Does not heal undead.

Incredible Strength (Mage Power) 

This character’s physical prowess far exceeds their apparent musculature. This character is considered to have superhuman strength, as well as a +2 Base bonus to Athletics and +1 Base bonus Close Combat. 

[snoop: A snoop lifting a barbell meant for two hands with only one “hand”.]

Invisibility (Mage Power) 

The character in question can make themselves impossible to see with the naked eye. There are a number of ways to interpret this, and it is important to decide in no uncertain terms how it works beforehand. Does it include the character’s clothes, or do they have to strip naked to avoid looking like a floating outfit? Do they have to leave their own eyes visible to catch light, or do they not need to worry about that? Is this true invisibility, or are they merely changing the color of their skin to match the environment, and does it work while they are moving? Make sure to consider all of these things before the first session. Regardless, this character may turn invisible or turn visible again at any time, each of which count as use of a supernatural ability, and takes 1 Movement if in combat. While invisible, apply a +10 Base bonus to their Stealth skill.

[off to the side in the final formatting] Our recommended drawback for this ability is that the user must be naked in order to not be given away by their clothes floating in the air.

[Snoop: One snoop looking around confused while an invisible snoop represented by nothing but a pair of eyes sneaks past. ]

Lightning Powers (Mage Power) 

This investigator can generate high-voltage shocks in their body. It takes a short amount of time, or one Turn, counting as an action, to build up a charge, and also counts as use of a supernatural ability. After building up a charge, they can power, or short out, an electronic device that they touch, within reason.[1] In order to power an electronic device, they must actually touch the wires or other components that would normally touch the power supply.[2] For each minute or Round of combat that the investigator powers a device, they must make the supernatural ability Composure roll.

[1 off to the side in the final formatting] They could not take the place of a nuclear power plant and power an entire city, for instance, but jumping a car, keeping the lights of a house on, etc. would be within their limits.

[2 off to the side in the final formatting] For instance, they could not power a flashlight just by holding it by the handle, they must actually touch the components that the battery would touch. The investigator is essentially acting as the battery, and if they stop touching the device, it will be as if the battery was removed.

This investigator ability can use this ability in combat as well. After charging up, the next person to touch this investigator either with their own body or any kind of highly conductive weapon will be dealt a powerful electric shock for 4 Superficial Damage if the incoming attack is a Full Success and 2 Superficial Damage if the incoming attack is a Partial Success. This can be used offensively by combining it with any unarmed melee attack, or with a weapon made of a highly conductive material.[1] When attacking like this, only one roll is made, counting for both damage sources.[2]

[1 off to the side in the final formatting] The investigator must be actually touching the same conductive material that is impacting the target for this to work. For instance, a knife with a metal blade but a rubber handle would not deliver a charge.

[2 off to the side in the final formatting] Full Success = Full regular attack damage + 4 Superficial Damage from electricity.

Partial Success = Half regular attack damage + 2 Superficial Damage from electricity.

Failure = No damage, as usual.

Once an electric charge has been discharged, it must be built up again.

For 1 Eureka! Point, this investigator can build up a massive charge.[1] This massive charge can be unleashed in a direction of the investigator’s choice where it will jump up to 15 feet towards the nearest conductive thing in that direction. This lightning will jump 1D6 times, alway jumping to the next nearest point of conduction starting from the investigator. It does not discriminate between friend and foe.

[1 off to the side in the final formatting] This takes the same amount of time to generate as a normal charge, and takes an action.

Manifest Weaponry (Mage Power) 

This character is able to produce 2 short semi-transparent hovering blades about the size of machetes at will, which they can control without touching them. This counts as one Movement. At the cost of one Eureka! Point, 4 blades can be summoned instead. For combat purposes, each pair of blades counts as a separate single dual-wielding combatant independent of the character who summoned them, with their own actions and place in the turn-order. A pair of blades can only make Basic Melee Attacks, but cannot be attacked themselves, and uses their owner’s Close Combat skill. They can also benefit from the Ambidextrous trait if their owner has this trait.

Their Speed will always be twice the Speed of their owner, however, they will vanish when out of the owner’s line of sight, and suffer an attack penalty of -1 for every 15 feet they travel away from their owner.

0-14 feet: -0

15-29 feet: -1

30-44 feet: -2

45-59 feet: -3

60-74 feet: -4

75-89 feet: -5

90-104 feet: -6

105-120 feet: -7

etc.

[snoop: A snoopette with four hovering machetes around her shoulders.]

Psychic Detective (Mage Power)

When this investigator is about to make an Investigative Roll with any skill they can, as a supernatural ability, instead replace the skill they were going to use to investigate with the Blacked Out skill, and it is otherwise treated like a regular Investigative Roll and gives the same information as the skill it is replacing. If one of these Investigative Rolls is made towards either a weapon the use of which is relevant to the investigation, or a wound that is relevant to the investigation, then regardless of the roll’s outcome this investigator will take Superficial Damage equivalent to half of the weapon’s regular damage, and must make a Composure Check as if they had been hit by this weapon. However, the Narrator does not tell the player exactly what the weapon is, just its damage and its category for the purpose of Composure Checks. The Narrator will also tell the player whether the damage dealt was Superficial or Penetrative, though the actual damage taken to this investigator will always be Superficial.

[off to the side in the final formatting] For example, if the investigator uses this ability to make an Investigative Roll towards a murder victim’s body to determine the cause of death, and the cause of death was a gunshot wound, the Narrator would tell his player that this investigator takes 2 Superficial Damage (Bullets normally deal 4 Penetrative Damage, but this Trait converts that to Superficial Damage and cuts it in half.) and must make a Gunfight Composure Check.

[off to the side in the final formatting] Wearing armor does not reduce this damage.

Pyrokinesis (Mage Power) 

This character can start small fires with their mind. In order to do this, the target must be reasonably flammable, such that it would ignite if a match was held to it, and also be visible to the character. If time is measured in Turns this counts as a Movement. “Visible” usually means that it is in the character’s immediate vicinity. The Narrator should be very careful if allowing this power to target things seen in video feeds or photographs. We generally do not recommend this interpretation. If attempted in combat or any other situation where time is being measured in rounds, this takes one action. Anything highly flammable, such as paper, flammable gas, or kindling will catch fire guaranteed. For anything marginally flammable, such as hair, most clothing, and thicker wood, roll 1D6. On a 1-3, the targeted object will not catch fire; on a 4-6, it will catch fire. Subtract -1 for each factor present that would make it harder for something to catch fire, such as if the object is wet or if there is high wind speed. If fire is set to someone’s hair or clothes in this way, they will have 1 round to extinguish it before it starts to cause damage. After the first round, it will deal 1 Superficial Damage on the burning character’s turn until extinguished.

In addition, rather than just starting a small fire, this investigator can spend a Eureka! Point to instantly set something ablaze in a burning inferno, so long as it is at all reasonably flammable. If this is done to a character, the burning character will take 2 Superficial Damage each time it is their own turn until extinguished. See: Splash Explosions for more rules regarding burning damage.

[off to the side in the final formatting] Unlike a true Splash Explosion, however, this ability can only target one character or object at a time.

[Snoop: One snoop shooting ‘mind beams’ at another snoop’s butt who is running around with their butt on fire.]

Telekinesis (Mage Power)

This character can affect, push, pull, lift, etc. objects without physically touching them. Anything a character could do with their hand, this character can do with telekinesis, unless the action somehow requires a hand specifically, such as using a thumbprint recognition scanner. For any usage of this ability that would require an Athletics check if it were to be done with the physical body, use an Athletics modifier of +2, regardless of the investigator’s actual Athletics stat. This investigator can use this ability to lift themselves and/or others into the air, though their speed while hovering cannot exceed a walking pace. This investigator can use their telekinesis to make a Grab attack against another character from a distance. All Grabbing and Holding rules apply, including Submission, except that the Grabber and the Target do not have to be touching. This investigator can spend 1 Eureka! Point to exert up to 500 pounds of pressure on an object for 1 round. This takes an action. This pressure could be used for a variety of purposes, such as lifting, crushing, etc. If used to crush a character, this deals 4 Penetrative Damage and ignores Armor. 

[off to the side in the final formatting] When Grabbing with the telekinesis, this does not use the investigator’s own Athletics, it will always be a total modifier of +1; +2 from the telekinesis, -1 from the Grab action.

[off to the side in the final formatting] If this is being done from outside the range of the target’s weapon, the target cannot make a Counter-Attack. Additionally, the target must know who is attempting to Grab them in order to make a Counter-Attack.

[Snoop: A snoopette hovering in a lazy/smug relaxed position looking at another snoop who is significantly more distressed about being lifted into the air.]

Teleportation (Mage Power) 

This character can teleport, instantly transporting themselves to their destination. They can teleport to any location they can clearly see within 100 yards. If done in combat, this takes an action. At the cost of 3 flat composure points per additional person, this investigator can teleport with other people so long as they are touching them.

At the cost of 1 Eureka! Point, this investigator can teleport to anywhere in the world that they have been before and can clearly picture in their mind. This costs 1 additional Eureka! Point per additional person they are bringing with, in addition to the Composure cost.

Superhuman Speed (Mage Power) 

When this ability is activated, this investigator’s body is capable of moving faster than regular physics dictate it should, but not faster than the human eye can track. This ability must be activated on a per-Scene basis, and doing so confers a +3 Composure check. This takes a Movement. While this ability is active, add a +3 Base to this investigator’s Reflexes skill, a +3 Base bonus to any melee attack roll, and a -3 penalty to any other character’s melee attack roll targeting this character, and a -1 to any other character’s firearm or projectile attack roll targeting this character if this character is ducking or running perpendicular to the shooter. While this ability is active this investigator also has an Acceleration of +8. 

Werewolf (Mage Power)

The character may transform into a large, tailless wolf. This takes 1 Action if done in combat. In this form, they can only attack with their jaws. To attack with jaws, make a Grab attack. So long as the target is Grabbed, all other aspects of Grabbing apply, but they also take 2 Penetrative damage each time it is the character’s turn with no roll needed. This damage can be reduced by armor or by any other damage reduction such as that of the Unkillable trait. They gain a +4 Contextual bonus to Senses rolls involving hearing and smell. They also gain a +1 Base bonus to Close Combat, and a +4 Base bonus to Stealth. +4 Acceleration.

While in wolf form, werewolves are capable of Scent Tracking. (See p.xx “Scent Tracking”.) 

[Snoop: An image of a tree with a wolf tail sticking out from one side and a snoop ‘skin’ hanging from a coat hanger right next to it.]

Note: ‘Werewolves’ as they appear in most historical folklore do not really fit into the Monster category. They don’t have any particular weaknesses besides the weaknesses that regular humans have, nor are they really even that dangerous compared to other Monster types. For this reason, this Trait is considered a Mage Power. For a more ‘hollywood’ take on werewolves, see Wolfman. 

[sevenop]

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Connected

A/n: Billie is your under-bed demon that plagues you with nightmares every night to feed his hunger. She has no shame or any boundaries of decency, but she is the one who comes to your rescue when the world around you begins to fall apart, rumbling. When no one seems to notice you, content with your outward calm while inside everything is crumbling infernally.

Warning: suicidal thoughts, heavy atmosphere.

Inspired by "bury a friend."

Happy Halloween, dudes. Even though I'm late! xd 🦇

You come home as badly as you always do: you pile into the hallway so loudly that Eilish can hear everything perfectly well even in her sub-bed kingdom behind your closed bedroom door. You walk in as usual, but she senses that something is wrong. And no, it's not just the demonic flair for your emotions and thoughts, which for her resemble today especially viscous ink, splashing through the edge of sanity with their bituminous blackness in your skull. You jingle your keys, tossing them on the nightstand carelessly instead of putting them down neatly, walking twenty steps instead of the usual six, as if confused in a familiar space, you not shouting a greeting to her from the doorstep, disturbing her peace. You are different. And she notices it. In every possible detail.

Seven more extra steps and you confirm her hunch absolutely undeniably: you walk into your own bedroom quietly, toss your bag of university notebooks into the corner (it almost whistles like a bullet, slicing through the air and slamming onto the floor, spilling pens out of its «mouth», notebooks, phone and other stuff), and on top of that you press your back against the newly closed door and slide down it so bruised and tired that even Billie feels sorry for you for a quarter of a second. And to pity the dream demon that devours people's nightmares every night, it really takes a lot of effort.

"Someone in a good mood tonight?" Eilish snorts her usual sarcasm, hiding beneath the darkness of your bed and even beyond that, the dark haze of dusk beginning to fall outside from your window, and you don't even throw her the usual and ungracious "shut up!". You cover your face with your trembling hands, resting your head against them with a ragged exhale, and you don't drop a word. Now this is where Billie tenses up. What a day rich in phenomena. "My dear little human, what's the matter with you?"

"What do you want from me?" It's as if your voice mirrors the amplitude of your palms: also trembling, only barely more noticeable. You hesitate for a second, and then complement, mentally tentatively 'jogging' the numbers on the dial. It's almost ten o'clock. Usually, at this time, Eilish is already delicately annoying your elderly neighbors from the apartment across the hall with their early bedtime routine and feasting on their nightmares. "Why don't you run from me?.."

"What are you wondering?" She says, not even paying attention to your questions. It's not that she doesn't care, but... Just a 'but'. Demons don't need to answer to anyone, it's not in their nature. "I can feel the weight of your thoughts even from here, and it's rather... unaccustomed."

"What do you know...?" You whisper hoarsely, warily looking into the impenetrable darkness beneath the bed through your fingers. Honestly, Eilish is flattered that you're at least giving her a bit of your gaze right now. She's attention-hungry, but for some reason she's not taking offense today. Everything's going to hell today. Intriguing.

The bed creaks a little as she clings with her pale, cold alabaster hands from the darkness of the under-bed to the white blanket crawling to the floor, the soft mattress, and the sturdy wooden kingpins. A moment, and you see her face in all its glory: with neat and mesmerizing features, framed by untangled (she repeatedly steals your combs), long teal strands of hair, which makes her demonic eyes, shrouded in an impenetrable white veil, stand out especially strong and contrasting. She's in no hurry to come out in one piece, but she's not hiding either. It's like she's probing something, waiting.

"Your talk'll be somethin' that shouldn't be said out loud." She summarizes coolly, staring at you piercingly with her white solid sclerae. Your mind is her filing cabinet, she knows she can read you from and through with unobtrusive ease, but stays clear of the impromptu "allowed" boundary you've marked out to her many times, as many times experiencing collapse. Has the mighty demon of dreams just today suddenly started to take your rights into account? Or is it just more interesting? To play, to pry sounds, letters out of you..?

You bang your head lightly against the door, lean the back of your head against the cool varnish of the same sickly white-colored wood, and shift your gaze from her to the serene and at the same time pressing down on you ceiling, and exhale so heavily, as if you wanted to squeeze the soul out of your entrails. Ungodly hard, ungodly painful... Words sinfully and so fucking stuck in your throat, as if a swallowed blade were tearing and slicing your windpipe lengthwise, only upwards instead of downwards. You want to say something, but you can't. Fuck.

Billie rustles again in the back of your mental filing cabinet, drowning in black ink, and having dug something up, she comes out of her world of darkness and horror in one piece: a slight rustle of fabric, an even lighter creak, and she stands swaying in front of you in her white, shapeless and huge clothes, looking like a ghost. Short, but so powerful, able to make a mess of the whole neighborhood, if not the nearest three at once, with just a puppy of her fingers. Eilish is like a pendulum, attracting already scattered attention with sound and glitter: a dozen silver chains and pendants around her neck, steel rings on her fingers, and several thin bracelets on her wrists with flashing crosses and other figures. It all tinkles and clinks pleasantly as she moves, glistening, hypnotizing, giving off a slight chill... Beautiful. Insanely beautiful.

"Come here." Her velvet voice rustles pleasantly, drowning out the rustle of her paranormal white clothes as she invitingly opens her arms for a hug. And you swear that five more seconds and you'll be ready to burst into tears. And you don't deny yourself that. Because it's not every day that a nightmare demon expresses a desire to embrace you, inviting you into her bonds of arms, because you realize that you can no longer. Because aspidically, to the point of anger at everyone and everything on your soul is painful and lousy. That's why you spring springily, puppet-like, and push your palms away from the door, which resembles a tombstone today rather than a beautiful piece of embossed wood on hinges. That's why you bump your nose somewhere on her neck, the very tip running along the thin, smooth skin. That's why you cling to her as if your carcass is weighing over a sharp-edged cliff and about to plummet downward. Hypothetically, it is. You've fallen off the edge of your thoughts. And there's no way she's going to say she likes feeling you so close to her. You're such a contrast: warm, weak, broken... She won't say any of those things, but she will hug you so gently and tenderly that every demon who has ever lived and still exists today would condemn her for it. Well, if them dared.

"Say it, spit it out," she settles gently with you on the soft pile of the blue carpet without unclasping the ring of her hands, "what is it exactly?"

"Today, I'm thinkin' about the things that are deadly." Your voice is muffled by the soft fabric of her t-shirt, as if someone had put a silencer on the gun's rumbling single-shot silencer beforehand. The words rhyme so amusingly and effortlessly with Eilish's line that you want to giggle for a second. Billie tenses up like a string: she has long suspected such a thing from the chains of your thoughts she read, but it's still unexpected to hear you say it head-on. You're a smiling perpetual doofus, aren't you? Her favorite smiling perpetual doofus. She can't keep quiet anymore.

"The way I'm drinkin' you down," she reads your unspoken thought of your own irrelevance, which dangles in the inky-black sea of your depressive thoughts like a bright and teasing float. Grab it, and it will drag you like a multi-ton anchor to the very bottom. Not the top. "Like I wanna drown, like I wanna end me."

You frown softly, sniffing your nose. Understanding demonic confusing aphorisms is still difficult. Billie laughs velvetly and clarifies, and her dark, docile shadows wrap around you in an affectionate haze, stroking your shoulders and arms with her, tickling your neck as she places her palms masterfully on your shoulder blades, as if hiding your scarred but incredibly strong angel wings from everyone: "In the language of demons, it means that you are very important to someone. You are very important to me, Y/n."

"Say..." You snuggle closer to her, though it feels like there's nowhere closer to go. Gently open your fragile hoop of arms behind her back, hugging back. Billie shakes quietly, like a piece of paper in the wind. "When we all fall asleep, where do we go?"

"Careful." She whispers softly as one of her nimble shadows gently lifts your chin, forcing you to look directly at her. You see the blue, cool irises of her eyes for the first time, not the bottomless white sclerae, but exactly the ocean irises. Similar to human... The spirit is so breathtaking that you involuntarily open your lips on an exhalation, and she takes advantage of this momentarily: she kisses you softly, even if she accidentally, absolutely unintentionally bites your lower lip a little. She can't be contained, she wants to. And it's not only about kiss: she wants to protect you and show you exactly how important you are to her, so that you clearly understand everything. And you do.

You are a little person, who say that silly, uneven to her endless longing and ungodly expensive in human realities "I love you" and she's had enough. She is a powerful dream demon, whispering quietly that she will sleep with you in her arms tonight so she can chase away your bad dreams and inky thoughts. And you've had enough.

[harryssyndrome]

Backstage To My Heart

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 | 𝐀𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞

The late afternoon sun spilled through the wide, arched windows of Harry’s music room, bathing the space in a soft, amber glow. The air was warm, still, and the room was filled with the scent of aged wood and leather, a mix of guitar cases and old vinyl records scattered across the shelves. Every corner of the room whispered of creativity—the walls were adorned with old tour posters, framed records, awards and Grammy won over time and the guitars that had borne witness to countless late nights of songwriting. But today, the atmosphere felt heavier, thick with frustration.

Harry sat in the middle of the room on a worn leather armchair, his acoustic guitar resting on his lap. His fingers danced along the frets, searching for the right chord, the perfect sequence to complete the song that had been gnawing at the edges of his mind for days. He played a progression, but something was off. He strummed again, slower this time, but the melody stubbornly refused to take shape. Each note felt flat, uninspired, like chasing a shadow that kept slipping away.

With a sigh, he leaned back and let the guitar rest against his knee, staring down at the notebook spread open on the floor. Lines of half-written lyrics spilled across the page, jagged and incomplete, just like the tune swirling in his head. He closed his eyes, willing the right words and sounds to come together, but the only thing that surfaced was a thought of her—Ashley.

She drifted into his mind like a soft breeze, uninvited but undeniable. He could almost hear her laugh, that melodic sound that always seemed to soothe him ever since he has met her. His fingers absentmindedly plucked the strings, and for a moment, he could feel a connection, a fleeting sense that he was on the verge of something. But just as quickly, the feeling slipped away, leaving him more frustrated than before.

"Focus," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if to dislodge the image of her from his thoughts. He was here to work on the music, not to be distracted by memories of her. But as he tried to refocus, his phone buzzed loudly on the table beside him, breaking the quiet tension of the room.

Harry grabbed it, glancing at the screen—Mitch. He sighed and answered.

“Mate, you alive in there?” Mitch’s voice rang out, a mix of humour and concern. “You’ve been off the grid for days. What are you doing, working yourself to death?”

Harry rubbed his eyes. “Just trying to crack this song. It’s not happening.”

“That’s your problem. You’re trying too hard. You need to loosen up.” There was a pause, then Mitch’s tone turned casual, persuasive. “Look, there’s this new pub down the street. Nothing fancy, but good drinks, good crowd. You should come out with me, take a breather.”

Harry hesitated, his gaze drifting back to the guitar. The idea of stepping away felt like giving up, but maybe Mitch was right. His shoulders were tight, and his mind was knotted with frustration. A break wouldn’t hurt, would it?

“C’mon, you’ve been in that cave too long,” Mitch added with a chuckle. “It’s just one drink. You’ll come back fresh.”

Harry let out a breath, feeling the weight of the past few hours pressing down on him. “Alright,” he finally said. “I’ll come.”

“There you go! I’ll swing by in ten. Be ready.”

As he hung up, Harry glanced back at his guitar, its strings still vibrating faintly from his last frustrated strum. The music would have to wait. Maybe stepping out, just for a while, was exactly what he needed.

He placed the guitar gently on the stand, grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door, and as he walked out of the room, the last of the sunlight began to fade, casting the room into a soft shadow, as if it, too, was ready for a pause.

As Harry and Mitch stepped into the pub, the cool evening air gave way to the warmth of low lighting and the hum of quiet conversation. The place was new but had the comforting charm of somewhere that felt lived in. The scent of wood polish and hops mingled in the air, and the soft strumming of acoustic guitar music played in the background, creating a laid-back, intimate atmosphere.

The pub was dimly lit with vintage Edison bulbs, casting a golden glow across the worn leather booths and dark wooden tables. Exposed brick walls lined the room, adorned with framed photos of local musicians and a few well-placed guitars mounted as decoration. A small stage sat in one corner, waiting for the night’s performer. The bar stretched along the far side of the room, made of dark mahogany, gleaming under the soft lights, with shelves stacked high with bottles of liquor that caught the light like stained glass.

As they made their way toward the bar, Harry took it all in, the rich warmth of the place immediately easing the tension in his shoulders. “Not bad,” he said with a nod of approval. “This place has a good vibe.”

Mitch grinned, nudging him with his elbow. “Told you. You need to get out more. You spend too much time locked up in that music room of yours.”

They reached the bar and slid onto the stools, the wood cool beneath them. Mitch motioned to the bartender, a young guy with tousled hair who looked like he knew his way around a cocktail shaker.

“What’ll it be, lads?” the bartender asked with a smile.

“Two glasses of your best whiskey,” Mitch replied without missing a beat, flashing Harry a grin. “No messing around tonight.”

Harry chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as the bartender poured their drinks. The clink of ice hitting the glass was satisfying, and the amber liquid swirled as the bartender slid the drinks toward them. Harry picked up his glass, feeling the weight of it in his hand. He took a sip, the warmth of the whiskey spreading through him, easing the lingering frustration from the day.

“Alright,” Mitch said, raising his glass for a quick toast. “To loosening up.”

Harry clinked his glass against Mitch’s and took another sip, leaning back slightly on his stool. For the first time in hours, he felt his mind start to settle, the constant churn of melodies and lyrics finally slowing down.

“So,” Mitch started, turning to Harry as he swirled his drink. “How’s the music going? Still wrestling with that new song?”

Harry let out a small sigh. “Yeah, still can’t crack it. Every time I think I’m close, it just... slips away.” He flicked his finger finishing the sentence.

Mitch nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of his whiskey. “That happens sometimes. You’re too close to it, mate. Stepping back helps.” He leaned forward slightly. “Got any new ideas floating around?”

Harry shrugged. “A few. It’s all half-formed though. I’m trying to pin something down before the tour starts again.”

“Ah, the tour,” Mitch said with a grin. “That beast is always looming. Got all your setlists figured out?”

“More or less,” Harry replied, relaxing into the conversation. “But there’s always something last minute.”

Mitch took another sip of his drink, glancing around the pub. “Your family going to come to any of the shows this time?”

“Yeah, they’re planning to. You know how my mum is—she likes to be at as many shows as she can.”

Mitch chuckled. “That woman’s a legend. Always front row, cheering the loudest.”

Harry smiled, the thought of his mum’s unwavering support warming him. The conversation felt easy, familiar, as it always did with Mitch. But then, after a pause, Mitch’s tone shifted, just a touch more playful.

“So... what about you?” Mitch asked, raising an eyebrow. “When are you planning on settling down?”

Harry nearly choked on his drink, laughing as he set the glass down. “Where the hell did that come from?”

Mitch leaned back, grinning. “C’mon, mate. You’ve been on the road for years, music’s going great, but what about... the other stuff? You can’t stay single forever.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, trying to brush it off. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Right now just doesn’t feel like the right time.”

Mitch cocked his head, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “And when is the right time?”

Harry swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. He thought about it for a moment, then said, almost absently, “When I find the right person.”

There was a brief pause, and Mitch’s grin softened into something more serious. “Yeah, well, when you do, you better not let go of her.”

Before Harry could respond, the lights in the pub dimmed, drawing their attention toward the small stage in the corner. The hum of conversation quieted as a young woman stepped up with an acoustic guitar slung over her shoulder. She gave a shy smile to the crowd before starting to strum, her voice soft and clear, filling the room with a gentle melody.

Harry stared at the stage, the dim lighting casting a warm glow on the performer as she adjusted the microphone. For a moment, everything seemed to slow as the woman stepped fully into view, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was Ashley.

She wore a white dress fully covered with patch flowers that fell just above her knees, its full sleeves covered in delicate patches of white flowers. A black tie hung loosely around her neck, giving her a casual but effortlessly chic look. Her long hair flowed freely, tumbling past her waist, catching the soft light as she strummed her guitar, the stage becoming her canvas. She seemed both ethereal and grounded, her presence commanding yet calm on the stage she currently owned. Around her neck, a delicate locket caught the light, hinting at a personal story he longed to know.

As she began to sing, the gentle strumming of her guitar filled the pub, the audience hanging onto her every word. Harry's heart raced, an overwhelming sense of pride swelling within him as he watched her perform. She poured herself into each note, her voice weaving through the melodies with a depth that stirred something deep inside him.

The first few songs were well-known covers, classics that showcased her vocal range and emotional delivery. But then, as she transitioned into the next piece, Harry's breath hitched. It was his song—“Golden”—the very song he had poured his heart into, crafting it during one of those late-night writing sessions when the world felt both heavy and light.

He watched, entranced, as she sang the lyrics with a sincerity that took his breath away. Every word she spoke felt like a revelation, the way she brought his creation to life was like nothing he had imagined. The audience swayed with her, their eyes closed, feeling every emotion that washed over them in waves.

As the song neared its end, Harry felt a rush of adrenaline. Ashley’s eyes roamed the crowd, and for a split second, they locked onto his. He could see a flicker of surprise in her gaze, quickly replaced by a hint of nervousness. She hesitated for a moment, but Harry smiled widely and gestured with enthusiasm, giving her a thumbs-up. “You’re amazing!” he mouthed, and he could see the tension in her shoulders relax just a bit as she returned her focus to the song.

The final notes of “Golden” hung in the air, and the pub erupted into applause, cheers mingling with the clinking of glasses. Harry felt a rush of warmth flood through him, knowing she had truly captivated them. She beamed at the crowd, her confidence rising, and Harry couldn’t help but admire the way her spirit shone on stage.

After a brief pause, she took a deep breath, her smile widening as she announced, “Wow guys, thank you so much for sticking around with me this far! I never thought I would be doing this but it also never felt this right before so here’s a song I’ve written called ‘Carefree!’”

Harry's heart raced at the mention of her original work. He leaned in closer, eager to absorb every word she would share. The atmosphere in the pub shifted slightly; a sense of anticipation hung in the air, a collective breath held as Ashley began to play.

The first notes of “Carefree” flowed like a gentle stream, airy and light, but there was an undercurrent of yearning that pulled at the heartstrings. Her voice soared effortlessly, embodying the very essence of freedom and joy, yet with a hint of longing woven throughout the lyrics. Harry found himself lost in the moment, captivated by the way she expressed herself. Each note felt like a glimpse into her soul, and he was drawn deeper into her world with every line.

Around him, Mitch leaned closer, his eyes wide with awe. “I can’t believe this girl is playing small pub gigs,” he murmured, his tone a mix of disbelief and admiration. “With that kind of talent, someone should have signed her ages ago.”

Harry’s mind raced at Mitch’s words, a spark igniting within him. He turned his head slightly, watching Ashley as she sang, her face glowing under the soft lights. The realization hit him hard: she deserved more than this intimate setting. She needed the chance to share her music on a larger scale, to have her voice heard beyond these walls. The idea began to take shape—a plan to help her, to be the one who could give her the opportunity she so richly deserved.

As Ashley’s song came to a close, the audience erupted into applause once more, the sound echoing through the pub like a wave of appreciation. Harry felt his heart swell with pride, admiration, and something else—a fierce determination. He could help her.

He turned to Mitch, his mind buzzing with possibilities. “We need to do something,” he said, his voice firm. “I can’t just sit back and watch her play here when she has so much more to offer. I want to help her get noticed.”

Mitch’s expression shifted from surprise to understanding, and he nodded slowly. “I get it. You’re talking about getting her some real exposure, aren’t you?”

“Exactly,” Harry said, excitement bubbling in his chest. “I can talk to Jeff or use some connections. I can introduce her to the right people, get her a demo recorded. She needs to be seen. I can’t let her slip through the cracks.”

As he spoke, Harry’s resolve strengthened. He imagined Ashley on bigger stages, her voice filling arenas, her music reaching hearts all over the world. The thought made his pulse quicken; he could help turn that dream into a reality.

Harry said, his voice resolute. “She deserves more than this.”

Mitch grinned, raising his glass. “Now that’s something I’d like to see. Just don’t wait too long, mate. A voice like that… someone else is bound to notice soon.”

Harry nodded, his heart pounding with the possibilities. He wouldn’t wait. Not this time. He wouldn’t let her slip away, in more ways than one.

Just then, as the last notes of the performance faded into a warm, lingering echo, Ashley stepped off the stage, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration from the performance. Harry’s heart raced as she approached, and he felt a mix of excitement and nervousness bubble within him.

Harry stepped forward first, his voice genuine and warm. “You were amazing up there, Ash. Seriously, you sang ‘Golden’ better than me! I couldn’t take my eyes off you. That original song, ‘Carefree’? You’ve got a real gift.”

“Absolutely,” Mitch chimed in, leaning against the bar with a teasing grin. “If I were a record label, I’d be throwing money at you right now. But don’t worry, I’m not a label, so you’re safe from my awful negotiations.”

Ashley laughed softly, a light blush creeping across her cheeks. “Thank you, both of you. It means a lot to hear that, especially coming from you two. You’re both incredibly talented.” Her eyes sparkled with sincerity, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, clearly flattered yet shy under their praise.

“You were incredible. Seriously, you owned that stage.”

“Thanks!” she said, still beaming, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “It’s been a while since I’ve performed. I felt so nervous at the start but now it felt good.”

Mitch chimed in, nudging Harry slightly. “Yeah, you can thank me I guess! I brought this man here. Well in all seriousness, you’ve got a real gift, Ashley. I mean, I can’t believe you’re still playing in places like this. You should be out there making records!”

Ashley laughed softly, a hint of modesty in her demeanor. “I appreciate that, but I’m just starting out. I’ve got a long way to go.”

Harry smiled, noticing her modesty. “You deserve every bit of it, Ash. Honestly, I was thinking…” He hesitated for a moment, gauging her reaction. “What do you say to joining us at the studio? We’ll show you around and hang out for some time.”

Ashley’s eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and excitement washing over her. “The studio? You really think I could…?”

“Of course,” Mitch interjected, his enthusiasm infectious. “I mean, I don’t usually let just anyone into the sacred space where we create magic, but I think we can make an exception for a star like you.”

“Wow, I mean, are you sure? Is it okay?,” Ashley said, her voice barely above a whisper and Harry simply nodded. “Then I’d love that.”

Harry felt a rush of anticipation. This was the start of something beautiful, and the idea of collaborating with Ashley excited him. “Great! Let’s head over there now. I think you’ll love the place.”

The studio was nestled in a quiet corner of town, an unassuming building that hid the magic within. As they entered, the familiar scent of polished wood and fresh paint filled the air, mingling with the remnants of soundwaves that had been captured within its walls. The dim lighting set a cozy ambiance, with soft spotlights highlighting the various instruments scattered around the room.

Mitch headed straight for the coffee station, his usual humorous commentary filling the air. “Alright, who wants some terrible coffee? I make it just the way I like it—too strong and slightly burnt. Just how the pros do it!”

Harry chuckled as he moved to the center of the room, gesturing for Ashley to explore. “Feel free to check out the instruments. We’ve got a great selection here. I think you’ll be surprised at what you can do.”

Ashley wandered around, her eyes wide with wonder. She approached a vintage guitar hanging on the wall, its wood polished to a warm sheen. “This one looks beautiful,” she said, her fingers lightly brushing the strings.

Harry watched her, noticing how her demeanor shifted when she was surrounded by the instruments. The shyness melted away, replaced by a quiet confidence. “Do you play often?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Not as much as I’d like,” she replied, picking up the guitar. “I usually stick to my acoustic at home. It’s easier to write that way.”

“Let’s hear you play then,” Mitch said, appearing with three mugs of coffee, the steam rising like a delicate fog. “You’ve already wowed us once tonight. Let’s see if you can do it again.”

Ashley smiled, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. She settled onto a nearby stool, the guitar cradled in her lap. “Okay, um… I’ve been working on something new,” Ashley said, her fingers gliding over the strings as she sought the right melody. The warm wood of the guitar felt familiar and comforting against her hands. She began to play a few soft notes, each one weaving into the next, forming a delicate tapestry of sound.

The studio was alive with a gentle hum of creativity as Ashley settled onto the plush couch, cradling her acoustic guitar in her lap. The soft glow of the overhead lights illuminated her features, highlighting the excitement in her eyes as she prepared to share her latest creation. She strummed a few chords, the sound resonating through the cozy space, and Harry and Mitch leaned in, intrigued, exchanging glances, both captivated by her focus. Mitch leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, as Ashley began to sing:

“When the shadows fall and the night takes flight,

I’ll find my way through the darkness, I’ll be alright.

With the moon as my guide, I’ll dance on the edge,

In the quiet moments, I’ll make my pledge.”

The lyrics hung in the air, filled with a longing that resonated deeply with Harry. There was something magical about the way she poured her heart into her music, and he found himself mesmerized. When she finished, the room was quiet for a moment, the silence punctuated only by the soft strumming of her fingers on the strings.

Harry leaned back against the wall, absorbing the sound. It was clear that there was more to Ashley than met the eye; her talent extended beyond just singing. She poured her heart into the guitar, weaving intricate melodies that seemed to echo her emotions. The atmosphere in the studio transformed, the air thick with creativity and potential.

Mitch, ever the jokester, leaned over to Harry and whispered, “I think we might need to start looking for a new band name. ‘The Harley Show’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Harry snorted, his gaze still fixed on Ashley as she played. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mitch. But seriously, she’s incredible.”

As she finished, the last notes hung in the air like a beautiful memory. Ashley looked up, a bit shy, but there was a spark in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “How was that?”

“Are you kidding?” Mitch exclaimed, setting down his coffee with an exaggerated flourish. “That was phenomenal! You should be on stage at Wembley, not just in this cozy little studio.”

“THAT was beautiful,” Mitch continued, breaking the spell. “You’ve got a real knack for this, Ashley. I mean, really, that was incredible.”

“Thank you!” Ashley replied, her cheeks flushing with warmth at the compliment. “It’s just a rough idea, but I thought I’d share it.”

“Rough idea?” Harry chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s not a rough idea; that’s a full-fledged song waiting to happen. You’ve got a real talent, Ash.” He leaned back, a grin spreading across his face. “You should definitely consider getting it recorded.”

Ashley smiled, a mixture of shyness and pride washing over her. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely,” Mitch chimed in, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m just waiting for the day you’re headlining at Wembley. I’ll be in the front row, waving a big sign that says ‘I Knew Her When!’”

Ashley laughed, a light, melodious sound that seemed to echo in the room. “Thanks, guys. You’re making me blush.”

Mitch clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. “Alright, enough of the sappy stuff. Let’s get down to business. How about we record a little something tomorrow as a demo? Just to test the waters?”

Harry grinned, the atmosphere shifting back to playful banter. “Not a bad idea. What do you think, Ash? Ready to record your first hit?”

She chuckled, the nerves dissipating as excitement took their place. “What really!? I-I don’t know what to say… you’re not kidding right?”

“Nope, we’re being serious.” Harry asserted with a grin.

“I hope I don’t mess it up.”

“None at all,” Mitch replied, his tone light. “Just remember, if we flop, we can always blame it on Harry’s awful coffee.”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile. “Fine, but if we do flop, I’ll make sure the coffee is even worse next time.”

They spent the next few minutes exchanging ideas, laughing and bouncing thoughts off each other like a creative ping-pong match. The atmosphere was light, filled with a sense of camaraderie and mutual respect. Harry could feel the connection between them growing stronger, the excitement of collaboration igniting a spark he hadn’t felt in a while.

After a bit, Mitch checked his watch and sighed. “As much as I’d love to stick around and witness the birth of the next big hit, I really should get going. The family is probably wondering if I’ve been abducted by aliens or something.” He pushed himself off the wall and stretched his arms above his head, shaking off the lingering fatigue. “You two have fun with your songwriting, alright? I expect to hear some amazing things soon.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Mitch,” Harry said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Take care, guys!” Mitch waved as he made his way to the door, leaving Harry and Ashley in the cozy studio.

As the door clicked shut, a comfortable silence settled between them. Ashley fidgeted slightly, her gaze drifting toward the floor. “So… now what?” she asked, her voice soft yet curious.

Harry leaned back on the couch, looking at her with an inviting smile. “I guess we can talk some more about the music or maybe try to come up with some ideas? What do you think?”

Ashley hesitated, then looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Actually, I have an idea. Do you have any plans for the evening?”

“Nope, nothing on the agenda,” he replied, feeling a mix of curiosity and excitement.

“Perfect,” she said, her grin widening. “How about I take you to a secret place?”

“A secret place?” Harry raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Now you have my attention. What do you mean?”

“It’s a spot I found a while ago, tucked away from the city noise. It’s quiet and perfect for just hanging out. Plus, I think you’ll really like it,” Ashley explained, her excitement palpable.

“Lead the way, then,” Harry replied, standing up and stretching his legs. “I’m in.”

They made their way out of the studio, the cool evening air refreshing against their skin as they stepped into the street. The city around them was alive with lights and sounds, but Ashley seemed to know exactly where she was going, her confidence radiating as she walked ahead.

Harry couldn’t help but steal glances at her, captivated by the way she moved, her long hair cascading down her back and catching the soft glow of the streetlights. They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the pavement.

Finally, Ashley turned down a narrow alleyway, her smile mischievous as she glanced back at him. “Trust me, it’s just around the corner.”

“I hope it’s not one of those situation where you inject me with something and kidnap me” He quips, earning a playful punch from Ashley.

They stepped through the alley, emerging into a small grassland bathed in the soft light of twinkling fairy lights strung between the trees. It was a hidden oasis, with a wooden gazebo at its center and colorful flowers blooming all around. The atmosphere was serene, a stark contrast to the bustling streets they had just left behind.

“Ta-da! Welcome to my secret place,” Ashley said, her voice filled with pride as she gestured around.

The night air crisp and filled with the soft sounds of nature, the only sounds being the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of city life that seemed so far away now. Ashley, with a small smile playing on her lips, stopped in the middle of the clearing and knelt down, unzipping her bag.

“I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to use this,” she said with a grin, pulling out a soft, plaid picnic blanket. She spread it over the green grass, smoothing out the edges with her hands.

Harry chuckled softly, watching her with a mix of amusement and admiration. “A picnic blanket, huh? You really come prepared.”

“I always come prepared,” she replied, shooting him a playful look before gesturing for him to join her. “This place isn’t just for music, you know. It’s for escaping, for breathing.”

Harry sat down beside her, resting his hands on his knees as he glanced around, taking in the serene atmosphere. The fairy lights above cast a gentle glow, the trees around them swaying lightly in the breeze, while the stars twinkled brightly in the clear night sky. It was peaceful—far removed from the chaos of their everyday lives.

Ashley placed her guitar and bag by their side, then, with a soft sigh, she lay down on her back, letting out a tired breath. “I come here to forget about everything,” she admitted, her voice quiet, almost reverent. “When things get too overwhelming, I just need to lie down, stare at the sky, and let it all go.”

Harry watched her for a moment, seeing the exhaustion etched into her features. The day had been long, filled with emotions and new experiences, and he could understand her need for calm. Slowly, he mirrored her movements, lying back on the blanket beside her, their shoulders just inches apart. He stared up at the night sky, the stars twinkling like tiny diamonds against the dark canvas above.

It was quiet for a while, the kind of comfortable silence where words weren't necessary. The tension of the day seemed to melt away, replaced by a sense of stillness that neither of them had experienced in a long time. For Harry, the weight of the world always felt like it was pressing down on him—whether it was the expectations of his fans, the constant scrutiny from the media, or the relentless schedule that came with being a global icon. But here, in this secret spot, all of that felt distant, almost irrelevant.

After a few minutes, Harry broke the silence, his voice soft but curious. “Why did you choose me to bring here? To share this secret with?”

Ashley turned her head slightly to look at him, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of the lights above. She took a deep breath before answering, her voice gentle but sincere. “Because you deserve it. You deserve a place where you can forget about all the noise, all the stress… even if it’s just for a little while.”

Harry felt a lump rise in his throat at her words. He wasn’t used to people seeing him in this way—beyond the fame, beyond the persona. But here was Ashley, someone who understood, who saw through the facade and recognized the pressure he carried every day.

She continued, her gaze still fixed on his. “I know it can be difficult… always being surrounded by cameras, being tracked by people wherever you go. It must feel like there’s no place left to just be you. That’s why I wanted to share this with you. I trust you with this place, Harry. And I think you need it more than I do.”

Her words hit him harder than he expected, and for a moment, he felt a wave of emotion rise within him. She understood him—really understood him—and that realization brought with it a sense of vulnerability. He had spent so much of his life guarded, carefully navigating the world as Harry Styles, the king of pop, the world renowned singer. But here, with her, he could just be Harry.

He swallowed hard, trying to gather his thoughts. “You… you really get it, don’t you?” His voice was quiet, but filled with gratitude.

“I think I do,” she replied, her tone soft but unwavering. “I know I haven’t been in your shoes, but I can imagine how overwhelming it must be. Everyone deserves a place to be free, to breathe.”

Harry turned his gaze back up to the stars, blinking away the sudden rush of emotion. He hadn’t expected to feel so understood, so seen, in a moment like this. After a beat, he took a deep breath and spoke, his voice low but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I want to tell you something.”

Ashley shifted slightly, her attention fully on him now. “What is it?”

Harry turned his head to face her, his expression serious but filled with warmth. “I want you to be a part of my next album. I’m going to talk to Jeff about it. I think your voice, your songwriting… it’s exactly what the album needs. You deserve to be heard, and I want to help make that happen.”

For a moment, Ashley didn’t say anything, her eyes wide with surprise as she processed his words. Then, suddenly, she lifted herself up from the blanket, her hands moving quickly to wrap around Harry. She pressed herself against him, her body half on top of his as she hugged him tightly, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Thank you,” her voice quivered, her face buried in his shoulder. “Thank you so much, Harry. You have no idea what this means to me.”

Harry, momentarily taken aback by the sudden gesture, hesitated before wrapping his arms around her in return, holding her close. Her gratitude, the raw emotion in her voice, struck him deeply. He had known it would mean a lot to her, but this reaction was more than he had anticipated.

“You deserve it, Ash,” he murmured softly into her hair. “You’re incredibly talented. The world needs to hear what you have to say.”

She pulled back slightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, but her smile was radiant. “I don’t even know what to say… I’ve never dreamt about it this way, it’s more than I deserve Harry. I don’t know how—”

“I know you deserve it. You’re capable of doing so much more, this is just the beginning!”

Harry smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You just have to trust yourself. Just keep being yourself, keep creating. The rest will fall into place. But for now you’re stuck with me.” Harry tries to lighten the mood.

“Gladly.”

Ashley lay back down beside him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder, and they both returned to staring up at the stars. The moment felt surreal, but also perfect—two people, connected by their shared love of music and a mutual understanding of the pressures they faced.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Harry felt a sense of peace wash over him. And as they lay there together, enveloped by the quiet of the night and the soft glow of the stars above, he knew that this—this simple, quiet moment—was exactly what he needed.

A/N: and that’s chapter 2 for you! I’ll be posting back to back till 13th of October so make sure to like or reblog my story masterlist for the marathon updates. The little lyrical portion is also written by me🥰 so all of this is my original work. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK!!! I WILL FIND YOU. DMs are always open here and on IG by the same username. Thx for your support so far!

Special thanks to @daisyblog for helping me on this journey. I adore you!🫶🏻

Taglist: @prettygurl-2009 @sassamanda77 (THE TAG-LIST IS OPEN)

Posted on: October 1st, 2024