#fading light my fic x files

[yandere-daydreams]

file #4: the body mod fic.

part of the FREAK SHIT MARCH evidence packet.

pairing: yandere!wriothesley x reader (genshin).

length: 3.1k.

warnings: non/con touching + groping, nonconsensual piecing, dubiously consensual tattoos, permanent body modification, intimidation, needles, obsessive behavior, and unbalanced power dynamics.

“Just one?”

The question had been hushed, meek, directed more towards your lap than the man sitting across from you. The warden – Wriothesley, you chided yourself, biting the inside of your cheek and attempting to remember what he’d asked you to call him, Wriothesley – broke into a wry smile, but nodded, leaning back in his armchair. “Just one,” he reassured. “And you’ll taken care of until your release date.”

You didn’t respond, but he must’ve seen the way you paled at the suggestion. “Having second thoughts?”

“No, it’s just—” You grit your teeth. Your eyes flitted up momentarily, but fell back to your legs just as quickly. “I… I’ve never really liked needles, I guess.”

You could see his eyes light up, his grin broadening as he tried to stifle his laughter. You scowled, but couldn’t blame him. He was used to dealing with hardened criminals, the scum of Teyvat, thieves and spies and murderers, and here you were – on the verge of fainting because he asked you to get a tattoo. “I promise, you don’t have anything to worry about.” At least he was trying to sound comforting, even if it was clearly a half-hearted effort. “I’ll make sure you’re in good hands.”

And he had, in a way.

You just wished he would’ve mentioned that those hands would be his own.

Calloused fingertips dug into your bicep as a scarred palm pressed into your skin, keeping one of your arms loosely secured against the mattress of the cot while the other was pinned between the bedframe and his chest (the placement unintentional, or so you hoped). You’d been shaking when he brought out that terrible machine – a vial of dark ink trapped inside of a cage of copper and steel; a single, silver needle protruding out of one end and a leather grip wrapped around the other – but it’d only taken an hour for fear to fade into boredom, another for boredom to drag on into a rotting, discolored sort of exhaustion. For as much as you’d been dreading it, there was more pressure than pain. It was repetitive, if anything – a monotonous pierce, stab, pierce, stab that you could only try your best not to focus on. You could already feel an ache settling below the skin of your shoulder, already knew that you wouldn’t be able to lift your arm for days, but you tried not to—

His needle stabbed into the thin skin over your shoulder blade, and you couldn’t stop yourself – letting out a low hiss as you flinched into the cot’s thin mattress. You expected Wriothesley to laugh, to drag a damp cloth over the affected area and mutter something like ‘bear with me’ or ‘my bad, love, my bad’ like he had a dozen times before, but instead, there was a muffled click as he switched off his awful machine, a dull clatter as he dropped it onto a bedside table already crowded with bottles of disinfectant and the nurse’s bizarre tools. “We’ll stop here. It’ll take another session, but I think you’ve been through enough for one day. For a virgin, especially.”

You were only half-listening; the phantom of his machine still buzzing in your ears. “Are you sure?” You asked, trying to hide how desperate you were not to spend another night in the empty infirmary with a man you barely knew. “It’s not that bad, I can go for another—”

“I’m sure. Sit up, I’ll let you have a look.”

You pursed your lips, but didn’t protest. You could see how Wriothesley had gotten into such an authoritative position. The way he spoke, his constant undertone of stern stability – it was hard to so much as imagine talking back to him, let alone breaking one of the rules that’d been meticulously and painstakingly drilled into you when you’d arrived at the Fortress of Meropide a little under a week ago. Still, you’d been terrified – too scared to so much as speak to another prisoner for the first two days. You weren’t dangerous. You couldn’t hold your own in a fight, or protect yourself if someone else, someone stronger decided they had a problem with you. You could barely even call yourself a criminal, but apparently, the Iudex hadn’t agreed. You’d been on your way to the fortress before he could finish reading out your sentence, and now, you were trapped in the darkest, deepest place in all of Fontaine, alone and so, so painfully vulnerable. If it hadn’t been for Wriothesley, you probably would’ve requested to forgo your imprisonment entirely and be sent straight to the gallows.

A hand on your shoulder, a softened lull to his voice. “You can sit up, can’t you? I’ll have to call Sigewinne, if you’re in that much pain.”

“Right, I— uh, sorry,” You stammered as you shook your head and pushed yourself up, careful to keep the thick, overly starched cot sheet pressed to your chest. The infirmary was empty, the door locked and sealed, and while Wriothesley hadn’t seemed to think much of ordering you to take off your shirt and lay face-down, you couldn’t bring yourself to brush off the stark, damp chill that came with any amount of exposure in the fortress so easily. You guessed that, after enough time, you’d get used to it. You guessed that, when you did, the thought of not being so cold so constantly wouldn’t make you feel so sick. “I…  I think I’m still getting used to this,” you went on, with a strained smile. “Still a little out of it, I guess.”

“That’s alright, love. We all take a few months to find a way to cope.” When you glanced over your shoulder, there was already a mirror in his hand – a compact, small enough to fit in his palm. You had to crane your neck to see it, but Wriothesley knew how to strike the right angle, and soon enough, the sprawling, spiraling pattern stretching from the lower curve of your shoulder blade to the ball of your shoulder came into view. It took you a moment to make out the pattern, but relief accompanied the delayed realization. Lumidouce bells, all blossoming and linked together by a single vine. He’d finished the linework, and there was a smattering of color in the bottom corner – only, oh, he’d gotten the shade wrong. Rather than deep violet, he’d used a light blue, more similar to ice than the water nearly everything in Fontaine stole its palette from. Judging by his expression, though, all beaming pride and low-brewing mirth, he hadn’t caught the mistake. “What do you think? Don’t keep me in suspense, now.”

“It’s… nice,” you said, the sentiment sincere despite your hesitance. And then, laughing, “I was—Well, it feels a little silly now, but I was terrified you’d leave me with, I don’t know, a sea monster or a giant wolf or something.”

“Maybe next time. Not a wolf, though - you don’t strike me as that vicious.” You bit your tongue, forcing yourself not to tell him there wouldn’t be a next time and opting to focus on the soreness starting to knot in your shoulder, instead. You swung your legs over the side of the cot, moving towards where you’d left your shirt draped over an unopened crate, but Wriothesley caught your wrist, tugging you gently back onto the thin mattress. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his playfulness suddenly more irritating than it had been, a few second ago. “I don’t think we’re finished, yet.”

Not for the first time, your smile wavered. “I… I thought we only agreed to one, sir.”

“Of course.” He squeezed your wrist teasingly. “One of each.”

Something heavy and spiked dropped into the pit of your stomach. This time, you couldn’t help the way your expression dropped. “Sir, that’s really not what I—”

“It’ll be worse the longer you put it off.” You weren’t dangerous. You weren’t a criminal. You weren’t strong, but Wriothesley was. Before you could so much as push yourself to your feet, his arm was around your waist and he was perched on the edge of the cot, one leg tucked underneath him to make more room for your body, soon pulled between his thighs. The back of your shoulder screamed where it pressed into his chest, but you managed to swallow the little, pitiful sound threatening to bubble past your lips and clung to your sheet – suddenly so much thinner than it’d seemed, seconds prior. If Wriothesley noticed your apparent panic, the distress of his prisoners was an inconvenience he was willing to endure. Only half-consciously, you tried to shove yourself away from him, but his muscle-bound arm was snaked around your waist before you could gain any distance, keeping you flush against his broad chest. He was so much bigger than you’d realized, when he was on the other side of that desk, when he was engraving something intrusive and permanent into the very fabric of your being. This had been a bad idea. Trusting anyone here had been a bad idea. You should never have—

Your elbow slammed into his diaphragm, and Wriothesley let out a slow grunt, his fingers burrowing into the plush of your side. “Easy now, love,” he half-muttered, half-breathed, bowing his head to speak into the side of your throat. “We had a deal, remember? Can you tell me what it was?”

“You—you said I wouldn’t get hurt if—” You forced yourself to stop, to swallow, to breathe. “But, I only agreed to get one tattoo, and you—”

“I said I’d take care of you. Get you a nice, cushy job with the fortress administrator, keep you out of any over-crowded bunks, make sure the other prisoners don’t cause you any trouble – that kind of thing. I’m really not supposed to play favorites, so even doing that much is going to take more than a little discretion on my part.”

“But, you offered to—”

“I said I’d take care of you, and I’m going to.” You could see him fishing something off of the bedside table with his free hand, but you forced yourself not to look, not to make the ever-growing pit in your stomach feel that much more hollow. “You’ve heard a few stories about what it’s like in the underworld, right? I try to keep all of you nice n’ safe, but a few are bound to fall through the cracks. Rehabilitation can only do so much and—well, I’m sure you know all about how bloodthirsty desperation can make someone.” There was a pause, an ebbing lull to the tenderness in his voice. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, sweetheart. Are you going to help me get a little practice in, while I do that?”

Practice. If he wanted practice, you were sure there were another hundred prisoners who’d willingly lay down and let him carve a hole through whatever he wanted to. Still, you did your best to calm yourself down, to stop thrashing, to shut your eyes and try to ignore the large, pulsing thing you could feel pressing into your ass. You didn’t nod, didn’t give him permission, but when his fist balled around the infirmary sheet and tugged it away from you, the only resistance you managed to scrape up was a slight frown and a wary glance in his direction. “You’re already in for a rough night,” he explained, as if that was any excuse. “Might as well get the hardest one out of the way first, right?”

You refused to let yourself linger on the implication that this wasn’t going to be the last, too.

You clenched your eyes shut as his large hand pawed at the right side of your chest, kneading into the softened flesh with an almost delicate sort of care. “It’s easier after a little stimulation,” he murmured, as if that meant he had to spend so long circling your nipple with a calloused thumb, occasionally swiping over the sensitive bud in a way that made your thighs twitch and your face burn. When your nipple was stiff and pebbled, he pulled away, but it was a momentary reprieve – torn away from you with a splash of freezing disinfectant. It dripped down your chest and filled the stagnant air with a thick, chemical haze as Wriothesley caught your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching tightly. You felt the long, curved tip of his piercing needle against your skin, and braced yourself for the pain. Wriothesley wasn’t kind enough not to drag it out, though. “Wanna count me down?”

You shook your head, pushing yourself that much closer to his chest, desperate for any kind of stability. You’d hoped that Wriothesley would take your clear obstinance as a sign not to drag it out any longer, but he seemed to savor it – the agony of the wait, the way the dread seemed to multiply tenfold every time you forced yourself to suck in a ragged inhale. Seconds seemed to pass like frozen honey, only just beginning to drip. You’d started to think he wouldn’t do it, that he’d just laugh and admit this was all part of some bizarre, invasive hazing ritual when Wriothesley let out an airy chuckle and plunged his needle into you.

Oh, archons.

You really thought the tattoo would’ve been worse.

It was faster, at least; a bright shock of pain followed immediately by a steady, throbbing sort of ache that seemed to drown out every other sensation and fill your mind with a buzzing, numbing static. You didn’t realize your eyes had shot open on reflex until tears blurred your vision, until you glanced down just in time to watch as he dragged the needle through and replaced it with a small, silver stud – a barbell, as wrong as it felt to think of yourself having something so vulgar attached to you. You were crying unabashedly by the time he finished, pain and humiliation dripping down your cheeks in hot, wet streams, but Wriothesley’s shallow pool of sympathy must’ve run dry. “Ah, don’t make that face, sweetheart – we’re only halfway done.” You felt him panting into the crook of your neck as his hand found the other side of your chest. The last threads of his veil of composure frayed and broke apart as he groped unabashedly at your chest, toying with your nipple as your sobs echoed off of the clinic walls. You felt something thick and hot and wet crash against your collarbone and drip down the curve of your chest, and forced yourself to believe it was only disinfectant. That there was nothing it could’ve been except disinfectant.

Wriothesley’s hips rocked against your ass, the rigid outline of his cock pressing into you, incinerating any lingering delusions you might’ve had of helpful prison wardens exchanging one favor for another. Five fingers bit into the plush of your chest as he brought his needle to your unmutilated nipple, his hand surprisingly steady despite the airy, drawling moans he was pouring into your throat. “P-please don’t,” you managed, fighting to speak above the pathetic cries and choking fear doing their best to strangle out your voice. “Please, I can’t—I don’t want to—”

But, Wriothesley wasn’t listening. It wasn’t a spark, this time, but a red-hot knife, stabbed deep into your chest and twisted as far as it could go. You heard Wriothesley let out a rough groan, felt something warm and damp against your ass, and then, you were gone.

~

You startled awake hours later; bolting upright as you heaved in jolting, uneven inhales. Immediately, pain knocked you out of your panicked daze – sharp and piercing, imbedded into the back of your shoulder and either side of your chest, strong enough to remind you to measure out your breathing and calm down before you blindly threw yourself back into a seething pit of violent criminals. It took you a second to realize that you weren’t on an undersized infirmary cot, anymore, and another to piece together where he’d taken you – a bedroom nearly triple the size of your bunk. The warden’s chambers, you figured, as you scanned over the limited decoration and piles of dust-coated paperwork stacked onto every possible surface. Wriothesley’s room.

Wriothesley’s bed, at that. A cold chill ran down your spine as you realized that he’d taken the time to strip you out of your ill-fitting coveralls and redress you in a shirt sizes too big to be one of yours – the bleached, threadbare material a stark contrast to the satin sheets draped over your legs. You started to push them away and move towards the edge of the mattress, but froze as a door on the far side of the room creaked open – Wriothesley slipping inside and letting the door shut behind him. He moved away from it quickly, but as it closed, you could’ve sworn you heard the muffled, deafening click of a lock sliding into place and cutting you off from the rest of the world – or, the rest of the underworld, rather. As if there was anyone out there who would bother to save you, even if they could try.

“There’s my sleeping beauty.” He grinned as he lowered himself on the side of the bed, positioning himself closer to you than he absolutely had to. He reached out, moving to cup your face, but quickly let his hand fall back to his side when you flinched away. His smile dimmed, but didn’t fall away. “Get a chance to see the improvements, yet?”

After a second of hesitation, you shook your head, and he nodded to your chest - the gesture more of an order than a suggestion. Reluctantly, you pinched your collar between two fingers and peeled away from your skin. Through the narrow sliver, you could see his handiwork: a pair of twin rings hanging from either nipple, connected by a thin, lax, silver chain – so light, you could barely feel it brushing your diaphragm as the air caught in your chest.

You dropped the collar before you could give in to the nausea beginning to coil in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t bear to look at Wriothesley, so you kept your eyes on the sheets, kneading at the fabric half-consciously as you struggled to find your voice. “That wasn’t what we agreed to,” you muttered, mostly under your breath. “Can I go back to my bunk, now?”

His smile took on an almost apologetic note. You tried again. “Am I... Am I going to be able to leave?”

This time, when he reached out, flinching away wasn’t enough to stop him – his hand catching your chin and drawing you that much closer to him. You tried to lurch away, but it was too late, his lips were already crashing into yours, his tongue already slipping past your teeth and raking over your own. While your eyes widened in shock, his went half-lidded, closing just a second too late. Abruptly, it occurred to you that you’d never really noticed the color of his eyes – a pale, faded blue. The color of the half-formed flowers currently stretching across your back.

Wriothesley’s hand slipped to the nape of your neck. You let your eyes fall shut, and did your best not to think at all.

[badathumanemotions]

Hey could you do a Spencer NSFW fic where you end up trapped in a confined space with him (maybe hiding from an unsub) and all your personal space is gone and stuff gets heated yk and then maybe it’s carried on later in a hotel room that they had to share (dom spence, degradation, size kink etc) whatever you want to do really 🫶🫶

Hidden Feelings

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI MasterList Category: Smut CW: Smut, Oral Sex (fem), Praise, Dirty Talk, Use of Good Girl and Sweet Girl, Riding, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Aftercare, Love Confessions. WC: 7,194 My brains been foggy lately so it's taking me longer to write these. Sorry guys. Also because of the long breaks I totally forgot to add everything you asked for and my Dom Spencer's a little rusty. Sorry anon. m (Not Proof Read)

In the heart of a long-forgotten industrial district, the abandoned restaurant stood, a relic of a bygone era. The team had received an anonymous tip, a whisper on the wind that led them to this desolate corner. You and Spencer Reid drew the short straws, tasked with investigating the eerie structure.

Peeling paint and shattered windows cast a grim pallor over the faded sign that swung lazily in the breeze. You felt a shiver run down your spine as you approached, your footsteps echoing against the cracked pavement. Spencer, ever the intellectual, rattled off facts about the place's history, trying to fill the silence with something other than the heavy tension that hung in the air.

Inside, the restaurant was a maze of dust-covered tables and chairs, the smell of stale grease clinging stubbornly to the air. The kitchen was a jungle of rusty pans and forgotten spices, the floor sticky with a layer of grime that had built up over the years. Despite the emptiness, it felt as though you were intruding on a place where secrets had been left to fester in the dark.

The tip you received was vague, hinting at suspicious activity in the area. You and Spencer moved methodically, your eyes scanning every corner for the faintest trace of anything could help with the case. You weren't quite sure what you were looking for – a clue, a sign, anything to justify the uneasy feeling that had settled in your stomach. Spencer paused every so often, his sharp mind analyzing anything out of place.

It was in the kitchen that you stumbled upon the horror. The ticket holder, once used to organize orders, now held a different kind of queue – a series of surveillance photos of the victims. Each face hauntingly familiar from the case files you've studied. The sight of their images, captured unknowingly by the monsters you were hunting, sent a cold chill through your system. Spencer's eyes widened in surprise, his voice barely above a whisper as he pointed out the meticulously laid out schedules scattered around the kitchen counters. It was clear that these Unsubs had been stalking their prey, plotting their every move.

The two of you withdrew your weapons now on high alert. You continued clearing the place, the weight of the moment pressing down on your shoulders. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat a reminder of the lives at stake. You could feel Spencer's tension beside you, his breaths shallow and eyes darting around the room as he searched for any sign of the trio.

Approaching a back office, you pushed the door open with your foot, not taking any chances. The room was a time capsule of forgotten paperwork and dusty filing cabinets. A desk sat in the centre, with a table beside it covered by a faded tablecloth.

The papers scattered across the surface looked like they had been abandoned in a hurry. Invoices, receipts, and pay stubs lay in a disorganized heap. You squinted in the dim light, trying to make sense of the dates. They were from before the restaurant had closed, a mundane record of a business that no longer existed.

Then, the unmistakable sound of footsteps, heavy and deliberate, echoed through the empty dining area. You and Spencer froze, your eyes locking for a split second. The blood drained from your face as you both realized the gravity of the situation. The Unsubs had returned and you were out numbered.

You caught a glimpse of four men, their silhouettes looming through the dust. At least two were obviously armed, their weapons glinting in the sliver of light that pierced the dimly lit space. They were getting closer and you had to think fast.

With a burst of adrenaline, you grabbed Spencer by the arm and pushed him down onto the floor, under the protection of the dusty tablecloth. He tumbled backward, his eyes wide with surprise, and you quickly followed, landing on top of him in a desperate attempt to hide. Your heart hammered against your ribs as the fabric of the cloth billowed around you, threatening to give you away with every breath.

With quick hands, you pulled out your phone and silently typed a message to Hotch, your thumb hovering over the 'Send' button. The footsteps grew louder, each step bringing the danger closer. You hit 'Send' and shoved the phone into your pocket. You could feel Spencer's body tense beneath yours, his muscles coiled like a spring, clearly thrown off by you sitting on top of him.

He begins to squirm, and you knew he was uncomfortable, not just from the fear of being discovered but also from your proximity. The cramped space made it impossible not to be aware of every inch of your bodies pressing together.

Spencer tries to sit up, but you're quick to react. You place a hand firmly on his chest and push him back down, shaking your head.

Suddenly, he whispered, his voice strained and urgent, "We should change positions, it's not…ideal." But before he could finish, you clamped your hand over his mouth. You didn't know if the Unsubs had heard you, but you couldn't take that risk.

"Quiet, we don't want them to hear us."

You felt Spencer's body stiffen even further as your breath danced against the sensitive skin of his neck. You could feel his pulse racing against your chest, a frantic drumbeat matching the tempo of your own heart. You shifted slightly, the movement pressing your ass against his growing arousal. His breath hitched beneath your palm. It was an accident, but one that sent a jolt of heat through you.

The voices grew louder, the Unsubs seemingly oblivious to the danger hiding in the shadows. They talked in hushed tones, their words muffled by walls between them and your hiding spot. You strained to listen, hoping for some clue as to their plans or identities. The words were indecipherable, but the tone was one of excitement and anticipation.

As the moments dragged on, the tension in the air thickened, coiling around you and Spencer like a serpent. His body was taut beneath yours, the fabric of your clothes the only barrier between you. The adrenaline had shifted gears, no longer just a fight-or-flight response but a potent cocktail of fear and desire.

You felt his hands grip the back of your thighs, knuckles almost white with restraint. The heat of his body was intoxicating, and the friction of your movements was setting something alight between you. It was a dangerous dance, one that had no place in the middle of a horror show, but your body didn't seem to care about the setting.

Spencer's eyes searched yours, looking for a sign, a silent question. Was this real or just the situation playing tricks on you both? But the desire was unmistakable, a palpable force that seemed to fill the air in the tiny space. You drop your head down, your nose brushing against his cheek, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought about what it would be like to kiss him right then and there.

The sound of the Unsubs grew closer, their footsteps echoing in the hall outside the office door. Spencer's hands slid from your thighs to your hips, his grip tightening. The heat of his touch seemed to burn through your clothes, setting every nerve ending alight. The fear was still there, a live wire running through your veins, but it had morphed into something more primal, something that made your skin prickle and your breath catch in your throat.

You met Spencer's gaze, and in that fraction of a second, everything changed. The hunger you saw in his eyes was raw and undeniable. It was a look you'd never seen from him before, one that made your heart skip a beat and your body respond in ways you hadn't anticipated. For a moment, the horror of the situation was forgotten, replaced by the all-consuming need to touch, to taste, to claim.

Your hand slowly slid from his mouth to cup his jaw, feeling the stubble that had formed over the past few days of non-stop work. His breath was hot against your palm, his eyes never leaving yours. The intimacy of the gesture was not lost on either of you, but in the face of the danger lurking outside, it seemed to be the only thing that made sense.

Spencer's arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer until your chests were pressed together. The sound of the Unsubs' footsteps grew fainter as they moved away from the office, but the intensity between you only grew stronger. His hands slid up your back, tangling in your hair, and you both leaned in, lips almost touching.

Suddenly, salvation in the form of a vibration. Your phone. The team had gotten your message. You felt a rush of hope as you realized that rescue was on the way. The vibration against your leg was a silent shout of reassurance, a beacon in the dark.

You both knew that you had to keep it together, to keep the facade of professionalism until the danger had passed. The text message seemed to sober you both up, the urgency of the situation slapping you back into the stark reality of your predicament.

You glanced down at the screen, noting the time since you'd sent the SOS. It felt like hours, but it had only been minutes. The message was simple: "In position. Hold tight." Spencer's eyes met yours, understanding passing between you in a fraction of a second. The weight on your chest lifted slightly, the fear ebbing away just enough to allow you to breathe again.

The sound of the Unsubs grew fainter as they moved away from the office. You dared not speak, not even a whisper, as you both listened intently for any clue to their whereabouts. Spencer's hand slid from your hair to the small of your back, his fingers gently tracing the contours of your spine. You shivered at his touch, the line between terror and passion blurring further.

Suddenly, the air was pierced by the sound of shattering glass. The Unsubs had been spooked, and the cavalry had arrived. The SWAT team, alerted by your message, had come crashing through the restaurant's front windows, the shards raining down like a crystal waterfall in the dusty room. You could feel Spencer's body tense beneath you, his muscles coiled and ready to spring into action.

You both took this as your cue to come out of hiding. With a silent nod of understanding, you slithered out from under the tablecloth, drawing your weapon as you went. Spencer was right behind you, his eyes sharp and focused, scanning the room for any sign of the quartet. The office door was slightly ajar, and the sound of chaos outside grew louder with each passing second.

As you emerged into the corridor, the scene that met you was one of organized mayhem. The SWAT team was spread out through the restaurant, their movements precise and calculated as they secured the area. You saw Morgan taking down one of the Unsubs with a well-placed tackle, the man's body hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

The other three Unsubs were already in cuffs, their faces a mix of shock and rage as they were read their rights. You felt a wave of relief wash over you as you realized that it was over, that no one else would suffer because of them.

He approached you and Spencer, his gaze sweeping over the two of you with a practiced eye. "Are you both okay?" he asked, his voice low and steady. You nodded, still trying to catch your breath, and Spencer managed a tight smile.

Morgan's eyes lingered on the two of you, and for a moment, you wondered if he could see the unspoken tension that had arisen between you during the standoff. But he said nothing, only nodded and turned back to the rest of the team.

The wrap-up was a blur, a flurry of activity that seemed to happen in fast-forward. You watched as the Unsubs were led out of the building, their heads bowed in defeat. The SWAT team secured the perimeter, and the forensic unit began their meticulous dance of collecting evidence. Your heart was still racing, the adrenaline from earlier lingering.

Before you knew it, you were in the back of an SUV, the cool leather pressing against your heated skin. Spencer was sitting beside you, the two of you trading glances. The silence between you was deafening, charged with the electricity of the kiss you had almost shared.

You couldn't help but wonder if it was the adrenaline that had pushed you both over the edge, or if there had always been something more simmering beneath the surface. The team was busy around you, talking and filling in the gaps of what had just transpired. But all you could think about was the way Spencer's body had felt beneath yours, the way his hands had explored you in the dark.

Once back at the precinct, you were just going through the motions. While the majority of the team interrogated the Unsubs, you found yourself cataloguing evidence with a sense of detachment, your mind replaying the events in the abandoned restaurant.

The almost kiss kept playing in your mind like a record on repeat. You couldn't shake the feeling of Spencer's breath against your skin, the way his eyes had searched yours for something unspoken. Each time you reached for a new piece of evidence, your hand would tremble slightly, a reminder of the intimate moment you had shared.

The touch of his fingers on your spine had been electric, sending a shiver down to the very core of you. You found yourself acutely aware of every point of contact, every brush of skin on skin, feeling as if you were still entwined under that dusty tablecloth. The memory of his arms around you was a comforting embrace that seemed to linger.

You froze for a moment as the realization hit you like a ton of bricks: you were sharing a room with Spencer tonight. The implications of what had almost happened weighed heavily on your mind as you continued to process the adrenaline-filled afternoon. You'd been partners for so long, so close, yet this was uncharted territory. You couldn't help but wonder how this would affect your relationship, both personally and professionally.

The case was wrapped up. Everything else was left for the locals. You and the team had done your part, leaving the cleanup to the local law enforcement. The Unsubs were behind bars, and the victims could now find some semblance of peace.

As you and the team divided into cars, you found yourself paired with Morgan and Prentiss. Spencer ended up in the car with Hotch, Rossi, and JJ, his eyes meeting yours briefly before the doors slammed shut, leaving you to wonder what might happen next. The drive to the hotel was a blur of city lights and the muffled chatter of your colleagues. You were lost in thought, replaying every heart-pounding moment in the abandoned restaurant.

When you finally arrived at the hotel, the lobby was a bustle of activity. The team checked in with weary efficiency, the gravity of the case still weighing on everyone's shoulders. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment as Spencer's gaze didn't seek you out among the crowd. Perhaps it was better this way, you thought, a chance to cool off and sort out the tumultuous emotions that had taken hold of you.

You headed up to the room, the elevator's slow ascent feeling like an eternity. You were sure that the conversation that was bound to happen would be a letdown. It had to be the adrenaline, you reasoned with yourself. It was the only explanation for the way your body had responded to his touch. But as the doors opened and you stepped into the quiet corridor, the memory of his arms around you seemed to follow you.

You fished the room key out of your pocket and slipped it into the lock, turning the handle with a click. The door swung open, revealing a space that felt too small for the emotions you were carrying.

Standing in the middle of the room, you took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself before Spencer joined you in your shared hotel room. The walls felt closer than they should, the air filled with the anticipation of an unspoken conversation that loomed. You studied your reflection in the mirror, smoothing out any signs of distress, hoping to maintain a facade of calm.

As the lock clicked open, the sound echoed through the room. Your entire body tensed, not ready for what the night might hold. Spencer stepped in, his eyes briefly scanning the room before they settled on you.

For a moment, you just stared at each other, the silence stretching out between you. His face was a mask, revealing nothing. You searched his gaze, desperate to find some clue, some hint of what was going through his mind. But Spencer was a master of poker faces, and he wasn't giving you anything to work with.

Then, without any warning, Spencer closed the distance between you, his hands coming up to cup your face. His touch was surprisingly firm, yet gentle, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw as he leaned in. His lips met yours in a kiss that was as intense as it was unexpected, stealing the breath from your lungs. You felt your knees wobble as you kissed him back with an equal fervour.

You gripped onto Spencer's shoulders, your nails digging into his shirt as you tried to keep yourself tethered to reality. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, his hands splayed against the small of your back.

He broke the kiss abruptly, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter. "Tell me you want this" he growled.

"Yes," you assured him, the word coming out as a breathless whisper. "I want you," you clarified.

With frantic movements, you both began to undress each other, the fabric of your clothes seeming to dissolve away in your haste. Buttons popped and zippers hissed as the barriers between you fell away. You could feel the heat from his skin as your shirts were discarded.

Spencer reached around and unclipped your bra with an ease that made your stomach flip. He took his sweet time peeling the fabric away, revealing your breasts to his hungry gaze. He didn't waste a second before his mouth found them, his lips closing around your nipple with a gentle suction that sent a jolt of pleasure through you. You gasped, your back arching, pushing your chest closer to his face.

With a groan, he began to suck, his tongue flicking and teasing the sensitive bud as you tangled your fingers in his hair. His hands followed suit, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the peaks as he played with your nipples. He switched to the other side, giving it the same attention, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. Each nip and suck sent electricity through your body, making your legs threaten to give out.

Once he had his fill, he moved on to your trousers, taking them and your underwear down with a gentle urgency. You stepped out of the fabric pooled around your ankles, feeling vulnerable and exposed. He knelt before you, marvelling at the sight before him, his eyes dark with desire. You felt a blush spread across your cheeks as he looked up, a wicked smile playing on his lips.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in your very soul. "All mine to taste." He leaned in, his breath hot against your skin as his eyes travelled down your body.

With a gentle but firm tug, Spencer's hands slid down to the back of your thighs, urging you closer. You stepped into the embrace, feeling his warm breath against your sex. The sensation sent a shiver through your body, and you bit your lip to hold back a whimper of need. His fingers dug into the flesh, gripping tightly as if he needed the anchor.

He leaned in, his tongue tracing the seam of your pussy. You felt his hot breath against your clit, the anticipation making it throb with desire. He circled the sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue, the touch so light it was almost maddening.

You moaned, your hands finding their way into his hair, gripping the soft strands as he began to apply more pressure. Spencer's eyes never left yours as he started to devour you, his mouth working magic on your clit, his tongue flicking and teasing until you were grinding against his face, desperate for more.

He chuckled darkly at your eagerness, his hands moving to grip your ass, pulling you closer until you were practically riding his face. His tongue plunged into your wetness, tasting you deeply, and you couldn't hold back the moan that escaped your lips. The sensation was overwhelming, a delicious mix of pleasure and vulnerability that had you teetering on the edge.

"That's right, sweetheart," Spencer murmured, his voice muffled by your flesh. "Cum for me. Let me feel you come apart." His words were a command, a demand that sent a thrill through your body. You could feel the muscles in your abdomen tighten, your orgasm building in your core.

Obeying his urging, you began to rock your hips, grinding your clit against his tongue. The pressure was exquisite, each movement sending waves of pleasure through you. His eyes remained locked on yours, his pupils blown wide with desire, his mouth wide open collecting your juices. His hands tightened on your ass, his fingers digging in, urging you to move faster, to give him what he wanted.

And then, with a final, needy grind against his mouth, you shattered. The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over you leaving you trembling and gasping for air. You could see the triumph flash in his eyes as he felt you come apart. He didn't stop, though, continuing to lick and suck until your legs gave out needing him to catch you.

With a firm grip on your waist, he guided you to the bed, his movements sure and decisive. The mattress dipped as you sat down, and he didn't waste a second before he was beside you, his body pressing into yours, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was as possessive as it was hungry.

"Good girl," he murmured against your lips, the words a dark praise that sent a thrill through your body. He pushed you back onto the bed, his body following yours, his weight a delicious pressure that made your heart race even faster. You felt the heat of him, his arousal pressing against your thigh, and it was all you could do to keep from reaching down and taking him in your hand.

Spencer sat up, his eyes never leaving yours as he removed the rest of his clothes. Each article of clothing fell away, revealing more of the toned body you had only ever seen glimpses of. His chest was bare, a blush trailing down it, and his erection was clear through his boxer briefs. He watched your reaction, a smug satisfaction in his gaze as he revealed himself to you.

"You have no idea how much I've wanted this," he murmured, his voice thick with lust as he pushed the last of his clothes off. "How hard it was to keep my hands to myself while we were hiding." His hand slid down his body, gripping his cock, giving it a slow stroke that had you biting your lip.

The admission sent a bolt of desire through you, making your heart race even faster. You had known there was something between you, something that went beyond friendship and partnership, but to hear him voice it so bluntly was exhilarating.

Spencer climbed over you, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered in your ear, "While you were on top of me, I couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to have you riding me like that, taking me deep inside you." His words were raw, unfiltered, and they sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel the heat of his arousal, his cock pressing into your thigh as he spoke.

He trailed kisses down your neck, each one a silent promise of what was to come. "I wanted to rip your clothes off right there," he confessed, his voice a low growl that resonated through your body. "To feel you wet and ready for me, to hear you scream my name as I made you cum."

The words alone were almost enough to push you over the edge again. Your pussy throbbed with need, your inner walls clenching around emptiness, desperate for his touch. A moan slipped past your lips, and you threw your head back, giving him full access to your neck. His teeth grazed your skin, and you felt a shiver of pleasure that went straight to your core.

"Please," you begged, the word a breathy whisper that seemed to hang in the air. "I need you inside me." Your voice was ragged with desire, your eyes never leaving his as you made your plea. The raw need in your eyes seemed to be all the permission Spencer needed.

With a final, lingering kiss, he positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. "Don't worry, sweet girl," he murmured, his voice low and dominant. "I'll take care of you."

He slammed into you with a force that made you gasp. The feeling of being filled by him was almost painful in its intensity, but the pain quickly gave way to pleasure as your body adjusted to his size.

Spencer's eyes were hooded with desire as he watched your reaction, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm. His hands gripped the headboard, the wood creaking under his grip as he thrust deeper and deeper, his whole body taut with the effort.

You could feel the mattress shift with every pounding stroke, the springs groaning in protest beneath you. The sensation was almost overwhelming, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure that had you panting and writhing beneath him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer, urging him deeper.

Spencer took your cue, his hands moving from the headboard to your hips, his grip unyielding as he set a rhythm that had you seeing stars. His hips snapped against you, his cock filling you completely, the sensation of fullness making your eyes roll back in your head. He was a force of nature, a storm of passion that you had unleashed, and you were helpless to do anything but ride the waves of pleasure that he brought.

You could feel the headboard knocking against the wall with every thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. Each time he pushed into you, your breath hitched, a whimper escaping your lips. His eyes watching every flicker of emotion that crossed your face, his expression one of fierce concentration.

"Look at me," Spencer demanded. You obeyed, locking your gaze onto his, unable to look away as he claimed you, body and soul. His dominance was intoxicating, the way he took control of your pleasure, leaving you powerless to do anything but submit to his will.

With a slight adjustment of his hips, he angled himself just right, and you felt the electric sensation as his cock hit your g-spot. A shocked yelp escaped your lips, your eyes widening with surprise. The intensity was almost too much, but you didn't want him to stop.

The sound of your moans grew louder with every thrust, filling the small room. Spencer smirked, his eyes dark with arousal as he leaned in close, his hand coming up to cover your mouth. "Quiet," he whispered, his voice a seductive rumble in your ear. "We don't want them to hear us, do we?" It was a playful reminder of your earlier words.

You moaned against his hand, the muffled sound only serving to add to the intensity of the moment. The heat from his palm was like a brand on your skin, searing your lips as you fought to keep your noises contained.

As the pleasure mounted, he slowly switched to putting his thumb in your mouth while the rest of his hand cupped your cheek. The act was both innocent and incredibly erotic, a silent plea for more as your teeth grazed his skin, your tongue swirling around the digit.

The sound of his groan filled the room, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air. It sent a bolt of electricity through your body, making your pussy clench around his cock. Spencer's eyes darkened with need, his thumb pressing deeper into your mouth, his hips moving faster, his strokes more urgent.

"So fucking tight," he murmured, his voice a low, guttural growl. "You're so wet for me, aren't you?" His words went straight to your pussy, your body responding instinctively to his words. You nodded, unable to form coherent sentences as he continued his relentless assault on your senses.

"Tell me," he demanded, his hips grinding into you, his cock hitting your g-spot with every thrust. "Tell me how good it feels." You moaned around his thumb, the sound muffled and wanton.

"Am I fucking you so good you can't answer?" he taunted, his voice low and full of smug satisfaction.

You could only nod, the words caught in your throat as he hit that spot again and again. The feeling was so intense that you could feel yourself climbing towards another orgasm.

With a sudden shift, Spencer rolled over, flipping onto his, and you straddled him, his cock still buried deep inside you. "Fuck, I need to see you ride me," he grunted.

Wasting no time, you immediately got to work, arching your lower back and slamming your ass down against his pelvis. The pleasure had your eyes rolling back in your head. Each downward thrust was met with an upward surge of his hips, filling you completely.

Spencer's fingers dug into your hips, his grip tightening with each bounce, leaving the promise of bruises in his wake. You could feel the pressure building again, his cock stroking your g-spot with an almost punishing precision that had your toes curling.

"That's right, be a good girl," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "Ride my cock just like that." The words were a command that had your pussy clenching around him, desperate to please. You picked up the pace, the slap of your ass meeting his thighs growing louder with each passing second.

Spencer's eyes never left yours, his gaze a mix of hunger and admiration. "Look how much you want it," he said, his voice a dark whisper. "Look how much you need me to fill you up, to make you scream." His words were like a drug, sending a rush of pleasure through your body.

"You like me praising you," he murmured, his eyes flicking down to where you were joined. "Calling you a good girl?" His hand moved to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin gently as his hips began to move again, his cock still buried deep inside you. "I felt the way your cunt started squeezing me," he continued, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction. "Every time I say it, you get wetter, don't you?"

You couldn't help but nod, the truth of his words evident in the way your body was responding. You felt the heat of his palm on your cheek, the gentle pressure of his thumb against your skin grounding you.

With a growl of pure need, Spencer brought your face down to meet his in a passionate kiss that was both possessive and tender. His tongue claimed your mouth, the taste of you still lingering on his lips. You moaned into the kiss, the sensation of his cock inside you making your head spin.

Both his hands grabbed your ass, the firm grip of his fingers digging into your flesh. He used the leverage to slam your hips down onto him, the sound of your bodies colliding filling the room. You could feel the muscles in his arms tensing, the power behind each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The sensation was overwhelming, and you could feel yourself tightening around him, the beginnings of another orgasm building deep within you.

Spencer's voice was a low growl in your ear, his words a mix of praise and need. "You're so fucking perfect," he murmured, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "I want to fill you up, have you dripping with my seed." The thought of his release inside you had your pussy clenching around him, the walls quivering with the anticipation of his climax.

"Will you let me, sweetheart?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for an answer. The question was loaded, filled with a mix of hope and desire that made your heart race even faster. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding back, waiting for your permission.

You nodded, the word "yes" barely escaping your mouth before it was swallowed by his kiss. Spencer's hips bucked up into you, the urgency of his movements increasing. He broke the kiss, panting. "I need to feel you come around me," he groaned.

The frantic pace continued, your bodies moving in perfect synchronicity as you raced towards the peak of pleasure. Spencer's grip on your ass was bruising, but you didn't care. You needed this, needed him to make you feel alive in a way you never had before. His cock slammed into your g-spot over and over, causing non-stop pleasure.

Your kiss grew sloppier, tongues tangling and breaths mingling as if you were trying to breathe each other in. The taste of him was intoxicating. You felt the pressure building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core, threatening to break at any moment.

"Cum for me, sweet girl," Spencer begged, his voice strained with his own need. And as if those words were the key to your release, your body obeyed. You felt the orgasm crash over you, a tidal wave of sensation that had you throwing your head back and screaming his name. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body spasming on top of him, your pussy clenching around his cock like a vice.

The sight of you, lost in the throes of ecstasy, was too much for Spencer. With a roar, he reached his own climax, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his cum. The feeling was indescribable, a mix of pleasure and relief that had him seeing stars. His hips jerked upwards, his body shuddering with the force of his release, his hands gripping you tightly.

You moaned at the feeling of him cumming in you, the sensation of being filled sending you spiralling over the edge into another orgasm. Your pussy clenched around him, milking every last drop from his cock as he emptied himself inside you. The feeling was primal, a deep-seated satisfaction that resonated through every part of your being.

As the last tremors of pleasure passed, you collapsed boneless against him, both of you trying to catch your breath. Your cheek was pressed against his chest, his heart pounding against your skin. You could feel the stickiness of your juices between your legs, mingling with his seed.

Spencer's hand came up to draw patterns across your spine, the touch gentle and soothing. His fingertips traced the contours of your back, moving in a lazy pattern. You leaned into the caress, the tension in your body slowly beginning to melt away.

For a while, you both lay there, just breathing, the sound of your harsh pants slowly evening out as your heart rates returned to normal. The silence between you was conent, a shared understanding that didn't require any words. You felt the warmth of his body, the steady thump of his heart, and the sticky warmth between your legs.

Spencer was the first to move, cupping your cheek gently and turning your face to look at him. His eyes searched yours, a soft smile playing on his lips as he brought you into a sweet, lingering kiss. When he finally pulled away, the words he whispered were filled with wonder and a hint of disbelief. "I can't believe I finally have you," he murmured, his voice filled with emotion.

The truth of his words hung in the air, the weight of them heavy on your chest. You had both crossed a line, one that could never be uncrossed. But as you stared into his eyes, the warmth of his gaze and the tender way he held you made you feel that this was right. That this was what you both needed.

You felt his cock begin to soften inside you, the pulsing subsiding as your bodies slowly calmed from the intense climax. The feeling was strange, almost bittersweet, as if your body was mourning the loss of his hardness. Gently, he pulled out, his movements careful and deliberate, mindful of your sensitivity. A gush of warmth accompanied his exit, leaving a wetness that was both a reminder of what had just occurred and a promise of what was to come.

Spencer looked down at you, a soft smile playing on his lips as he brushed a stray hair from your face. "Come on," he prompted. "Let's get cleaned up." He offered you a hand, helping you to your unsteady feet. Your legs felt like jelly, weak from the pleasure he had wrung from your body. You took his hand gratefully, allowing him to lead you to the bathroom.

Spencer turned the shower on, the sound of rushing water filling the small space. He stepped in, testing the temperature with his hand before turning back to you with a nod, extending his hand once again. You stepped in, the warm spray cascading over your bodies, washing away the sweat and semen.

He took a washcloth soaking it in the warm water, and gently began to clean you. You watched him, the tender way he moved the cloth across your skin, wiping away the sweat and slick. His eyes were focused on his task, the intensity of the moments before replaced by a softness that made your heart ache.

You leaned into his touch, your body relaxing against his as he took care of you. Each stroke of the washcloth was like a caress, soothing the ache in your muscles and the throb of your pussy. He was thorough, paying special attention to every inch of your skin, as if he was worshipping your body.

Once he was satisfied that you were clean, Spencer quickly cleaned himself and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist before turning his attention back to you. "Let me dry you off," he murmured, his eyes gentle.

You stepped out of the shower, the warmth of the water leaving your skin glistening. Spencer took a towel from the rack, his movements methodical as he began to gently pat you down. Starting at your face, he moved down your neck, taking special care around the sensitive areas.

His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost reverent, as if he was afraid to break the spell that had been cast between you. You felt his hands on your shoulders, sliding down your arms, and around to your back, his touch feather light as he dried your skin. Each brush of the terrycloth cause goosebumps to break out.

Once Spencer had you thoroughly dried, he wrapped the towel around your body, tucking it in tightly, almost like he was afraid to let you go. He took your hand, leading you to the second bed. The mattress dipped under your weight as you sat down, the softness a welcome relief after the intense moments that had passed.

He took a seat beside you, his eyes searching yours. "I need you to understand something," he began, his voice serious. "What we just did, it's not just about the case or the adrenaline. It's not just about the physical attraction we have."

Spencer took a deep breath, his hand reaching out to cover yours. "I want you, not just your body, but all of you," he confessed, his gaze never leaving yours. "I want to know every part of you, every thought, every fear, every dream."

You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the way his heart was laid bare for you. "This isn't just about scratching an itch," he continued. "It's about connecting on a level that goes beyond anything I've ever experienced." His words were a declaration, a promise of something more substantial than the fleeting moments of passion you've shared.

You took a deep breath, the warmth of the shower still clinging to your skin as you searched for the right words. "Spencer," you began, your voice a whisper. "I feel the same way." The confession felt like a weight lifted off your chest. You had been holding it in for so long, the fear of ruining your friendship and professional relationship had kept you from saying what you truly felt.

His eyes searched yours, the intensity in them making your heart race. "Do you mean it?" he asked, his voice hopeful yet tentative.

"Yes," you whispered, the word a promise that seemed to echo through the quiet hotel room. "I do." Spencer's hand tightened around yours, his smile growing as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. It was a kiss that spoke of relief and joy, a silent acknowledgement that he wasn't alone in his feelings.

As the tension between you dissipated, you both got ready for bed, moving with a newfound ease. You slid under the cool sheets of the second bed. Spencer followed, his body fitting against yours as if he had been made for you.

You were so giddy with the intensity of what had just transpired that you weren’t sure you’d be able to sleep. Yet, as you cuddled against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, the comfort of his embrace began to lull you into a peaceful slumber. His arms tightened around you, his warmth seeping into your very bones.

As the night passed, you both slipped into a deep sleep, your bodies entwined like lovers lost in each other’s embrace. The tension of the case and the passion between you had drained you both, leaving nothing but peaceful rest.

[notapradagurl7]

Keep A Distance.

Pairings: Black Fem! Cop!Reader x Armando Aretas.

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe.

Summary: You were a cop working on the runaway Armando Aretas case, alongside Mike and Marcus but decided to go solo by working undercover.

Taglist: @lovedlover @planetblaque @megamindsecretlair @westside-rot @keyera-jackson @browngirldominion @swavydadon @playgurlxoxo @nerdieforpedro

Warnings: PWP, doesn't follow the film’s timeline, profanity, mention of guns, mention of violence, erotic asphyxiation/choking, Armando being persistent to the reader, dacryphila, consensual for both parties, short fic.

————

The light from the computer illuminated on your brown skin with your hand resting on the mouse, clicking on the file on the desktop with the picture of vibrant roses. Opening the file, your eyes scan the information and criminal records.

All that work just to lose him out of your sight again.

“Armando Aretas is still on the loose after taking control of the Aretas cartel when his mother was tragically burned in a fire.” the reporter spoke up.

You sighed and shook your head in disapproval, you pushed the power button on the remote, turning off the television, there was no way to catch this guy after playing this game of cat and mouse. Your finger pressed the power button and watched the computer fade to black.

You were working for the Miami Police Department as a cop, moving your way to a respected and it was every man and woman looking out for themselves.

It was a shame that you had to endure the shit from men and women in the police department.

Standing up from the desk, you walked out of your office. You approached the main office with determination.

Marcus and Mike stood by each other, you gave them fist bumps while "What's the latest, detective?" Mike asked, leaning against the desk with a smirk.

"Same old, same old. Aretas is still slipping through our fingers," you replied, crossing your arms. "I think it’s time I take matters into my own hands."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that? You know this guys plays fucking dirty."

“Yeah, well, dirty is my middle name,” you shot back, the fire in your belly igniting.

“Just keep your head on straight, alright?” Marcus warned, his tone serious. “We can’t afford to lose you too.”

You shrugged off their concern. “I appreciate it, but I’m not going in blind. I have a plan.”

“Which involves what? Seducing him?” Mike chuckled, but you noticed a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Something like that,” you replied, your smile a little too sly. “I’ll get close enough to gather intel; I won’t get too comfortable.”

“Uh-huh,” Marcus said, not buying it. “And what makes you think he won’t be the one to get too comfortable?”

Mike knew that you could take care of yourself but Armando was his son, he had Mike’s genes running through him. Once Mike called Armando the fucked up version of himself.

“Because I know how to keep a distance,” you replied, your voice steady.

“Just remember, he’s not some petty thief. He’s dangerous, Armando is Mike’s son” Marcus reiterated.

“I can handle myself,” you asserted, turning on your heel. “I’ve got this.”

As you stepped out of the precinct, the Miami heat hit you like a wall. You pulled your box braids into a tight bun, adjusting your badge before heading to your car. You knew you had to find Armando's weaknesses, and if it meant playing the role of an alluring enigma, then so be it.

Later that night, you found yourself at a dimly-lit bar, the kind where the shadows danced as much as the patrons. You leaned against the bar, scanning the room. The air was thick with tension as a mix of laughter and whispered conversations filled the space.

“Can I get you something?” the bartender asked, snapping you from your thoughts.

“Whiskey, neat,” you replied, your gaze still fixed on the entrance.

Moments later, the door swung open, and in walked Armando Aretas. He was a silhouette of charm and danger, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Your heart raced as he scanned the crowd, his eyes landing on you.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, sliding onto the barstool next to you, his voice smooth like velvet.

“Depends on who’s asking,” you replied, your tone playful yet guarded.

“Armando,” he said, extending his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“[Your Name],” you introduced yourself, shaking his hand firmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” he smirked, leaning in closer, the intoxicating scent of his cologne wrapping around you.

“Depends on your definition of good,” you shot back, your pulse quickening.

He chuckled softly, clearly intrigued. “You’re not like the others…I like that.”

“Keep your distance, Aretas,” you warned, your voice low and steady, but the chemistry between you was undeniable.

“Why would I do that when I’m enjoying this conversation?” he replied, his gaze piercing through you.

“Because this isn’t a game you want to play,” you said, your heart racing at the thrill of the chase.

“Oh, I think it is. And I always win,” he whispered, his voice dripping with confidence.

“So I heard that you're looking for me, Detective [Last Name]” he smirked, eyeing you up and down. His eyes remained on your ass.

You swatted his hand out of the way, and narrowed your gaze. “My eyes are up here, you're gonna come in with me. I'll arrest you and this case will be over..”

Armando smirked at you, snatching your gun that was attached to your belt. Your fist connects with his cheek as blood spills from his chin, he spits it out on the floor.

“I guess it's not over yet..” He smirked, stepping closer to you.

You were supposed to leave, you wanted to cuff him and take him into your car. But you couldn't, the heat between your thighs made you stifle a moan.

“Was all this chasing after you, a trick to get me all to yourself Armando?” you asked seductively, smirking.

Armando's eyes darkened with desire as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Maybe it was, detective. Maybe I wanted to see just how far you'd go to catch me." His hand trailed down your arm, sending shivers down your spine.

You fought against the growing heat in your body, reminding yourself of the mission at hand. But the magnetic pull between you and Armando was undeniable. The danger only added to the thrill, fueling the fire that burned between you.

As his lips brushed against your neck, your resolve wavered. "We can't do this," you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction.

Armando chuckled darkly, his hand on your waist. Pulling your face closer to his, when he wanted something or someone, a desideratum for him.

He only did this just to get closer to you, he planned everything just to see your pretty face again. The

But this mission left you fuddled and to save face, you kept your cool instead of admitting it. Did he want you?

"Who says we can't mix business with pleasure, detective?" His words sent a jolt of electricity through you, igniting a hunger you couldn't deny.

In a haze of desire and adrenaline, you found yourself giving in to the temptation. Crashing his lips into yours, tongues turned in sync. You moaned in the kiss, and he led you to the car.

Next thing you know, you were under him on his bed and kissing him sloppily. Both of your clothes were littered across the bedroom floor, the soft smack of your lips colliding with his filled the room.

His naked body against yours from the front with glossy sweat, his hips thrusting into you without mercy, as if it was a vindictive yet almost loving type of fuck. His tongue glided across your neck, wanting to leave hickeys on you.

The moonlight peeked through the curtains, and shone on your brown skin. Your brown braids pool around your pretty face, your mouth agape only to let out loud drunk moans and slurred screams.

There you were, fucking your enemy in the dark. Thankful that he couldn't see your face twist up in pleasure, “I bet you look so pretty taking every inch of my dick mami..like a good slut,” he praised, cutting himself off with a raspy moan.

Your hand rested on the back of his neck, bringing him for another sloppy kiss. Leaving a chain of spit between your lips and his, “That dick is so good…” you mumbled, your head fell to the pillow.

Your slick pussy gripped around his dick tight, feeling his inch after inch.

“Oh..fuck! Armando!” You cried out, your vision blurred with tears rolling down your watery cheeks. Teeth trapped under your lips only to be sucked off by Armando, moaning muffled with each kiss. Your tears turned him on quickly.

His head ducked and halted between your titties, wrapping his warm mouth around your nipple. Thighs smacking against your ass, the sound similar to clapping, wetness enveloped his thick dick entirely, Suckling it roughly while pinching your left nipple, “Fuckk! M-more,” you croaked.

Balling your hand in the blanket you turned into a wet, blubbering mess underneath the male. “I’m yours now? So fucking wet..” he grunted deeply, you whimperrd in response. His hand wrapped around your neck, bringing you in for a quick kiss to your lips.

“You’re mine papi, all mine..” you moaned loudly, drooling trickling at the corner of your lip. Unable to speak from the pleasure.

This was better than you imagined, your guts being rearranged by the man you loathed so much but he was here with you. His hand smacked across your ass, you whined lowly. “Fuck!”

“Being inside you is a dream true, suck a good girl..” he groaned, rutting against you without mercy.

Your climax hit you rapidly like a tsunami crashing through without warming, your sticky essence gushed down on his dick and you screamed loudly, falling on the blanket.

He followed suit by pulling out of you, falling beside your body and kissing your shoulder. You panted heavily through it.

“T-this can't happen again..” you murmured raspily, shaking your head. trying to confess to yourself that this was a one-time thing.

Armando hummed lightly with a soft chuckle, “Are you sure about that? You did say that I'm yours..” he panted lowly.

You almost dozed off until he gently picked you up bridal style, carrying you into the bathroom as he flipped the light switch. He turned the faucet, you heard the squeak.

Filling the tub with foam soap, at the right temperature, You were placed in the tub, allowing the water to soothe the ache in your body and pussy, sighing blissfully. You watched him walk into the shower and proceed to wash himself clean.

You washed yourself clean from the weight of the day, you fell asleep in his bed with him. Beside his body, dressed in your clean panties and gray tee shirt.

As the sun began to rise, casting golden hues through the window, you made a silent vow to yourself. You left quickly with everything you had, keeping this a secret.

You had to keep a distance, but the memory of that night with Armando would linger, a dangerous secret that bound you together in ways you never thought possible.

The next day, you returned home and sat in your desk chair in front of your computer. Quiet as a church mouse, which made everyone worry about. It wasn't normal for you to be quiet from their perspective.

Marcus and Mike knocked on your door, the sound tore your attention from the computer. You jumped from the sound, placing a hand on your chest.

“Come in!” you called out, seeing the pair through the office window.

They stepped inside, concern etched on their faces. Mike leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, while Marcus took a seat in the chair opposite you.

“Hey, you alright?” Mike asked, his tone softer than usual. “You’ve been unusually quiet since yesterday.”

You flashed a tight smile, the memory of last night flooding your mind. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, scrutinizing you. “A lot, huh? Or should we be concerned about that ‘solo mission’ you took on?”

You shrugged, keeping your expression neutral. “It was just a quick check-in. Nothing major.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “You guys know I can handle myself. I’m not a rookie.”

“True, but it’s not just about handling yourself,” Marcus interjected, his voice serious. “It’s about the risks involved. Armando Aretas is dangerous.”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms defensively. “He got away.”

“He did?” Mike asked you, raising a brow.

“Yeah, he was too fast and strong.” you added softly, looking up at the ceiling.

“Well, guess this case is closed huh?” Marcus asked, pursing his lips.

You nodded your head slowly, “Yes, and let’s just get to normal. What’s the melody to Bad Boys song? Bad boys, Bad Bo—” you sang playfully until Mike and Marcus interjected.

“Hey, hey, hey get your own theme song and learn the lyrics!” Macurs joked, his face twisted up a bit with a chuckle.

“Yeah, that's our theme song, but you did amazing on this case..” Mike added with a chuckle, smiling at you.

“My bad, thanks for believing in me guys..” you replied with a warm tone.

You gave the men fist bumps, watching them walk out of your office. Feeling a wave of relief wash over you, so much for keeping a secret. But it was over and you couldn't see him.

You could afford to blur the lines between business and pleasure, mixing them together was bad enough. You were done, now back to business only.

——————

Part Two.

[shuadotcom]

Take Me Higher | CHS (M)

🍃Summary: Yeah, your first real party was completely different than you had imagined, but it was even better than you had hoped.

🍃Pairing: Stoner!Vernon x Stoner!Afab Reader

🍃Genres & AUs: Smut, a dash of fluff, friends to lovers au, pwp

🍃Rating: 18+ (MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI. YOU WILL BE BLOCKED)

🍃Content/Warnings: Marijuana usage, mention of alcohol, profanity, protective sex, cunnilingus, fingering, handjob, bathroom sex, sex while high (they’re both faded but they like each other and are consenting), multiple orgasms, dry-humping, allusion to big dick!vernon, reader has boobs and a vagina but no gendered terms are used for y/n

🍃Words: 6.1k

🍃Note: As a cannabis connoisseur myself, I love stoner!vernon fics and will read any and every single one so it was only a matter of time before I wrote my own. Truly it was a mighty need - especially blue hoodie Vernon because that's my favorite shoot of his. This is based off of a slightly true story of my first adult party years ago. Y/n has a much better partner and time than I did though 😂

I also listened to Rihanna's Anti album (aka the last album she'll give us 😭) a lot when writing this for whatever reason.

Thank you bestie @the-boy-meets-evil for being my beta!🫶🏽

Tagging the lovely @kthpurplesyou 😘

🍃Net Tag: @kflixnet

Tonight was turning out to be different than you ever thought it’d be. It’s your first-ever real party and it was turning out to be much less notable than you’d have imagined. Growing up, you had been a typical wallflower with a tiny group of friends that were as introverted as you, so you never knew people who threw parties, and you sure as hell weren’t “important enough” to get invited to them. Nothing much had changed from middle school and even through college.

It’s not until you’re well into your young adulthood that you receive your first party invitation. It comes from your oldest friend, Joshua, whom you recently reconnected with. You had practically grown up with him and when he and his family moved away, your communication eventually lessened with life and timezones in the way. It isn’t until you just so happen to move near him after college that you start hanging out again. He sends you an Instagram message after happening to see a location close to him that you tagged in a post.

You and Joshua easily pick your long-dormant friendship back up, getting along as perfectly as you had years ago. Your closeness and trust are quickly restored in him the more time you spend together. It’s why when he invites you to a party a friend of his is throwing, you jump at the chance.

Having never been to a party, you only had the tv shows and movies you watched to go off of as to what the atmosphere would be like. You imagine loud, deafening music, drunk people spread all over the poorly lit house, the air reeking of alcohol, and too many people.

In reality, the lights are on around the house as expected and the music that plays over a speaker in the living room is loud enough to get lost in while dancing but not so loud that you couldn’t hold a conversation. Instead of smelling like nothing but alcohol, the air only smelt of pizza and an artificial air freshener, with a hint of beer.

There are only a few handfuls of people milling about, most of whom Joshua and Jeonghan - his other close friend who came with the two of you - had long since introduced you to. 

One of whom you’ve spent the most time with when you hang out with Joshua and his friends and are the most familiar with. You have a ton in common and always feel comfortable around him. 

He also happens to be the friend that you have an embarrassingly huge crush on. 

“Hey, Vernon!” Joshua calls his name as the three of you file down the basement stairs where it looks like most of the guests are. 

Vernon turns from his conversation to find you three and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think his smile widened when he made eye contact with you. 

He says something to the guy he’s talking to before approaching you all.

“Hey, Josh, Jeonghan. Hi, Y/n. Thanks for coming.” 

“Obviously we’d show up! I don’t think anyone has thrown a party just for fun in months. And I knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought Y/n. It’s baby’s first party!” Joshua throws his arm around your shoulders, bringing you forward from your spot nearly hiding behind him. You’re not too flustered that you can’t pinch him in the side for exposing you so willingly.

“Of course, I don’t mind!” Vernon rushes out, maybe even a little too loud. He clears his throat, breathing out an awkward laugh. “Anyway yeah, Seungkwan and Chan were feeling particularly social this weekend so I didn’t have much of a say but it’s cool.” Vernon scans the room, pointing out his two roommates across the room as he says their names. “Tonight won’t be anything crazy so don’t worry.” He says the last part to you, a sweet smile on his pretty lips.

As if they could tell they were being talked about, Seungkwan and Chan spot the group of you and are over in an instant, thanking you for coming and guiding you over to where all the snacks and drinks are while Vernon trails behind.

Truth be told, the whole party feels as if it’s a normal hang-out session with everyone. Sure some people get a little more drunk than usual and there’s more dancing and obnoxious singing than there typically is on any other Saturday night, but overall it’s nothing like the parties in movies. No one is swinging from the ceiling naked and drunk off their asses (unless you count Soonyoung shirtless and screaming at the top of his lungs to the karaoke song he’s doing, but no one is too concerned).

You’re even more grateful that you decided on jeans and a nicer shirt after agonizing over what to wear for days. Everyone was in the most normal clothes which took a lot of the pressure you had initially felt off of you. This includes Vernon, who was in jeans and an oversized, cozy-looking hoodie in the prettiest shade of baby blue. You could barely keep your eyes off of him, not that you really tried. He didn’t make it any easier, seeing how he hasn’t moved from your general vicinity all night. 

Whether it was near the snack table, upstairs for a little while, or standing near Joshua and Jeonghan as they played beer pong, Vernon hasn’t been far, mostly talking to the two men or any other people around you, occasionally trying to bring you into the conversation. You’ve been doing your best to contribute, but your nerves about not knowing what to do with yourself, paired with the butterflies in your stomach that erupt whenever Vernon so much as looks at you, have you feeling a little out of your element.

At some point in the night, Jeonghan wanders off and Vernon disappears for a bit. You and Joshua are standing near the drinks, trying a few different shots and you hate them all. You nearly forgot how much you dislike the taste of most alcohol.

“So when are you going to tell Vernon you’re into him?” Joshua’s question is abrupt and he knows it. It’s why he snickers, watching your face contort as you choke on the shot of Patron you just knocked back, which you instantly regret. 

“When am I going to what?!”

Joshua shrugs, taking a shot himself, his eyebrows only knitting a little. 

“You heard me. And don’t act so surprised. Watching the two of you steal glances at each other all night and then act all shy as if you weren’t doing that was cute for the first five minutes, but enough is enough!” Joshua reaches for another shot, but you smack his hand, demanding why he thinks you like his friend. You haven’t told a soul about your crush on Vernon.

He’s about to say something else, but then Vernon shows up and your attention locks onto him.

“Hey guys, I’m heading outside if you want to come.” His eyes linger on yours and you momentarily forget how to speak so Joshua answers for you, letting him know that you’ll both be joining him.

It’s late and you’re not sure what time it is, but the sky is full of tiny stars, providing faint light to the group of people sitting outside. The small circle of people is sitting on lawn chairs surrounding a brightly shining lantern and a bong as they take turns passing it around. The three of you take the spots still open with you between Joshua and Vernon. 

You didn’t forget what Joshua said inside, but put your interrogation on the back burner.

You’ve smoked weed before, in fact, you do so multiple days of the week. It’d been your chosen way to destress with friends before you moved and even more so now as you quickly learned that Vernon was the stoner friend in this group. If everyone was going to be hanging out and Vernon was there, there’d inevitably be edibles or a joint passed around. In your mind, you were practically perfect for each other.

The other partygoers greet you, and Vernon immediately takes the bong from the person next to him. Joshua falls into conversation with Wonwoo on his other side which gives you time to study Vernon.

He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, his forearms on full display. His movements are effortless as he leans forward to grab a pinch of weed from the grinder tin on the small table in front of you. His fingers, always looking so long, nimbly pack the bowl of the bong. He uses his middle finger to gently press it down as his eyebrows knit in concentration and his lips purse just a tiny bit. 

Your eyes never leave him as he places his lips into the mouthpiece and uses his free hand to grab a lighter on the table. Vernon lights the bowl with skilled fingers, inhaling gently but confidently, then removes it. His eyelids flutter closed, as he inhales steadily, the smoke in the bong swirling as it fills his lungs. 

Once he’s had his fill, he pulls the bong away, holding the smoke in his chest for a few seconds before his red lips part, the smoke seeping out of his mouth in rings and drifting up to the dark sky. A dopey smile plays on his lips as his eyes open again, meeting yours. 

The entire act has you clenching as you watch him work, so in his element and looking absolutely breathtaking while doing so. But the look he’s giving you now has an undeniable effect on you and the want you so often feel for him.

Vernon tips the bong lightly in your direction, asking if you want a hit and you accept it. Instead of handing it to you, he holds the mouthpiece out to you, keeping it in his grasp as you lean forward and place your mouth on it. Vernon lights the bowl for you, holding eye contact as you start to let the smoke billow into your mouth, your chest already feeling warm as it fills you. He waits until your eyes close to remove the bowl, and you inhale sharply, your head already feeling lighter.

The bong is pulled away and you tip your head back, the smoke swirling inside of you before your lungs begin to burn and you open your mouth, releasing the smoke. You watch it float up and dissipate and don’t notice Vernon’s gaze still glued to you.

When you meet his eyes, neither of you moves, almost waiting to see what the other will say or do.

Joshua is the one to interrupt the moment, yelling at the two of you for not sharing. Vernon leans over you to pass the bong to Joshua’s waiting hands and he’s the closest to you he has been all evening. The smell of his sweet shampoo hits you first before the woodsy scent of his cologne follows, topped off with the faint smell of weed. It takes everything in you not to kiss him, but you hold it together until he sits back in his chair. He slouches into the uncomfortable fold-out chair, his legs spread wide in his worn jeans, practically begging you to crawl into his lap. Again, you don’t, but dear god how you want to.

Time ticks by as your small group stays outside, passing the bong around the circle every few minutes. You’ve quickly lost the conversation being held by the whole group since you and Vernon spend most of your time talking amongst yourselves. You don’t discuss anything in particular, just movies you’ve seen lately, new restaurants you’ve tried, and some of your favorite new musical releases. Conversation with Vernon always flows so naturally and easily. The two of you rarely broach awkward topics which is a miracle in itself.

At one point, the conversation shifts to you and your lack of experience in the party department.

“So, you’ve never been to any party ever? Like not even a birthday party?”

“Do birthday parties at laser tag places count when I was like ten?” Both of you giggle at that, feeling so much more at ease than you did earlier.

“I don’t think so. I mean like, in high school, you never even went to like a small house party?”

You shake your head as you sip on the soda you had dragged yourself back into the house to get earlier. “Nah. I wasn’t really popular in high school and my friends and I were all too nerdy to throw parties. We had anime-watch nights, but that’s about it.” Waving your hands dismissively you chuckle, but Vernon just shakes his head.

“I can’t believe that.”

“What, that I’m a massive nerd? I wouldn’t think that’d be a surprise since Joshua and I literally got into an argument about Full Metal Alchemist last weekend at Seungcheol’s.” A snort leaves Vernon when he laughs and you can’t help but notice how endearing it is.

“No, we already know you and Shua are weebs!” He keeps laughing even when you lightly push him at his teasing. “What I mean is, I can’t believe that you weren’t popular. I mean, look at you!” He gestures wildly to you, his eyes sweeping over you from head to toe.

“Oh, come on.”

“No, for real! You’re so damn funny and so fun to be around. You’re super sweet and kind and you’re always taking care of us. Plus you’re the hottest person I’ve ever met so like, how the fuck weren’t people all over you? You’re basically fucking perfect!” His words make you feel fuzzy all over, and you know it’s not just the weed.

“Thank you, Vernon,” you whisper, averting your attention to your drink. Hearing Vernon call you hot and “fucking perfect” makes you squeeze your thighs together. Something about him complimenting you so blatantly has you weak in the knees. With your earlier stress gone and feeling a little more carefree, you decide it’s now or never. “I think all of that about you too,” you mumble under your breath.

At first, you’re not sure if he hears you so you dart your eyes over to him. Vernon is staring at you, blinking slowly and you can almost see the gears turning in his head.

“Oh wow,” he finally breathes out. “Really?”

Oh. He did hear you.

“Yeah.” You admit. It’s already out there so you may as well just stand by it.

Vernon’s brain looks as though it’s working overtime as he stares at you blankly. Your stomach does the most violent of flips as you wait for what comes next, unsure of what you should say. 

Thankfully, Joshua barges into the conversation, disrupting the tension that hung between you and Vernon.

“Hey, Y/n, I’m tired. I’m gonna find Jeonghan and head home. You wanna share an Uber? Jeonghan’ll probably crash at my place and you can too. Or we’ll put your address in as a stop.”

“Uh…” Do you want to leave now? You just kind-of, sort-of, maybe confessed your feelings to Vernon. But, he also kind-of, sort-of maybe did the same. 

If you leave now, will he pretend none of this happened the next time you see him again? Will he blame the weed for his words that he possibly didn’t mean? Does he want you to stay and decide what to do next together?

“Y/n mentioned staying behind for a while longer. Right?” Vernon decides for you, tilting his head and looking back at you, unmoving as he waits for you to verify.

“Oh, yeah I’m gonna stay a little longer.”

Joshua narrows his eyes at you, scanning your face for something that may contradict your words. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good here with Vernon.” Joshua seems to inspect you both, the seconds dragging on before he finally decides that he accepts what you’re saying.

“Okay, but I better get a text from you later when you’re going home and when you get there. Got it?”

“Promise!” 

Joshua throws another look at Vernon. “Everybody better stay safe.” There’s something else behind Joshua’s demand and you’re not sure how exactly to take it.

You and Vernon watch him go before the earlier silence you shared is back. It hangs in the air for what feels to you like an eternity but is more likely only a few seconds.

“You wanna, uh, go upstairs?”

“Yes!” Vernon stumbles over his words when he asks you, but you don’t when you answer him. He’s barely able to get the last word out before you’re accepting his offer. You don’t care where he wants to take you because you’ll go wherever with him.

Vernon slowly stands, reaching for your hand which you give him without a second thought. He leads you back inside the house, upstairs, and to one of the bathrooms in the hall.

“Um, my room’s not clean. I didn’t really expect anyone would be in my room besides me so…” Vernon confesses rather sheepishly when the door is shut behind you. “But, Seungkwan made us clean all the common areas so I promise this room is clean.” A nervous chuckle leaves him, averting his eyes from you.

“That’s okay,” you admit. And it is. Your romantic feelings for Vernon aside (and yes it is a lot of feelings), you want him so badly. You yearn to kiss him, touch him, and let him fuck you, no matter where it happens. Knowing that maybe your feelings aren’t unrequited only makes you want him even more. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Vernon smiles at you, his mouth taking the shape of a heart that has your actual heart beating wildly. He approaches you almost cautiously, pressing you against the bathroom door.

“Are you sure you want this?” His question is a whisper as he’s practically nose to nose with you.

“Of course.”

“We can stop whenever you want to. If you get uncomfortable or change your mind about me or anything like that just say the word.”

“Vernon, I want to be here, I promise. Now kiss me, please.” 

And kiss you he does. Vernon dips his head to close the gap between you. His lips are a little chapped as they move against yours, but you don’t mind at all. Your hands ball themselves in the front of his hoodie while he cups your face and kisses you hard. His tongue prods at your lips and you open immediately, moaning as the muscle slips inside your mouth. His tongue wraps around yours, suckling at it and pulling another desperate sound from you. The urgency behind his movements is evident, as his hips meet yours, his body flush against you. 

It’s shallow at first and barely noticeable but when you do feel it - Vernon grinding against you - you instantly react, meeting his small thrusts.

When his clothed erection, already hard and straining through his jeans, presses against your pelvis, he makes a deep, pleased hum in his throat. Even through his clothes, you can feel just how big Vernon is. More wetness pools between your legs, already making your underwear feel uncomfortable and sticky. 

Vernon continues to hump against you, his kisses becoming more frantic and his hands have long since started wandering on you. His big hands cradle your hips, sliding down the tops of your thighs, then around you to grab a handful of your ass. He yanks you into him, his hips continuing to rut against you.

The sheer act of Vernon dry-humping you like a man truly crazy with lust only makes you want him more. You feel yourself clench around nothing, the friction of Vernon’s hard-on nudging so close to where you need him the most. He has to pull away from your mouth finally, gasping for air, but his hips don’t falter. 

“Vernon…please, I need more.”

“M-more?” 

“More. Need more.” Your words come out as more of a whine when he squeezes your ass again.

“More of me?”

“Please!”

“Fuck, yeah. Okay.”

He looks genuinely forlorn at the thought of stopping his movements, but he does, lightly panting from his exertion.

Your hands leave the crumpled fabric of his hoodie and snake down to his waist, slipping your hands under the hem. Vernon lets you undress him and then he does the same to you, pulling off piece by piece, tossing each article away without so much as a second thought and drinking in the sight of one another as you go. 

Vernon is back on you once you’re both naked, shoving your bodies together as he kisses you again. He cups your breasts, thumbs rubbing circles over your pert nipples. You moan into Vernon’s mouth, letting him work your sensitive buds, the sensation making you rub your thighs together. When your knee brushes Vernon’s hard cock, he nearly chokes. His hands knead at your plush skin as his lips trace their way from your lips to your neck.

Vernon’s teeth nip at your skin and your hands float up to grab at his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, keeping him at your most sensitive spot. Your knees nearly buckle when he starts to suck harshly and his hands continue their work on your tits.

Before you know what’s next, one of Vernon’s hands is inching down your body, stopping at the apex of your thighs. With a step out to the side, you spread your thighs to give him access. A single, long digit swipes at your already sopping folds. 

He eases his finger into your hole, your warmth greedily sucking him. Vernon begins pumping his finger in and out of you as he continues marking your neck, mumbling about how warm you are and how wet you feel. Your mind starts to turn to mush, your hands scrambling to grasp onto any part of Vernon you can. It happens to be his biceps - those of which are surprisingly firm. You’ve never seen him go to the gym or talk about working out, but clearly he’s doing something. The muscles ripple as he pistons his finger in and out, soon adding a second which slides in with no resistance.

His hot, rock-hard length brushes against your thigh and you reach down with the hand not clutching his arm for dear life, and wrap your fingers around his cock.

Vernon jumps, hissing through his teeth as you slowly jerk him off. Your thumb rubs over his tip, the precum oozing out and helping your hand glide over him.

His lips find yours again, the kiss bruising and messy as he finger fucks you faster and the squelching sounds you make around him echo off of the tile. His fingers scissor in you, working you open for him and when he grazes that soft, spongy spot inside of you, your legs nearly give out. 

He manages to keep you upright with his other arm locked around your waist. “You okay?” His voice is gruff, much deeper than it was earlier and you can feel more wetness seep out and around his fingers. 

“I’m s-so close, Vern, fuck.”

“Yeah? Gonna cum all over my fingers?”

The sentence is so simple but it has you clenching around his digits so hard that you hold your breath.

“Mmhmm!” you can’t manage words, only sounds, but he doesn’t ask again, instead quickening his pace. Doing your best to match his speed, you twist your wrist, letting Vernon cant his hips forward and fuck into your hand. You whimper into each other’s mouths, the only focus is each other. The only thing either of you see and think about is the other.

Vernon eventually breaks the kiss and bends down to draw one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue flicking at the bud before sucking on it hard enough to hurt in the best way. The twinge of pain shoots straight to your belly, the tension finally snapping.

When you cum, you throw your head back, hitting the bathroom door with a loud ‘thunk!’ and your eyes squeeze shut so tightly that stars swim in the darkness of your closed lids “Fuck!” You choke out, your knees finally giving up on keeping you upright as you let go of Vernon’s cock to grab a hold of his other arm.

Your body sags against his bare chest. He has to prop you back against the door while he helps you ride out your orgasm. The image of you like this, naked and sweaty and crying out for him on his fingers will live in his mind rent-free until the day he dies.

When he finally slips out of you, he can’t help but stare in awe at your juices that drip down his fingers. His first impulse is to shove them into his mouth which he does eagerly, sucking and savoring the flavor of you.

Vernon’s eyes roll back and you watch the entire thing, struggling to keep your eyes open.

“Can I eat you out? If that’s okay with you of course.” Vernon’s eyes are wide as he meets yours, half-afraid that you’ll say no. He’ll respect you of course, but he’ll also daydream forever about the way just the small sampling of you tasted on his tongue.

Luckily, for both of you, you want nothing more than to feel Vernon’s kiss-swollen lips on your cunt.

“Please!” You shamelessly beg, droopy eyes widening at his request.

He leads you to the bathroom counter and helps you clumsily clamber up onto it. Both of you are wobbly and clumsy from the weed, but you make it without injury. Vernon’s on his knees instantly, wide hands prying your legs open, pussy on full display. 

“Holy shit, you’re so wet!”

“Vernon!” You cover your face in embarrassment, feeling self-conscious.

“Like, your pussy is fucking shimmering in the light, baby.” His face is right in front of your heat, the proximity making your hole flutter right in front of his eyes. “Fucking hell I just watched your pussy squeeze. I’m going to pass out.”

“Vernon, fucking touch me already, please! I need you so bad!” His heavy eyes meet yours, tongue darting out to lick his lips. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes, please.”

Much like earlier, he didn’t need you to tell him again as his eyes focus on you and he dips his head between your legs. 

Vernon’s tongue immediately finds your clit, the muscle flicking forcefully, sending a jolt through you. Shaky fingers rake through Vernon’s hair and grip the brunette locks for support as he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking on it in the way you need.

“Fuck! Vernon, yes!” Your hips start to buck up into his face when he changes direction and dips his tongue into your pussy, groaning low in his throat as he does.

“Mmph! So good.” Vernon drawls, his words muffled as he tongue fucks you, slurping your wetness as he does.

His tongue darts in and out of you, his nose brushing your clit every time you lift your hips. Vernon makes out with your cunt, the lewd sounds alone are enough to have you hurdling to your end and Vernon’s grunt reverberating through your body is what ultimately has you cumming. 

“Vernon!” His name erupts from your mouth in a shriek, your thighs clamping around his head. Your whole body feels as if it’s on fire, as you arch almost painfully into him. You stay that way for what feels like minutes, hips still pushed towards him as you gasp and Vernon continues to lazily lick at you.

The world could crumble around you at this very moment and you don’t think you’d care. 

That was undisputedly the best head you’ve ever gotten.

Vernon chuckles from between your thighs, finally coming up for air.

“Best head ever huh?” His nose all the way to his chin shines with your juices as he gives you a lopsided grin. 

You hadn’t even realized you said your last thoughts out loud. Only a small part of you feels embarrassed. The rest of you only focuses on Vernon as he stands up, his cock red and angry as it rests against his stomach.

“Can - can we do it on the floor? My legs feel like cooked pasta right now and I can’t stay upright.” His expression is sullen as he says this, but you can only giggle at how cute he looks, pouting at you, cradling his very thick, very distracting dick.

“You can fuck me wherever you want as long as you do it.”

Vernon’s eyes widen, blinking a few times as if your words fluster him, but he quickly snaps out of it, helping you off the counter. He grabs a bath towel hanging on the rack nearby and spreads it out on the floor before helping lay you on it. He promises that it’s clean, but you shrug his worries away. Towel or not, at this very moment all you want is Vernon to fuck you even more stupid than the weed has made you, and you don’t care what he does it on.

With fumbling hands, Vernon reaches for his pants and digs his wallet out in search of a condom. When he finds it, he opens and rolls the rubber on, hands trembling as he goes. 

He scurries back over to you, easily taking his place between your legs. He momentarily forgets what he’s doing when he catches sight of your still-sopping folds and you have to call his name to get his attention. His eyes dart up to look at you, fixating on your heaving chest and bottom lip pulled tight between your teeth, hair sprawled out around your head, eyes red and shiny, staring right back at him. 

You look straight out of all of the late-night fantasies he’s had about you and you don’t even know it.

Vernon’s cock feels as big as it looks when he finally eases inside of you, your legs quivering along the way. His hands hook under your knees, keeping you open until he buries himself balls-deep into your pussy.

The two of you share a moan, your voices harmonizing in pleasure at finally filling you and being full by him. He takes a moment before he thrusts forward, gauging your reaction. A scrunch of your brow and a nod to him lets him know to move and he anchors himself by gripping your thighs as he starts to snap his hips.

A high-pitched yelp leaves you, echoing in the room along with the wet sounds of your arousal, the sound only intensifying as Vernon starts to fuck you with more urgency. 

“Holy shit, Y/n. You feel fucking incredible.” He pants out as he drives his hips into yours, sweat already beading at his hairline.

Your shaky hands reach up to wrap around his shoulders and you pull him closer. “S-so do you…” Vernon stumbles, but catches himself, planting his hands on the sides of your head. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you do your best to lift your hips with each thrust, meeting Vernon’s momentum as he fucks into you.

Through the condom, you can still feel the most prominent veins on his cock, the friction gliding against your walls, your eyes crossing at the pleasure. The bathroom floor isn’t where you imagined your first time with him being, although you never thought that your first time with him would even happen. Your crush on him was one you kept close to you and in your mind, it wouldn’t be reciprocated. 

That thought was obviously cast aside if the way his soft brown eyes, rimmed with scarlet, are looking down at you, even as his lips press together in concentration with each drive of his body jolting yours and almost pushing you across the floor.

Even with THC coursing through his system and making every other movement so slow, Vernon is quick and determined as he rocks into you, your soft, gummy walls squeezing him harder the faster he fucks into you at a bruising pace. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Vernon rasps out between grunts. 

“You’re f-fucking the last of my brain cells out of m-me and you wanna be romantic?” You manage a laugh, even if it gets cut off with a sob as soon as Vernon’s cockhead bumps into your g-spot. 

“I can’t help it. You make me wanna be romantic.” His words are accentuated with a breathy groan - the sentence a stark contrast to the way he pummels your cunt.

Tears well in your eyes, and you blame the weed for bringing emotions out of you. Raising your head as best as you can, you meet his lips in what is meant to be a sweet kiss, even if it’s more teeth than anything, but neither of you minds.

You lay back and settle when you can’t keep yourself up anymore and Vernon stays close to your face as he pivots his hips, shoving his hand between your bodies. It takes him a second, but he eventually finds your clit, eliciting a shriek from you.

The pace that Vernon finds with both his hips and his fingers has your orgasm right on the cusp, your body already sensitive from earlier. 

“V-Vernon!”

“Say my real name,” he wheezes desperately. 

“Hansol! Fuck, so good. ‘M gonna cum! So close…” His real name rolls off of your tongue just as easily as his nickname does, if not easier.

His fingers pinch at your clit between pressing against it as his other hand supports most of his weight, his sweaty forehead resting against yours. 

“Cum for me again, baby. Wanna see you cum just for me.” His voice is like honey, dripping all over you, and setting your heart and body ablaze.

You reach your high then, a needy cry of his name exploding from you, your body going stiff. Wave after wave rushes through you like an inferno, your blood rushing to your head. Through the ringing in your ears, you hear Hansol actually growl from above you, your name, and a string of curses sounding like a chant coming from him.

His mouth hangs open again as his hips stutter, riding out his orgasm until he lets out a loud huff. Instinctively, you reach your hand up, running it through Hansol’s damp strands. His eyes slip close, pushing his head into your hand more, relishing in the way your nails graze his scalp.

The air is calm and full of so much adoration even as you both harshly huff and puff, catching your breath. You relish this moment with Hansol, wanting nothing more than to stay like this with him.

The sound of his stomach grumbling cuts through the moment. “Sorry,” he snorts, causing both of you to break into a fit of laughter.

“Wanna go back downstairs and get some pizza?” You ask him as he finally moves off of you and you peel yourself up from the floor. Vernon has to help you stand, but to be fair, both of you are unsteady as you stand again.

“Hell yeah. Would you wanna bring it back up to my room? I can clean up really quickly and you can stay over. I have a bowl if you wanna smoke more. But only if you want to! You can say no and I can stay with you until a rideshare gets here.” The nervousness in his question is obvious as he pulls his clothes back on, having to concentrate on getting both legs in his jeans without falling over.

“Of course, I’ll stay over. And don’t worry about the mess. As long as there’s room in the bed for us, the food, and to smoke it doesn’t matter to me, Hansol.” You smile to yourself once you’re dressed, loving the way his real name sounds to your ears. You want to only call him Hansol from here on out.

His head snaps up and he fixes you with a wide-eyed look once his hoodie is back on. “Really?”

You nod at him, laughing at his expression - the same incredulous look he’s given you all night. Closing the small distance between the two of you, you place a gentle kiss on his lips, enjoying the way he instantly melts into you.

Yeah, your first real party was completely different than you had imagined, but it was even better than you had hoped.

Seventeen masterlist | All Masterlists

[saltsicklover]

Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 1 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 2 HERE and my Master List HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt, from the lovely @inkandarsenic

Romantic Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Platonic Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Fem!Reader

A few uses of Y/N

Word Count: This part: 6k+ Total Fic:20k+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talks of death, minor character deaths, labor, loss of a child in utero, abandonment, drinking, talks of God and destiny, swearing, general military talk and lingo, descriptions of food and eating, coughing fits, talks of violence, actual violence, blood, vomit and throwing up, mention of near death experiences. ANGST

---

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED OR TRANSLATED

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. Six years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The Officers Club, better known as The Flight Line Bar sits on post in Miramar, frequented by the big brass and educators at Top Gun. The whole place glows with amber light from the buzzing light fixtures that hang from the rafters, dusty and hot to the touch. This half of base, on the far side of the air field has yet to be updated, evident by the chips in the glasses and the inconsistent flickering of the halogen bulbs. The wallpaper is peeling; discolored around the old neon signs that have slowly begun to fizzle out. If it were any brighter inside those four walls, one might be able to see the discoloration of well walked floors and one too many spilt beers.

Two loan pool tables sit in the center of the bar, their felt faded from use and tearing, flanked by a couple of dart boards, their cork crumbling from age. The patrons look about the same, old and wrinkled with age, lines worn into their faces that read closer to distinguished than wary. That's what the military does to a person, wears itself straight into the skin and makes a home there, the ghosts of lost wingman and battle buddies still looming in the whites of their eyes. Too many memories are stuck in the deep folds of their uniforms, worn in around the elbows and shoulders, the creases worn from friction- salute after salute.

It's really a hard to believe that people still frequent The Flight Line Bar. After all, there are so many better places for the students of Top Gun to meander into, just off post where they don't have to risk rubbing shoulders with their instructors- or heaven forbid, hit on their guest lecturers.

After all, It's all fun and games, flirty touches and smooth words until you're slapped with a SHARP report.

The students always figure out the good places to drink after class, shortly after their arrival after one too many moments spent inside the crumbling bar. The drinks are good in taste, better in price, but not worth it at the risk of saying just the wrong thing to just the wrong person.

The new recruits arrival happens like clockwork, and it's a ritual the newly minted Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson loves to witness. He has been watching the little ordeal for the last four years, with each new Top Gun class, even choosing to mark the date on his calendar after having almost missed an incoming class last year.

The new Top Gun recruits wander into The Flight Line Bar in gaggles. Most still clad in their uniforms if they had been lucky enough to get issued a drinking order. The wide eyed aviators would file up to the bar, uneasy looks on their faces as they took in the ranks drinking around them. If the Flight Line Bar was a small pond, the Top Gun inductees are guppies surrounded by some very big fish. One year, a young aviator even tripped over the base commander's seat and was met with a glare that even Cyclone would have been nervous to stand on the receiving end of.

The recruits each drink a beer, the brave ones chancing a second, before they're heading for the door. Cyclone loves to see the discomfort that would roll off of them the moment they crossed the threshold back into the parking lot. Some would even shiver, which always seems to pull a hearty laugh out of the Admiral.

This year, however, Cyclone is met with a very different scene before him when he himself broke the threshold of the Flight Line Bar. Having been stuck in a meeting with Admiral Kazansky, Cyclone ends up arriving later than the usual crowd of recruits. So, when he finally wanders in, he is met with the fleeting glances of some top brass, but no new eyes. He can't fight the way he almost deflates; after the shit day he managed to barely claw his way through, the one thing he was looking forward to were the wide eyes of the newest, freshest meat that Top Gun managed to recruit.

As if today of all days wasn't hard enough to begin with.

Instead, it looks like a regular Friday night, which wouldn't do the leg work needed to actually flip his day around for the better. But he's already there, the drinks are cheap, and he really, really needs a drink. So, he orders with a silent wave of his hand, the borderline elderly man behind the bar meeting the wave with a nod of his head. Cyclone plops down unceremoniously onto one of the rickety barstools. It almost sways under his weight, however it does creak weakly as he settles. His temple meets his knuckles as he lets out a deep sigh as the beer being set down in front of him. Cyclone can only manage a nod to the bartender before lifting the glass to his lips.

The question of why he still drinks here, in this lousy bar, floats through his head for a moment, but he doesn't put fourth the energy to grant himself with an answer. Maybe it's the cheap beer and half price shots. Or, maybe the fact that he doesn't have to fight off the happy hour drinkers or the five o'clock somewhere partiers that seem to be carried in with the wind. Again, he doesn't entertain the question long enough to form an answer.

Cyclone doesn't even have to glance around the bar to know the crowd this Friday night hosts. Top brass, tired officers, and disgruntled wives, each drinking their own bad days away.

The glass feels about a hundred pounds and it meets the bar top with a loud thunk, the amber liquid sloshing around inside. A bit of foam sneaks over the rim, running down the crack in the glass. Cyclone scratches at it with this thumbnail, wondering how the hell the bar is still getting away with using nearly broken glassware. The thought doesn't last long, not many seem to this evening, and he is bringing the impossibly heavy glass back to his mouth for another sip.

As he tips it back a little further this time, the sulking woman a few seats down catches his attention. If this were a normal Friday night, Cyclone might make bets with himself on just why a woman might be crying, in this bar, all alone. He might puzzle that she is a soon to be ex-wife, her spouse making the choice to cheat on deployment. Maybe she is a daughter, or a sister, or a cousin, her base escort hiding in some other corner of the bar, or of the base. But tonight is not a normal Friday night, regardless of the absence of the new incoming class or not.

The Admiral can't help but watch her lazily out of the corner of his eye. She brings a shitty bar serviette up to wipe at her cheeks, sniffling as the paper touches her skin. Cyclone should feel guilty about how much the sight comforts him. At least, he thinks, someone else seems to be having just as bad of a day as he is.

Then, she catches him staring, his beer lost in the space between his lips and the counter. His fingers are sticky against the chilled glass as he holds it there, still watching her. Cyclone doesn't look away, no point in it now. Then, she breaks the disillusioned bubble forming between them with a sniffle and a hiccup.

It's not a pretty sound, but then again, the sight of the woman in front of him isn't exactly pretty either. After all, it's hard to be pretty when snot is rubbed up over the tip of her nose, catching the light as she sniffles again. Her hair is akin to a nest, like her fingers have been making their way through it over and over again until it is more mess than style.

"I'm sorry, Admiral, Sir," Her voice is straining from holding back tears. There is snot dripping from her nose again, and she wipes it with another flimsy napkin. A half effort is made to sweep back the hair in her face, her well kept fingernails catching in newly formed knots as she pushes it back. The woman doesn't break eye contact with him, even as the sight of him begins to swim through her newly forming tears.

"Hey, kid, it's okay, don't worry about it," His eyes meet the fluttering neon sign behind her, not wanting to lock eyes with her again. It lights her in a halo of sickly blue and Cyclone can see the fizziness of her hair in it's light- it's a half distraction from the way she is still looking at him with those tears in her eyes. He can't stand it when women cry, not after watching his wife, June, sob through her entire pregnancy. It's really the way their eyes glaze over- that helpless look where he can just tell they are fighting with everything they are worth, deep down knowing that it might not be enough. Though, it warms his chest a bit to call her "kid", like he has always been meant to use the term.

The Admiral's brown eyes go misty, locking onto the chipped portion of his glass as the memory of his wife, six months pregnant, stuck in a hospital bed as hot tears carved their way down her face invades Cyclone's memory like a plague. He will never forget the crimson staining her cheeks from the exertion as she fought. And fought. And fought. The way her skin was more chapped than smooth from the constant flow of tears- the way the light would catch the shininess of her skin from the petroleum jelly that he lovingly spread over her weeping skin.

She didn't make it home.

Neither did their baby boy.

And now, as this woman sits a couple stools down, crying in a way that's anything other than gentle, corralling her sobs into the fence of her chest; her face that same color he used to be so used to seeing, that same damn sheen to her skin and Beau feels sick. His eyes snap down to her hands and he watches as her fingers push through the soggy material of the napkin, a sight that makes him grimace a bit. Gross is not the word to use to describe a crying woman, that is fact he has to remind himself of, but the way her fingertips slipped right through that soggy excuse of a napkin is damn close. Cyclone schools his mouth into a tight line, knowing that anything he might say could make both of their day's spiral downwards even faster.

"Admiral," Cyclone wills himself to look her in the face, but his pupils dance around, not locking in on one spot too long. The frizz of her hair, then over the puffy skin under her eyes, then back up to the buzzing neon just over the top of her head. Anything to keep from looking into the woman's eyes. He manages a nod in her direction, rewarded with a hiccup from behind her glass.

A couple more used napkins are tossed up onto the bar, adding them to her steadily growing pile. Her beer is cold, and she can feel it travel all the way down, chilling her burning insides with each swallow. Cyclone takes a drink of his too, waiting for her to continue her thought. He closes his eyes as he tips back the glass, the image of the crying woman in front of him replaced with one of June, and he's not really sure which is worse.

Thunk goes the glass again.

"Can I ask a favor?" Her tone is so sweet, yet so, so sad. He thinks of June, then he nods, his body doing the motion for the sake of his heart, even though his brain is screaming at him. He was taught a long time ago that there are people who don't just ask for favors, specifically strange women in bars, new recruits, and the big brass. But, the woman looks about the age his son should have been now and his chest constricts with the realization that he could have been sitting here drinking with him if things had turned out different.

"How can I help you, kid?" The glass is hitting the bar top just a little bit too hard again, the splinter in the glass growing a millimeter. It's quickly covered by the large pad of Cyclone's thumb.

"I- well, I'm supposed to be here celebrating my Mother's leg-legacy," Another sob-full hiccup breaks up her sentence. Cyclone waits patiently for her to finish. She wipes at the tip of her nose with the back of her hand.

"And, she really liked to shoot whiskey," The explanation is coming out too wet and not at all concise, but Beau is nodding along anyway. The woman is rubbing at her eyes again, this time with her fingertips. She carefully runs her nail along the underside of her waterline, trying to catch the new tears before they streak down her cheeks with the rest of them. It doesn't really work, or even if it does, Cyclone can't tell. New tears fill up the spaces the freshly wiped away ones once occupied.

Despite the unclear delivery, Cyclone gets the message. Ordering two double shots of Tennessee whiskey, his wife's favorite, Cyclone offers his best sympathetic smile to his new drinking companion. Then, as the whiskey is being poured and he is shuffling over to the bar stool next to hers. That one creaks and sways too, but he tries not to pay it too much mind.

"What's your name, kid?" There's that warmth again, breaking through the tightening feeling in his chest.

"Lieutenant Y/N "Monsoon" Mitchell," Monsoon raises her shot glass to Cyclone, offering him a nod. It's such an informal introduction but both are thankful for the lack of salute, the lack of military theatrics, tradition, that they are usually stuck to upholding. After all, what is tradition except peer pressure ringing through from years past.

Cyclone knows her, well, her name, this recruit- on paper at least. Suddenly he feels a bit worse for feeling less alone when he spotted her crying.

"Beau "Cyclone" Simpson," He raises his own glass, moving to tap them together. It's a risky move with the state of the glasses, each sporting chips in their rims and hairline fractures down their side. They share sullen, makeshift smiles, neither putting any sort of heart behind the expression. It's a knowing sort of thing, the look they share, one that says I won't say anything if you won't.

"To my Mama, Lieutenant Maria Davis, the best damn medic the USS Vinson ever saw," Monsoon's toast is simple, but she means every single word. Beau's mouth turns up at the corners, nodding to her in acknowledgment of a good job.

"And too my wife, June, and our baby boy, god rest their souls."

The bottoms of the glasses hit the table before the rim makes contact with their lips. The alcohol goes down with a burn, but it's a welcomed sensation. Anything feels better than swallowing grief and there's too much in the air right now. Cyclone chases the shot with a gulp of his beer. Monsoon doesn't. She rests the cool glass against her warm cheek, squeezing her eyes shut. It's a refreshing feeling, almost like she is being rinsed from the inside out.

The alcohol settles deep within them. She is buzzing, he is a bit queasy. Neither need to say a thing about it. It kind of feels like church- like a well spoken sermon where one sits in the pew the furthest from the crowed, tucked away in the back, poking holes in each lesson the preacher delivers. After all, it's not really God's plan, is it? More dumb luck than divine circumstance. Yet, they are both still there, sitting on stool that could give out at any moment as the lights above them buzz and the world feels a little smaller.

"I was watching the class today. You're a damn good pilot, Monsoon," Beau speaks after a few beats of silence, not quite sure what to say. Go with the truth, right? It would be rude to move back to his original seat, especially after the woman next to him just got control of her tears, so small talk is the next best option. She cracks her eyes open, trying to read the expression that follows the compliment. It looks genuine, if not a little proud, so she nods.

And then the world is a bit smaller, still.

"Thank you, Admiral, sir," She sets the glass down, gentler than he has done the whole night, "That means a lot, coming from such a talented pilot as yourself, sir."

And then Cyclone is chuckling, his chest vibrating. That feeling being the closest thing to godly he has felt in a long time, but it's more Zeus, more Jupitar, than it could have ever been God. Monsoon's words are so genuine and it catches him off guard. Most people who say something like that are trying to kiss his ass so hard that there they all but wear marks on the backside of his trousers.

"Are you getting excited to graduate? The ceremony is next week, right?" He asks, bringing his eyes back to the neon behind her. The light above them flickers, neither one acknowledging it. There is a sort of kinship between the way their souls feel and the state of the bar, where living feels like the flickering of a light, tonight.

"Sir?" The question comes with a tilt of her head, her fingers wrapping loosely around her beer. He watches the condensation drip down the glass, the water disappearing behind her fingertips.

"To graduate," he explains like it's the clearest thing, "To finish Top Gun,"

"Oh!" Monsoon almost chuckles, but her soul is too heavy. She settles on a small smile, as kind as she can manage.

"I don't graduate for another six weeks. Today just wrapped my seventh week here, but halfway done does feel good," He can tell she is holding something back with the way her eyes are pinched at the corners, the smiles on her lips straining a bit under her words. Monsoon looks like she almost doesn't believe the words that are leaving her own mouth, but when Cyclone catches her eyes again he can see that look again, I won't say anything if you won't.

"Oh," Beau's hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, all of a sudden feeling like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "In that case, you are one of the best pilots I've ever seen,"

The words fall from his tongue like they are the simplest thing in the world. His eyebrows are still raised as he downs the rest of his beer. He contemplates Monsoon's career in his head, attempting to think back to files he knows are sitting on his desk, but the alcohol swirls the statistics together in his brain.

"Thank you, sir,"

"Is your father planning on coming to your graduation?" The question is so simple, the next plausible question after toasting to her Mother's life. Monsoon bristles at the question, her expression becoming impossibly more tight, pinched.

"He's uhm," The foam in the bottom of Monsoon's glass is the most interesting thing in the room. Tears are flooding her eyes again, and she's turning back to the shitty bar napkins in the even shittier dispenser. Cyclone knows his question hit a nerve based on how she is frantically pulling napkin after napkin out of the dispenser; and the Admiral's guilt swims to the surface. He is sure that the horizon of it can be seen in his iris's, if Monsoon were to look past the evident sadness that has made a home there. He's pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, blue in color and perfectly folded. He offers it to her and it's taken with a slightly shaky hand.

"M.I.A. or AWOL?" Cyclone asks. There's a bit of humor to his question that neither of them comment on.

"He went AWOL when I was seven," She doesn't take her eyes off the popping foam in the bottom of her glass, "Then I suppose he went M.I.A. three years later, when he stopped sending birthday cards,"

Cyclone hates the way her shrugs are all noncommittal and vaguely unbothered. He would have killed for a chance to raise his child, hell, he would move the Earth if that meant he even had a chance to do something. The fact that a man would walk out on his family, on his own child, it makes him sick. There is still something else Monsoon isn't saying; the way she chuckles is almost wax poetic with the way she rolls her eyes. Cyclone raises an eyebrow at her as he gestures to the bartended for two more on tap.

"I was in Admiral Kazansky's office today," She chuckles again, eyes glassy and unfocused. Cyclone slides the new beer over to her. He brings his up to his lips as she breathes deeply, trying to order the words together in her head, words she can't believe she is about to say out loud.

"There's a fucking picture of my father on his desk," Then she is downing the beer in quick, deep gulps. It's half gone before she sets it back down. Cyclone's brain is working on overdrive, swerving the hazy clouds of intoxication, searching for the mental picture of the Admiral's desk. Monsoon is chuckling in quiet disbelief, picturing the damn photo on his desk, her father and the Admiral shaking hands during their time at Top Gun. It makes her sick, really, but she doesn't need to say it based on the way her face feels, all contorted and ugly.

"I didn't even want to be a fucking pilot," Cyclone doesn't know if she is speaking to him anymore, or if the words are meant for her half empty glass. Hell, the way she speaks them they could be meant for the universe, for Khaos, for the air itself. There's a chip on that glass too, in the smooth side if of it, where it tapers down. He watches as Monsoon rubs her fingertip over it again and again and again.

"What did you want to do?" The question is leaving Cyclone's lips before he can stop it, common sense kicking in too slow. He is kicking himself.

Then, her thumb is stopping.

"I wanted to be a RIO," The glass is lifted to her lips again, her eyes rolling at the mere thought, "I wanted to fly with my Dad,"

The laughter that leave Monsoon's lips is dry as autumn air. Her lips crack too, under the stretch of her half hearted smile- one that holds no joy, it's all lukewarm and apathetic. He watches the skin of her lips crack and separate- it looks painful, and Cyclone has to fight not to grimace at the sight. Blood slowly begins to leak through the new flesh wound, bright red as it crests over the fullness of her bottom lip. He remembers watching the same thing happen to Maverick in the back of a helicopter as the wind whipped around them. But then, Maverick wore a truly joyous smile, one that rounded out his cheeks with a rosy hue that went deeper than the wind burn.

Then it hits Cyclone like a ton of bricks- like pulling 6 G's in a fucking barrel roll. Mitchell. This girl in front of him, this broken, fatherless girl is Pete Michell's kid. As if Cyclone needed another reason to hate the reckless man.

Beau wants to punch Pete Michell so hard that the only thing the man can make out in his field of vision is stars. Either the ones in the sky as he is planted with his back in the dirt, or the ones that would no doubt sparkle behind his eyelids. He wants to watch as the other man bleeds from the nose, the lip, the inside of his mouth. Cyclone can almost see the way the blood would pool in the spaces between Maverick's too white teeth, turning them a sickly vermilion. He would take a little too much pride watching the blood drip out of the corner of Pete's mouth, or down the crest of his chin.

Hell, Pete Michell, bloody, is a justified sight in Cyclone's book.

But that wouldn't help her right now. So Cyclone takes a breath, calming the flames of anger, of Hades that often lick at his legs, at his hands, whenever he so much as thinks about Pete "Maverick" Mitchell.

He's a bastard, that much is for sure. And it doesn't seem that Monsoon needs reminding of that fact.

"Well, kid," Beau is hunting, hurting for the right words, "If it's not wrong of me to say- your talents would have been wasted as a fucking RIO, especially for that son of a bitch," That gets Monsoon chuckling. She wants to ask if her grandmother was really that bad, but she doesn't make the joke. Though the laugh sounds a bit strangled as it untangles from the dense pain in her chest, Cyclone is happy to hear it. Something small swells in his heart at the sound.

Somewhere, deep in the cavernous spaces of his soul, a broken part of him feels like a father for the first time in years, even if it isn't exactly proper and the woman in front of him isn't his kid. Cyclone feels like a father, not even in a pseudo sense of the word, but truly like a father, and the feeling warms him from the inside out. It overtakes his whole body, leaving him almost buzzing.

Now it's his turn to chuckle. It's sour with pain and longing, but it's still there. Like joy is trying to crawl it's way out, lukewarm and dripping wet.

"Well, Admiral, sir," Monsoon's voice is a little lighter now, sweeter maybe. Cyclone is watching as she's pulling her coat over her shoulders, "Thank you for the favor, and the drink,"

She's nodding her head in the direction of the half full glass still dripping with condensation.

"Thank you for remembering them with me, too," They share a knowing smile, it's a little broken but it is still warm. Again, it's one of those I won't say anything if you won't looks shared between the pair. They lock eyes one last time before Monsoon is turning on her heel, ready to head right out of the front door.

For just a second Cyclone wonders if Monsoon will shudder with relief in the same way the new Top Gun recruits usually do, or if something as simple as that will effect such a skilled pilot. He wonders if anyone will be there for her on graduation day, or if she will be stuck alone in the seas of families and friends- just like he was all those years ago.

I won't say anything if you won't. Yeah, that's not a chance he's willing to take.

"Wait," Cyclone calls after Monsoon, his voice a little too loud and not at all hesitant enough. Monsoon chances a look back, confusion written into the furrow of her brows. He becons he back with a wave of his hand. Cyclone pulls a business card from his front pocket. "I am going TDY, but I should be back for your graduation," The words don't make sense to Monsoon, and neither does the card that he's presenting her between his two fingers. She is cocking her head to the side again, eyebrows furrowed. Cyclone tries to not notice how much she looks like her father.

He notices anyway.

"Email me, remind me of the date, and I'll be there," He is presenting her the card again with a shake of his wrist. Then, she reaches out, grabbing it with nervous fingers.

"Oh, uh-" There are new tears forming in Monsoon's eyes at the words, the card now swimming in her vision. "Thank you, sir,"

"Oh, better yet," Cyclone plucks the card from her fingertips, a move that may have been considered crass but Monsoon can't help but find a little bit funny. Cyclone quickly scribbles down a phone number in messy loops of blue ink, the numbers taking up a little too much room on the back side of the card. Then, he blows on it carefully to make sure the ink won't smudge before handing the card back out to her in the same manner as before.

"Text me the reminder, so it doesn't get lost in my email," Cyclone's smile is so kind and there is a ribbon of hope, a glimmer, really, shinning through the lightest parts of his irises. Monsoon can barely hold back her tears at the sight, and so the card becomes the most interesting thing in the room, held between her shaking fingertips. "You deserve to have a parent there, kid,"

Those are the last words they share that night. They don't need to say anything else. After all, how do you explain the want to stand in as a lost family member? Beau would never admit just how much he's dying for a kid to support, to cheer on and celebrate. Monsoon knows the feeling too, the want to be a daughter who isn't seen as an inconvenience, a burden.

The next time they see each other, Cyclone is sitting in the front row at her Top Gun graduation, a small bouquet of calla lilies on his lap. There is a proud smile on his face and the moment Monsoon sees it there are tears in her eyes. She wonders if this is the feeling she had been missing out on, a father's pride, his love. She tries not to dwell on it, even as walks across that stage.

When the pair meet in the crowd, Cyclone doesn't hesitate to pull her into a hug, one that may not have been professional or regulated, but he feels a weight come off her shoulders the moment he pulls her in. He feels a little more whole too. The hug is short, quick, really, but there are tears in both of their eyes when they pull back.

Cyclone has so much pride for her, and God, Monsoon can feel it. From the way he beams at her to the way he shoves a camera into the hands of his battle buddy, tucking her under his arm. Both clad in dress uniform, posing for the camera as she holds the flowers against her chest to try and quell the beating of her heart. They both sport tears in their eyes, cheeks round and plump red as they smile too wide.

That photo makes onto his desk a week later, displayed in a beautiful mahogany frame.

USS Stennis. Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Four Years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The first time Monsoon calls him Pops, it's an accident. She got shipped out to an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Pacific. The tour is lonely. She doesn't know the team, the group who have been stationed there for the last six months, and they weren't overly keen on the 'new girl'. Monsoon made it through three months before she started to feel like a part of the team. It's a conscious choice, really, to keep working at fitting in. But in the end that team, those people, they aren't her family and they aren't going to remember her after she ships back stateside.

Emails to and from Cyclone kept her going, as he reassured her that life on the carrier isn't easy on anyone. He urges her to try and make better friends with those who hold a more permanent position on the vessel, so she does her best to take the newbies under her wing. If she wasn't welcomed, that was out of her control, but she can sure as hell make sure that the newbies are.

The plan starts off a little rough, the new sailors unsure of the overly friendly Lieutenant amongst the standoffish seasoned crew of the vessel. But days turn to weeks, trust is earned and the long days and nights onboard get easier to swallow.

Then, Cyclone gets shipped out to the carrier for a briefing. He can't help the rumble of excitement that tracks through him. He might get to see Monsoon, his kid, and he's going to do everything in his power to track her down on board. 

There is too much joy on his features as he touches down on the carrier. Too much joy for the briefing he is getting ushered into. It drags on longer than necessary as they hash and rehash out plans for missions. He knows he should care, he really does, but it's not like people's lives are on the line this mission. It's all practice runs and jet maintenance, and how could anyone expect him to focus when his kid is on the same vessel and he is just fucking sitting there. Cyclone barely sits still, knowing the clock is ticking down on his time aboard and if this meeting goes on any longer than planned he is going to miss his chance to see Monsoon.

Around suppertime, Monsoon is heading to the canteen, desperate for some sort of nourishment. It has been a long day, trial after trial, and thankfully for her, she's fairing better than some of her other wingmen. At least she hasn't puked over the side of the carrier since her first week aboard.

She guides one of the newer pilots, Story, down the stairs from the flight deck, her stomach rumbling as they go. The new Lieutenant on board hot on her heels as they make their way down the stairs.

"I know, Story, but you're going to get through this," Monsoon's voice is low as they wind their way through the tight hallways of the lower decks. "You're a good pilot, there is nothing you can't do. So what if you need a little more practice. That's why we're out here, right?"

The younger man hums in agreement, disappointment scribbled all over his face. They are both coated in sweat, Monsoon's hair sticking to her sweat soaked skin. She craves a shower almost as much as she craves food. Her body is weighed down with flight fatigue as she drags her feet.

The halls of the ship begin to smell more and more like hot biscuits and butter the closer they get to the mess hall. Their stomach's rumble in unison at the smell wafting down the hallway. Monsoon is rounding the corner with her front turned towards Story, not bothering a glance in the direction her feet are heading. A second later, her back meets a hard body, a grunt coming out of her mouth at the impact.

Story goes white at the sight of his new friend running straight into an Admiral. Monsoon doesn't like the look on his face, he looks like he's just seen a ghost, or maybe prophesied a murder. So she turns around slowly, so, so slowly. Her eyes are scrunched as she turns. There is already an apology on her lips as Monsoon peeks to see just exactly who she just ran into.

Eyes go wide, and smiles break out over their faces.

The need for food, a hot shower, and sleep dissipate from her body as she looks up at the man in front of her, joy overtaking.

"Pops!" The name comes out a little too quick, catching them both of guard. Monsoon's cheeks flush dark with embarrassment, realizing what she just said and who she just said it to. Without warning, Cyclone is pulling Monsoon into his chest, wrapping her into a warm, tight hug, just the kind of hug a Dad would give.

"Hey Kiddo,"

TAG LIST

@its-the-pilot

@t4medicroe

@inkandarsenic

[maraschinomerry]

Little Pink Heart

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader, implied Locklyle

Summary: following a fatal Ghost-Touch, Lockwood and reader must figure out how to manage love and life after death

Content: reader's death, ghost!reader, grief, angst, bittersweet, not a happy ending, established relationship

A/N: Please please be aware that this fic has some very heavy content, don't feel obliged to read if you could find it upsetting! That being said, this is as much about exploring the concept of Visitors' sentience that Jonathan Stroud introduced and building on what we saw with Annabel Ward as it is about the angst and the grief. This is dedicated to @bella-rose29 for mentioning the idea of ghost!reader and giving me inspiration (bonus angst: listen to Someone New by Freya Ridings while you read)

Word count: 4.9k (my longest fic yet!)

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea (let me know if you want adding or removing!)

The click of the key echoed through the house as you opened the door. Dusk was falling, the fine mist that had settled tinted a soft blue. As much as you didn't want to go inside, you fancied staying out here less.

“Don't linger, darling,” your boyfriend, Anthony, murmured as he passed over the threshold. His hand slipped into yours and he led you in. The house was cold and dim in the fading light, and from the fine layer of dust and lack of personal effects it was clear that it hadn't been inhabited for some time. It was a shame that the owner, who had seemed like a nice enough young woman, had had to move out of her family home, but you couldn't help but be grateful. You and Anthony had only just got your licences, and with no links to any agencies nor desires to join them you'd decided to try and set up your own. That took time, though, and money, and though Anthony had a little equity in his house you'd agreed to take a couple of small, private cases to make up as much as you could. That was how you found yourself here, ready to earn a reasonable sum in exchange for eliminating a lone Type Two. A few jobs like this would help set you up nicely.

The kitchen was slightly warmer than the rest of the house, the west-facing windows having allowed in the last of the sun before it dipped behind the trees in the distance. Together you set up your kit bags on the table - you didn't have much: a few handmade salt bombs, filings and chains, a few flares only in case of emergency (they'd cost far too much to waste) and of course your rapiers. Lockwood pulled something extra from his bag, a small plastic-wrapped packet. Bourbon biscuits.

“You're the best,” you smiled as he opened the packet and offered one to you, which you bit into quickly.

“I know,” he grinned back, brushing a stray crumb from your lip. You blushed.

The owner of the house had provided a floor plan, but her account of the Visitor had been so inconsistent and vague that it was difficult to pinpoint a possible location for the Source. Anthony spread the roll of paper across the table, and you wrapped your arms around his waist, peering over his shoulder at the diagram. There were two floors and a basement, but the latter had been gutted a month ago ready for renovation so there was nothing in there at present.

“Let's start upstairs and work our way back down,” Anthony suggested. “More likely to find something in one of the bedrooms.”

“True, but it's a lot of wasted time if we don't. Why don't we split up and take a floor each?”

His expression soured, and he moved closer, taking your hand again and rubbing small anxious circles above your thumb. “That's smart, but I hate the idea of leaving you on your own.” Even when he didn't agree with your ideas, he always found a way to compliment them. Just one of the things that made you love him all the more.

You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It won't be for long, and I'll call for you the moment I find anything suspicious.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” You leant forward and placed your lips delicately on his. He held you close, your hands on his chest, one of his on your waist and the other fidgeting with your necklace. It was one he'd bought for you, a small pink gemstone in a heart shape on a simple silver chain. His promise to always love and protect you. Not a day had gone by since that you didn't wear it. He nodded at last; he knew he would, he'd do anything you asked of him in a heartbeat. It still worried him not to be by your side, but he trusted that you were a good agent who could handle yourself and that you meant it when you said you'd call for him. His only condition was that if the Source was more likely to be upstairs, that would be where he'd look.

So it was that you found yourself, torch in one hand and the other on your rapier, exploring the ground floor. The silence was oppressive, seeping the confidence from you with every step. Not a ticking clock, not the creaking of the old building settling, not even the residual hum of electricity or plumbing, just the occasional thud from your boyfriend upstairs. Working quickly, you ruled out the dining room and bathroom. That left the lounge. The air smelled musty, and a shiver ran through you as you entered. That was never a good sign. You pulled out your thermometer and watched the temperature drop the further in you went.

“Anthony?” Your voice felt deafening against the quiet of the room, but you knew it hadn't been anywhere near loud enough to travel upstairs. No, this was silly, you could handle this. There were no signs of a spirit yet, for all you knew the change in temperature could be from the wind blowing down the chimney into the empty fireplace. You flicked the torch off, using your now free hand to hold your necklace, grounding yourself as you tuned in and listened. There was nothing at first. You wondered whether Anthony was having more luck upstairs; so far down here had been thoroughly useless. Maybe you should go and check on him. But then you heard it. A tragic, gut-wrenching wail, getting closer.

“Anthony?” you called again, louder this time but as steady as you could. There was movement above. He'd heard. So had the spirit, the wailing definitely nearby now. You pulled out your rapier.

The temperature plummeted.

A screech, so close you would have felt the breath on your neck had it come from a living being, made you whirl round. Your rapier clattered to the floor. Shit. Stay calm.

“Anthony!” you yelled, not caring how scared you sounded. His footsteps rattled down the stairs. He was so close.

You lunged towards your rapier.

The Visitor lunged towards you.

Lockwood was in the back bedroom when he heard his name. All his senses were immediately on high alert - you were the only person he allowed to call him Anthony, so he always reacted differently to his first name anyway, and under the circumstances hearing it immediately made him fear the worst.

“Y/n?” He crept out onto the landing, slowly pulling out his rapier and listening intently for any more noise. It was moments like these he was grateful not to be a Listener, he could focus on you and not the sounds of the house's history. He was only two steps onto the staircase when his name came again, louder and more panicked. Without a second thought he ran down the stairs, only holding back enough to make sure he didn't fall. His blood ran cold when he heard you scream.

You tried to both duck and spin as your hand came into contact with the hilt of your rapier. The blade sliced upwards, connecting with the Visitor, but it was too late. Its clawing grey hand clutched onto your shoulder moments before it disappeared. You screamed as tendrils of ice shot through you, radiating outwards from the spot. Through the fog of pain that had suddenly engulfed your brain you heard Anthony, close by now, yelling your name. You had to go to him. He'd know what to do. Everything would be okay.

You took one step, then another. Your torso was going numb, your entire arm having already fallen victim to the plasm which was turning your shoulder a violent shade of blue. One more step, and your legs gave out. You just about made out the silhouette of your boyfriend in the doorway, rushing towards you as you slumped to the ground.

“No, no, no, y/n!” Anthony's face swam into view, trying to mask his utter horror for your sake. “It's going to be okay, darling, I'll go and get help.”

The fingers of your good hand twitched towards his and he took it immediately, despite how cold it was. You struggled to focus on him through your tears, and noticed the same in his eyes. “Ant-” Your voice was failing fast.

“Shh, I've got you.” He cradled your head, his own tears mingling with yours on your cheek, but you could barely feel them. Almost everything was numb. The blue had spread across your chest, and the little pink heart stood out starkly against it. “I'm so sorry, my darling,” Lockwood said softly. He choked back a sob as he leant down, placing a kiss into your hair. You wanted to do the same, to speak to him, to do anything.

His face was the last thing you saw before everything went black.

—

You had no idea how much time had passed when your vision returned, a room slowly materialising in front of your eyes. It was a bedroom, filled with knick-knacks and bathed in a warm golden light. It looked familiar, but you hadn't been here when it went dark, you'd been… somewhere else. It was so hard to remember, but you knew there had been a dark, dusty room and a feeling of agonising cold. And a person. There'd been someone there, someone you needed to say something to. Now here you were, everything feeling so normal yet so bizarre; you were still you, still able to move and see and hear, but there was a disconnect between those sensations and reality. Nothing felt real. You looked around again, desperate for answers.

There.

Perched on the edge of the bed was a boy. His crisp white shirt was a stark contrast to his dishevelled dark hair, doleful brown eyes and the deep eyebags beneath. He looked exhausted, like he'd barely slept or eaten. There was something in his hand, balanced carefully on the tips of his fingers: a necklace, with a little pink heart. A spark of recognition bloomed in the back of your mind. That was your necklace. It was important. He had no right to be holding it. You drifted forward. The boy looked so familiar. Oh. The icy feeling rippled through your chest again, and you remembered. He'd been there when that feeling had taken over your body until you couldn't feel anything else. Rage boiled in your veins, and a snarl crept onto your face. But then, as quickly as it started, the anger subsided. He'd not caused it. He'd held you so gently, cried as everything faded. You knew him. You opened your mouth, finally ready to speak.

Lockwood stared at the tiny gemstone in his hand, unsure whether he wanted anything to happen this time. He'd secretly slipped it from you before DEPRAC had arrived, and spent the past few weeks periodically taking it out of the little silver-glass box in his bedside table. Part of him desperately wanted you to come back, to let him see you once more, but the other part knew it would hurt so much. What if you didn't recognise him and turned violent like so many Visitors? What if you didn't because you didn't recognise anything, just hung there as a shadow of your former self? What if you did, and he had to live with putting you back in the case and removing you from his life all over again?

The decision was made for him when a soft golden glow appeared in the corner of his bedroom. There you were. Tears welled in his eyes as the image of you sent him spiralling back to that day: your edges were a little fuzzy but everything else was the same, from your outfit to the scared look in your eye to the dark patch spreading from your shoulder. You looked at him now and he was relieved to watch you processing your surroundings. The person he knew was still in there, you weren't just a hollow shell. Suddenly you snarled and he flinched, fingers twitching towards the silver-glass case.

You moved closer.

You stopped.

Your face fell.

He watched the glimmer of recognition in your eyes, and the tears he'd been holding back spilled out along with all the things he'd wanted to say for months.

“Oh my darling, I'm so sorry. I should never have let this happen, I should have been there for you, and-”

He paused. You were mouthing something. Over and over. Your death loop, he presumed. God, just putting death in the same sentence as you stung.

“I'd give anything to be able to hear you right now,” he said, voice wavering. You stopped, giving him a sad look. The realisation that at the very least you could understand him, even if you couldn't communicate fully, hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Lockwood!” a boy's voice called from outside. You both looked at the door and your anger flared again. The boy on the bed shook his head.

“He's a friend,” he told you reassuringly, before calling back, “One minute, George!” You waited in the corner, puzzled. The boy, Lockwood (you knew that name, didn't you?), gave you an apologetic look. “I'm sorry, y/n, I've got to go. I'll explain soon, I promise.” He dropped the necklace into its little case and clicked it shut, and you watched the world dissolve.

—

You still weren't sure how much time had passed when you found yourself back in that bedroom, but it didn't feel like very long. The last rays of the sunset poked through the gaps around the drawn curtains, the room lit instead by a lamp on the bedside table. The boy, Lockwood, was sitting on the bed again holding your necklace, but this time he looked at you almost immediately. His hair was a little neater, his eyebags more pronounced.

“Hi,” he said quietly. “Sorry if I disturbed you, I don't… really know how this works.”

You knew he couldn't hear you, but you gave your message again anyway.

“Maybe I should see if George knows how to lip-read,” he chuckled wryly. The sound reminded you of home, wherever that was. Things were still hazy, but part of you had a feeling this was it. Here, with this boy. “Which reminds me,” he continued, “I did promise to tell you about him.”

You settled into the space in the corner, allowing Lockwood's low, gentle voice to wash over you. It was incredibly calming. George was his new housemate, he told you, who'd been living here for about a month. It was all very confusing - it had felt like both minutes and years had passed since you were last here and the same before that, but he explained that the other boy had moved into the house in mid-September, and the last time you'd been here was a week ago in late October. Where was all the time going?

“I have no idea whether you experience time when your Source is contained, whether you're aware of what's going on in between or remember things from last time,” he admitted. Source. You knew about those. They were what you'd been looking for that night in that dark old house. A spirit had been tied to it, and you had to seal the Source to get rid of it. But you'd failed and it had found you, and now… your chest tightened at both the memory and the realisation. Nothing felt real because you weren't. You were just a Visitor. You continued to listen numbly as Lockwood kept talking. Not much wonder he'd recoiled when you first appeared, he'd seen what the touch of a ghost had done to you and without knowing you'd almost inflicted the same fate. You vowed in that moment that no matter what, you'd never let that happen.

The next few months saw Lockwood getting you out every chance he got. Bit by bit, he helped restore your memories and did his best to accommodate you even though the two of you couldn't properly communicate. He set up a little daily tear-off calendar on his dresser so you could keep track of how long it had been between visits, and stored his kit bag in the bottom of his wardrobe so you could move more freely around the room. Eventually, you'd come to remember him more. Not just the events from the night you died, but him. Your boyfriend, Anthony. You wanted nothing more than to be close to him, to be a comforting presence, but you knew you couldn't. Not only because you couldn't touch, but because deep down you knew that as much as you treasured being able to keep him in your life (or rather, afterlife), you had to let him go sooner or later and he needed to do the same with you. He'd been followed around by grief since long before you met him, and you hated that you were adding to it. You were just glad to see him slowly improving week by week - his face was a little brighter, and it seemed George was making sure he stayed fed. You'd have to thank the other boy if you ever got chance. Anthony said the two of you would have got along if you'd met in life, and even now George's obsession with the Problem would have made him your biggest fan, but their friendship was too new and besides he wasn't a Listener either so you'd not be able to tell him anything.

“I've got something to show you,” Anthony announced as you materialised one sunny day in late spring. He sat down with a large pink folder and patted the space next to him on the bed. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Come on,” he sighed fondly, “you never had any sense of personal space before, don't start now. Just no hugging.”

You glowed a little brighter and drifted over, your legs disappearing into the mattress until your torso was level with his. Being careful where he positioned his arms, he angled the folder towards you. It was a photo album, labelled in handwriting you recognised as your own. Page by page, he took you through your memories, giving you time to linger on each one: you as a baby, then a toothy toddler with your first pet; your family and childhood friends; Polaroids of your first team in training to become agents. His hands trembled a little as he reached the next section. On the left were four photos: the team you'd transferred to, the one he'd been training with; a slightly blurry action shot of the two of you sparring for the first time; a goofy photo he'd taken of you cartwheeling down a grassy hill after a case; your team all proudly holding their Grade Four licences. On the other side, surrounded by two styles of hand-drawn hearts, was the two of you hugging on the steps of 35 Portland Row, Anthony's lips pressed in a smile against the top of your head. You remembered that sensation well, a frequent occurrence right up until the moment you died. The rest of the album was full of photos of the two of you, ones taken by others and candids you'd snapped of each other. You felt a pang of regret that you'd never get to take any more.

Anthony turned another page. Hold on. You knew for certain there were no more photos. You looked sideways at your boyfriend, and he gave you a bashful smile. Pasted across a double spread was a copy of a certificate from DEPRAC, confirming A.J. Lockwood & Co Investigators as a registered agency. Inspector Barnes, who you vaguely recalled meeting once or twice, had signed as the licensing authority. Anthony and George had put their names down as the founding members. But then underneath that, in Anthony's familiar hand, he had added an extra section. Honorary Member: y/n y/l/n.

He looked at you so lovingly. “We did it, darling.”

You would have reached for his hand if you could.

—

Weeks began to pass before Lockwood got you to visit again. He'd have spent every day with you, but business was good and he owed it to you to make a proper go of it. In the meantime, George talked incessantly about Visitors which gave Lockwood a chance to think about you. Each time he finally got to see you again he'd apologise profusely, and you'd repeat your death loop back to him. He tried so hard to figure out what you were saying - his Sight was good, you were as clear as day and he knew your every quirk and mannerism, but he just couldn't put the movements of your lips to the right sounds.

Everything changed the day he met Lucy Carlyle. From the moment she set foot in his living room, he felt like he was supposed to have met her. The feeling only grew when he gave her the interview tests - plenty of people had passed through, some with better Talents than others, but none had come even close to the Listening abilities of the girl before him. When she spoke of the gentleness she found in his uncle's pen-knife, he knew he had to hire her.

Lucy managed to defy even his high expectations on the Annabel Ward case. He kept his focus on the young woman's spirit hovering at the end of the corridor, rapier levelled in case the details of her aggressive nature were true, but he couldn't help but think of the first day he brought you back and how quickly you'd retreated and shown a level of sentience he'd never expected from a Visitor. Was this poor woman the same? Lucy's eyes were closed, listening intently.

“She's in pain,” she said softly.

“Of course she is, she's dead.”

“No, something's different.”

He was intrigued instantly. “What's different?”

She shushed him. “I can almost…”

Annabel launched forward, sending Lucy crashing through the wooden railing in her attempt to dodge the grasping hand. Déjà vu overwhelmed Lockwood, your pained eyes flashing across his mind as he staggered backwards.

No.

He'd already lived through this once and regretted the outcome every day since. Now was his chance to redeem himself. He sprang towards the ghost, fending her off with his rapier, pulling Lucy from her desperate grip on the picture frame as soon as the coast was clear.

“Did it touch you?” he asked in a panic as she clung to him.

“Course not, I'd be dead.” Didn't he know it. The more she explained how she'd connected with the spirit, the more sure he became. Later, when they experimented with Annabel's necklace and he listened to Lucy describe the scene in such detail, he knew for certain.

“He loves me. You love me, don't you?” Her hand stroked delicately across his cheek, and he fought the urge to lean into the touch. For that brief moment, he could pretend it was you, still with him, saying those words. Perhaps with Lucy's help, it could be.

—

It had been a while. The trees outside Anthony's window were tinted a beautiful copper. You couldn't wait to hear his updates this time.

“There's a sadness, but so much love too. She feels very kind.” That wasn't Anthony's voice. Something was wrong. There was a girl sitting beside him on the bed, holding a little pink heart on a chain. Your necklace. You grew defensive, preparing to strike.

The boy looked up and saw you glaring. “It's okay, darling.” The girl followed his gaze. “Lucy, this is y/n, my late girlfriend. Y/n, this is our new associate, Lucy. She's a Listener.” Ah. Finally. You settled back down and took in the girl properly. She was pretty, with a warm brunette bob and a blue jumper which made her eyes pop. She smiled up at you, a genuine friendly smile.

“Nice to meet you,” she said sweetly. Anthony gave her an encouraging nod. You noticed that he seemed a little nervous, but there was also a calmness to him that had been missing for the past year. If that was Lucy's influence, then she was alright in your eyes.

Anthony spoke to you again. “She's brilliant, connected with a Visitor on our last case and I thought maybe she could finally help us figure out what you've been trying to say.” You nodded in agreement, and the girl closed her hand around the necklace.

You weren't sure whether you were in Lucy's head or whether she was in yours. The two of you blended into one as she ventured into your memories. Anthony's room melted away around you, sending you back to that cold dark room. You bristled.

“It's a bit different having her in the room with us,” Lucy murmured, eyes closed. “Let me know if either of you need me to stop.”

Anthony glanced at you, flickering slightly but still present and unagitated. “We're okay, go on.”

Meticulously, she described what you were both experiencing, or in your case reliving. It was hard knowing you were getting closer to the agony all over again, but it was important for your boyfriend to finally have a chance for answers and closure, so you kept the inevitable moving along.

“Anthony?” Lucy said softly, the same way you had. By the look on his face, it seemed he was realising now what you had at the time - that you'd tried to call him and hadn't been loud enough, that if only you'd tried again straight away, maybe you'd still be alive. “Anthony?” she called again. “Anthony!” You heard your own scream echo in your mind, felt the cold grasping your shoulder. The boy reached out and gripped Lucy's free hand, never taking his eyes off you. The gesture was supportive for her, but meant for you too. A tear rolled down his cheek. Lucy's breathing was shallow.

“It hurts,” she gasped, “and she's scared.”

“I should have been there quicker.” His voice was shaking with emotion, barely able to get the words out.

“No, there's no anger. She knew you were coming, and having you there through the end was a comfort.”

Anthony swallowed thickly. “Her death loop. Can you hear it?”

She opened her eyes and watched you as you spoke, the words spilling from her lips a second after.

“It's okay. It's not your fault.”

The boy broke down, his sobs rattling through the small room. Lucy held out her arms and he folded into them. She threw you an apologetic glance, and you said it again to her. “It's okay. It's not your fault.”

They were still hugging when, with his and your permission, Lucy gently slipped your necklace back into its case.

—

Now that the secret was out, you really did become an honorary member of the agency. Sure, you couldn't exactly contribute to the cases, but other than that the whole team treated you as one of their own. Anthony always waited for your opinion on big decisions, which you could make quite apparent with how happy or angry your energy was. George was absolutely fascinated by you, and took every opportunity to quiz the others on your awareness of various things and how you reacted to his experiments. Lucy often got you out on her own to have another girl to talk to. In return, of course, she'd fill you in on any gossip they came across or funny things that happened on cases that the boys were too embarrassed to tell you about. Through it all, you watched the three of them grow into a little family. Anthony and Lucy especially had clicked with each other; they reminded you of how you and he had been. That realisation filled you with a mixture of relief and melancholy. You loved Anthony so much, all you wanted was for him to be happy, but you'd be lying if you didn't wish it was you putting the light back in his eyes.

He sat you down shortly after New Year. His face was sombre but hopeful, and he fidgeted with his ring. Part of you could already tell what was coming.

“I don't really know how to say this,” he began hesitantly, “but after everything we've been through, you deserve to hear it.” You waited patiently for him to find the words he needed. Really, you had all the time in the world.

After a few moments, he spoke again. “I promised to always love you, and I will still keep that promise until the day I die…” But. There had to be a but. “...but I really care about Lucy too, and I just-” He didn't need to finish the sentence. And technically he was single. And he stood a chance of having a life with her. And she wasn't going to keep him tied to his past and his grief.

“It's okay.” Now he knew what your death loop was, he could tell what you'd said, and the way you'd limited it to just those words was a reminder of how remarkably well you understood everything that was happening. How you were as close to being a person as you could be, how it wasn't close enough.

“Promise?”

You touched the hollow of your neck, where the outline of a little sparkling heart sat against the darkness.

He nodded in understanding and reached for the silver-glass case. “Thank you, darling.”

“It's okay.”

It's not your fault.

[plasticfangtastic]

A Garden Without Impurity

A Homelander x GN Reader fic one-shot

A/N: Should be working on my other fics but i needed to get this out me system, inspired by a conversation I had in this site and watching the apothecary diaries, not an expert on chinese harem systems but i based this sort of on the Qin Dynasty system bcuz it was like the simpliest, like those emperors got around a lot… this is more drabble than fic-fic but i hope y’all enjoy.

Tags: light smut, 3-some, bilander, dark topics, not proofread I die here, non-canon complaint/canon-divergent, takes place in who knows, traditional polygamy, no dialogue here btw, Homelander being himself, light gore.

Word Count: 5K 

Synopsis: You’re a member of Homelander harem, this is but a documentation of that.

Homelander was always a lonely man perpetually hunting after love, for anybody who could give him attention, who would want him. He clung easily to lovers, too young at first to notice how easily he could be tricked into becoming nothing but a trophy fuck, too inmature to notice how his behaviour frightened them in the long run, and the more and more he was hurt the worse he became, all he’d learned was how to hide his anguish– turning him dangerously bitter.

Lovers came easy but just as easily they left– either scared straight by an army of lawyers, handsomely compensated or increasingly more often in pine boxes… crisis management meetings became so commonplace they began to be run on emails. 

 He was a man desperate for love– so much love to give but nobody could ever give him an ounce of what he needed, an ounce of what he gave, he was hungry for intimate devotion and adoration, the public could only give him bites sizes but it was fading and quick, and his mind steadily warping from this unfulfilled primal need.

Lovers couldn’t handle how pushy he became, how possessive and controlling he could become, how he wished to monopolize everything– so it was a problem, his sickly nature only wisthand by those contractually obligated to tolerate him, Maeve who had been so perfect until the downstairs neighbors logged less and less noise complaints as their passion cool and soured and Madelyn whose allure came in how untouchable she was, how forbidden she was, how much of a special occasion she had to be, and well rumors circulated involving Mr. Edgar but nobody ever dared to discuss it much.

Porn seem to alleviate some issues but the poor team in-charge of monitoring his online usage had filed formal complaint about having to be subjected to so much ‘stepmom porn’ and increasingly bizarre fetishes, whether he watched them to get off or not was unknown but once he switched the porn to browsing  r/watchpeopledie– a meeting had to be made and this time it was in person.

It was hard to pin-point the exact moment a suit suggested this solution– it was merely a joke but no matter how thick these walls were it would never be missed by Homelander, who indulge them.

And the project began to take place, with the end goal to provide him with company, and a controlled environment for Vought overseeing… a facility where the damage would be limited to seven floors and 30 large and luxurious condos.

Legally this building was just one of the many owned by Vought– like many other megacorps it was no surprise Vought dab in real estate, owning a couple buildings around the city to provide employee accommodation much like their Silicon Valley competition. After selecting the small building that once simply served as their own service apartments to accommodate shareholders, the project began to take place.

Homelander found it amusing, interested as to what things were going… surprised about how much he was looking forward to this, much to his chagrin– Homelander was very much a man and at the thought of being supplied with sex on tap he was quite happy to play along giving it a fair-go for a few weeks then forget about it after the novelty faded.

The first iteration was an utter failure, simply nothing but a duped “Playboy” Mansion, women who were paid to seduce him and become available whenever he desired– they were boring,  they weren’t there for him, they were there for the paycheck and presents, for the free rent and the possibility of becoming his favorite perhaps.

It was dull.

Painfully dull, nothing different from what he was doing, only it was kept behind closely guarded doors and managed by the company that micromanaged everything else in his life.

Dull Lovers who barely pretended to care, who rolled their eyes when he wanted to talk about his interest, who looked at their phones during the good scenes of his favorite films, who signed when he wished to be held, who gave no enthusiastic response at anything but Versace and Jimmy Choo’s.

He felt the ever growing emptiness spread further like a cancerous mass. 

As he sat alone sinking on his couch flipping channels in the dark and his eyes finally grew heavy for the night– his fingers stopped in some show about a man trying to balance having four wives, the scenario intrigued him… a man married to several women who seemed enamored with him despite all the drama in the background… These women on his screen weren’t like the ones provided… they weren’t his… They didn’t love him nor wanted to devote themselves to him, they were just high paid prostitutes– even the women at the Playboy Mansion he had met seemed to have a better relationship to the old creep than his own had to him– he wasn’t special or interesting to them.

 It was transactional and the affection unconvincing, unlike this man’s wives who seemed to care about him, who didn’t look forward to meeting other men or keep in touch with old John’s and sold their feet pics online to just any guy.

Vought or the public would never allow him to have a dozen wives, he wasn’t even a Mormon, officially he was an Evangelical just in name not in practice so he couldn’t simply adopt the church's views nor was he interested in even more rigid rules… I mean he did enjoy a cup of coffee every once in a blue moon and he certainly had a spicy tongue.

It took a lot of trial and error and plenty of lawyers too.

But a single joke turned into this…

You had been there for quite a long time, you seen plenty of pretty faces come and go, most left because they disliked the system in place– had they simply bothered to glance the wikipedia article on Chinese harem practices before signing the dotted line their grievances would have been lessened… altho calling yourself a polygamist might not even been an applicable label– after all his rules made it difficult to do so.

 You had simply been a low-level intern when Homelander first laid eyes on you all those years ago.

He watched you for a long time and you watched him with the same intensity, he was a pretty thing, he had a quirky laugh that veer into cackle territory, his hands were as soft as the rest of him and above all you could tell pretty early on that there was a hunger inside him unmatched by anything else.

No lover before had ever made you feel so wanted, he made you feel as if he was born for you, no lover ever devoured you with a single look… it was desperate.

When have you ever felt this desire before? You asked yourself the more intense this became.

You never experience the titillation and the fear that his hunger inspired in you, the way he touched and explored every inch of your skin inside that broom closet made you fear for your life, as if he would feast on you and gnaw at your bones like a dog with a fresh treat, that one spicy rendezvous after office hours quickly became a regular occurrence and he never had enough.

Neither did you.

His gentleness hid praise worthy self-control, he molded his performance after what made you feel best but you would soon learn it was performance– you were puddy in his hands as he trapped you with this pleasure.

To be yearned for was different, he wanted all your free time to be for him, to ignore all the pretty faces and nameless ass that crossed your sight and devote yourself to him, he was honest about wanting you, about wanting you to love him just as much as he could love you.

Made worse by the fact that you had no qualms with the worst of his personality your fights and arguments as unhealthy as anybody else but always over petty things, never about the nights he soaked the carpet with some miscreant chunky remains, after all you had to be a bit loopy and unhinge to look at him as if he was the only source of light in the cave that was your life.

It was a long courtship before he told you about ‘The Gardens’. At first you simply thought it was another luxury building stuck in Manhattan but behind the doorman and reception clerk was a building only inhabited by lovers.

It wasn’t easy to digest– but floor to ceiling windows, private drivers and Hermes boxes demonstrate to your ego that you might have a price… The 6 figure allowance certainly made your stomach drop as you accepted new found facts about yourself… this was not counting any extra presents– after all your job would be to stay pretty and interesting for him.

You certainly had your suspicions but you had been quite enamored with the Supe, unable to look away from those cornflower blues and the sad expression painting his face as he began to suspect your rejection, the palpable anguish he was trying so hard to contain. Accepting simply to do a few excessive sessions of retail therapy on his dime to recover from the shock, coming in thinking he will grow bored of you soon enough and you could commence the healing process afterwards.

But you never left ‘The Gardens’, the people who ran the building would refer to you as the Noble Consort with the Empress or Imperial Noble Consort reserved for whoever Homelander was dating for the papers (altho you would have given the title of Stillwell for the longest time), to your disbelief you found enjoyment in this arrangement, your were free to pursue whatever you wanted for money was now not a problem– all those hobbies you had abandoned, halted and wished to explore were now back on the table, a new career change or education now a possibility, even pursuing a lifelong passion or dream was available, as long as you kept pretty and keep his favor.

There were other rules of course… Nobody besides Homelander could be in your life. Sex-work was out of the question once somebody took residency in one of the handful of luxury condos. Not involving oneself romantically with any of the other concubines or anybody was also a major rule. He demanded a vow of secrecy as well obviously–  telling anybody about the arrangement specially online or the media, and you would have a head on your front door… you would have prefered a finger, a tooth or a kidney like the others on your floor but he left the brainless severed head on yours.

You were certain that Vought kept a dystopian level of watch over your digital footprint while you no longer worked with Vought and did your thing… you heard the rumor of a shadow department whose whole job was to watch this place– it wasn’t really out of the realm of possibility after all Homelander was worth billions to them… and if not Homelander was there watching somehow.

Which is how you end up with having to call somebody to pick up and puzzle the old concubine back together.

He was The Emperor and thus you had to act like a noble, anybody caught breaking his rules would be in more than a little trouble– Homelander was quite cruel once a lover lost his fancy.

 But not as cruel as the other residents when they sensed somebody trying to plant the seeds of discourse, threats to the system were ever present whenever he brought a new concubine, those who survived the longer kept the peace. 

A mixture of jealousy and self-preservation feed the cruelty… after all these years you liked your comfortable life and so did the others– those with more expensive taste to your own, those whose families were partially supported by Homelander (if he was aware or not was not yours or his problem) those who loved him and didn’t wish to part, and those who needed his support to make sure even if he grew bored with them they had a back-up to their back-up, none who would risk losing it all just because some new lover wanted him all for himself– they had no grace about it and would soon realize that tribalistic nature of humans… unless somebody whispered sweetly in John’s ear and prevented the carnage.

Unsure as to why anybody would want to monopolize him as if this entire building wasn’t a red flag about how pointless that was, you discussed with the others.

He was more than an armful, he was too much even for you who obsessed so easily with him, who demanded his attention and affection but ultimately unable to match just how much he needed in return, you stopped disliking this new life because Homelander would never be satiated, because he would wear you down to a stub, because he would scare you away if you didn’t find a way to get breathing room, more for his sake than your own. You loved him, you wanted to hold tight but if he kept going you would let go of his hand mid-flight and the thought of hating him or falling out of love with him filled you with dread.

You needed him on a cellular level, you joked in the past as you talked to a neighbor, who understood you as he laughed.

It stung for a long time to live this way– You just made it look easy.

But you made it, and it earned you some perks.

You checked your agenda to make sure that time had come around, you weren’t called the Noble Consort for nothing– he would reserve you even outside your birthday week.

8.3 million people in this city and he could make sure you felt like the only one in this town.

Perpetually charming you thought as he landed inthe balcony with your favorite chocolate and flowers.

 If Homelander had to explain why he kept you the longest it was how you talked to him earnestly, you treated him as if he was not just a celeb but a husband, how happy you always were too see him, how you always clung to his shoulders even before his boots touched the ground and how quickly you always dragged him inside worried he would get sick from the cold winds, even if he went weeks without seeing you in person you never let him see it, it was as if no matter how long it had pass you couldn’t care less, only the now you experienced together mattered.

He wondered if this was how sailors felt when they came back home after a lengthy tour, if it was warm like this.

No matter how long this had been going on for– your love was genuine, he even thought of you as a weekend masochist for putting up with his whims, but you took him as he was and that was something special… something worth keeping… worth protecting.

He could snuggle in your chest all he wanted, he knew your fingers would scratch his scalp without command, he would find your warmth either gifted by your words or your core.

A perfect spouse to him, he would whisper to himself when you slept or when he missed you, in this intimacy he knew he would stay with you, the only one who understood what this place was all about, who was this emperor’s favorite.

Now when it came to sex–the life of his concubine wasn’t sexless… you doubted the man actually lived in his actual penthouse all the way up in Vought Tower, he might use it to change suits or pick up his mail, for he would share somebody else’s bed every night, if he didn’t you would find out at the lobby, perks of knowing everybody in the building was that rumors traveled quickly and plans of actions would be organized in elevators… so your bed was not infrequent and during your weeks he would always sleep there.

You keep a spare pair of his boots and gloves that didn’t came with the apartment, which said a lot about how infrequently did he slept at his legal address and your longevity in this palace– what did came was a toothbrush, comb, some of his skincare products and extra-creamy milk restocked frequently more so these days.

These private weeks were both sugary and bitter, date nights and cuddling lazily on the couch as he spoke of his day and listened to yours, you spoke a lot catching up with lost time while he washed your back and you washed his hair, knowing he would leave soon enough and return to some girl back in the tower or go downstairs.

And as your week ended he would treat you to something adventurous.

You kissed him in the upper courtyard by the warm dim lights surrounded by whistling shrubs, the night was starting to grow cold, draping his cape around you for your comfort, he moaned as your lips suckled on his neck savoring the feel of your tongue as you drew lines on chin, slowly melting on your sweltering heat, your hand taking his thigh with a firm squeeze teasing him as they came close to his member, kissing until lips bruised and blood inked his tongue, you kissed until his jaw started to numb and his cock leaked with anticipation, being uphere where somebody might see always excited him, he had already baptized every bench in this courtyard but it didn’t lose his splendor just yet.

His hips buckle as your hand finally gave him much needed affection, hearing your muscles push as hard as they could against him, mewling as you chuckled with delight at his reactions, his eyes so hazy.

Trembling as your hand left him, you pulled at his belt watching him blush as he remembered that the one thing you lacked was super strength, you leaned back as he swiftly began to lower his tights, throwing his belt to the ground so the cold steel wouldn’t make you shudder.

His cock was hard, crying rivers into the cold wind until your lips kissed it better.

He made no attempt to conceal his moaning, growling as your teeth grazed the sensitive head, he was unapologetically loud, this was the one place where he forgo all his acting lessons, nor did you want him to be quiet it made you excited to hear him moan, he just sounded so needy– cute too… and tonite he was obscenely loud, animalistic even, grunting and growling as your drooled unto your chin and made his thigh slippery, as you took his cock down to the base, licking down his taint, he lifted his legs adjusting his position to follow your tongue, whining and panting as you pleasured him, aggressively pumping at his cock as you suck gently on his balls.

You look up from half-lid eyes drowning on your own pleasure, he came with ease coating your throat with his thick salty cum but just as quickly as he came he would come back up and just as hard as a minute ago– you made it into a game to see how many times you could make him cum before he begged you to let him do it inside you for that was the only way to kill his battery. Pumping his shaft with short and quick pump focusing on the mid-length as to deprive his crying tip taking sadistic delight in knowing that he wanted you to touch the tip immediately but being too far gone to asks for it clearly as he mumbled incoherently behind his breathy wanton, his hips following the rhythm of your hands and tongue.

A shaky smile crossed his lips as the consort took pity on him, you chuckled knowing you won an unspoken bet with your downstairs neighbor, pulling their hair out of the way as their head went up and down and lips grazed your fingers.

You climbed up letting your fellow concubine enjoy themselves in this debauchery.

Biting on his ears as you whispered what you wished to do with him, calling him by his name with a sweetness that tingled something scary inside him.

Homelander laughed weakly against you, his hand pulling on the other’s hair gently, he spouts his orders, throwing the cushions unto the ground you both give each other giddy looks as the man pulls you down with him with the last bit of composure he had before burying his face with your crotch, one hand kept your hips in place and the other held his other concubine hand, gasping against you as the other took him, you saw red– it was not a competition but you did not want him to only focus on the warm enveloping his cock.

All that filled the air were your choir of moans above his muffled coos and whines as you fucked his mouth, his tongue doing his best to keep up, eyes rolling back as you took fistfuls of his hair pulling harshly distracting him so much that he had begun to run of breath, as he ate everything and swallowed desperately, trying to concentrate on the feeling developing his tongue and lips and the sweet musky scent drowing him, fading with a twsited smile as you fucked him earnestly and harshly, he loved it when he was made into a bitch, he would never say it outloud of course– like many things in this building it went unspoken, but you could tell that all the old residents shared a certain quality to them.

Men and women who provided something everybody was afraid of giving to him before.

You’d seen him cling to men and women who wished to mark him, who told him that he was as much their property as they were his.

That proved their love was not superficial… It was genuine.

Or genuine enough for him.

He moaned and bucked his hips pathetically, yearning to reach the furthest parts of you, filling you, to feel his own cum foaming within you as he fucked you.

Moving you quickly, glad that this time he had thought ahead with these cushions for your knees would be bleeding and burning otherwise– it was all hazy at this point, all you knew was his name, the cold wind hardening your nipples, and the sound of his hips slapping into you as he whimpered with a mixture of desperation and pleasure, he finger fucked your companion, hands fucking his lover just as fast and hard to have the concubine running out of breath begging Homelander to not dare stop, making a mess of themselves on his fingers, coating them as their hole squelched and sucked him right back in, as the man grew pleased with the sight, your hands interlocked squeezing hard as they rode their orgasm to a happy end.

You caught a ruby glimpse reflecting in a metal bench nearby, you gulped knowing you had to think quickly.

Turning your face and arching your back as you begged him to hold you.

Coming loudly letting your knees and elbows give up, letting him push you down with his weight, always surprised how heavy those silly golden eagles are, you couldn’t believe his shoulders weren’t stiff 24/7, with a satisfied chuckle he waits for you both to snuggle with him.

The other urges him to take it into their apartment for it was getting cold and they sure didn’t want to catch a cold.

He half-begrudgingly agreed, wishing deep down to go a few more rounds outside but as he felt your goosebumps he took you both inside urgently.

Your hands never touched after that, Homelander ever so vigilant of both your movements, all you could do was hope the concubine would learn just how stringent and absurd John could be, fearful that anybody would dare hold affections to anybody but him.

You kissed his neck, nuzzling against him as he watched the sleeping concubine coldly, arguing with himself if they had meant to break the rules.

Whispering his name as he squeezed your stomach, soothing his unspoken anxiety he let go of those thoughts.

He returned your affections, easing into him as you fed off his warmth.

You whispered quietly, enjoying each other, easing his worries.

This was a peculiar life but in these quiet moments it was like any other.

In these moments it all felt perfectly normal, the world might never get it entirely and you yourself struggled with it at times but when you woke up to his kisses on your chest as he found a way to turn into the little spoon while the other sneaked to the toilet, you certainly didn’t want to change things.

Not one bit.

[girl-next-door-writes]

Here, There And Everywhere

Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader

Summary:  Could the festive spirit finally give Mycroft Holmes the little push he needs to step out of his comfort zone and approach the one person who has captured his attention and possibly his heart?

Word Count: 1365 words

Prompt: Crowded Party, Mutual Pining, Tugging You Closer By Your Waist.

A/N: This is the fourth of my Build-A-Festive-Fics so thank you to the brilliant @russian-soft-bitch who put these prompts together for the wonderful Mycroft Holmes.

***********************************************************************

The grand ballroom of the Diogenes Club sparkled with festive decorations, casting a myriad of colors across the polished marble floors. Once a silent sanctuary of solitude, tonight it buzzed with the jovial chaos of the season for the annual Christmas ball, a spectacle not to be missed, not even by the impeccably dressed Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft lingered along the outskirts of the room, his sharp eyes surveying the revelers. Every detail, no matter how small, was noted and neatly filed away in the recesses of his mind for potential use at a later time. The half-filled champagne flute in his hand and his stern countenance deterred would-be conversationalists, and he couldn't help but appreciate the opulence of the ambiance. Despite the crowd, he remained acutely aware of the exclusivity of this gathering.

The grand ballroom emanated a symphony of sounds, from the melodies of music to the laughter that resonated through the air. The festive scents of evergreen and spiced delicacies wafted around, creating an enticing atmosphere. The stark contrast between the usual solitude of the Diogenes Club and the lively chaos of the Christmas ball was both palpable and intriguing.

Mycroft's thoughts remained inscrutable to others as he navigated the crowd. He was polite but remained rather solitary, his inner awkwardness prevailing. Social gatherings were one of the rare things he felt he did not excel at, no matter how much he may have tried in the past. He was not good at small talk and often missed social cues which left him with a burning sense of embarrassment and inadequacy.

Overhearing snippets of conversations, Mycroft gained insight into the lives and relationships of other guests. The dialogue painted a mosaic of characters, revealing both the mundane and the mysterious that he wished to understand and, occasionally, be part of.

The lavish decorations, a testament to excess and elegance, transformed the ballroom into a visual spectacle. Unique Christmas-themed elements punctuated the opulence, adding a touch of whimsy to the grand affair. Mycroft, despite his seemingly detached demeanor, couldn't help but be captivated by the extravagant surroundings, the festive spirit sneaking in to take root.

Sipping his champagne, Mycroft's gaze gravitated to the far side of the dance floor, and in that moment, time appeared to slow. There you stood, positioned at the periphery, resplendent in your festive attire. The twinkle of Christmas lights cast a soft radiance upon your features, accentuating your captivating presence and drawing him in.

For a man whose heart was said to mirror the stoicism of his demeanor, an unusual occurrence unfolded. Mycroft's heartbeat, once measured and deliberate, now seemed to accelerate at the mere sight of you. He blinked slowly, as if trying to comprehend the unexpected flutter within his chest, a phenomenon which only seemed to occur when he found himself in your presence.

The sounds of conversation faded away, leaving only the joyous melodies of the orchestra, and Mycroft found himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame. His feet on autopilot, took him through the crowd with one sole purpose. As he approached, he couldn’t help but admire the way your eyes sparkled with merriment. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and he took a deep breath, allowing him to savor the rare moment of respite from the burdens of his responsibilities. In this moment, he was not the embodiment of the British Government, or the responsible older brother, he was simply a man approaching someone he admired deeply.

You observed Mycroft's approach almost as soon as he embarked on the journey toward you. Patiently, you waited until he drew closer, a small but knowing smile gracing your lips as you offered a polite nod.

"Mr. Holmes, I did not expect to see you at a party like this," your tone carried a teasing lilt, and your eyes sparkled as they met his gaze.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. "One must occasionally venture into the chaos of society, if only to maintain appearances," he remarked with dry wit. The comment earned him a light chuckle from you, and in that moment, a flash of pride bloomed in his chest at the unexpected achievement.

"I see. So, for appearances' sake, did you arrive this evening with a companion?" Your gaze gracefully drifted over to the dance floor as you took a sip of your champagne, projecting a nonchalance that was in strict contrast to the curiosity stirring within your heart at such a question.

"I did not," he stated simply, his eyes studying you for any sign of a reaction to that information. "I assume you are someone's guest this evening."

A small, knowing smile played on your lips at his deduction. It was an easy leap to make; the Diogenes was, after all, a gentlemen's club, and with the greatest will in the world, 'gentleman' was not a title you could pull off.

"I am the plus one of Lord Barrington's plus one."

"A plus one of a plus one?"

"Yes. Lady Barrington was concerned her husband would be too busy discussing business to keep her entertained, and so I am here as her companion, although the two of them have yet to leave the dance floor. They look like a pair of honeymooners, very much in love, even after forty years together," you shared with a touch of warmth in your voice, your gaze following the couple as they twirled gracefully on the dance floor.

Mycroft's gaze lingered on the Barringtons, his keen observation capturing the nuances of their dance. "An impressive feat," he mused, the faintest hint of nostalgia crossing his features.

"One worth aspiring to," you responded, a subtle warmth in your tone that resonated with Mycroft's unspoken sentiments. His gaze shifted from the happy couple back to you, his usually stoic expression softening slightly as he found himself silently agreeing.

"Would you like to dance?" The words had escaped him before he fully processed the thought, his eyes widening as he weighed the possibility of the potential humiliation—whether it be from you rejecting his offer or discovering him to be a less-than-agreeable dance partner.

“I would love to, thank you, Mycroft,” you replied, your acceptance lifting the weight of uncertainty from his shoulders. Taking your champagne flute, he placed it alongside his on the nearest table and offered his arm. If he was going to do this, he decided, then he would focus and, at the very least, prove himself a competent dance partner.

Concentrating turned out to be a far more challenging task than Mycroft had anticipated once he led you onto the dance floor and held you in his arms. Swallowing thickly, he found himself looking at his feet, attempting to recall how to lead without inadvertently stepping on your toes as the two of you swayed to the music.

You gazed up at him, finding this nervous and uncertain side of him endearing. A question lingered in your mind—was it the act of dancing itself or your presence that had this effect on him?

“Relax, Mycroft. It's just a dance. I've been led to believe you're rather good at such things,” you teased lightly.

“I have?” He raised his gaze to meet yours, genuine surprise evident in his eyes.

“Rumor has it you dance rings around most of the people you encounter.”

“Ah, well, there is a very large difference between verbal tapdancing and physically doing so.” He said dryly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“Luckily, this is more of a waltz.”

“Perhaps,” he chuckled, using the hand resting on your waist to pull you closer.

Mycroft could never accurately gauge how long the two of you remained lost in your dance. Time seemed to lose its grip as you stayed in his arms, the music guiding your movements until it came to an end for the evening. The once-crowded space had now thinned out, leaving the two of you as the sole occupants on the dance floor. Even then, he was reluctant to let you go, and the two of you continued to sway silently to the music only you could hear.

[ladylorem]

First Meeting: Lovejoy x Nightcrawler

Warnings: Imprisonment/Restraint, mentions of torture, mentions of violence, body horror, strong language

Author's note: First ever fic publicly posted, I'm a visual artist first and a writer second. Also, this isn't edited.

Word count: 1603

Divider by @cafekitsune

A heavy silence hung over the Xavier Institute as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the expansive grounds. Inside, the atmosphere was tense, burdened by the recent events that had shaken the team to its core.

A new mutant had arrived at the institute, but not by choice. Known only as LoveJoy, they had been a formidable adversary, unleashed on a killing spree under the control of the sinister Mr. Sinister himself. It had taken the combined efforts of the X-Men to subdue them, with Rogue delivering the final blow by extracting a mysterious red gem embedded in LoveJoy's forehead, rendering them unconscious.

Now, confined within the institute's secure holding room, LoveJoy was restrained by a straightjacket and a power-inhibiting collar, their dangerous abilities temporarily neutralized. Their body was a canvas of scars, each one telling a story of pain and survival that none of the X-Men could fully comprehend.

Kurt Wagner, known to many as Nightcrawler, stood outside the reinforced door, his golden eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and compassion. He had volunteered for this task, believing that perhaps he could reach LoveJoy where others had failed. Taking a deep breath, he teleported inside with a soft bamf, the smell of brimstone briefly filling the room.

LoveJoy sat on the edge of the simple cot, gazing out the window at the fading daylight. At the sound and sudden smell, they turned sharply, their glowing pink eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"I told Hank I didn't fucking want visitors," they grumbled, voice rough but carrying an undertone of exhaustion.

Kurt offered a gentle smile, trying to ease the tension. "Well, he and Scott thought it might help if I tried to talk to you," he replied, his German accent softening his words as he took a seat on a nearby chair.

LoveJoy rolled their eyes dramatically and leaned back against the wall, the chains connected to their restraints clinking softly. "I already told them I don't remember anything that happened with Sinister. That crazy quack drilled multiple holes in my head, and you're asking me if I remember anything..." They let out a bitter chuckle, a smirk twisting their scarred lips.

Kurt nodded slowly, understanding the frustration. "I know it's difficult, but sometimes talking can help piece things together," he said gently. His gaze drifted over their numerous scars, each more haunting than the last. "We don't even know your real name. The files only had 'LoveJoy'."

There was a pause as LoveJoy considered him, their eyes scrutinizing his every feature. Finally, they spoke, voice softer but guarded. "... It's Haven."

Kurt's smile widened slightly. "Haven. That's a beautiful name."

LoveJoy shrugged, dismissing the compliment. "Doesn't mean much nowadays."

Trying to steer the conversation forward, Kurt asked, "Do you recognize me at all?"

A furrow formed between LoveJoy's brows as they studied him more intently. After a moment, they shook their head. "Did I try to attack you too?"

A light chuckle escaped Kurt's lips. "Yes, you did. You tried to convince me to let you go so you could, and I quote, 'have fun' with me."

Surprise flickered across LoveJoy's face before it melted into a mischievous grin. "Oh, well, that's actually not that surprising," they admitted, a faint blush coloring their cheeks as they let out a soft giggle that seemed out of place in their current predicament.

Kurt found himself smiling wider at their unexpected reaction. "You really don't remember what you said, do you?"

"Nope," LoveJoy replied, popping the 'p' playfully. "But I bet it was way too vulgar and very distracting." They wiggled their eyebrows suggestively, clearly enjoying the banter.

Kurt laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Oh yes. Extremely vulgar and distracting."

LoveJoy's grin broadened, their demeanor far removed from the violent individual the X-Men had battled. "Well, I'm sorry for my... odd behavior when I was being controlled. I usually don't talk to strangers like that unless they pay me," they quipped.

That revelation caused Kurt's eyebrows to raise in surprise. "Oh really?" he hummed, leaning in slightly with intrigue evident in his eyes.

"A mutant on the run has to make a living somehow," LoveJoy explained with a casual shrug. "And let's just say my powers gave me an additional advantage in the job. I went under a different name to avoid the law—Cleopatra. But Remy's probably told you guys everything about that..."

Kurt's eyes widened slightly at the mention of Remy. "He did mention some things," he confirmed, noting the slight tension that arose at the mention of Gambit.

LoveJoy's gaze drifted back to the window, the playful spark dimming slightly. "I'm sure he yapped about how I tricked him and used my influence on him to do my evil bidding, like I'm some witch with domination fetish powers..."

There was a pause before they continued, voice softer and laced with regret. "But once I used the influence on him and I saw his mind, what he kept in it... My influence can't override someone's genuine feelings. Someone else was already taking up that spot in his heart. So I let him go."

Kurt listened intently, feeling a pang of sympathy for the troubled mutant before him. He hesitated before reaching out, placing a comforting hand on their shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

LoveJoy glanced down at his hand, then back up at him, their eyes searching his face for any sign of deceit. Finding none, they relaxed slightly, allowing the gesture.

After a brief silence, LoveJoy spoke again, their voice barely above a whisper. "He told me he could fix me, and I believed him."

Kurt's brows knitted in concern. "Sinister?"

LoveJoy gave a small nod, their shoulders sagging under the weight of their memories. "That was weeks ago. The last thing I remember is waking up here."

Kurt didn't speak for a moment, absorbing the depth of their confession. It was clear that Sinister had manipulated and abused them, preying on their vulnerabilities. "God... you really didn't know what he was doing to you, did you?" he asked softly, his tone filled with empathy.

"Well... I do now. I know I didn't originally look this fucked," LoveJoy replied with a bitter laugh, gesturing with their restrained hands towards their altered features. Their once-human appearance now marred by fangs and black, glittering claws—a twisted transformation courtesy of Sinister's experiments.

Noticing their discomfort, LoveJoy quickly added, stumbling over their words, "Not that having physical mutations are a bad thing... I just, uh..."

Kurt chuckled warmly, trying to ease their embarrassment. "Hey, it's okay. I get what you meant," he reassured them, his golden eyes soft with understanding.

LoveJoy looked up, relief evident in their gaze as a small smile tugged at their lips. "Thanks."

A comfortable silence settled between them before Kurt leaned back in his chair, his curiosity piqued once more. "I do have a question."

LoveJoy straightened slightly, smirk returning. "I might have an answer," they teased, eyes glinting with renewed mischief.

Kurt's smile mirrored theirs as he asked, "Your age. You're 26. I thought you would look older."

"Oh... well, technically yes, I'm 26. Essex froze me for ten years after confirming I was too dangerous to keep awake because I kept... escaping," LoveJoy explained, a hint of embarrassment coloring their tone. "You're lucky I'm even saying anything. Asking a pretty person their age is rude!"

Kurt laughed at that, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, technically, I was correct then. You are 26."

Kurt feigned a pout, his eyes sparkling. "Too dangerous... and too pretty."

"Well, at least we agree on that," Lovejoy replied, their own grin turning playful.

The room seemed lighter now, the earlier tension dissipated as the two mutants shared a genuine moment of connection. For the first time since arriving, LoveJoy felt a glimmer of hope—a possibility that maybe, just maybe, things could change for the better.

As Kurt continued to engage with Haven, their conversation taking unexpected turns from somber to flirtatious, the scene shifted to the monitoring room. Hank and Emma Frost were observing the interaction on a large screen. The tension in the room was almost as palpable as the conversation happening on the monitor.

Emma leaned forward, her frustration evident as she watched the screen, her eyes narrowing at the unfolding interaction.

“What the hell is he doing?” Emma snapped, her voice sharp with disbelief. “I tried to extract information from that... thing, and they bit my hand like a rabid dog. And now they’re flirting? Is this some kind of joke?”

Hank, standing beside her with his arms crossed, glanced at the screen before turning back to Emma, his expression calm and contemplative. “Kurt’s trying to build a connection,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ve exhausted every other method. This might be the only way to get through to them.”

Emma scoffed, clearly unconvinced. “A connection? It looks more like they’re on a date. This is a waste of time, Hank. We need answers, not... whatever this is.”

Hank shook his head slightly, his gaze returning to the screen. “Sometimes, unconventional approaches are the most effective. If Kurt can reach Haven, even just a little, it might give us the breakthrough we need.”

Emma huffed in frustration but didn’t argue further, though her skepticism was clear. She turned her attention back to the screen, her eyes narrowing as she watched Kurt and Haven continue their conversation.

“I hope we didn’t make a mistake bringing them here,” she muttered under her breath, her irritation turning into slight fear over what the mutant known as Lovejoy was capable of.

[cowgurrrl]

Some way some how Joel and reader in lftl are able to take each other back to their homes from before. For closure and memories. They both are just two people who miss their babies. And now they get pictures and cards from their homes. Another little piece of Sarah and Jane to go back to jackson.

Hello do you have access to my wips I was literally working on this!! I wrote this more about reader going back to their last apartment because @hier--soir has an amazing fic about Joel going back to Texas and it's absolutely gorgeous <3 anyways, I hope you enjoy!! this made me CRYYYY

Never Grew Up With You

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author's note: Jesus Christ I haven't cried at a fic like this in a LONG time I'm genuinely exhausted

Summary: "To never see her face again is what grief is." — Euripides, translated by Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides aka this ask [1.5k]

Warnings: talks of Jane, memories, oh it's so sad

It's eerie being back in that town. It's empty, but the remnants of Outbreak Day linger in the streets— decomposed bodies, crashed cars, craters where the bombs hit. You recognize bits and pieces. The downtown area which used light up with Christmas lights and smell like funnel cake during the winter months. The church where you lied on the application form so Jane could get into daycare. Your apartment building. You stop in front of it, Joel at your side, and look up at it. 

It looks smaller than you remember it like maybe you romanticized the shithole after so many years of living in a worse shithole. Only a few windows still have glass, and you catch faded curtains flapping in the abandoned apartments. "Mommy, look!" Jane had yelled that day so you could catch the jets flying over the building. You were standing in the same area you are now. Your heart clenches, and Joel seems to feel it at the same time.

"Are you sure bout this?" He asks, and you nod. "I'll be right here with you the whole time. We can leave whenever you want." You don't answer him. You just take a deep breath and start walking toward the stairs—bullet holes and rusty, dried blood line the path up to your third-floor apartment, but other than that everything is the same. There's even still a flyer on the bulletin board advertising an apartment-wide potluck set the week after Outbreak Day. Jane wanted to go. She said her friends were going and she wanted you to meet them. You said you'd think about it.

When you reach the top of the stairs, you find your apartment door still open and immediately regret not closing it. What if there's nothing left? What if it's been raided? What if it's all destroyed? You push yourself forward until you're over the threshold and back into the life you left behind. The body of the runner who burst into your apartment that night is still there, grey and all but dust at this point. Dirty plates sit in the sink. Jane's kindergarten homework has slid off the table and onto the floor, her scribbly handwriting boring holes into you. You pick it up despite it having boot marks and ripped edges and stare down at how she wrote her name. Joel doesn't say anything, but he squeezes your shoulder and lets you know he's there.

Together, you silently move through the rooms and salvage whatever you find. In your room, you find ratty old clothes from 2003, medical textbooks, and a file full of important documents shoved under your bed. Among the papers are your tax forms, a copy of your college diploma, and Jane's birth certificate— the only physical proof that she was ever here. Jane Eloise born April 7th, 1998, to you and no one else. Somehow, the glaring absence of Matt's name on her birth certificate still makes your stomach turn. You find a few more keepsakes before moving to the living room.

Whatever might've been there has been taken or destroyed by whoever's been in the building in the last twenty years. The blankets and pillows that once lived on your couch are gone. Your TV has been smashed in. The shoes Jane always left in the middle of the floor have disappeared, probably taken by some other parent who was desperate and was too scared to think of the child who left them. You're about to walk down the hallway to the bathroom and Jane's room when something crunches under your foot. You look down, and all the air gets punched out of your chest. As gently as possible, you bend down to pick up the shattered picture frame and stare at it. 

It was a picture taken by a friend at the county fair. Jane is on your right with a half-eaten blue cotton candy in her hand and a water bottle tucked under her arm. Her hair is in a braid, and there's a big blue stain on her Princess Ariel shirt, but she looks happy. You're both smiling big, the reflection of the colorful carnival lights shining in your identical eyes. Everyone always said she looked like Matt, but you can clearly see your features reflected back to you in this picture. God, how could you have forgotten about the way her eyes crinkled when she was happy? Or how she leaned into you in public? Or how young you both were?

"What's that?" Joel asks as he walks over to you, and you meet him halfway to show him the picture, unwilling to hand it over just yet. It takes him a minute to realize what he's looking at, but when he does, he looks up to catch you staring at the picture. "'S that Jane?"

"Mhm,"

"She's beautiful," he says, and you smile. "Is that cotton candy?"

"Yeah, it was her favorite. Practically begged me to buy it for her. I'm pretty sure I overdrafted my bank account just to get it."

"How old are you in this photo?" He asks, and you furrow your brows as you think. 

"Uh, Jane looks about three or four, so I was, at least, nineteen."

"You look happy."

"And tired," you say. Both things are true, but you can't ignore the bags under your eyes or your horribly fitting clothes. You were struggling. You were alone. You were so incredibly ill-equipped and felt the weight of the world on your shoulders. And Jane... Jane is none the wiser. She's smiling. She's fed. She's loved. She's happy. Maybe you were doing a better job than you thought you were. "You know she wanted to go on the Ferris wheel?" You ask, and Joel raises his eyebrows.

"That little?" He asks, and you laugh, nodding.

"I said the same thing, but she was so determined. So, my friend got us tickets to go on it, and we went, just the two of us. But when we started going around, she started getting really scared about the height and how fast it was going. She buried her head in my arm almost the whole time, and I was stressed that she was miserable and we had wasted my friend's money, and I was so fucking tired," you say. "But when we stopped at the top, I told her to look at the sky, and she did. I pointed at the different stars and talked to her about the moon, and she calmed down. I don't know if I distracted her or if she realized how big the sky was in comparison, but when we got down, all she could talk about was how close she got to the moon. After that, we'd go out every night and look at the stars. Even snuck out of our QZ shelter after the Outbreak."

"D'you get caught?" 

"Once. I knew a FEDRA guy, and he let it go. We never got caught again." You haven't thought about Owen in years. You don't know if he's dead or alive. You don't even know if he remembers you. You're not sure if you want to know. 

You grab a few more things from her room: a teddy bear, a few shirts, and a picture of you and her on the day she was born. Being in her space again makes your head swim, and you want to stay here forever and leave as soon as possible, all at the same time. Eventually, after combing through every nook and cranny you still know, you do leave. You say a proper goodbye to the first home you shared with Jane and the memories you made there. You're silently grateful to the apartment for holding so many treasures you would've otherwise never gotten back. 

You don't know why, but you trace your steps back through one of your old routes. Joel is silent beside you and lets you lead, knowing you would never do anything to endanger him. You recount stories as you pass certain buildings or paths; he listens and asks questions about her and your shared life. Before you know it, you're on the same hill overlooking the QZ. The one where you hid with her when the Outbreak first happened. The one you sat down on and sobbed after Adam died because you had to pull yourself together before reentering. The one you buried her on. 

The tree holding her has gotten bigger, its limbs stretching to the sky and the leaves a brilliant green. Seeing it thrive makes you smile just a little before you pivot and start walking to where you know she is. The sight of a fresh bouquet on her spot stops you in your tracks and makes your breath catch. All these years, you worried she would go unremembered under that big oak tree. You worried she was alone and scared. You worried and worried and worried because that's what any good parent does. The yellow flowers protecting her prove your worries wrong. You take a deep breath and grab Joel's hand before walking over to her. 

"Hey bug," you start, fighting your tears, "This is Joel. He’s Sarah’s dad and he’s my… he’s my best friend." You squeeze Joel’s hand and take a shaky breath. "He takes care of me and I take care of him. So, you don’t have to worry about Mommy being lonely, okay? I’m gonna be just fine. You don’t have to be scared for me. I've got my people here just like you've got your people there. So, you just rest and I'll be okay." Now, you're really crying and there's no stopping it.

"I love you. I hope leaving didn't make you think otherwise, but I came back. I'll always come back because you're my baby. You'll always be my baby."

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha

[sunshinegirl29]

Postcards - Chapter 1.

Hi! This fic has been pottering around in my brain for months, I've planned and unplanned and written and deleted, but here it is!

It's my first dabble into writing so constructive criticism and such really welcomed. I'm also open to requests if you like my writing. I write for Spencer Reid, Eddie Munson and Joel Miller.

It's Spencer x Reader, 18+ eventually, slow burn - eventual warnings for abuse, SA and general criminal minds related triggers. updates will be bi monthly.

Chapter 1 – Growing Pains.

You study the form while you wait, leg bouncing against the sticky underside of the table.  No matter the outcome, this has to be over.  The shaking letter is factual and to the point.  A long sigh. You place the envelope back on the desk, before reaching over the files to roll the rich blue fountain pen between your fingers. 

A door clicks, finally.  The familiar heavy tread of Sherrif Miller; “Hello again” he huffs, clutches the ridged back of his office chair and sits down.  You notice his metal foot drags more these days, after all this time he’s never told you how it happened and you don’t ask.  You don’t look up from the broken skin on the corner of your fingers, though you know he’ll be wearing the same sullen frown, his exasperation unhidden. You wonder if he thinks you’re making it up.

“My statement. Is that all you need?” You sigh, looking him in the eye. He shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, blanching slightly.  He doesn’t respect you, typical older generation male, feels out of control in his life and within his team so he dismisses you.  A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth and Miller stands, leg creaking as he rises quicker than you thought he would at his age.

“Yes, that’s all. I’ll leave it with the rest—” You were going to protest, for the third time this month but it falls flat with the rest of Millers’ sentence.

“Hi there, I’m sad we have to meet again under these circumstances.”  You step from foot to foot, wiping both hands on your jeans.  Mason Cook is classically handsome, dark hair and light eyes; he’s the type of man who’s charming, but brooding at the same time.  From the amount of time you’ve spent at this station, you’ve seen plenty of his female colleagues fall over themselves to impress him, frankly it’s quite embarrassing but you can see the appeal.

“It’s okay Mason, Miller here was just telling me how you’re all going to put your time and resources into finding this weirdo. Right Miller?” 

You hear the scrawling of Miller’s pen stop, you definitely hit a nerve.  Mason watches as usual, he knows you’re enjoying bating his useless boss and wipes a large hand over his beard to cover his own tilted grin.

“That’s enough.” He snaps, “Cook, don’t you have work to do? We have weirdo to find and you’re my resource.”    You nod.  A subtle glance at your watch; 7:15am, you were late.

_

“Second day on the job and you’re already late?”

SSA Derek Morgan croons when he talks. He can’t help it.  It’s lead plenty of women straight to bed but right now it reminds you that a useless errand to the Sherrif’s office made you late for the most important job you’ve landed in years.

“Bite me Morgan” His laugh fades as you rush past, dipping into the roundtable room.

No one’s here.   This must be what hazing feels like?

You understand men like Morgan, women usually fall into three categories; two separate categories that had their own rules.  The first box was untouchable. These women were untouchable in every sense of the word. They usually either belonged to someone else, or meant something to him.   Garcia fell into that category, you’d deduced – they’d shamelessly flirt and are the only reason BAU’s HR department were in business.  She would always reside in the Untouchable box, regardless of how much Penelope wanted out of that particular category.  Jennifer Jaureu also belonged in that box, but in a different way.  She was Will’s – it started and ended there.  He had eyes of course; she was attractive but he loved her like family.  Then there was Elle.  She had started out in the fuckable box, but getting shot and killing Lee had shifted her into the untouchable box pretty quickly after that.  He’d dated enough women to know to stay away from that kind of trauma, besides he’d loved her like family too.  

Then there’d been you.  After months of training together, you were quite sure you now hovered between the fuckable and untouchable box.  There was something powerfully arousing knowing that the person that had your life in their hands daily, could take it instantly.  If he knew, you’d be banished to the untouchable box instantly.  

Anyway, you let him have his win. 

“You told me it was urgent. You lie!” It spurts out in a laugh, breaking the silence.

“Sorry babydoll! I’m just messin’ with you! Welcome to the team!” he pats you on the back and helps pick up the files and folders that your whirlwind entrance scattered around the small room.

You settle down in a chair opposite the door, a strategic position; able to see for potential threats and a planned exit route for any emergencies. Perfect.   It’s not long before Agent Rossi takes a seat beside you.  He gives a short good morning and a reassuring pat on the shoulder in support of your second real day on the job – it goes a long way in settling simmering nerves.

Morgan sits down, a ghost of a smirk still on his lips as he sips a third cup of steaming coffee.  He tries to hide it but you’re trained to observe, not being able to miss the roving way his eyes study you across the table.  It’s insane how an expert profiler doesn’t realise you see right through it, but maybe, you smirk back, he does and just doesn’t care?  

Garcia totters in, bright and giddy, the breath of fresh air in the stifling room.  She’s passing cups of coffee in ludicrous mugs to each person when JJ and Aaron file in together; their presence hushes the deep conversation you’re having with Rossi, leaving the intricate details of Bobby Fisher’s chess strategy dead in the water.  

“Okay, Good Morning, let’s get started.” He looks determinedly everywhere but you. JJ interrupts your thoughts with a manilla folder. 

“Three girls have gone missing and been later found murdered over the last 6 months in a semi-rural area of Georgia.”  Your heart lurches, desperate to free itself from your chest.  You take a few deep breaths, calming it into submission.   “Alison Sinclar, Cassidy Williams and Joslyn Cooper were all in their late teens to early twenties when they each went missing.”  JJ pauses, allowing Garcia to pull up pictures of each girl in a row. 

“Allison Sinclar a Senior at Georgia High School had Spring Break with her family in Senoia Georgia. She disappeared after leaving a house party at a friend’s and never returned.  She’d been strangled and posed.  She was found on the edge of farmland a few days later.” JJ blanches at the crime scene photos, turning quickly to hand out some physical copies to an empty chair.

 “Oh my! How are you all not in so much therapy?!” Garcia holds a cherry octopus’ mug in her field of vision, shielding from the unnecessarily gruesome death.

“Any evidence of sexual assault?” Emily asks. 

“Yes, extensively.” JJ nods, her voice unwavering.

Allison was someone’s child, but to this killer she had been nothing but a means to an end, a way to get off and dispose in favour of the next prize.  

The board flickered, to Garcia’s irritation and you take the time to observe the rest of the group;

  Emily Prentiss was no longer the new kid on the team, she’d taken you under her wing in the weeks leading up to your first day and you’d taken to texting her a few times a week for late night advice and tips to assimilate.  She’d been helpful but somewhat reserved in giving any personal details about herself; smart girl.  Morgan was debating the Sexual Predator angle with Aaron, who still wasn’t looking at you.  Then there was the case of the strange empty chair.

“There!” Penelope chimes “You can bow to the technical Goddess!” 

“Cassidy Williams.” Hotch cuts her off with the smallest hint of joviality “Cassidy was seventeen, she had been in and out of foster homes, in Georgia.  She was found in a wooded area on the edge of town, also strangled and posed like Allison”    

This one was a carbon copy of the first.  Her body wilted over at the waist, manipulated into a vulgar position.  A strange sensation washed over you, leaving you shivering uncomfortably.

This was enough for Garcia.  She stood abruptly, coffee splashing onto the files in the additional space at the table.  “No. Nope. I’ll be in my bat-cave if you need me.  God, I need my therapist on speed dial!!” 

Aaron nods, giving her arm a small squeeze before she leaves.  He’s never done that to you. It evokes an unpleasant sensation in your gut. 

This time he looks at you it’s short lived, if you weren’t paying attention you’d have missed it.  But he knows better. 

“Joslyn Cooper, twenty-two and the most recent death.  Hers prompted the Georgia Police Department to request our assistance on the case.  She was” JJ takes a visible breath, “Also posed but her heart was removed.” 

“Oh my god.” Whistled Rossi even a seasoned agent like him wasn’t immune to this particular horror. 

A chorus of disgust rippled around the room, it starts a debate about the significance of the heart in mythology and religion but you could only focus on the posing, something about it seemed vaguely familiar.

“Hey Sugar? Are you okay?” Morgan’s wave came into focus and you shake your head involuntarily.  It looked like he was enjoying your distraction, the toothy grin snuck onto his face and you replied in kind.

“Yeah.” You scoff, “It’s a rough one for the first case.” You placate him with the ghost of the truth and run your fingers jokingly over the sparse hair on his head on your way out the door.

A sudden motion stops you.  A flicker of movement that turns into a touch of your arm, it guides you discreetly away from your colleagues who grab go bags with muscle memory.  You’re very familiar with the huffing breath and deep frown of Aaron Hotchner.

“Aaron, don’t do this.” You say slowly and wish this wasn’t going to turn into a passive aggressive lecture.

“They don’t know.” Aaron said and you watch his chin tilt. He looks over you with a serious gaze that sits comfortably on his brow.  The one that Hayley always talked about.

It was horrifying how little they knew.  He was their boss and they knew nothing about him. It felt like a slap in the face, another reminder of how insignificant you were – or maybe it was a classic reflection of how you felt about yourself, deep down. 

“You don’t have to tell me how much they don’t know Aaron.” From your position on a spare desk in a shadowed corner of the Bullpen you scowl up at him, “They didn’t even bat an eyelid, not even Garica who has all your files!?”

Aaron breathes heavily, tongue moistening his cracked lips.  “There’s aspects of my life I want to keep private.”  It’s flat and unemotional, as you expect. “The anonymity will help you here and it keeps you safe.”   You muse for a second, chewing on his words – they’re sour and shame tinged but the faint sweetness of comfort lingers on your tongue.

“Safe.” It comes out harsher than it needed to be and you can see his regret fade back into the comfortable frown you’re so accustomed to.

Aaron sighs, grabs a briefcase from the desk and turns his back to you.

“Let’s get going. Wheels up in 30.”

Greetings from Sharpsburg!

12.06.02    

Hi you!

  I know we live three towns over and I could just pick up the phone, but this is a romantic notion I picked up from that raunchy book I found in Mama’s dresser!  Hopefully Miss Cain will let you come here tomorrow; Daddy’s going to pick up my uncle Kellen from the airport but after you should come for dinner.  I hope Mr Hartman will get this to you before then.

Love, Elizabeth.

A violent breeze calls you back, you’re not sure what happened on the drive to the airstrip but vaguely remember Jennifer’s mouth moving and something about meeting another member of the team on the plane. 

“Why do I only get to travel with you guys once or twice a year?”  Penelope gasps, hurriedly shuffling past you.  She smiles eagerly at a man you don’t recognise; he passes her a coffee in a hot pink mug that she takes gratefully. 

“Oh!” Garcia backpaddles, hands in the air.  You know she doesn’t mean any harm, but instinctually step backwards.  The cool silver of your watch clamps painfully against your wrist where she grabs it, leading you towards him.  Penelope introduces you and moves off to sit by Derek; they smile at each other like scheming children.

He’s tall and gawky, obviously flustered by the change in staffing, his previously relaxed demeanour shifts into awkward, a tight smile.

“Dr Spencer Reid nice to meet you.”  You reply in kind, glad he doesn’t extend a hand. 

You study him while he excuses himself and strides over, settling in opposite Rossi.  Dr Reid is the type of man that goes home alone to vintage first addition books, and the sound of a dripping tap he’s not there enough to be bothered to fix.  His day specific shirts are neatly folded into certain drawers, where his real wool coats hang in seasonal order.  Jennifer had mentioned his eidetic memory, which might be the least interesting thing about him.  He’s older than you, by several years at least, but still baby faced enough that the cops on cases don’t take him as seriously as the others despite his title.

“Okay, let’s get started.”  Aaron gestures and you sit down.

“All three girls have similar victimology, features and body types. He’s definitely got a type.” Your sentence trails off in a sigh without obvious reason and you’re suddenly aware of the faint hum of the jet, the only sound.  “They could be a surrogate for someone in his life, past or present someone who’d wronged him in some perceived way?”  You continue, ignoring the awkward feeling settling in your gut. 

“Yeah, looks like it but what’s with the posing?” Emily hums, looking over the photos one by one.  She doesn’t seem to flinch at the brutality of the crimes, but you can’t judge her.

“It’s interesting, the posing.” Reid states, flicking back and forth over each photo. “It’s as if he’s humiliating them—” 

“It’s dehumanizing.” You accidently cut him off, blurting out your thoughts.

 Reid is the smartest person in the room and everyone knows it, the way his eyebrows shoot into his brown curls says all you need to know on his feelings about being interrupted.

“Sorry, go ahead.” You wince.

“The manner of death is personal, intimate.  They mean something to him, dehumanized after death, no remorse.”  Each word packs a punch, the slight condescending lilt makes your blood boil. 

A minute of oppressive silence follows, something tells you they all know Reid isn’t used to being spoken over.  It’s amusing really, but ruffling feathers on your second day on the job wasn’t how you wanted this to go, so you sigh in resignation and nod, accepting his deduction.

“There’s no discernible MO but according to the M.E Report all girls were extensively sexually assaulted and all in the same manner. Which could help.” Aaron notes, frowning again.

“The unsub crosses socioeconomic backgrounds; Allison Sinclar lived in a rural but wealthy area of Georgia, her father is a retired Georgia Police Sherrif and her mother an English Tutor.”  Derek gestures to the files in your lap. 

“Cassidy’s parents are in the wind?  She’d been bouncing in and out of foster homes for years before her death. If their backgrounds mean something to him, it means he’s had enough time and space to watch them.” It’s aggravating, the seemingly random way this unsub kills young girls, but that doesn’t explain why your hands shake and the pen slips from sweaty palms. 

  It’s like magic, the way he catches it with dextrous fingers. Spencer’s eyes flick to yours for a breath and he nods tightly once again, handing it back without a word.

“That’s true. Good work.” Aaron catches your eye and nods with a tenderness you’ve not seen from anyone since your mother died, the feeling that bubbles up forces your gaze back down.

“When we land, I want you and Reid to go to the medical examiner’s office.” If Aaron wanted you to start this job with confidence, he was definitely going the wrong way about it. You flash pleading eyes at Derek who surprisingly is already watching, or rather smirking at what must be a very distasteful expression.

  Aaron continues, oblivious or unphased; “Emily and I will go to lease with the family, Rossi and Morgan, I’d like you to go to the most recent crime scene. Garcia with JJ set up at the Station, Sherrif Anderson will meet you there.”

“Brace yourself.”

Before you can question Rossi’s order the jet tips, scattering chess pieces all over along with the last dredges of your abandoned coffee.

>

Greetings from Sharpsburg!

26/09/05

Hi you!

I know in my last letter, I said I’d give up this romantic notion!  But it’s just not me.  It’s been different around here the last few months.  Mama’s sick again and Daddy’s working more on the new barn and...

Anyway, I hope Miss Cain will let you come over again soon. I’ve been… 

Love, Elizabeth.

The medical examiner’s office is tucked away in the back of an archaic local hospital.  The instruments lay neatly, shining eerily in the clinical glow.  This part of the job was always the hardest; seeing people’s loved ones, naked on a freezing table just to be dissected and stored away.  It was irrational. You knew this was a very necessary part of the job to eventually catch the unsub and put the victims to rest, but how the two girls laid out like this was just undignified.

“I’m so sorry Agents, I just stepped out for some air.”

She’s not what you expect.  British. Two grey strips of hair frame her face, the rest sleek and brown poured down her back in a glossy ponytail.  She looks about four years your senior, a jagged scar dresses her milky white false left eye.  She carries on around the room, passes a manila folder to Reid and expertly dons a protective gown. 

“I’m Doctor Annabel Clayton.  My parents and I knew the first girl Alison and her parents. They had trouble conceiving so they adopted.” Clayton sighs, looking you in the eye.  A shiver runs down your spine again, making an unwelcomed home in your gut.

“Cause of Death?” Reid asks and you frown, unsure why he had to ask.  Maybe it was just obvious to you? 

“The main cause of death was strangulation.”

“Look at the bruising pattern.” The ever-well-mannered Dr Reid cuts in curiously, squinting at the bruising.  “He did it by hand.”  

“However.”  Dr Clayton slaps down the sheet, covering the young girl’s modesty.  She didn’t look like the type of woman who was used to being talked over in her own office.  “She has some internal bleeding that would have caused her death if he’d not chosen, well, the other.”  She looked sad in a wistful dreamy way, as if a ghost. A small-town purgatory. 

“The other, Cassidy.  She was also manually strangled and sexually assaulted in the same manner.”  Finger shaped bruises bloomed angrily on her grey thighs.  They give way to more, a trail of violence ending at her neck.  The uncharacteristic prickle of tears threatens but are obediently blinked back.

“They could be sisters...” You sigh, in fact you could all be sisters.

Clayton moves on to the last girl, her brooding expression darkening.

“For obvious reasons, I’ll be keeping this poor sweetheart covered from here.”  She strokes Joslyn’s hair.  “She’s still a young girl after all, she’d want to look her best.”

“This is the worst I’ve seen in my career, especially in this area.  Her cause of death wasn’t manual strangulation.” She quips and Reid strides to your side.  The accidental intimacy of it makes your breath catch.  He smells homely, the warming aroma of old books and black coffee, you can’t help but lean into it.  

“Do you want me to carry on?”  That’ll do it. Clayton’s British lilt is like ice water, it’s embarrassing.  You’re leaning into a man you barely know and are frankly not sure you even like?

“Of course, sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”  You stammer, stepping toward the teen girls ghostly face and chest. 

“She was found posed, like Cassidy.  She was leant over a tree stump with the rope around her neck. It was hung from a tree.” 

The picture she passes around is from a distance.  The rope is tied to a gnarled tree, snaking down to bind her wrists, the other hooked over her head and knotted to a taller branch.

“The unsub must be at least six foot to attempt this alone.  Unless they have a partner.” The possibility is frightening, one unsub is hard enough but two?  Say goodbye to sleep for the next few weeks.  

“Okay Agents. I need to get these girls back to their beds.”

You pause for a reply, but looking back catch Reid rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand, as if shielding them from the overly bright strip light.

“You okay there?” 

His jaw is tight, your eyes linger on the way the action accentuates the sharp corner.

“Just a headache. Let’s go.”

> 

The familiar stickiness of the Georgian heat prickles at your back dampening the linen of your shirt, it sticks to your forearms as you roll up the sleeves.  Being back here felt much like the oppressive midday sun, inescapable and suffocating. 

“How was the ME?”  Emily asks, but Reid strides past you toward a waiting Rossi.  She frowns as they disappear into the precinct together, talking animatedly about something you can’t quite hear.

“She’s interesting for sure.” You breathe, skilfully ignoring the vibration from your cell in the back pocket of your pants.

The precinct was mayhem bustling with cops that looked a little too old to be in the field but hated their wives and children too much to retire just yet.  They scramble to sit in rickety office chairs as Aaron and Rossi start to present, you wonder if they’d take your suggestions on board.

As Aaron starts to give a preliminary profile you hear words like previous history of abuse, 18 to 25, local, abandonment issues and surrogate, but you can focus on nothing but the manic buzzing of your phone again.  You’ve changed the number three times in the last 9 months and every time this son of a bitch still manages to find it. You’re seriously debating asking Garcia for help but then reconsider, it’s for the best, keeping them at an arms-length.

As the officers begin to buzz around you, taking calls from the tip line and preparing to interview locals you discreetly slip your cell out and glance at the seven new messages illuminating the screen.

12:24pm – Mason Cook.

Hey bug,

Miller said they’ve had no luck tracing the calls you’ve been having, sorry. I did try. Also, the girl from the coffee shop didn’t recognise the sketch.  I know I keep saying, but I’m sorry. Hope you’re back soon, I’ll leave the key in the normal place.

12:45pm – Unknown

I told you. I’m not going anywhere. It’s about time you paid for taking it all away from me.

[weemsfreak]

Nevermore Academy No No's

Hi all, I read this fic by Pomegranatesandpoetry on ao3 (@dormiveglia-dreamer ) and I thought about writing some small stories explaining how some of these things ended up on the list, so here I am! They said they wouldn't mind if I did this :) If you didn't read the list on ao3 I would recommend, it's really funny!

200 things you aren’t allowed to do at Nevermore Academy (2445 words) by Pomegranatesandpoetry

Larissa Weems x Student Reader

1. Principal Weems has never, at any point, ever, been a knight.

It was late October as you pulled through the gates of Nevermore Academy, your new school. You'd be lying if you said you weren't nervous, you had been attending the same school most of your life. You've always felt out of place at school, around people all together, actually. Just recently, your powers presented themself to you, and your dad being a normie, didn't know how to deal with them. Alas, you were shipped off to Nevermore. Despite feeling like you were hiding all of your life, you would soon come to realize that Nevermore would allow you to be yourself, in whatever way that meant. Unfortunately for Principal Weems, that meant she would have her hands full.

You were led to huge wooden doors inside of the school with a plaque that read "Principal Weems". You were told to enter and you did so, sitting in front of the principals desk when she motioned to the chair. "You must be Y/N Y/LN, we're so glad to have you. I'm Principal Weems" the principal smiled. You nodded your head, "Thank you Principal Weems!" As the woman looked toward her computer, you took a moment to study her face. She looked familiar to you, but you'd never met her before. She was pale with light hair, big blue eyes, deep smile lines, and a scar on her upper lip. You tilted your head in question, who did she look like? You pictured her with less makeup and shorter hair, and it came to you. "Oh my god, we're you a knight?" The principal turned her gaze to you and furrowed her brows, a grin forming on her face. "What?" she chuckled, confused. "Have you ever been a knight? Did you used to have short hair? You look so familiar to me, I know you were a knight!" Principal Weems brought her hand to her mouth to cover the giggles spewing out of her. Students were always hard to deal with in one way or another, but she didn't expect you to come in saying the most random things, considering you two had just met. She shook her head "No, I'm not a knight, and I have never been one." You narrowed your eyes, you didn't believe her. "Then why do you look like Brienne of Tarth? And why do you have her stature? And accent?" you crossed your arms and leaned back in the chair. The principal folded her hands in front of her and sat up. "Y/N, I don't know who Brienne of Tarth is, but I can assure you, I am Principal Larissa Weems. How could I be a knight if I'm a principal?" You pursed your lips, pondering over her reasoning. "Maybe you were a knight before you were a principal" you said with a head nod, grinning at her. She scoffed and looked back at her computer, trying to read your file. You looked around her office, she had a bear, a raven, mirrors, books, you name it. You had decided in this moment that you were going to make the principal like you, but by being an annoying menace. You wouldn't do anything really dangerous of course, you just wanted to have some fun and make things interesting. You smiled a sly smile and looked at the principal. She was still staring at her computer, but felt you eyeing her. "So, your father couldn't make it?" she spoke before you could. "He has work" you sighed. She looked at you, giving you a reassuring smile. After the principal asked some questions and gave you your school schedule, she stood and motioned to the door. "Shall we go meet your new roommate?" she said with a wide smile. You looked up at her, she was really tall. "Sure, but I have a question first" you paused. Her smile faded, "Okay, what's your question?" You glanced around her office walls like you were looking for something, "Where's your sword?"

In Ophelia hall, you met your new vampire roommate, Yoko. "Y/N Y/LN, this is Yoko Tanaka" the principal smiled. You reached out your hand to shake Yoko's "Nice to meet you Yoko." The principal told you that you could put your things on one side of the room and then said "Yoko, please take Y/N to the registrar's office to pick up her uniform, and give her a tour along the way." Yoko smiled at you and took the lead. As you exited the room, you whispered loudly to Yoko, "I heard that Principal Weems used to be a knight." You turned your head and winked at the principal before you were out of her sight.

The Principal sat down at her desk after making sure you were settled in. She placed her head in her hands and sighed dramatically. It was bad enough that she had to deal with Wednesday Addams, but you seemed to be a menace as well. She didn't want to have to do this, but she figured it would keep the recklessness and rumours at bay. She pulled out her notebook and began writing.

Things you aren't allowed to do at Nevermore Academy:

1. Principal Weems has never, at any point, ever, been a knight. Spreading rumours or taunting regarding this is not allowed.

[psalacanthea]

In the Den of the Beast

here as promised on this fine Fanfic Friday, is 4.2k of fic between my Durge and Gortash! She's featured before in this Durge x Abdirak bit of knifeplay smut, but this is from before then, at their first meeting face to face.

Happy Friday! The next poll for next week's Fanfic Friday will be up soon. Thanks for reading, commenting, reblogging, and all that. Let me know if you're having trouble reading it here, and I'll throw it on AO3 as well.

cw: torture, murder, light descriptions of gore, etc. Durge warning (but mild in this bit of fic)

...

Blood coated every inch of skin, coated her throat as she breathed in, the coppery tang thick and heavy in the air.

Passion cooled with the chill to her bare skin, the brief reprieve from numbness fading away once more.  She was left blank and empty.  Following the wordless command of a small, sharp click of her tongue, Iris scurried over, carefully pulling her robe over her arms as she extended them to her sides.  Letting her eyes drop down on the wall, she stared in silence at her erstwhile sister, the crudely made beast that she was.  Orin was seething, lips pulled back to bare a twisted scowl, cloudy eyes wide with anger.

She hadn’t been expecting to be watched, but she should have been.

“I hope that you have sufficiently reflected on your mistakes,” she told Orin, dropping her arms as her voiceless servant finished tying the robe.  “If you ever ignore my instructions again to play your pointless and capricious games, I will make you wish you never slithered out of your mother’s polluted, violated womb.  You are no whimsical artist, you are a disappointment.  Idiot child.”

Picking up Orin’s knife from the table by the door, she examined the bloodstained, pink bit of flesh that flopped about on its tip as she turned it over.  “You may have your tongue back.”  She threw the knife at Orin’s knees, walking past her seething sister as she crossed the large, echoing stone brick chamber.  Behind her, the corpses of Orin’s latest targets, used as an object lesson once more on how a killing should be performed.

It should be quick, brutal, and thorough, not…artistic.

How dare Father ever bless this crude and misled child, when she sacrificed so much for Hi–

No.  Such thoughts were to be buried, cast aside.  Sacrifices must be made willingly, or they were not sacrifices at all.  It rankled, however, to have her struggles so dismissed, her fight for lucidity all but mocked.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.  “If you embarrass me again, I will peel away the veneer of civility from my flesh and do what I was made for.  As your elder sister, it is natural for me to want the best for you.  And of you.  The next time I hear your voice, it will be saying ‘I am sorry, Sister.  Thank you, Sister.’.  I love you.”

Inarticulate, burbling, some vile curse came from the figure behind her, marred by the damage her rude mouth had taken.  Mannerless to the end.  Truly, family was a burden unlike any other.

Her eyes drifted until they locked, finding that which did not belong.

An interloper.

The figure standing by the door with its disgustingly lax posture straightened up as she approached, but she ignored the vaguely familiar, dark-haired man.  Her attention shifted instead to the woman standing to the other side of the door.  An expected person.  She, much like Iris, was veiled and dressed in burgundy, with her mouth daintily stitched closed.  

Weary-eyed man and servant both turned and followed her as she walked past them, gesturing sharply.

Perhaps the man wasn’t as bumbling as she’d presumed from his portrait.

He knew enough not to speak inside a place of worship.

They paced out into a high, narrow hallway, stone-brick walls uneven, lit with flickering torchlight.  They were designed to demand a single file, but the man crowded close, almost as if he expected to walk shoulder to shoulder with her.  It made her walk more quickly.

“Violet, tell go fetch the prisoner in the left cell, give him the keys to Orin’s restraints, and tell him he may leave if he frees her,” she instructed quietly.  If Orin didn’t kill the man, she was even more incompetent than Belladonna thought.  Near-unfathomable.

It was important to give a child something productive to do after you punished them.

Violet turned and walked away immediately at the first claustrophobic intersection, movements as silent as her sealed lips.

“It wasn’t my intent to intrude on a family matter, forgive me,”  the man said, husky voice oozing what she supposed he thought was charm.

They walked for a time, his steps coming to pace with hers, until she was forced to acknowledge his presence.  It was true that he was following her without knowing why.  She paused, turning to face him, voice and words solemn.  

“Punishments sink in much better with the added pressure of humiliation.”  Belladonna paused, glancing sidelong at him, lifting her chin.  “And she was the only one who had something to be ashamed of in that room.  Don’t you agree, vulture of Bane?”

“I only wish our rituals seemed as…”  At the slight narrowing of her eyes, he smiled, tipping his head.  “Fulfilling.”

Hmph.

“Pity for you.  Have you considered conversion?”

The Banite laughed, throwing his head back, with an unsettling earnestness.  A strong emotion.  It made her uncomfortable– he was uncomfortable to be around.  Serenity-intruding.

Best to get rid of him quickly before she gave in to her discomfort and disemboweled him.  She needed this conniving man.  Unlike Orin, she knew that acting without thought meant your plans were doomed to fail.  

Pray the little idiot never learned the art of forethought.

She was still far, far too impulsive and extravagant, no matter how many times corrected.

“Usually I prefer that people wait until I send them an invitation before they answer it.”

Gortash spread his hands helplessly, fingers gnarled from a lifetime of work.  Not a soft man, then.  “It’s been on your desk for over a week.  I kept anticipating its arrival, only to be disappointed.  I thought a nudge might help keep things moving.”

“You need a better spy, it has been over two weeks,” she replied, trying to calculate just how he would have gotten the interloper into her ranks.  A waste of her time.  If he wanted her to be happy, he would tell her.  “Well, now I know you’ve been trying to infiltrate since we’ve been in contact, no doubt, since it could not have been done easily.  Tell me how you accomplished it.  That is an order, not a request.”

“Yes, it was quite the difficult task.  I’d be happy to share my dark secrets, if it soothes your ire,” he said affably, lifting one hand to his partially bared chest.  

“You will.  In detail,” she agreed, nodding instantly.  If he wanted something from her, he would be honest.  If he was planning to attack her from within by making himself seem helpful, well, she would kill him.  Always a silver lining.

Banites were untrustworthy, it was simply in their nature, but they could work together perfectly well.

Until he inevitably made her angry enough to murder him.

“Perhaps in another venue?  Your hall is…”  His eyes scanned the stained, faintly-damp stone brick of the walls.  “Echoing.”

She had no desire to speak to him in a private space, but it was inevitable and so she merely nodded.  Unwelcome as his intrusion was, she must use it.  Why the fool had ignored the fact that she obviously did not want to respond to his ardent requests for an invitation, she didn’t know, but even if she found him irritating she could not waste this opportunity.  Right now she felt lucid, clear-headed.  Sated.

For now she could face this man and his machinations.

“If you stray from me, steal from me, or touch anything you should not…then you will not be.”

“Concise and convincing! Delighted,” he said, smile too wide and sly for her taste.

"That was a threat, you realize," she said, vaguely baffled by his demeanor.  Pausing, she turned to face him, insisting,  "killing you would be as great a victory to me as alliance."

He lifted a hand, tilting his head.  "If there is one thing my people are good at, it’s keeping records.  I am well aware you have killed…several among our number.  After reaching out to them to ally, too, as you did me.”

So he did know.

They turned a corner, her eyes flicking aside at him once again.  He seemed sincere.  And yet still arrogant enough to face her in such an audacious manner.  What a curious man this Enver Gortash was.  Perhaps clever enough to succeed where others had failed, she hoped?

Why come here, to the very heart of her power...alone?

Was he a madman?

“You aren’t stupid enough to arrive with that in mind unless you are very assured of your plan or your power.  What makes you so confident?” She paused at a four-way junction, gesturing him to the left.  

“You are so delightfully blunt!” he laughed, lowering his voice when she shot him an irritable look.  Turning away, he headed towards the open door nearby,   “I’m not about to let a golden opportunity escape me.  I’d imagine you’re very tired of inferior fools.  I will make for an excellent contrast.”

“So it is stupidity after all,” she said flatly.  Pointing to the door, she stifled her disappointment in him.  “Enter.”

Pausing in the doorway, he laughed, low and amused.  The echoes, though faint, annoyed her.  He must have sensed her wince, as his gaze shifted over to her.  The laughter stopped.  Rather than give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort, she gestured to the door again silently.

Gortash cleared his throat, adjusted his coat, and walked into the room.

After a quick glance around the featureless hall, she turned to follow.  Off in the distance there was a scream of rage that came to her ears, distorted by echoes, but she ignored it.  Temper tantrums.  Father should be grateful she got anything done at all, with family to manage on top of it.

The room off of the hall was small.  This font of worship was not particularly large, considering it belonged only to her.  The butler despised this place, urged her to return to the Temple, but she required the distance.  By now she had learned that the prattling minikin who tended to her was to be ignored as much as the festering urges in her own blood and heart.  

Her task required such sacrifices of her.

The room held nothing more than a desk, a dozen mismatched bookcases, and a rusted metal bier she used to sleep on.  Her spare furnishings were not what held the Banite’s attention.  Instead, his dark eyes were locked upon the mangled heads being held outstretched in the hands of two of her silent maidens, mouths agape, eyes gouged out to bare bloody blackened sockets.  Well, two of the three heads had eyes removed.  

Rose’s work.

The Banite’s men.

“Would you like to take them home for burial?”

“No, do as you like with them!” His lack of concern for his lurking spies made her eyes narrow, but he only smiled.  “I did order them to stay without.  If my orders were broken…”

The taller of the two handmaidens gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

“There is very little difference to me between knowing where my temple is, and actually breaching the doors.  Do you understand?”

“Surely you couldn’t expect me to visit without–”

She gave him a cold look to silence him, dismissing the handmaidens with a flicker of her hand.  “Orchid, Frostrose.  Go meditate upon if you believe yourselves to have followed my expectations by killing without orders.  If you decide you have not, submit to punishment.  Have the heads left at the exit so that the Banite may take them if he leaves this place alive.”

There was no reason to let him get comfortable.

Walking past them without further commentary, and no pointless bowing and scraping, the maidens left, taking the heads with them.  If they failed to punish themselves, she would do so.  Not because she disagreed with the killing, of course, but because they had not informed her beforehand.  Order was the difference between success and failure.

Order and self-control.

The door closed heavily, the sound hollow as a tomb, leaving them in the pristine, but claustrophobic room.  She silently walked between the bookshelves, heading for her desk.  There was no chair.  It was unnecessary.  Walking behind the large slab of salvaged, ancient wood, she reached for a pile of carefully-written correspondence.  Leafing through it, she found the letter she’d not decided to send to him, and silently held it into the candle flame.  The parchment quickly caught.

Lifting her eyes from the fire, she stared at Gortash as the letter burned.

“The skull as a candle-holder is very atmospheric.”

“It was on hand,” she said casually, the ruddy edge of the blackening paper stinging against her fingertips. She dropped the unburnt corner, which burst into flame and then ash, drifting down to the desk.

“No chairs.”  He sat on the corner of her desk, folding his hands together on his thigh.  The smug man ignored her glare.  He seemed to enjoy not reacting to her– almost as if it made him victorious.  “Bhaal is…against seating?”

She was not impressed.

“I do not find a chair necessary.  Why would I fetch one and drag it through the sewers and caves just to have something to sit on?  I can write standing up.”

“I thought this was your home…that’s all.  My information must not have been as accurate as I was expecting.”  His lips twisted into a grimace, before he shrugged dismissively.  “Well!  You’ve killed the people who failed me, regardless.”

“This is my home,” she corrected, keeping her voice monotone.  Why did he prattle so ceaselessly?  “I asked if you understood why your men died.”

“Yes, perfectly well.  Another threat.  I do notice them, you don’t have to keep pointing them out to me.”

He sounded sincere, which was suspicious.  The longer this went on, the more uneasy it made her.   “I do not idly threaten, and I do not subtly threaten.  They are warnings.  I suggest you treat them as you would the snarl of any beast, because despite my current calm and amiable nature, they are quite serious.”

"I've irritated you."

"Your unwarranted calm irritates me."

His eyes were irritating, so expressive and yet so impenetrable.  “You did ask about my confidence. You thought it came from knowing I had men nearby, and now you see that isn’t true.  Then let me reassure you, so that I don’t end up with my entrails wrapped around your hands– as enjoyable as that was to watch.”

She nodded silently, resting both hands on the edge of the desk.  He still hadn’t stood up.  It bothered her, but she didn’t know why, so she said nothing at all.

“As I said, we keep extensive records.  I am the fourth.  Why would you reach out to four separate Banites in the hopes of finding one capable of allying with you if you did not need one?  I am best suited to your needs, as you are to mine.”

That was all?

“Gloating arrogance,” she dismissed scornfully.

“If that is what you would like to call it.  You haven’t ripped my head off yet,” he pointed out with a smile.  “I think if I told you why you need me, you might, however.  So why not tell me yourself?”

That was what made her uncomfortable about him.  He did not react.  Apart from that brief discomfort when he’d seen the heads, there had been nothing.  As if he’d already known enough about her not to be surprised.  And that…that made her viscerally uneasy.

“Whatever assumptions you have made about me–”

The damnable affability of his voice was irritating in its effortlessness.  “I am discarding them as we speak.  Please; share with me so that I may learn more.”

She stared at him in silence for a good three seconds, and luckily for his sake he wasn’t smiling.  Just gazing at her expectantly.  Whatever convoluted thoughts twisted through his Bane-addled brain, she did not know, but she did know one thing.

“I need you,” she admitted, lips tightening.  “I have been given a sacred duty and nothing but impediments to its completion. I will bring my Father’s desires to fruition.”

“But you can’t alone,” he said knowingly, but not condescendingly. Good, for his sake.  “All of your victims thought your cooperation was going quite well.  They didn’t listen to the warnings, did they.”

“No,” she agreed simply.

“The empty halls, the silent servants, the way you speak and act and move…I take it you don’t enjoy company or people.  Find it unpleasant, even.”

“People and noise irritate me,” she agreed, clipped.

“And when you’re irritated, people die,” he surmised, and smiled faintly at her brusque nod.  “Forgive me.  I watched you kill.  It seems more natural to you than…this.”

She closed her eyes, letting out a faint breath through her nose.  “It is the gift of my Father and I am grateful for it.”

“But it keeps you from following His greater Will.”

“I can.  I am strong enough to control it.  I will make the sacrifices necessary to enact His desires.  I am the blood and flesh of Bhaal; I will succeed.  With or without the aid of grasping Bane’s disciples.”  There she grimaced, remembering that it was aid she was seeking, and clarified grudgingly.  “With would be faster.  But it is beginning to feel that allying with the servants of Bane will only find me condescension, conniving, and crude attempts at backstabbing.”

“My methods are far from cr–”  He cut off as her eyes narrowed slowly.  “Oh come now.  No sense of humor at all?”

She would begin by cutting off his tongue.  Her eyes bored into his; she stared unblinking until he smiled in apology.  “No,” she finally clarified.

“I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t close to certain we could work together.  Now, having met you?  I’m absolutely certain.  I have exactly what you need, right here.”  Gortash tapped his temple with a single finger.

“If your brain was all I needed, I would remove it from your–”  She cut off contemplatively, staring at the wall.  The brain.  That thread she’d been forced to cut, that wasted research–

It did still suit her plans, if someone else could help her find a way forward.

“Are you still here with me…”  Gortash folded his arms and tilted his head as her chin jerked up, eyes widening as she stared at him.  “You’ve never signed your letters.  What was your name?”

“I have none,” she replied, turning away from the desk to pace among the bookshelves.

“Is there something I can call you?”

“If you wish to risk it, try,” she agreed, tipping books to the side as she went through an upright stack of them.  Eventually she found the one she sought, a blood-stained, battered journal she’d taken on a journey to the Underdark.  Retrieving it, she picked up the next two, equally disheveled volumes on the shelf. 

It pained her to hand them to someone else, even temporarily.  Every page written in a shaking hand, every revelation a struggle to uncover.  She had suffered for this knowledge.  It was the culmination of her lifelong studies, but she could not use it.

It was the ultimate betrayal of her pathetic mortal limitations.

“I spent years studying a fledgling Mind Flayer colony.”  Stepping out of the shelves, she was unnerved to find the Baneite still sitting on her desk with his hands folded, but turned towards her this time.  He was indeed too calm.  “Watching them breed.  Taking them apart.  I kidnapped and killed hundreds of them, in every state of transformation.”  

She dropped the journals on the desk next to him.

“There are some who think the Invisible Arts have power greater than the Weave itself.  I have studied many serpentfolk as well, in the hopes of unlocking their mysteries.  It is innate.  I cannot learn it through mere desire and effort.”  She had to admit it grudgingly– the greatest failure in all of her work.  “I know how mind flayers are created– in depth.  Have created them myself.  I have dropped a wriggling parasite into an orifice and watched it take root in an exposed brain.  A nascent mindflayer gestating within a host, flowering into life like mushrooms sprouting from a rotting corpse.”

“You have?  Fascinating,” Gortash picked up the journals with nary a flinch for their state.  “May I ask why?”

“The Mind Flayer is an efficient and unique killer.  The Invisible Arts–”

“When you say ‘invisible arts’, you mean refer to mind magic?”  At her cold stare for his interruption, Gortash smiled.  Again.  “I’ve outed myself as being uneducated.  Luckily, I’m a very quick learner.”

“Higher purpose eventually called.  But still…Father has called me to build an army.  So my mind has been ruminating on this research.  If there were some way to alter the parasite…but with no Invisible Arts, the mind flayers could not be controlled.  It is a dead end, but still…”

Gortash went still, smile fading from the edges, expression going blank.  Slowly she saw the corners of his eyes, his lips tense, crinkle.  Deep in thought.  “No army would willingly march under the banner of Bhaal.  It’s the only reason the world yet lives.”

The reminder was unwelcome, but the profound and overwhelming relief at someone listening to her had overtaken her annoyance.  For now.  She had become so accustomed to struggling alone…which meant that her relief was likely a weakness.  Something to be considered later.

Before the Banite exploited it.

Gortash had a contemplative look on his face, nodding very slightly.  “He has gifted you with a near-impossible task.  To build an army that kills until the time comes to kill itself.  Mind control on a scale that large would be...well, as you said.  You have no ‘invisible arts’.  I myself, of course, have an equally near-impossible task, a task which requires me to study and rectify the mistakes of my predecessors.”  His gaze shifted to her, finally reaching down to pick up the stack of journals.  “One of those mistakes I have been studying was angering you.”

“And?”

“And I would like to succeed where they have failed.  How should we accomplish that?”

His insistence on focusing not on what she was speaking of, but on their alleged ‘partnership’ was irritating.  She felt manipulated.  But…perhaps it was manipulation for the right purpose.  If he was useful, she did not want him to die.  “One died because they plotted against me too obviously.  One died because he touched me without permission.  The other two were condescending.”

“Too obviously?  Not ‘at all’?”

“You serve Bane.  I am not stupid.  Heed my warnings and you will keep your life.  It will save us both some trouble.”

“Done, and done!” He said, stacking the journals together neatly.  “May I borrow these?  Not my area of expertise, but it sounds interesting, and it may give me some insight into you.”  At her blank stare, he smiled.  “I’ve decided to on try honesty for a change!  What do you think?  Does it suit me?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“True.  Does it suit you, however?  That is what actually matters.”

“Past experiences have made me wary,” she said, seeing no reason to hide it.  Again, this problem was simple.  If he crossed her, she’d kill him and move on.  As she had done four times before.  “Provided you never play such tricks again as you have tonight, infiltrating my home.”

“I thought that being caught off-guard might keep you intrigued.  I paid the price for it, but I’m still alive at le–”  At her confused look, he chuckled.  “The men you had killed?”

“They paid the price, not you.”

“Well, yes, but they were usefu–” Gortash sighed at her continued blank stare.  “Please don’t murder my people in the future?  I need them.”

“You can buy or kidnap more people.”

“Not much for delegation, are you?”  He shook his head, rising from her desk.

She took a step back from him, feeling oddly uncomfortable as he rose, almost as if in breaking his stillness he was intruding on her all over again.  He had been in her space for too long, she felt stifled by his presence and his company.  Peace had been broken for too long.

Her time was up.

“Peony will be waiting in the hall, she will see you out.”

Gortash looked quite nonplussed, deeply tired eyes penetrating as she avoided them.  “We have a great deal to discuss, are– of course.  I should heed your warnings.  Do you prefer open invitations or scheduled ones?”

“Scheduled,” she said shortly, feeling his voice beginning to grate on her nerves like it had at the beginning.

“Do you eat…food?  Or are you–” As she jerked her head up and stared at him, Gortash took a wary but not frightened step back.  “No invitation to dinner, then.  I hope you’ll come to speak with me…on your terms, this time.  I will simply tender an invitation when I’ve had time to think.  I promise to actually send it.”

“You are the eager one,” she said, feeling the edges of a headache beginning to threaten. 

“All the more so now,” he said, in a voice that was likely meant to be ingratiating.  Her eyes had already dropped from him, however, and when she didn’t look at him again, he cleared his throat.  “Good day, my dear Bhaalspawn.  It was wonderful to meet you."

“Go,” she said simply, every word grating what remained of her perpetually frayed nerves.

She didn’t look up again, staring at the candle flame to try and quell her irritation.  It was mere seconds before the door opened and closed, the Banite making a hasty retreat.  Luckily for him.  Well.

Maybe he would be the one to survive, after all.

It was about damned time something went right.

[xxsksxxx]

Shadows and Light

Summary:

Mulder and Scully arrive in a small rural town to look into a ghost sighting.

Their journey takes them to an eerie, abandoned cabin in the middle of the forest.

As they delve deeper into the mysteries of the cabin and the strange noises they hear, they find themselves confronting their own beliefs and fears.

Notes:

As a long-time reader of X-Files fanfic, I have always greatly enjoyed the captivating stories that the many, many talented writers in this fandom have written about our favorite agents.

Writing fanfic is a journey I never thought I’d take. I’m both excited and scared. But here goes nothing, so here’s my very first fanfic.

I hope reading it will give you at least a fraction of the joy I had writing it.

AO3 | @today-in-fic

Chapter 1: The Abandoned Cabin

The sun hangs low in the late afternoon sky, casting long shadows through the dense canopy of trees. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves, sending a shiver down Mulder's spine. He tightens the collar of his coat, glancing at Scully, who stands beside him, her expression focused and determined.

The abandoned cabin looms before them, its weathered walls and broken windows giving it an ominous appearance.

They'd arrived in the rural town earlier in the day after receiving reports of a ghost sighting from a hiker. He'd been walking cross-country and spent the night close to an old cabin in the woods. And that's where he met the ghost, scaring him so much, he'd packed up and gone running back to town. The local people hadn’t been happy to see the FBI arriving in town, asking questions about ghosts. After Mulder had to pointedly show his badge a few times, a woman at the local diner had finally tipped them off that there had been rumors about a ghost in the woods for as long as she could remember. She had given them directions to the old abandoned cabin in the woods and sent them off.

“Do you think there's anything to this ghost story, Mulder?” Scully asks, her voice steady.

Mulder tilts his head, considering her question. “It's hard to say, Scully. People's beliefs and fears can often manifest into something they can't explain. But we won't know for sure until we investigate.”

Scully nods. The prospect of confronting a ghost adds another layer of intrigue to their already interesting case history. She fleetingly thinks about how Skinner will react to their case report later.

As they approach the cabin, the breaking of little branches on the old path beneath their feet echoes in the stillness of the late afternoon. The air is crisp and carries the scent of damp wood and earth. The cabin seems to stand frozen in time, a relic of a past waiting to reveal its secrets.

A sense of mystery and anticipation grips them both as they exchange glances. Mulder's eyes gleam with the excitement of the unknown, while Scully's analytical mind is already processing the details of their surroundings.

They step closer to the cabin, their flashlights cutting through the fading daylight. The beam of light reveals a broken down wooden door of a long forgotten, abandoned place.

“Mulder, be careful. This place looks like it's ready to collapse at any moment,” Scully warns.

Mulder smirks, giving her a playful wink. “Don't worry, Scully. And if any aberrations want to grace us with their existence, I'll make sure to not ask any dangerous questions.”

Scully rolls her eyes, but the hint of a smile lies on her lips. She knows about Mulder's habit to lighten the mood with humor.

Chapter 2: Echoes of the Past

As they step into the dimly lit cabin, Scully's heart skips a beat. An eerie hush envelops the place, and she can't help but shiver despite the layers she's wearing. Mulder, always curious, strides forward, his eyes scanning the barren space with an intensity that matches the determination in his voice earlier.

They're surrounded by the remnants of a life left behind—a broken chair, an old rug, and dust-covered books strewn across the floor. Scully carefully scans the room, her keen eye looking for any evidence that might shed light on their case. The surrounding silence seems to intensify, as if the cabin itself is holding its breath, waiting to reveal its long-buried secrets in the waning light of the late afternoon.

“Looks like someone's been here recently,” Mulder remarks, his eyes fixated on the old mattress lying in one corner. Scully follows his gaze and nods thoughtfully.

“It seems like they sought refuge here,” Scully observes, her voice loud in the silent room. The blanket draped over the mattress is faded and worn, but someone had taken shelter under it, seeking solace from what she can only imagine.

Mulder's gaze falls upon the flashlight resting on a dusty shelf. His fingers graze over its surface, and he raises an eyebrow as he examines it closely. “This flashlight looks newer than everything else in here,” he points out, a hint of intrigue coloring his words.

Scully slowly walks around, the old floorboards creaking beneath her feet. Her eyes dart around the cabin, taking in the sparse belongings and the book on mythical creatures lying open on a small table. It's a curious mix of objects.

They continue their search, their movements cautious yet purposeful. As they search through the dusty shelves and worn objects, a faint sound resonates through the air, like the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. Scully's senses go on immediate alert, and she exchanges a puzzled glance with Mulder. It's a strange noise, one that isn't immediately explainable.

“Do you hear that?” Scully asks, her voice hushed, as if afraid the sound might vanish if she speaks too loudly.

Mulder's brow furrows in concentration as he listens intently. “Yeah, I do,” he replies, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

The cabin's walls seem to absorb the sound, making it challenging to pinpoint. They both take cautious steps, trying to follow the faint echo, only for it to disappear and reappear as if it's teasing their senses. Mulder's brow furrows, and he reaches for his flashlight, hoping to shed some light on the mysterious noise.

“Mulder, this is strange. Let's go back to town and try to find out who is spending the nights here,” Scully suggests, her eyes never leaving his face. As she speaks, Mulder shines the flashlight around the cabin, revealing nothing but dusty corners and forgotten furniture.

He nods in agreement while taking a final look around. Reluctantly, they decide to abandon their search for the mysterious noise and head back to town.

Leaving the cabin, they find themselves bathed in the cool evening light. The distant calls of birds and rustling leaves fill the air, lending an almost surreal atmosphere to the surrounding woods. As they walk back to their car, curiosity gnaws at Scully, and she wonders if the locals hold any information that could unravel the mystery.

Chapter 3: Ghosts

As they stand outside the cabin, their breaths visible in the chilly air, Scully feels a tinge of apprehension. The silence hangs heavy around them. The mysterious noise has disappeared.

While Mulder pulls out the car keys to their rental and gets behind the wheel, Scully takes another look around. Her attention is drawn back to the present when she hears the car only giving a few labored sounds before falling silent again. Mulder twists the car key repeatedly, frustration evident on his face as the engine refuses to start.

Scully takes out her cell phone and checks for a signal, taking a few steps around. But the “No Service” message remains unyielding, leaving them stranded in the middle of the woods.

With a frustrated growl, Mulder gets out of the car and steps back next to Scully. The encroaching darkness wraps around them like an oppressive shroud, and Scully shivers, seeking warmth and comfort by wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

“We should probably go back inside,” Mulder suggests, guiding her towards the cabin's entrance with a hand at the small of her back.

Inside, the air is musty, and Scully wonders about the person who sought refuge here before them. Who’d spend a night out deep in the woods in an abandoned cabin with nothing but an old blanket and a book on mythical creators? Well, aside from them, that is. She throws Mulder a fond sideways glance. Only he would find an outrageous tale about ghosts worth investigating.

“Do you think we're alone here?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mulder pauses, his eyes meeting hers. “I don't know, Scully. There's something strange about this place. Maybe our mysterious visitor with the fascination for mythical creatures will come back.”

Outside, the night deepens, and the woods come alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures. Scully can hear the distant hoot of an owl, and the rustling of leaves in the wind.

Reluctantly, she sits down on the old, worn mattress and tries to get comfortable. She can feel weariness settling in, watching Mulder's flashlight cast long shadows on the walls while he searches through the old shelves.

With a triumphant shout, he holds up a big pack of long matches and walks over to the fireplace. Within a few minutes, he’s built a small fire, its crackling warmth bringing comfort to the cabin. They sit close to the flames, their shoulders touching, and for a moment, Scully forgets about the strange cabin and their predicament.

“You know, Scully,” Mulder begins, his voice soft and reflective, “sometimes I wonder if we're meant to find all the answers we seek.”

She looks at him, captivated by the contemplative look on his face. “What do you mean?” she asks, genuinely curious.

Mulder gazes at the dancing flames. “Maybe it's not about the answers themselves, but about the journey we take to find them. The people we meet, the experiences we share—maybe that’s the real truth.”

Scully takes a moment to process his words. Their shared experiences have certainly been a revelation, even if they didn’t get them all the answers. Yet, she corrects herself.

As the fire crackles before her, Scully's mind wanders back to only a few months before. Surviving cancer had been a deeply transformative experience, one that had forced her to confront her own mortality and reassess her priorities. It had also strengthened her bond with Mulder, bringing them closer together in ways she could have never imagined.

Her gaze flickers to Mulder, his profile illuminated by the flickering flames. He'd been her rock through the toughest times, never wavering in his support and belief in her.

“What do you mean,” she questions.

“Scully, I can't help but feel that we're chasing shadows, quite literally,” Mulder confesses.

“Shadows?”

“Sometimes it feels like we're running in circles. And now, with everything that happened in the past year…” His voice trails off, the memories of her battle with cancer haunting him as well.

“I just can’t help but wonder if this is really the right path anymore. There's been so much evidence that it's all been a lie, you know. Maybe it’s all really about making people believe, so they don’t question anything anymore,” Mulder continues.

“And at what price. It was just too close. If you had died…,” he trails off, looking away.

Scully carefully takes Mulder’s hand, entangling her fingers with his, and squeezes. “Then you would’ve kept looking. And you would’ve found a way to help other women who they experimented on.”

Mulder stays silent, his hand solid and warm in hers. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know if I would have. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Scully turns back to look into the flames, both sitting in silence.

Chapter 4: Journeys

With no option but to wait for daylight, Mulder tries to lighten the mood with a joke. “You know, Scully, if this turns out to be a ghost, we'll have to rethink all our theories about the afterlife.”

Scully can't help but smile, grateful for his attempt to ease the tension. “I'll leave the ghost theories to you, Mulder. I'm more interested in finding a logical explanation for all of this.”

He chuckles, the sound soothing to her ears. “Ah, but where's the fun in that? Sometimes, we have to embrace the unknown and let go of our need for certainty.”

Scully gives him a playful nudge. “Easy for you to say, Mulder. You thrive on uncertainty.”

He grins, his eyes sparkling with affection. “And you keep me grounded, Scully. We balance each other out.”

They smile at each other, the warmth of the fire and their shared history creating a sense of intimacy.

“You know, Mulder, I never imagined my life would turn out this way,” she admits, her voice soft and introspective.

“What do you mean?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“I mean, I always wanted to be a scientist, to follow the path of reason and logic. I became a medical doctor to help people and a pathologist to get them the justice they deserve. And then I met you, and everything changed. And it's been a rollercoaster ever since,” she explains.

Mulder smiles, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. “I'm glad you’re on board, Scully. Do you ever regret it?”

Scully looks at him, her face earnest. “Never, Mulder. You've challenged me, pushed me to question my beliefs, and showed me things I couldn’t even imagine. I can't imagine my life without it.”

He turns his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers once more.

“Even when it costs you so much, Scully?” Mulder replies softly, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. “Is it really worth it for you?”

Scully nods, her gaze lingering on their intertwined fingers. “I wish it didn’t cost Missy her life. That’s my biggest regret. And I wish I’d never been abducted. It caused mom so much pain….” Mulder flinches and grips her hand tightly.

“No! Mulder, I don’t blame you for any of that. The only people responsible for that are still out there. And we will find them,” Scully continues. She ducks her head, trying to see his eyes.

“But sometimes, I can't help but wonder if we're chasing the wrong answers. It feels like we're always on the edge, searching for answers that may never come,” Mulder replies.

Scully's gaze softens as she listens to Mulder. She takes a moment to absorb his words. She's faced her own share of skepticism along the way, questioning if their pursuit of the truth will ever get them the answers to their questions. Especially in the last year, when she’d been fighting for her life. The moments of doubt had been outweighed by the profound impact they'd had on each other. Their shared journey had become more than just chasing answers; it had become a testament to the special bond they share.

“You're right, Mulder,” she responds gently, “It can be frustrating, but it's also what keeps us going. The pursuit of the truth, no matter how elusive, is what drives us.”

Scully gives Mulder’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “We may not always find the answers we seek, Mulder, but the journey itself will get us closer. It's what keeps me going, knowing that we're in this together, no matter how challenging it gets.”

Mulder smiles, his eyes warm with appreciation. Their hands remain intertwined, the fire's warmth and their unwavering connection providing comfort in the midst of uncertainty.

Scully leans her head against his shoulder, finding comfort in his presence. “I’ve been thinking a lot since last year. The things I want to do, now that I know I’ll have the chance, the things I never pursued because I thought there was so much time and all the things I still want to prove to myself.”

He wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer. “I understand, Scully.”

She lets out a sigh, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. “I realized, I want to live up to everyone's expectations, including my own. There's so much pressure. I want to be strong for you, for our work, for my family, but sometimes it feels like I'm failing at everything. It can be exhausting, Mulder.”

He kisses the top of her head, his lips brushing against her hair. “You don't have to be perfect, Scully. We're human, and we're allowed to have doubts and fears. That doesn't make you any less capable or strong. You're not alone in this.”

Scully turns her head and gives Mulder a pointed look. He can’t help but laugh. “I know, I should listen to myself, huh?”

She just turns her head back and puts her head back on his shoulder, his warmth seeping through his coat, warming her cheek.

Their conversation lingers in the air, the weight of Mulder's words resonating in Scully's mind as her eyes start to droop. They settle into their makeshift sleeping arrangements. The crackling of the fire provides a soothing backdrop to their thoughts, and the warmth of their connection lingers even in the silence between them.

Mulder puts the blanket over them both as fully as possible. It’s not much, but with their added body warmth and the small fire it’ll get them through the night.

Just before closing her eyes, Scully glances at Mulder once more, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

In the warmth of the fire's glow, Scully feels a glimmer of hope for the future—now that she has one again. There may not be a ghost or an answer to what that hiker really saw and the world may still be full of questions and secrets, but she knows that she's not alone. She has Mulder by her side, a constant presence in their ever-shifting lives.

Chapter 5: Encounters

As the night wears on, Scully finds herself drifting closer to sleep, lulled by the flickering flames and Mulder's steady presence beside her. But just as she's about to succumb to slumber, a strange noise jolts them awake, their senses instantly on high alert.

“What was that?” Scully whispers, her heart pounding in her chest. The sudden interruption shatters the tranquility of the moment, and the tension returns, reminding them of the mystery they are here for.

Mulder's grip on the flashlight tightens as he sits up, scanning their surroundings for any signs of danger. “I don't know,” he replies in a hushed tone. “Maybe it's a rat.” Mulder silently gets to his feet, with Scully right behind him. Both agents pull their guns.

They slowly start exploring the cabin again, their flashlights casting long, wavering shadows into the dark corners. Scully's instincts are on high alert, and every creak of the floorboards and rustle of the wind outside makes the hairs on her arms stand up.

“Mulder, do you think we're alone here?” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone—or something—to be lurking in the shadows.

Mulder's eyes scan the dimly lit interior of the cabin. “I'm not sure, Scully. It's possible that whoever sought refuge here before may be back again.”

Just then, a strange noise echoes through the cabin, causing both of them to freeze. It's the soft, almost ethereal sound again they heard a few hours ago. Like the whisper of a ghostly presence. Scully's heart pounds in her chest as she grips her flashlight tighter.

“What is that?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mulder raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “I'm not sure, but let's find out.”

With caution, they move toward the source of the sound, their flashlights sweeping over every corner of the cabin. And that's when they see him—a complete stranger, standing in the shadows near the far corner of the room.

He's an old man, hunched over with age, dressed in tattered clothes that seem to blend with the surrounding darkness. His hair is a wild mass of curly hair, and his eyes hold a depth of wisdom that seems to pierce through Mulder and Scully's souls.

Neither of them speaks, unsure of what to make of this unexpected visitor, their guns trained on their strange late night guest. How has he managed to find them in the middle of the woods, in the dead of night? And how did he get into the cabin without them noticing?

Mulder takes a step forward, his voice steady but cautious. “Who are you? Are you okay? How did you get here?”

The old man remains silent for a moment, his gaze shifting between Mulder and Scully as if assessing them. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice soft and weathered. “I apologize for intruding. I sought shelter and thought this cabin was empty. My name is Peter.”

Scully and Mulder exchange glances, uncertain about how to proceed. Peter's presence seems almost ethereal, and the circumstances are strange, but he appears to be unarmed and doesn’t really pose any danger.

“And why are you out in the middle of the night?” Scully asks suspiciously, her gun never wavering.

“I’m searching for something and the darkness surprised me,” he explains.

Peter slowly moves closer to where they have set up their blanket. Scully raises her gun and takes a step back. The old man stops immediately and holds his hands up.

“Do you mind if I sit down for a bit? It should get light out in only a few more hours, and then I'm on my way,” he asks Scully.

Scully hesitates, but then lowers her gun and Mulder follows suit.

“Yes, have a seat, Peter. I’m afraid we only have one blanket and this old mattress, but it should be better than having to stay out in the woods,” Mulder explains.

“What are you doing here anyway? This is not exactly a place for city folks like you,” Peter mumbles. He slowly lowers himself to the mattress and sighs when his knees pop.

“We’re with the FBI, and we’re here to investigate the sighting of a ghost. We’re waiting for morning as well to get back into town,” Mulder continues, watching the visitor carefully. “Did you ever hear anything about that?”

Peter chuckles. “A ghost? Well. There are many old stories about ghosts being told around here. You know, those dark woods are made for scary tales.”

Scully snorts before sitting back down on their blanket and giving Mulder a pointed look.

Mulder gives her a chagrined smile and sits down as well.

“Can’t argue with that, I guess.”

Chapter 6: Shadows

The old man moves his hands closer to the warmth of the flames but stays well away from the fire.

“So, a ghost is what you're looking for. Pretty unusual activity for the FBI, I’d say,” he gives them a sideways glance. “Well, since you like ghost stories, let me share a mesmerizing tale I once heard, of a man who was also searching,” Peter begins. “It might even relate to your ghost—and your search.

“A long while ago, not far away from this cabin and in these woods, lived a man who was burdened with the weight of life's struggles. You see, he'd been an outcast all his life, and all he wanted was to find the purpose of his life.

“He figured, if he found the meaning of life, his life would become wonderful. He'd finally have the answers to all his questions, he'd know what to do, and everything would have a purpose. So he set out one day to find this elusive purpose of his life. He met many people along the way, some of them happy, and some bogged down by their own existence. One day, fate had a peculiar twist in store for him, leading him to a mysterious encounter that would prove to change the course of his life forever.

“Amid the busy streets and bustling crowds of a big city, a figure draped in a mysterious gray cloak appeared before him. This enigmatic stranger, whom the man knew nothing about, offered him a tempting deal—one that would grant him great wisdom and answers to all the questions he'd been seeking. It was beyond his imagination.

“All he would need to do was one little thing. He'd have to sell the cloaked man his shadow. The man thought for a bit, but then decided there was no real use for a shadow anyway. And if it would get him all the answers, he'd been looking for, his quest would finally be complete. It seemed too good to be true.

“He agreed to the tempting proposition, unknowingly sealing his fate. The man in the gray coat smiled, and before the man could think any further about what he'd agreed to, the stranger was gone. And all of a sudden, everything seemed clear to him. Every question he'd been wondering about immediately had an answer in his mind as soon as he thought about it. And suddenly it all made sense. With newfound wisdom at his disposal, he decided to finally return home, hoping to escape his past hardships and live a perfect life from now on.

“But, as we often find in life, every choice has consequences. His decision led to an unforeseen circumstance—instead of being welcomed with open arms, people still avoided him. He now might have all the answers, but time and people had moved on. And no one really cared about his answers anymore. Even his own family just wanted to forget about all the old questions and hard times of the past. Some had even already passed on, and he hadn't been able to say goodbye.

“Instead of the wonderful life he’d hoped for, he became an outcast for a different reason than before. He didn't have a shadow, and people quickly avoided him and considered him an object of fear and curiosity. And he lacked any purpose. Everything seemed unimportant and trivial now, and he spent all his days walking around the town and the woods to find something that could return the purpose to his life, his quest for answers had been.

“The emptiness of his existence weighed heavily on him as he tried to find a place to belong. And he realized that all the answers could never give him the closure he'd really been looking for. Instead, they'd turned him into even more of an outcast.

“In his desperate need to understand, he set out to undo his plight, and so the man embarked on a new journey to locate the elusive figure who had changed his life forever. And once again, he encountered people who both hindered and helped him on his new quest.

“One day, he came face to face with the enigmatic stranger once more. At that moment, as he sought redemption, he discovered the true value of his own identity and the significance of embracing oneself. He'd sold himself for his quest for answers. And so the man found that nothing could replace the essence of who he was. In the end, it's all hollow. His quest for purpose and finding answers was all nothing when he had to pay with his own shadow.”

The old man pauses and stares into the dying flames of their little fire from his spot at the far edge of the old mattress. Mulder and Scully watch him silently, Mulder fascinated, Scully thoughtful and a bit skeptical.

“You may wonder why I'm telling you all this. Well, we're in this man's old cabin right now. This is where he used to live many, many years ago. Deep in the woods, seeking his purpose and later, after his return until the day he died,” Peter continues.

Scully raises an eyebrow. “And he didn’t have a shadow.”

Peter smiles and the skin around his eyes crinkles as he looks at Scully. “That’s how it’s told, yes. It’s said that he’s appeared to several people over the years, that have been lost, looking for their purpose in life.”

The cabin is eerily silent. Suddenly, the last flames flicker and die, plunging them into complete darkness except for the still-glowing ash.

“Well, as exciting as that was, I think we're out of light and shadows now as well,” Mulder jokes uneasily. “Let's try to get some sleep, and we can discuss this some more in the morning.”

*** A/N:

The story Peter tells Mulder and Scully is based on the 1814 novella "Peter Schlemihl's Miraculous Story" by Adelbert von Chamisso. I've adapted it slightly to make it fit better with Mulder and Scully‘s experience.

Chapter 7: Light

As dawn breaks, Scully and Mulder awake to find Peter gone. The soft rays of sunlight filter through the trees, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow on the forest floor.

“I can't believe he disappeared like that,” Scully says, her voice tinged with a mix of bewilderment and curiosity.

Mulder nods, his gaze distant as he contemplates the possibilities. “It's like he was never really here. But I can't shake the feeling that there's more to this than meets the eye.”

“Maybe he left early and didn’t want to wake us,” Scully says, and Mulder nods slowly.

“Please don’t tell me you think he was your ghost!” She exclaims.

Mulder keeps looking at the trees, trying to find any trace of their midnight visitor. “What did you think about that story he told us? About the man who sold his shadow?”

“I think it’s an old ghost story people tend to make up when it’s cold and dark outside and there’s not much to do except entertain each other,” Scully answers while turning around, eyeing her cellphone in disapproval.

“Still no signal,” she sighs. Mulder checks his phone as well and nods. “Mine neither.”

They gather their sparse belongings and prepare to leave the cabin. The air is cool and crisp, hinting at the approaching autumn. The leaves rustle softly in the breeze, creating a soothing background to nature's sounds.

“Let’s try the car one more time. Maybe it’ll start now,” Mulder suggests. He pulls the keys out of his pocket and gets in the driver seat.

The car starts without any issues.

Mulder stares at Scully through the windshield, his implications clear. Scully raises an eyebrow, her scientific mind seeking a logical explanation. She gets into the passenger seat, more than ready to leave this strange place behind.

As they’re slowly making their way back, Mulder's mind races with theories, and he can't resist sharing his thoughts with Scully. “You know, I've been thinking. Peter never stepped into the light last night. I don’t remember seeing his shadow either.”

Scully snorts and crosses her arms. “Mulder, there’s no such thing as an object without shadow when there’s light around them. It’s simply not possible.”

He hesitates, his eyes searching hers for understanding. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but think about it. We never saw his shadow, and now he's gone without a trace. It's like he was never really here.”

Scully considers his theory but remains skeptical. “Mulder, there has to be a rational explanation for this. That man was there last night. And since there are no such things as ghosts, he most certainly also had a shadow.”

Mulder stays silent, contemplating the events of last night. He can't shake the feeling that Peter's presence has something to do with their conversation earlier. About the purpose of his quest and the meaning of life.

Scully is just as silent, staring out of the window, deep in thought. She squints her eyes against the morning sun. The encounter has stirred something deep inside both of them, leaving them once again with more questions than answers. But this time the questions may be answers as well. Only to different questions.

As they get closer to town, Mulder turns to Scully and grins. “Hey, Scully, why do ghosts make good cheerleaders? Because they have a lot of spirit!”

She rolls her eyes, but can't help a small smile. “Only you would make a joke like that, Mulder.”

“Well, you know me, always trying to keep things entertaining,” he replies, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Entertaining is one way to put it,” she retorts playfully.

“Ah, come on, Scully, where's your sense of adventure? You've got to admit, life with me is never boring,” he says with a grin.

“That's true,” she admits, her smile growing more genuine. “You certainly have a way of keeping things interesting.”

Mulder winks at her. “And you have a way of getting me back down to earth. We make a great team, don't we?”

“We do,” Scully agrees, smiling at their familiar banter. “Even when you lead us into some of the most bizarre situations.”

“Hey, it's all in the name of the truth!”

They smile at each other, both comfortable in their car in the middle of nowhere, as they continue their journey. The cabin with its open questions fades slowly behind, but they’ll keep finding comfort in the journey itself, even if the destination remains ambiguous.

The End ***

Thank you so much for reading. You can also find this fic on AO3.

[genevievemd]

Forever Winter

Book: Open Heart: Second Year Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Genevieve McClure) Word Count: 1491 Rating: T Category: hurt/comfort, Ethan POV Trope(s): 

Summary: After the attack a month prior, Ethan worries when Genevieve doesn’t embrace the holidays like she usually does. 

Warnings: mentions of character death

A/N: A little angsty Christmas/winter fic for you. In OPH: Sara’s Version, the assassination attempt happens in the beginning of November and Gen returns to work the beginning of December. So the holidays fall right in the middle of her still dealing with it all. 

Title is from a Taylor Swift song. I am who I am guys. Also another entry for @choicesficwriterscreations​ holiday event

He watches her closely, though he makes the attempt to ensure none of the gossiping bufoons surrounding them notice. She’s like a zombie, here but just barely. Her normally bright green eyes, that could rival the Christmas lights now twinkling throughout the city, have faded. 

He knows why, of course, its her first official week back since the attack a month ago. And while Ethan wasn’t on board with the idea of her returning this quickly, it wasn’t quite his place to voice his concerns. 

Regardless of the change in their relationship or the fact that she had slept at his place the night before. Nevermind the two weeks she stayed with him after the funerals. 

He wasn’t her boyfriend, yet, and so he’d keep his concerns to himself until she asks for them. 

But that won’t stop him from keeping a watchful eye on his rookie. Make sure she makes it through her day the best she can. 

Genevieve finally emerges from the patient room she’d been in. He had a perfect view from the nurses station, and watches her smile fade and her entire body deflate the second she’s standing across from him at the circular desk. 

She is so out of character that its truly starting to worry him for than he already was. This time last year, she was sporting a Santa hat almost everyday, hummed a holiday tune down the halls, and never failed to call him a scrooge or grinch every chance she got. 

Gen loved Christmas and to see her still so lost in her pain, unable to embrace the season she so loves broke his heart. 

He was the stoic and cynical one in their partnership, she was supposed to be his sunny and energetic counterpart. 

Ethan looks down at his watch, no longer concerned with the chart he was meant to be reading. His mind now focused on finding a way to bring a smile and some peace to his very own Cindy-Lou Who.

It seemed the fates were on his side, because it was a quarter to three, and the perfect time to get her away from the chaos around them. 

He silently hands a nurse the patient file and moves around the desk. Gen looks up briefly, her smile in greeting not reaching her eyes. 

“How are you doing, G?” 

“I’m alive.” She shrugs, signing her name with a sigh. 

“Go grab your coat.” 

“Why?” Her face scrunches inn confusion and he can’t help but chuckle at how adorable she looks.

“Because its 30 degrees outside, Rookie.” 

“I know that.” She rolls her eyes, “I meant, why do I need my coat, Dr. Smartass.” 

“We’re going out for a bit.” 

“Really?” 

For the first time all day, the brightness and color returns to her face. And its then he knows he’s making the right decision in his efforts to protect her. 

“Yes. Just a walk, does that sound alright?”

“It sounds perfect.” She hesitates form a millisecond, before her hand reaches for his own. One of her fingers delicately hooking onto his pinky. “Thank you.” 

“Always, G.” 

No more than ten minutes later, they’re walking side by side in the park not far from the hospital.

They’ve ben silent for the majority of those minutes, though Ethan has a million questions he wants to ask. But he knows better than to pry when she isn’t ready to talk. 

Especially now, with her anxiety at an all time high and her brain injured with PTSD. 

“Can I…” Her voice is small, hesitant. Stopping in her tracks to look up at him. “I know we made the rule, or decision, or whatever to keep us a secret for now, but can you – will you hold my hand? We’re far enough from work and I –” 

He cuts off her sentence, not with words, but with his hand. Firmly grasping hers, gloved fingers of each intertwining. 

“Better?” Ethan smiles softly, before leaning down to kiss her forehead. 

“Yes. That also helped.” 

“Good.” 

They continue on their walk around the park, noting the kids building snowmen and the glistening, snow covered trees. Offering each other stories of their childhood winters, and how funny it is that they grew up only a state apart. 

Dancing around the topic that is at the forefront of their minds. 

They’ve both been plagued with nightmares, intrusive thoughts of how it could have all ended differently, and the fear of being out of each other’s sight. 

And of course, for her, being back at the very place where she almost died, with no way to avoid the room it all happened in. 

The fear they both still feel is almost more biting than the December chill. Because unlike the weather, this cold doesn’t leave after it snakes its way under your skin. It lingers there, travels through your blood until you’re a walking icicle of fear. 

“How long do you think it will take for me to feel safe at work again?” Her voice trembles, her eyes welling with tears.

“Unfortunately, G, I don’t have the answer to that question. I wish I did.” 

“Me, too. Can I tell you something else?” 

“Always.” 

“I really want to celebrate Christmas but it feels wrong to. Because it’s –” Genevieve stops walking again, sniffling back tears. “It’s not fair. I get to be here and celebrate with people I love, while the people that loved Danny and Bobby won’t get to ever again. How can I be happy when they’re dead. It feels wrong, cruel.” 

“Genevieve,” He whispers her name, face twisted in shock and pain. 

He pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly to his chest as her petite from shakes from crying. 

“You’re right, that it’s unfair, but that doesn’t mean we stop living. The world, unfortunately, is a cruel place and sometimes there’s nothing we can do to change it. But, what we can do is push through it. Neither Danny nor Bobby would want you to stop living. G, you’re allowed to celebrate Christmas and be happy.” 

“How come I lived and they didn’t?” 

She sounds so broken, and it kills him. Unable to stop his own eyes from shedding a few tears. 

“Because your story isn’t finished.” 

“You don’t believe in fate or destinies.” Gen sniffles, and pulls away slightly. Just enough to meet his eyes. Her own red rimmed and puffy. 

“You’re right, I don’t, but you do.” He reaches up with one hand to wipe the tears off her frost-bitten cheeks. “You won’t feel like this forever, Gen. That is something I do know and believe.” 

“So, I can be happy about Christmas without people thinking I’m the worst person ever?” 

“Yes, and no one would ever think that to begin with.” 

“Okay.” She snuggles back into him. Her arms wrapping tightly around his waist. 

They stand there for a few minutes, doing nothing more than breathing and holding each other close. 

“I have one more question.” Gen mumbles after another moment, still nestled in the shelter he provides. 

“What is it?” 

“Well, actually, it’s two. Can I come over after work and stay the night again? And then if I can, will you watch my favorite holiday movie with me?” 

Ethan smiles, “It’s a yes to both, sweetheart.” 

The pet name falls from his lips before his mind registers what he’s said and the panic sets in the moment the realization hits. They haven’t done pet names yet, hell they weren’t even really dating yet and to so carelessly through that name out there could have nuclear implications. 

Cautiously, Ethan looks down at the woman in his arms, afraid of what he’ll find. But he sees nothing but a smile. The first real one she’s had in a long time. 

“Thank you, for everything. I don’t know if I’d be able to get through this without you.” 

“You would, you’re stronger than you realize. But, I am glad that I can be here for you.” 

Deciding to continue to lead with his heart, Ethan leans down to gingerly press his lips to hers. The chill melting away the second they meet. Gen stands on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around his neck, while he pulls her closer and wraps his own around her waist. 

They share a slew of kisses, before pulling away. Both smiling brightly at each other. 

“We should head back.” Ethan breaks their embrace, but stays in contact. Taking ahold of her hand once more. 

“Just don’t call me ‘sweetheart’ in the hallway.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, G.” He winks at her, which causes her to giggle. The sound to pure it mends a piece of his heart. 

“Sure.” 

They share one more smile before beginning their journey bac to the hospital. All while Ethan hopes he’s given her the respite she needed and the confidence to embrace the holidays she loves without guilt. 

Which she deserves more than anything.

A/N: I might have one or two more holiday fics for you guys, but we’ll see how it goes. 

Happy Holidays, peanuts! 

(Tagging separately to appease the tumbroke gods. )

[tarabyte3]

Title: Wants, Needs, and Clerical Errors

Fandom: Andor

Characters/Pairings: Kino Loy, Kino Loy x F!Reader

Chapters: 1/3 (6.9k words)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

AO3 link | Playlist

Summary: You're only on Narkina 5 due to a mistake on your transfer paperwork and no one in charge seems to care. The work is horrific and being the only woman there is a nightmare, but Kino Loy is... intriguing. (Okay, he's hot. He's very hot.)

Tags: Explicit rating, smut, prison, prison sex, sex, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, attempted sexual assault, fear of sexual assault, violence, blood, minor character death, fluff, happy ending

A/N: This fic was my first Reader darling. 🥺 It was only supposed to be a one shot, but people enjoyed it and I wanted to keep writing Kino fic so it ended up being 3 chapters instead. When I was finished, I realized that I had wanted/intended to write Dom!Kino, but that never came to fruition. The tone ended up being more romantic and sweet, and it just never happened. Which is how I ended up writing I Want You to Show Me Weak. So you can see the progression from this to Show Me Weak, if you're so inclined.

Chapter 1

Your transfer was a mistake.

Somewhere, some desk jockey—some worthless Imperial lackey—had been filing the paperwork for the transfer you should have been given, and they marked the wrong box.

A simple mistake. Likely one with a fix just as simple. All the guards knew you clearly hadn't arrived at the correct prison. The problem was that none of them cared enough to fix it.

Fixing things made waves, waves got attention, and too much attention was bad. They all feared it. Besides, who would know you were tucked away in the wrong spot? One prisoner amongst thousands. Hundreds of thousands, maybe. Who would care? So none of them said a word as you were led across the waves of Narkina 5 lapping below, through the doors, and into the intake room.

At least most of the guards had the decency to look away as you changed into your new uniform. The only one who didn't laughed as you removed your shirt and said, "At least she looks like she'll keep up." One of the others shushed him, but for the first time it had occurred to you to wonder where you had ended up instead.

Your legs were still jelly from the electric floor demonstration when you emerged onto the walkway of your station. Your new home for the next two years. Your old prison had been dank, dark, and violent. Sometimes the inmates had been just as cruel as the guards were all of the time. So the bright lights and the spotless white interior were almost painful to your ill adjusted eyes.

At the sound of the doors opening and the guards shouting for attention, dozens of heads turned in your direction. There was a heartbeat of shocked silence, like a deep inhale, and then the large room erupted in whispers and murmurs of confusion and disbelief. You expected the guards to scream for quiet and order, but it was a voice from below that yelled out instead.

"Quiet! New man on the floor!" The voices faded almost immediately. "Hold your positions!"

The guard behind you gave you a rough shove forward. "Onto the lift!" Your hands moved instinctively from behind your head to reach out and stop yourself from falling, but you remembered the threats of pain and death. Instead you quickly placed your hands back into position, caught your footing, and walked to the platform. You expected a shock anyway because it was a universal truth that guards reveled in cruelty.

Closer now you could see over the railing and below at all of the bewildered faces that stared up at you from around work stations. They were all worn, but surprisingly scrubbed as clean as the building's interior. Everything there was unnaturally clean. Sterile.

Then you saw a man standing away from the rest, and you realized he must have been the one that yelled. To be honest, you were expecting another guard, but he was a prisoner wearing the same uniform you were. He filled in the clothes much better than you did, though. Especially around the shoulders where the top exposed more of your collarbone than was comfortable. He was older than you—by more than a decade or two, at least—his hair was greying, he had a short salt and pepper beard, and his bright blue eyes stared up at you with an unreadable expression. His posture was rigid, his face stern, and he was, a traitorous voice in your mind supplied, very attractive.

You rode the platform down with as much dignity as you could muster, and you could feel every eye in the room glued to you. But you ignored all of them save one. You stared down at that stoic man until you were finally eye to eye with him, the lift stopping with a light thump of contact. The guard didn't even have to force you off. You were moving the second it stopped, eager to be away from him and the electric prod he carried, and you didn't stop walking until you were standing before this new man, both of you facing each other in identical positions. On program. He was shorter than you expected, and he looked at you passively.

"Name." Is all he said.

"Why am I here?" You asked him. Your voice was not as steady as you had hoped for a first impression. You wanted to appear as unflappable as he did. You were, after all, trapped in a room full of men and a quickly retreating guard. The last thing you wanted to be seen as was vulnerable.

But he didn't answer you. Instead he said, "This is Unit Five-Two-D. Level five, room two, the D is for Day shift. Seven levels of factory, seven rooms per level, seven tables per room, seven men at each table. My name is Kino Loy. I'm the Five-Two-D unit manager. The forty-nine men in this room answer to me. Name."

"I'm not a man." Being there was disorienting, and you hadn't figured out how to navigate your new situation yet. You hoped that at any moment someone would fix the terrible mistake that had been made and take you back up. Then you would be moved to the place you were supposed to be and this would be over. The man before you and that white room, nothing more than a memory. The lift behind you stopped at its destination. It settled with a click of finality, and you knew that wouldn't be the case.

Kino's jaw clenched. "Doesn't matter. You're mine now. Name."

Something fluttered in your chest. A confusing mix of lust and fear. So you blurted out your name without much thought, and a crack appeared in his carefully constructed mask. For a brief moment, you saw confusion, concern, and an echo of your own fear. But then the doors closing above snapped him out of it and he barked, "Off program! Back to work."

Your first few weeks were exhausting. Your muscles ached, your joints creaked, and anything that could feel stiff did—especially your back. Otherwise you had remained safe and whole. For the most part. Certainly, men stared and gaped at you, some more shamelessly than others. Only once had one of them tried to approach you in the dormitory hall, but Kino was there in an instant and the man was shoved into the wall, Kino's forearm to his throat, and told in no uncertain terms, "Leave her alone." His voice was loud enough that it was clear he was speaking to everyone. The others seemed to listen. For the time being.

The men at your station had grumbled when you took your place, which was less than you expected, but they were soon quiet. Not with respect, but satisfaction that you didn't seem to slow them down at least. So maybe your table didn't finish first, but you avoided the bottom few spots and the shock that came with last place.

Average. Unassuming. Overlooked. That was the perfect spot for you to be in to draw as little attention to yourself as possible.

Except that, several times when you had looked around, you caught Kino Loy staring.

The first few times he quickly glanced away and down at his tablet, the shyness contradictory to his stern demeanor, but the more you caught him, the longer his gaze lingered. You stared back until the men at your station shouted at you to hurry up. You scrambled to get a part in place, and when you went to look back at him, he had already returned to pacing around the room like nothing had happened.

Maybe nothing had. Maybe you were reading into things and he was just keeping an eye on you as the newest person on his team. Maybe he just hadn't seen a woman in so long that you were as much a novelty to him as you were to the others. Maybe he was disappointed you had ended up on his floor and his shift. His problem.

Or maybe he felt the same stirring in his gut when he looked at you as you did when you looked at him. Maybe there was something there.

Then the two of you were alone in the cell hallway. Not alone alone because no one was ever truly alone in the hallway, but there was an empty bubble of space around you, one that felt intentional, and that was close enough to the same thing. So you closed the distance between you, and he looked surprised to see you standing there at his side.

"What is it?" His voice was always so gruff that it made you shiver.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself to speak while you had his full attention. "I know my presence here isn't making your life any easier. I'm sorry about that." You leaned forward a little closer to him and lowered your voice so anyone eavesdropping nearby would be unable to hear, "But I never thanked you for the other day. I appreciate feeling as though I can at least exist in here like everyone else."

"Good." His jaw clenched, something he did a lot around you, like he didn't want to be talking to you at all and every response pained him. You suspected he didn't know how to treat you, the outlier, and you desperately wanted that to change. "You are part of this team and should be able to do your job, and you're a distraction. I put a stop to it. We can't afford a distraction."

"No." You glanced down the hall to the nearest man, and then back to him before leaning even closer so your faces were mere inches apart. "I don't want to distract them, though." His nostrils flared slightly, indicating he'd caught the double meaning of your words. He turned to look in the same direction you had, really ensuring no one was paying attention then. "It really isn't on purpose. I swear. I'm just trying to get by. Besides, I'm not even supposed to be here. Obviously."

Something in his face softened to a cautious interest. "No, you aren't."

You smiled up at him from beneath your lashes. The alien, sterile walls were foreign enough that you didn't feel quite like yourself. That made you feel bold and so you pushed. "I'm glad I ended up on your shift, at least."

For the first time, he leaned away from you and that hurt. "You could do with being a little less distracted yourself. Your numbers could be better. Your table fell to fifth place today, and I don't like my shift coming in third."

That hurt made a flush of anger rise from your belly. HE was the one distracting you, after all. "Me?! I do better than half of the men in here!"

His eyes narrowed dangerously and his voice became harsh as his supervisor's mask slid into place. "And yet you could do better. You know it. I know it. Now go to your cell."

You gaped at him in shock for a moment, unsure of what you had done to earn such a harsh dismissal, but then you retreated as he turned his back to you. It felt embarrassingly reminiscent of being sent to your room as a child with no dinner. There were tears of rage and wounded pride in your eyes, and you curled up alone on the hard cot, left to lick your wounds until lights out.

Or maybe it had meant nothing, indeed.

The next day a man died.

He'd been sick for a while, his body slowing down and his face growing pale and gaunt. The rest of his table had scrambled to keep up. They still finished last nearly every day, and the repeated shocks were wearing on them. Then he collapsed and was rushed out of the room by Kino and another man, and he never returned. 

You heard the whispers that he'd suffered a fatal heart attack. Probably from all the shocks. He should have had treatment long before then, but no one got treatment until they couldn't work. You weren't people here, you knew. You were numbers and that was all that mattered to the Empire.

Kino was angry for days afterwards. He shouted and hurled instructions as he walked around the room, and not even a new man on the floor to pick up the slack improved his mood. You watched him carefully, followed him with your eyes as he stalked about. He didn't look back.

Your table came in sixth place. The closest you had gotten to the bottom of the rankings those long months. You felt a little guilty for letting your group down, but you knew you could pick up the pace a little the next day to make it up to them.

But Kino cornered you in the locker room after your shift and shouted at you. The rest of the men scrambled out, desperate to avoid drawing his ire as well. He waited until they were gone and then he leveled you with the full force of his outrage.

"What in the hell are you thinking? I told you to stop being distracted!" His raised voice echoed in the empty space—truly empty this time. No one was watching or listening.

So you let your guard down. "I was worried about you!"

In the blink of an eye, he had you pinned to the wall. It wasn't forceful and his grip on your shoulders wasn't tight enough to be painful, but the sudden connection with the wall rattled you. It was also the first time he had touched you. "Me?! You should be worried about yourself!"

That close you saw his bloodshot eyes, the stress lines on his face, and he looked tired despite the anger. You could truly see the man that was under an extreme amount of pressure behind the manager facade. The man you wanted to comfort, and to see more of because he intrigued you desperately. "I'm fine," you responded, your voice careful and reassuring. "You're the one grieving." Your face softened and you reached a hand up to rest on his arm. It fit neatly in the crook of his elbow. "You really care about everyone here, don't you?"

Whatever reaction you were hoping for wasn't the one you received. That anger bubbled further up to the surface and his voice became harsh and low. "What are you playing at? Hmm? What do you want? Are you trying to flirt with me so I'll protect you? Do you think there's anything I can do for you? Look around you! We're all trapped here, including me!"

"No!" You quickly removed your hand, scared that you had overstepped. "I would never—I pull my weight! I work and I don't complain. My table has never come in last the entire time I've been here. I've never even asked for special treatment despite being a woman stuck here with forty eight men!" You were horrified to realize there were hot tears gathering in your eyes, so you reached a hand up, the same one that had just touched him moments before, and wiped angrily at the moisture. "If that's what I wanted, don't you think I would have flirted harder? Offered myself to you?"

He quickly and unconsciously licked his lips as though the idea were appealing, but said nothing. Your eyes were drawn to the wetness left behind, and knew then you had been right. There was something there. Without much thought, you pressed yourself away from the wall and closer to him. You could feel the heat of him radiating through both of your uniforms, the rage and lust rolling off him in equal waves. You knew he was just as prepared to push you aside as he was to grind his hips against you.

You leaned to whisper into his ear. "That's not what I want from you. The offer is there, however. No strings. Just me."

He surged towards your neck. Not to kiss or lick or bite like your body desperately wanted him to, but to bury his nose behind your ear and inhale your scent. His larger hands moved to grip at your hips, and this time it did hurt, but there was an echoing throb between your legs.

"Kino," you moaned.

The sound of his name broke whatever courage he had worked up, and just as quickly as he had been pressed up against you, he was three feet away from you. His uniform was rumpled and there was loss and agony on his face. "No! We can't. This can never happen." He choked. "I'm sorry." And then he ran for the cell block, leaving you confused and hurt, aroused and panting, and alone.

The next day, in your quiet moping and distraction, you weren't as careful as you should have been. Kino had been avoiding you all day. Had even given your table a wide berth. So when one of your fellow inmates—someone from table two, you thought—had snuck up on you and grabbed your arm, it took you a moment to cry out.

He began dragging you to a cell when your instincts kicked in. You thrashed in his grasp, kicked at his legs, and swung your fists at him. A few solid blows landed on his arm and stomach, but it didn't stop him. Just slowed him down. You screamed for help from one of the several men standing around you, watching.

None of them moved. Some looked on with concern and disgust, some with disinterest, but there were more interested faces than you would have hoped for or expected after how hard you had worked to be included. To feel like a member of the team.

You were shoved into a lower cell, your hope and fight beginning to fade, but you were still waiting for him to get closer. Waiting for him to climb on top of you so you could go for his eyes and throat, when there was the sudden pounding of barefooted steps sprinting down the hall. Hands appeared behind your attacker and then he was being pulled away and tossed to the floor. Kino was there with his back to you, body tense with rage, and standing between you and the rest of them.

"Don't you fucking touch her." He hissed at the man on the ground, and then he pointed a finger around at the bystanders. "Any of you! Or I'll kill you."

You should have been grateful. You were grateful, but you'd had this. You didn't want anyone to think that you couldn't save yourself from pieces of shit like him. There was a detached fury beginning to itch below your skin. You climbed out of the cell, body stiff and trembling, and brushed past Kino. He looked at you with shock and confusion, but he made no move to stop you. You took another two steps to stand over the man that had attacked you, and he looked up at you hesitantly.

And then you began to swing your fists at his prone form, each blow aiming for his face and neck. Desperate to hurt him more than he had hurt you, and after so much labor there was power behind each punch. There was a scream of rage, then, and you realized, distantly, it was coming from you. Just as you realized your fists had begun to hurt and there was blood all over. It was splattered on the floor and wall, on your sleeve, and the front of your uniform. But more importantly, the man below you was covered in it. He cried out—meaningless, whimpered apologies and pleas to stop. Finally there was the hand of another inmate grabbing at you, to stop your attack, but you slapped it away as you finally yielded and stood up.

You looked around at all the gaping faces, your chest heaving with exertion and your expression wild. "If any of you fucking touches me ever again, I'll kill you myself." A few nodded their understanding. Several others had the decency to look ashamed and didn't meet your eyes.

Then you turned to face Kino, shaking your hand against the pain that was finally beginning to register as the adrenaline wore off. "Told you that's not what I wanted."

You knew your hair was a mess, and you were sweaty and red-faced, but the expression he gave you was a mixture of awe and want. Anyone looking, and several of the men were, could see it on his face. "I see that." Then without taking his eyes off of you, he yelled out. "On fucking position! All of you, right now!" And then Kino Loy, the Five-Two-D Unit Manager, took over and moved to bark out orders. "Get to your cells!"

The next day you were moved to the top half of his cell. The number on the panel reflected your sentence when you stepped in and you knew he had gone through official channels for it, though you couldn't imagine how that conversation had gone. To the others it was a statement. A warning that you had his support, even if that meant you would beat them bloody.

To you it was an apology.

During your 12-hour shift, you didn't turn to look for him. You didn't have to. He was constantly in your field of vision. Hovering just where you could sense his presence and feel his gaze on you. Every time your eyes met his, you felt a thrill at the way things had shifted between you.

You worked harder that day than you ever had before, even with a sore hand and scraped knuckles. Several of the other men at your table had to push themselves to match your pace, and you snapped at them for slowing you down. A few tables away, the man that had attacked you worked with one eye black and blue, one eye swollen shut, a split lip, a bruised jaw, and what was very likely a broken nose. A visual reminder that kept the muttering about your speed to a minimum.

Your table came in second place, only a few units behind the lead. Your group was exhausted, but the happiest you'd ever seen them. One of them even patted you on the shoulder with a grin. It felt like respect. Finally. Tomorrow you would be first, you promised yourself.

You took your time in the locker room, though. For the first time, you were not rushing out of fear. Even the open shower stall felt different. More relaxing and soothing than a cold, inhospitable necessity. You would still be locked up in there for many more months of hard labor, but you felt as though you finally had some power and agency over your own being. It was intoxicating.

Almost as intoxicating as wondering where Kino was at that moment, while you stood nude and wet under the spray. You realized you had never seen him change or in anything less than a full work uniform. You didn't think you could miss Kino Loy shirtless or ever get the image out of your mind if you had, but you also kept your head down and hurried in and out as quickly as you could before. Done the bare minimum out of self preservation. You imagined what he would look like under the careful layer of his clothing and if you might get to see for yourself one day.

You glanced around the room. A few men quickly looked away and scrambled out of the showers, pulling a thin prison issued towel with them. They were all terrified at being caught looking now. You couldn't help the tiny smirk on your face. Good. There were only a few stragglers left that were, delightedly, paying you no attention, and even they were finishing up and moving towards the exit to get dressed. But no Kino.

You tried to hide your disappointment by facing the wall and reluctantly turning off the faucet. You hadn't truly been waiting for him anyway, so there was no point in doing so now, you told yourself. Plus, it was getting late. When you started wringing the excess water from your hair, there was a voice from the open doorway.

"You're taking a long time."

You jumped, your heart skipping with panic, and instinctively placed your hands over your nudity. Prison was still dangerous, after all, and maybe you had been too careless. But then you quickly recognized the speaker, and, with a laugh, turned to face Kino. "I thought I earned it." Then you stepped out of the stall into the open shower room.

He fought it for a moment, kept his attention on your face, and you thought that was admirable, like everything else about him. But it was only a moment, and then his eyes were trailing down your body like the trails of water still dripping from you onto the metal paneled floor. His gaze lingered over your breasts, hips, and longer still at the mound between your legs. You knew labor had toned you and accentuated the curve of your waist, none of which was obvious in uniform. A fact for which you had been grateful for before, but you also knew it had hidden your body from him. The one man you had wanted to look.

"Yes you have," he said, distracted, and shifted from the doorway to fully face you—and maybe to block the view from the locker room. His face and neck were flushed and you wondered how far down that blush went.

"Did you still need to shower?" You took another step toward him, the distance between you no more than ten feet now, and he looked up at you confused.

"Shower?"

"Yes. The thing I was just doing, and why I'm standing here wet and out of uniform." He sucked in a shaky breath of air and his hand twitched at his side.

"Oh. I suppose I do." He was a wire pulled taught with nerves and lust, and he seemed ready to snap at any moment. That you could reduce such a strong, sober man to this? A man that intrigued you the first time you laid eyes on him? Nothing, you were convinced, could feel more intoxicating—more powerful —than that.

"Mine's free." You innocently stepped to the side.

"I see that." He ran a slightly trembling hand through his hair, which was left tousled, but didn't move any closer.

It was too much too soon, you realized. He may have accepted that you had no interest in the fact that he was the shift manager, but that didn't mean he was ready to jump straight into, well, you. "Sorry," you hunched your shoulders and scampered over to grab a clean towel. "This was rude of me. I should give you some privacy." You had it unfolded and clutched to you by the time he seemed to snap out of his daze.

"Wait!" He took another step into the room, finally beyond the threshold. "Don't feel rushed because of me. You did earn it, after all."

You smiled fondly at him and wrapped the towel around your chest. It was rough and stiff, and smelled strongly of the same disinfectant that clung to every surface there, but it was clean. And more importantly, it was a barrier between you for the moment. "It's okay. I was finished anyway." You looked down at your bare feet to avoid meeting his gaze, feeling suddenly ridiculous. "I want you to know…you finding me still in here? It wasn't intentional. My lack of modesty when you did, though?" You let out a nervous laugh and smiled up at him. "That was hasty improvisation on my part." You tightened the towel farther around your chest. It barely reached your knees. "I just don't know how to navigate this now without rushing into something, I suppose."

He stared at you. The nerves that had been there on his face and in his posture just a minute before had vanished at the shift in your tone. It had relaxed him, like you hoped. "I suppose I don't either. I suppose I'm afraid."

His admission caught you off guard. "What are you afraid of? That we'll get caught by the guards?"

He shook his head with a self deprecating chuckle and took another step closer. "No, though I suppose I should be. But they don't care what goes on in here as long as the work gets done and we stay compliant."

"What, then? What could you be afraid of?"

"You." He said simply.

"Me?" Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Because of what happened yesterday? Because I didn't mean you! You're allowed—"

"No," he interrupted you and moved forward another step. "Because something could happen to you. Not just as a member of my team. To you." You gave him a soft smile and opened your mouth to say something, but he continued. "Because you might see what's under my uniform and change your mind. I'm older than you and I know I'm not much to look at anymore."

You let out a scoff of disbelief before you could stop it. "Not much…Kino Loy, you are many things, but I never took you for an idiot." You loosened the towel from around your body and tossed it to the floor. It likely landed in a puddle, but you didn't care. Now fully nude again, you walked towards him, slowly, giving him a chance to retreat or tell you to stop if he wanted.

He didn't.

By the time you reached him, he was blushing again and his mouth was parted as he stared at you with hunger. "I want to touch and kiss and lick every inch of what is under that uniform. I don't care if you have a slight belly. I don't care that you're older. I don't care that—" You didn't get to finish your sentence because suddenly his mouth was on yours and the relief made you so lightheaded your knees buckled. Then his hands were grabbing your hips, keeping you steady, holding you there so he could slip his tongue into your eager mouth. You wrapped an arm around his neck and placed your other hand on his jaw so you could feel the stubble under your fingertips. Feel the way his muscles shifted as his lips moved against yours.

He kissed you with as much passion and confidence as he had when he stalked around the work floor. He kissed like a man in charge and a man desperate for freedom. He kissed you like you weren't in the shower room of a prison. And just when you had a moment of clarity to consider that you were standing there with him because of a single clerical error, he moved his hands to your thighs and hoisted you off the ground. You gasped into his mouth from the shock, and he walked you back—with ease, you noted—into your recently used shower stall. Your bare skin met the still wet tile with a soft slap.

Before you could register the cold, he pressed himself against you. The bulge of his arousal was suddenly very obvious as it was pinned against your thigh. You moaned at the sensation, which finally broke the kiss, and tried to grind your hips onto him, desperately seeking any kind of friction. Then he once again buried his face into your neck, but this time he kissed and licked along every bit of damp skin he could reach.

"We don't have time to do everything I want to do to you." His gravelly voice was muffled against your neck. "Probably fifteen minutes now, at most."

You pushed on his shoulder, forcing him to look at you. "Then you'd better finally take your clothes off."

He nodded absent mindedly as he set you down. His hands went to the hem of his shirt and he began to tug it up and over his head. The second there was bare skin, your hands were on him, groping and mapping your way across his body. He wasn't thin and corded with rippling muscles. You hadn't expected or wanted him to be. He had a soft belly, thick chest and arms, and under that was hard muscle from long working hours. He was warm and solid beneath your palms. The hair on his chest was starting to grey, and it led a messy trail down his stomach. You felt a swell of arousal between your legs as you ran your fingers through it, and you groaned loudly in the empty room.

You looked up into his face and opened your mouth to say something. To reassure him, to tell him how sexy he was, that you had never been so turned on. All true things. But the words died in your throat. Instead you slipped a finger into the waistband of his pants and said, "Pants. Now."

You stepped backwards to give him some room as he scrambled to push them down—and also to see what else he uncovered. His legs were just as sturdy as his arms, but you could see the curves of muscle in his thighs and calves. He was strong, and the thought of what he could do to you, only with your consent, made you whimper. His erection was thick—the entire length a flushed, deep red and the head was already leaking with anticipation.

Gazing over his entire body, you noted every inch of it suited him perfectly. Your very first observation of him was correct: He was, indeed, very fucking attractive. But he was shifting self-consciously before you, so you reached out and grasped him with your hand, and gave his length a few long, torturous strokes. Felt him twitch and throb in your grip. You were rewarded with a strangled, "fuck!"

You licked your lips and had to remind yourself that you didn't have time to fall to your knees and take him into your mouth. To feel his fingers tangled in your hair and tugging as you worked the swollen head with your tongue. To taste him and hear him moaning above you. That would, hopefully, come later. Though the thought would also keep you company later that night in your cell. The one directly above his, you remembered. 

"Kino Loy, you are what I want." You leaned close so that your lips were almost touching the shell of his ear. "But right now I need you to fuck me."

With a growl, you were once again lifted off of the floor and along the wall. He only stopped to adjust so your legs were hooked over his arms, giving you both leverage and leaving you spread open for him. You half expected him to fill you in one forceful plunge, but instead he pressed himself against your folds and thrust against you, coating himself in your wetness and giving you that delicious friction you so desperately wanted.

You both watched in awe and disbelief at where you were touching and sliding together, like you couldn't believe you could have this because the world had been cruel up to that point. The slick sound was filthy in the empty room. He shifted the angle, which put more pressure on your bundle of nerves, and you let out a sob of approval.

He kept up the movement until your legs began to tremble uncontrollably as the tension built inside of you. You were on that precipice of delirium, so close to the edge. So when another dribble of precome leaked from the head of his cock and, with his next thrust, was dragged along your slit, your body stiffened—preparing for that free fall into rapture—and then you were gone. Lost in the wake of your orgasm, drowning in the waves that rolled from your belly, down your legs, and to your toes. Your hips bucked against him of their own accord, each rub of your clit sending one more ripple of pleasure through you.

Only when you were begging, saying his name over and over again like a mantra, did he straighten himself with his hand, line up against your entrance, and finally—finally—fill you completely.

If anyone was standing nearby in the hallway, they definitely heard his satisfied groan and your cry of relief. He stayed there for a few seconds to adjust, fully sheathed inside of you, and feeling you pulse aftershocks around him. He placed a few breathless kisses along your cheek and jaw. But then all pretense of gentleness and patience were gone and he began to fuck you so hard, your back slid a few inches along the slippery wall every time his hips met yours.

He growled obscenities into your hair as he continued to thrust into you. Told you how good you felt and how badly he had wanted this, wanted you, for months. That you were his. That every moment he wasn't buried inside of you didn't matter anymore.

He told you that he wanted to fuck you against every surface in that godforsaken place. That the second he laid eyes on you, he should have scooped you up, taken you to the locker room, and buried his face between your legs until you screamed and came on his tongue. He wanted you on your hands and knees and on display in front of him. He wanted you in his lap and riding his cock. He wanted to tie you up until you begged and then make you come so many times that it drove you mad. He wanted you to choke on him as he fucked your throat.

He whispered until your head was full of so many filthy thoughts and images that you were dizzy with them. Other than finally getting out of there, it was the only hope you had for the future. Him. His stern look. His gruff voice. The punishing grip he had on your thigh and the bruise blossoming on your neck. The gaze that found you in a crowded room. The promise of something more than shifts and standing on program. The thought that there may finally be something worth waiting for when you got out.

His breathing began to change, his hips were more sporadic, and you knew he was close. You put your hands on either side of his face and directed him until he was staring into your eyes. Then you poured every ounce of lust, want, and affection you had for him into your gaze. "Look at me, Kino. I want to see your face when you come inside of me. Please."

That was all it took. He was still for a heartbeat before his face scrunched in agony, as though you were ripping his orgasm from him. Then his expression went slack and his eyes fluttered closed with a long moan. He pumped a last unbalanced rhythm inside of you, seeking to bury himself as far into you as he could, like he couldn't get deep enough. Until he finally collapsed against you, satiated and spent.

You kissed his sweaty forehead and his damp hair as he clung to you. "You're so fucking incredible," you whispered into his temple. "And I haven't changed my mind one bit." With a playful slap at his shoulder you added a low, "Idiot."

He looked up at you with a goofy grin, still panting, and sluggishly unhooked your wobbly legs to set your feet down to the floor. You balanced yourself with your hands on his chest, and then leaned into his arm. Once steady, you lightly traced your fingertips over his sternum and thought again about just how fucking hot he was. Even as exhausted as you were, you could spend another hour just touching him.

He opened his mouth to say something in return, when the two minute warning buzzer went off. It was nearly deafening in the small space. You both looked at each other in shock, and then you were a flurry of motion, grabbing for towels and clothing. You scrambled to get dressed knowing you were nearly out of time to line up.

Out in the hallway, your hair was still very damp, his uniform was soaked from the stall floor even though he still hadn't gotten a shower, and his release dribbled down your inner thigh beneath your pants. And no one would look at the two of you. His face was stoic—the shift manager mask firmly in place, despite his tousled hair and almost ridiculous appearance, but you knew you looked smug enough for the both of you.

You didn't really care that the rest of the men knew. In fact, it was probably better that they did so you didn't have to sneak around, which was very difficult in your current environment. You only had to be respectful. You also wanted to prove to them that you could fuck the shift manager and still pull your weight, whether that was putting the numbers up at your table or throwing a punch. Being full of his come didn't change that. You didn't have his protection because you didn't want it.

You only wanted him. No strings.

And if you peeked your head over the edge of the divider in your cell, and he sat below you, and you whispered to each other in your free time. Or if you both stayed late in the showers or snuck off to the maintenance closet, that was your business.

As the line moved, you wondered if it might be appropriate to send an incompetent Imperial paper pusher an anonymous fruit basket on the other side.

Chapter 2 ->