#i lost my sanity at the darkness chapter

[tarryrodriguez]

I was playing Adventure Mode with a friend and Monster! Maxwell came out.

They're a family now.

Max is the doggo.

[theorist-fox]

Takes practice

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposting from AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

In my feel-good romance era. Usually more of a slap me pull my hair touch me there, there, there - no more talking. But not today. No SIR.

The bit regarding the satellite phones and telemarketers was inspired by the first chapters of Shadowed by Tarajanee. Absolutely adore that work and I thought those scenes at the beginning were lovely!

Word count: 13k

Summary: Simon is deployed for the first time since the beginning of your relationship. Instead of finding purpose in keeping the world clean, he finds it in keeping himself alive, because he's never been this eager to come home.

18+

CW: smut!!! dry humping, mutual masturbation, thigh fucking, P in V. Fluff, this is very fluffy. Soft Simon Riley, Simon is absolutely fucking whipped. Self-deprecating thoughts, intrusive thoughts, angst if you squint so don't squint and you'll only get yearning and love making.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon doesn’t remember your eyes.

He’s been clawing at his face, both literally and metaphorically, because each time he closes his eyelids to succumb to exhaustion, he sees your face.

And you’re pretty. So much. He envisions the curve of your smile and how your lips part to give way to your teeth. The lines at the corners that scrunch your nose and how it flushes when it’s too cold out. He has memorized the shape of your brows for every expression. Knows the line of your cheekbones and how they swell under your eyes when you smile.

Your face is lovely, even when he conjures it in his head. But when your form breaks through the mist, he gets startled every time. Because he can’t see your eyes.

It's like a mock picture of you. A mimicry gone bad. You’re there, fresh and real, whispering sweet words to him, tossing a quip, or moaning breathlessly as he remembers the way he’s fucked you, but your eyes are carved out. Blank spots instead of the windows to your soul, like everyone always seems to chatter about.

Sure, he remembers the shape of your eyes, and if he takes deep breaths, cancels out Johnny’s blabber blaring from his cot, and enters a deep meditative state, he might be able to draw their outline.

But it’s the shade he misses. Are they sapphire, dark, and cryptic? Or frostbite blues. Emerald, maybe. He ponders, but he’s not sure. Brown, like his? Chocolate, with swirling hazels like golden speckles. Stormy grey. Charcoal black. Amber. Gold. Fucking crimson.

He doesn’t know.

But it's only been three months since he left.

And it’s been six months since Simon has taken you on his bed and fucked his name into you. Six months since he’s finally tasted your skin and imprinted your flavor on his tongue. 

It’s your fault, he thinks, if now everything he eats tastes bland. Nothing sweeter than the salt of you. The dichotomy is not lost on him. He’s a rational man, and figures easily that skin can't be sweet, especially not after he made you sweat by pounding you into the mattress. Yet he might have lost a marble or two after that, because now not even honey can compare.

Which is why he’s moved his things in your room. Just because it’s bigger, he told you. No other reason, really.  

Fucking liar. 

But again, you’re as saccharine as you taste. And maybe not as naïve as he thinks. Because ever since that night, six months ago, your hands often intertwine with his own when you guide him to bed – your bed. 

And that’s how he found a nightstand full of his things on the side closer to the doorway of the room. There’s the book you’ve lent him and a re-filled plastic bottle of water right next to it, one that he should probably throw away like you constantly tell him. Something about microplastics, but fuck if he knows. Because ever since that night, he’s lost a bit of his logic, a lot more of his sanity: you can speak for hours on end and he wouldn’t hear a damn thing if not for how your voice vibrates against his eardrums, sending tingles down his spine. 

Surreptitiously, his things have started to appear in your room. He doesn’t have much, a phew photos of his family are shuffled with your trinkets. Plain, white frames stuffed in between your smiles on pictures you’ve taken with friends. 

A frame of his medals, the ones you insisted he kept, nailed to the wall next to your PhD certificate. 

Tidy, onyx wardrobe polluted with pinks and greens. Breathable cotton and faux furs. Fuzzy fabrics that leave a rainbow of synthetic hairs on his clothes. He doesn’t bother to pluck them off, it’s just another piece of you he’s lucky to carry around.

His old bedroom turns into a storage room. Filled with boxes of forgotten things and broken appliances you can’t be bothered to fix. 

And he promises to tinker a little with the vacuum, so you won’t have to spend money on a new one and use your savings for your guilty pleasures. That book you saw when you went out together for groceries? Consider it yours. The cooking classes you wanted to attend at that restaurant you’re always raging about? He’s already bought you a pristine new apron. 

And maybe he’ll take you there, too. Ask for a more secluded table where he can still spot the door, so he can also uncoil the muscles of his back and use his eyes only to look at you, instead of having them dart around for dangers.

But fuck, he can’t do any of that now. 

It’s his first mission after that night, six months ago, and Simon is already feeling withdrawal symptoms. You’re worse than morphine on a dying man; you leave him aching for something he knows he can have because you're so obviously there, but he’s so stupidly far away.

And he can’t even tell you where he is. Can’t even give you some peace of mind. Can barely call you, because Johnny’s been hogging the satellite phone to talk to Lord-knows-who.

The Scot is not selfish, Simon knows he would only have to ask, and the bulky device would practically materialize in his hand. But Simon also knows that if he dared, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Because in the years spent in the task force, he’s never needed to call anyone. 

Can’t call the dead, now, can you? 

And now, popping a question like that would only raise suspicions. It would have his mates up his arse until his head would split in half.

But it’s been six months since that night. Three months since he left. 

And that pocket of time he’s managed to spend with you, uninterrupted, almost made him accustomed to civilian life. To the lack of his mask and the AC of the flat breezing against his face. The taste of homecooked meals. The constant presence of another soul (a beautiful one at that) in his same space. 

With you, he’s never parched – of anything. You feed him mind, heart and body, showering him with that innocent love you so easily dispense, allowing him to bathe in it. 

He’d listen to your never-ending chat for days. His mind has always roared with sounds, yet the more noise you make the more you silence it. Baffling, really, how he’s spent his whole life looking for quiet and found it in the loudest person on earth.

He’s always sated with your kisses, your words, your quick mind and razor-sharp wit, your moans and your mewls, and God, anything you were willing to give. Your lips, your spit, the juices he makes you drip, and the ones he makes you spray. He dreams of cupping your clit with his mouth as he ravages your cunt with two thick fingers until you’re splashing on his tongue. He’d drink you dry, if you’d let him. 

And oh, you have. 

There’s  the wonderful catch. These are not wishes; these are memories. Too real and fresh ones for them to be just another one of his daydreams.

Finally, after three months of pondering – or better, yearning – he realizes that every skin-prickling migraine his mates would induce is worth the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

He’s disgustingly sweaty. He tugs at the lip of his collar and grimaces when he feels the cotton unstick from the dampness on his chest. 

Johnny's sitting idly, enjoying the few days of break from mayhem. Just a handful of hours allowed, really, enough to get them back on their feet – tactical planning, refill of their resources. Boring shite like that. But at least it’s a breather all right.

“Got the phone, Johnny?” He grumbles.

And Johnny would love to act as none the wiser, but his eyes peek from behind the sketchbook he holds in his hand. The smirk that curls at his lips has Simon roll his eyes. 

He makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers, giving him a pointed look. “Johnny.”

“L.T.” He responds in kind. “Callin’ the landlord?”

Simon levels him with a deadpan look that could freeze the desert they’re stuck in. “Sergeant.”

Bastard’s too cunning for his own good.

Johnny drops the sketchbook immediately, showing the lieutenant his palms in defense. The cheeky bastard that he is doesn’t manage to conceal the absolute fascination in his eyes. He’s studying his superior as if he’s staring at another species.

And Simon doesn’t blame him. He’s like a sock that’s been turned inside out, the negative image of himself. All that gloomy energy turned blinding light, ever since he’s had a taste of what life could be with you in it.

But alas, no one wants to have the Ghost up their arse, so Johnny looks around the messy area around his cot and plucks the girthy satellite phone out of it.

Simon picks it up by pinching the tiny antenna on its side. It prompts Johnny’s smirk to broaden. 

“Haven’t done anythin’ with it.” He quips, letting it hang in the air for a second longer. “Or have I.”

Simon grunts a noise of disgust. “Spare me.”

He finds a secluded spot in the area they're occupying. There's nothing around them but the rubble of a city that has been torn by war and time. The sight is dour, and the silence echoes a dark past he hasn’t witnessed. Even so, the remains of the buildings are tall enough to offer their lot some cover. 

He slides with his back against a wall, knees spread wide. 

He knows your number by heart, his thumb presses each button with newfound resolve. Only when he brings the phone to his ear, does his determination falter. Because he hasn't contacted you in any way, shape, or form for three months. So, what if you’re livid, now? You’d have every right. He’d understand if you’d rip him a new one through the receiver. He just hopes you didn’t spend these days rethinking your choices. 

God, you’ve infected him with this overthinking bullshit.

“Hello?” Your voice breaks through the fog in his brain, like a hand wiping mist from glass, and his own breath threatens to choke him. He’s speechless for a moment, forgetting how to function properly.

Just your voice has sent his mind into overdrive - burnt his synapses to ashes. 

He reckons he’s completely fucked.

“Hello?” You repeat, sounding a little more annoyed. 

You grumble something about telemarketers having lost the decency to call at a reasonable hour. And when he doesn't answer again, he hears you sigh. Your voice gets all clinical, then, as if you were trained to repeat the same script over and over. “Listen, if you’re trying to sell me somethin’, my husband’s not home – he takes care of that stuff.”

He snorts.

“Your husband?”

Silence.

There’s a sort of shifting sound, he gathers you might have removed the phone from your ear and checked for the number on the screen. He can practically see your eyes squinting at the phone.

He hears you gasp, and he hints at a smile. Fucking hell, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s done that.

“Simon?” You venture.

“Hello, love.” 

You squeal, and he pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. But he’s tired of lying to himself – his heart is soaring. 

"Christ. Made my ears ring," he deadpans.

You chuckle, sighing afterward, as if a weight has been lifted from your chest. God, you’re a dream to listen to. If only he could also look at your face right now, just bask in the way your smile would light up the room. 

“Serves you right,” you chide him, as if that could ever be a punishment. “Could’ve called a little earlier than three months in. Was already looking for a new flatmate.”

He’s eternally thankful for the skull mask, even if it’s soddened with his sweat because if anyone were to walk by, they wouldn’t see how his face has softened. 

“Yeah?” He sniffs, “Made a new flyer and all tha’?” 

“Oh yeah,” You agree flippantly. There’s a shuffling sound that reminds him of bedsheets. “Made sure to add my boyfriend left me as a footnote.”

The corners of his lips twitch minutely. 

“Thought it was your husband who wasn’t home.” He retorts. “Got a stash of ‘em, then?”

Your chuckle is a breath of fresh air. He wants to have it imprinted in his eardrums, replacing the aggravating tinnitus. 

“Oh, y’know,” you sigh dramatically. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Keeps things interesting.”

“Gotta have a chat with the lad, then.” He taunts, “Set some rules.”

“Good luck with that. He rarely listens.”

He hums fondly. It’s all he can give you, right now. 

He’s new to this, relationships have never been his forte. For the first time in his life, he’s having someone else guide him. It’s hard, he won’t deny it, having another set of hands grasp the wheel, instead of his own. But he’s letting you, however slowly. You’re understanding, and you’re allowing him to leave his foot on the brakes. You never push him, you go at his pace – even if it’s blatantly annoying, how sluggish his movements are. Yet you don’t seem to mind, and he’s eternally grateful for it.

“How…” You start. He can tell you’re unsure, whether or not you can ask these things. Whether or not he can answer them. “How are you?”

His eyes soften. 

“Good,” he reassures you. “’S hot.”

You hum. “North Africa.”

He clicks his tongue. “No.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Middle East?”

Eh.  “No.”

You gasp. 

“You’re throwing me off guard, aren’t you? You said it’s hot, but it actually isn’t.” You say cleverly, even if you’re aware it’s most likely untrue. “North America, then. Like - Canada.”

“Drop it, maybe.” He offers gently. “Making a fool o’ yourself.”

“Alaska.” 

“Love.”  He warns, but his voice is kind. “Wastin’ time.”

“Mh, the script has changed, I see.” You tease him, and he can tell you’re smiling, by the way your voice comes. “Thought you were gonna hit me with the classified.”

“Like to keep you on your toes.”

“Been on my toes for three months.”

His heart clenches a little. He doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want you to live on the line like that. He wonders if you’ve ever felt like this, in the four years he’s lived with you without having anything tethering each other, if not a casual friendship. Were you ever afraid when he left for his deployments? Or is this new to you, like it is for him?

“Fixed the vacuum, by the way.” You tell him lightly, as if sensing the tense air your comment has instilled. 

He silently thanks you for breaking the silence when he couldn’t. A gentle huff of relief travels through the receiver. 

“What was the problem?” He asks, even if not really fussed about the state of the thing.

“Fuck if I know.” You shrug. “Gave it a few whacks and it started working again.”

He fails to keep in a huff of laughter. “Fucking hell, ‘s tha’ what you’ve been doing, then? Hitting appliances?”

“Fixing appliances.” You correct him. “And stress baking. Lots of it.”

“Work’s botherin’ ya?” 

“S’fine.” You sigh sweetly, as though that could give him some peace of mind. “Everything’s fine over here, you don’t have to worry.”

Selfless angel, you are. He would have to be daft not to realize that you’re probably leeching your heart dry at the thought that something might happen to him. He feels like a fool for not having contacted you sooner, even when he had only a minute to spare.

His pride be damned.

“’M sorry I didn’t call earlier.” He apologizes, because the least he can do is hope you forgive him for being like a baby deer on ice about all this. 

“You called.” Your voice is soft. “’S what matters.”

He knows what you mean. He’s alive, that’s what matters. He’s faring good enough to chat with you, that’s what matters. He’s missing you as much as you’re longing for him, that’s what matters. 

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His offhand runs across his face and he has to rip his own head out of his arse before the thoughts overwhelm him. 

How can he put you through this?  He should’ve left three weeks in, four years ago; should’ve let you share your home with someone more reliable, one who didn’t have a blade oscillating above his neck.

And yet at the same time, he can't let go of you. 

You’re so good to him, you’re the drop of water in a life that’s always felt arid. You made his barren heart flourish without even trying – he didn’t think anyone could, he thought he was bound to be frozen soil, not a garden. But here you fucking are, with your tiny watering can, nourishing the earth and causing it to sprout.

He’s selfish. He is. There is no karmic balance in his reasons. The scale tips in his favor through and through, because he’s sure you’re not gaining anything from this relationship, if not a spike in anxiety and its hand around your neck.

“How long?” You ask, seemingly unable to bear the silence.

"Few weeks." He croaks and clears his throat when he notices how cracked his voice sounds. “Be back in three. Could be two, if things go to plan.”

The silence on your end is deafening. Unwittingly giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“Countdown starts, then.” You reply with that sunshine in your voice. Sunbeams through ominous clouds. “Gonna tally the days on the wall with one of your can openers.”

He snorts. “Lotta money to fix.”

“We can put ugly wallpaper over it,” you propose. “So the next person to rent the place will remove it and a whole kidnapping slash ghost story will spread around the neighborhood.”

You’re crazy, he thinks, but not unkindly. His heart squeezes in his chest.

“Fucking numpty.”

“Fucking numpty, or fucking numpty, derogative?”

He smirks. “Former.”

“Wonderful.” You say with a pinch of a smile he can’t see, sounding all smug.

However, nothing nice can last forever, not in Simon Riley’s plane of existence. He spots his captain approaching him, fiddling with the boonie hat in his grasp while his other hand lazily dries droplets of sweat on his forehead.

“Gotta go.” He mutters. Waits a bit. Shuffles through his thoughts and decides to swallow his pride, because you deserve at least that much. “Missed you. Still do.”

You're silent for a moment longer before you give him a last glimpse of your voice. The one he'll hold onto like a lifeline for the next three – hopefully two – weeks. 

“Miss you too.” You say gently. “Come home soon.”

And he’s back suddenly. 

Earlier than expected, at that – one week only. Price was all business, a few days after he caught him sneaking a phone call. Telling him things like “Need you at HQ. Work with Laswell, make sure classified intel stays classified”. And when he questioned why would he send his sniper and lieutenant to do a job an analyst should do, Price answered with a curt “Because I can trust you”.

Honestly, what could he have said to that? Even if it smelled fishy from afar, his reasoning sounded mostly reliable. Because you would send your most trusted to deal with sensitive information, right? And if Simon were a bit more daft and a bit less intuitive, he would've shrugged it off. 

But it was plain as day when his boot landed on British soil, duffel bag in hand. When his phone pinged after he turned off airplane mode, and a text popped up:

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off for the jet lag. 

That he realized the ploy his teammates had concocted. To be honest, he wasn’t as resentful as he thought he was going to be. There was lingering thankfulness – somewhere, deep below layers and layers of stoicism.

[You]: Time zones aren’t that different. 

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off to just rest, then. 

[You]: Not that tired. 

[Unknown number]: Never took you for one to question orders. 

[You]: Never took you for one to put personal life before our job. 

Simon waited patiently under the overhanging lip of the hangar. The Kevlar of his glove crinkled as his fingers curled around the hand of his duffle bag. The rain creates a gentle buzz against the metal.

It took a while for the other bubble to appear, as if the other person – most likely Price, judging by the vocabulary used in the texts – was thinking about the right thing to say.

And the right thing it was, when the words fluttered on Simon’s phone screen.

[Unknown number]: About time you put yours first, though. 

Simon, for once, agreed.

────────────

The keys slide into the keyhole with familiarity. He turns it three times, content to see you’ve locked the door all the way. When he steps in, the flat is quiet, but he isn’t expecting otherwise. It’s late at night, the hands of the clock that’s hanging above the telly mark somewhere around three in the morning, but it’s too dark to be sure. 

He's ever so gentle when he closes the door and gingerly sets the duffle bag at his feet. 

The first thought popping in his head it’s you. You’re not expecting him to be back so soon, and he has this trepidation in him that wants to command his feet to the door of your bedroom only to see how you’d react to his unexpected presence.

But he takes a moment to digest this new feeling. 

It's hard to realize that, finally, you're not dreading something. For the first time in an excruciatingly long while, Simon isn't afraid. While his brain is rigidly wired in a way that makes him refuse to acknowledge his vulnerabilities, the heart knows best.

And he is scared. He’s always been scared, ever since his mother granted him the possibility of walking this earth. Being excited to live has never been his strong suit, but he’s learning. He’s trying. 

Takes practice, to accept you’re worth your happiness.

So, as a novice learner, it’s a little jarring to realize that when his feet land on the hardwood floors of this house, there's no need for fear. He can tuck the dread away, stuff it in a pocket, and close the flap, all the while being sure no harm will come his way. Certainty that with you there’s no need for all that, for vigilance – he can unravel the knots, and simply feel what comes, because it's not going to hurt him. 

You could never.

Hooking a finger under the hem of the balaclava, he snatches it off his head and lays it on the shelf next to the doorway. It’s soaked in rain, but he’ll wash it tomorrow. And he’ll use your fabric softener, so it’ll smell like your sheets. 

The flat looks awfully dull with the lights off. The bright colors are mere shades of grey, and while he’ll never admit it out loud, he truly thinks the orange of the eastern wall brightens the room as you've told him. The thought itself baffles him – Simon Riley now knows a thing or two about home design. You’ve changed him in ways he never expected. 

However, the thing that shocks him even more than his newfound knowledge of home interior embellishments, is when the smell of baked goods bullies its way into his nose. His mouth waters in a Pavlovian response. 

Right.  

Stress baking. 

He kneels to unlace his boots, before toeing them off gently, making sure they won’t thud against the floor and disturb your sleep. Then, he practically floats to the kitchen, still unbelieving at the idea that he gets to come home and find delicacies as such ready to eat. Sometimes, in the span of life he decides to call the “Before you”, he’d snatch a few MREs from the stash in base and eat them once back in his flat. 

Easy, quick, and edible. Even if they taste like cardboard.

And now he gets to walk into a kitchen that smells like blueberries and buttercream and black tea. He gets to grab a lumpy muffin from the tray on the kitchen island and sink his teeth in its golden and blue fluff. The flavors erupt on his tongue, from the saccharine spongy cake to the sweet tang of the blueberry juice as the fruit bursts under his teeth.

He selfishly hopes your stress baking will last for a few more days.

Nevertheless, while he’d gladly eat the whole tray if it were up to him, there’s something he craves more than a full stomach. And you're currently waiting in the other room, probably tucked under the duvet because the British weather tonight is rigidly cold. 

He shrugs off his wind jacket and drapes it over the backrest of a kitchen chair. He can’t afford to take any steps backward. The coat rack is just a few paces back from the kitchen, nailed to the wall near the entrance, but he really doesn’t care. That handful of seconds is too precious to waste.

The steps he takes through the dark hallway are measured and silent; years of special forces training have taught a man his size how to be what his callsign implies.

Discreetly, he turns the knob, trying to make sure he won’t wake you with a startle because the door has barged open. However, the one caught by surprise it’s him. Because you’re not asleep, even if it’s three in the morning. 

Oh, he wants to give you a proper earful – sure, he's not your father, and if you're so keen on staying awake up until this hour on a weekday, then it's your funeral. 

Does it help school the unruly necessity of keeping you as healthy as can be? Absolutely fucking not. You’re a heathen and he hates you for it. 

But now you’re resting your back against the headboard, cross-legged on the bed. Satin blue navy camisole paired with matching shorts, big headphones on your ears, and your laptop on the mattress. You’re typing away. He’s sure you’ve pushed back an assignment from work and now you’re running out of time.

The room is dark, the only light being the screen of your computer casting your silhouette against the wall behind you. It’s silent aside from the patter of rain on the windowpane – you haven’t closed the blinds because Simon knows you love the moon flooding your room with gentle light. However, tonight the clouds are dominating the night sky, but the lampposts across the street are doing what the moon can’t, and you seem to favor that over complete darkness.

It’s clear you haven’t noticed him yet, music blaring in your ears and eyes focused on the monitor. But he’s seen you all right. And your eyes are cast downward, your lashes like annoying curtains depriving him of what he's been missing for the past three months. 

In spite of how muffled his movements have been, you seem to notice a shift in the air. Something that makes your skin prickle, a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be in the same room, nor in the same flat – not now, at least, when he should be mummified in Kevlar and breathable cotton somewhere in the desert. He's secretly proud of how easily you seem to feel fluctuations in the environment. Makes him take a breath of relief, that your reflexes aren't dull even when your senses are already busy.

You lift your head swiftly, and he helps you focus on him by flicking up the light switch. The sudden brightness makes you squint, but you blink it away and finally clock him at the door. 

And your eyes are the color of the sun, he thinks. How could he forget, that they’re the color of a bonfire when it's cold out. Of yellows, oranges, and those occasional sparkles of green when the wood is not dry, but still burns to keep him warm.

Realization paints your face with stunning colors: darkening cheeks, eyes shaped like crescent moons under the pressure of rising cheekbones. Mouth curving beautifully, and it seems to catch your teeth. The smile stretches your lips abruptly, morphing your face in spare seconds.

He sees it happen in slow motion. You rip your headphones and carelessly toss them on the bed, your laptop is skewed to the side so quickly that he instinctively reaches out a hand to prevent its fall. Thankfully, the stars are on your side tonight, and the balance tips it on the mattress, instead of the floor. 

You’re a little hurricane, scurrying off the bed and kicking off the sheets. Getting on your feet and almost slipping in the attempt to reach him in as little time as possible. A tornado of limbs envelops him in the blink of an eye. He barely has time to react that you’re already coiled around him like ivy– arms, legs, and all.

Luckily, the doorway is right behind him, and he manages to tumble back and lean against it. Your arms are vines around his neck. Your legs are roots encircling his waist. You seem to grow on him, supplying his wretched heart with the sap of life you carry – symbiotic. He feels like he can breathe again and has been doing it wrong all this time.

He helps your balance by keeping a firm hold around your waist with his arms, encapsulating you in his warmth. Lean fingers spread on your back, yearning to touch as much as he can reach.

“Easy,” he rumbles. His voice is hoarse because whatever reaction he'd imagined, all this fussing surely wasn’t it.

Your fingers thread through his hair and tug lightly at his scalp. He’s silently apologetic because it must be wet with both rain and sweat, and he's sure the smell wafting from him isn't exactly cologne-worthy. But you don't seem to care, because after you've thoroughly inspected the crook of his neck, your face comes back into view.

Your eyes are the color of joy.

“Welcome back.” You whisper, as if it’s a secret between you two. And you kiss him because surely you must want it as much as he does. A flutter of lashes brushes his cheekbone when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. Nails scrape at his scalp in the gentlest of ways. 

Simon feels your smile before he sees it. “You taste like blueberries.”

And he exhales against your lips. “Found ‘em waiting for me in the kitchen. Baked for an army, y’ have.”

You peck his lips once more, as if you couldn’t fathom a second longer without having them on yours. “Figured you’d be hungry. MRIs can’t be that tasty.”

"MREs,” he corrects. “And you’re right. They ain’t.”

Simon is not sure he’s ever received such a warm welcome, or such warmth in general. He’s not going to complain, of course, but that doesn't mean it leaves him any less rattled each time.

He gently sets you down at the edge of the mattress, standing between your legs – which you’ve pliantly spread to make room for him.

You gesture with your hand from left to right, "Potato, Po-tah-to."

"One is food, the other is medical equipment," he deadpans.

You glare up at him, as if to ask what the hell he wants now – it's three in the morning. Can’t be arsed to correct vowels at three in the morning.

“Potato.” You enunciate it better now, and it steals a lazy grin from him. “Po-tah-to.”

After having flicked your forehead at your insistence, he reverently lays his hand on your cheek and spreads his fingers into your hair.

“Alright?” You ask him.

“Mhmh,” it’s his only reply.

If only to feel you more, he guides your face to his belly. You seem to appreciate the gesture because you're already nuzzling his shirt, fisting it at his back for good measure. Simon feels your back expand and deflate under his palm when you breathe. Feels the rhythmic thump thump of your heart at his fingertips.

You’re life in its purest form. 

Face first into his abdomen, your voice is obviously muffled, but he hears it clearly anyway. "You smell like a sewer, mate."

He snorts, and lightly tugs at your hair, enough to make your head tilt back. He squints his eyes at you. “Cry ‘bout it, mate.”

Simon bends at the waist as you chuckle. Places a kiss on the crown of your head. Your eyes flutter closed and so do his. 

For a moment, there’s nothing but you two. The world muffles its noise to favor the sound of your breaths. The rain patters against the windowpane. Your laptop has gone into standby mode so now the screen is dark. The mellow light on the ceiling, a pale yellow, is like your discreet personal spotlight. 

Then, he reluctantly pulls away, and you chase him for more, pouting when he doesn’t seem to come back. But when he starts to undress, your scowl is easily replaced by a lazy grin. To increase the dramatics of the moment, you lean back on your elbows and wiggle your brows at him, “Well, well.”

You’re not subtle at all with the way your eyes follow a trail down his back, how the muscles fold when his hand reaches to the collar of his shirt and pulls it off his head. Curves and muscles and the indent of his spine. Skin freckled with scars you never ask a thing about because you're kind and you’re giving him time to open up on his own.

He’s put on some weight ever since your relationship has transitioned into something more meaningful, including feelings he still doesn’t have the guts to acknowledge. His abs are not as defined as before, they’re tucked under a layer of fat he’s not really accepting as of lately. The scar running across his stomach and its other companions only add to his self-deprecating streak.

He eyes you briefly as he unbuckles his belt, searching for what he’s sure is going to be a grimace, but he's met instead with the stupidest look he’s ever witnessed. Slow blinking at his form the more he undresses himself. Lips parted as if you’ve tried and failed to catch your jaw.

And that gives him the right to take those thoughts and shove them into the fear pocket. Sew it shut. No need to fear a thing, if you look at him that way.

You bite the tip of your tongue between your teeth. "Givin' me a show, lieutenant?"

The corner of Simon’s lips tugs upward and the sudden self-hatred sublimates under the warm adoration in your eyes.

“Cheeky little thing,” he rumbles, letting his khakis pool at his ankles. He steps out of them and shrugs them off when they catch his feet. 

One last step, and he’s already hooking a finger under the hem of your blue camisole, slowly lifting it up. There's an impish gleam in your eyes that promises trouble and he would love nothing more than to drown in whatever disaster you're planning.

He stands between your legs only in his underwear and after you’ve shut the laptop and placed it on your nightstand, your hands immediately come to rest on his stomach. Simon sighs at the touch.

“You’re a menace,” he says gently when you drum your fingers up to his chest.

Honestly, he hopes you don’t care if he smells like a cocktail of grime and sweat and rain, because, as much as he wishes for a hot shower, the sight of you melts whatever need away. 

Your eyes travel downward, taking a generous eyeful of him. However, he knows you’re not just ogling; you're searching him for wounds. 

Bandages. 

Sutures. 

Anything  that might tell you whether he's hurt or not. 

Obviously, Simon knows you want to ask. But you’re sensible when it comes to his job. In spite of the jabs about all the “Classified” he’s given you as answers, he knows you don’t hold a grudge against him. He also doesn't like to bring work at home, taking pains to leave his safe space untainted by it – instead, he lets you do the detective work yourself. 

A sweet sigh leaves your lips when you settle on the fact that he's unscathed, and you lift your arms up to help him take off your top.

"A menace?" You quip, feigning offense. "M’not the one looking naked and yummy."

“You’re about to.”

You don’t look away from his eyes when his fingers pull your top up and off. The camisole is gently removed past your head, the satin leaving your hair a little staticky. 

“A menace,” he murmurs once more, his tone softer now as he tosses the garment in a vague direction.

You wrap your arms around his waist, propping your chin on the hollow between his ribs, taking in his face as the sight that it is to your eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to question why, and just basks in the adoring attention and in the well-deserved skin-to-skin contact.

"How was it this time?" You ask gently.

His arm drapes over your shoulders, slowly stroking at your skin. A tender kiss to your hairline has you automatically sighing. You do it every time he kisses your head. He's mentally taken note of how his lips press a button of sorts that makes it all wash away, like suds under the jet of water.

“Same as always,” he murmurs, keeping his tone low and soft for your ears only. 

You hum in acknowledgment. "So?"

He smirks, a curve hidden in your hair. “Classified.”

You scoff and playfully slap his butt. He pulls back with a newfound glow in his eyes.

“Not Full Metal Jacket, if you’re wondering.” 

You hum, deciding to play along. “Spies involved?”

He snorts and tucks a rogue lock behind your ear. “Sure.”

You poke his chest as you make your definitive guess. “Three days of the condor!”

His eye twitches when, amongst the myriads of films you’ve ever watched in your life, you quote the one with the CIA involved. He has to flatten his face into something more neutral. Surely yours was a clear shot in the dark that somehow hit the right spot – even a broken clock is right, twice a day. Still, your blind guess doesn’t leave him any less distressed.

“Sorta.” He offers through gritted teeth.

And you don’t push any further, sluggishly resting your cheek on his belly.

"Were you more Robert Redford?” You mumble with half-closed eyes, "Or Faye Dunaway?”

Relief washes over him and he can’t help but huff. Plops a hand on top of your head and smooths down to the ends of your locks, rolling them between the pads of his fingers.

“Faye Dunaway, love.” He rumbles. “No question.”

You playfully tighten the hold around his waist, and with a tug, he's pulled down onto the bed. Simon knows he could easily win whichever battle if you’re the opponent, but he’ll always pretend to struggle just to humor you. He’s careful though, so he props himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you with his bulk. 

Gently, you kiss his nose but he doesn’t pull away, instead allowing the kiss to be reciprocated on your cheek. He reaches out for the switch next to the headboard and turns off the lights. 

Your eyes are the color of a summer’s night. 

They’re dark but twinkle with starlight. Pupils blown and the glowing halo of your irises around them like an eclipsed sun. The light coming from outside seems to favor you, creating shapes around your face able to turn you into a dream made reality.

“I’ll call in sick tomorrow.” You tell him, nose to nose. 

“Won't bother anyone, will it?” He asks mindfully, although he cares very little if your co-workers might get a little miffed about your last-minute call.

You shake your head softly, causing your noses to brush. “Nope, they’ll understand.”

And so, he unfolds, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. Your head is guided by a big hand to rest on his chest. He fits you perfectly into his side, making sure every piece of you adheres like glue to his skin.

“Y’need a shower?” You murmur in his skin, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers are tracing mindless patterns on his chest, skimming over hair and the odd scar here and there.

“Tomorrow,” he replies quietly. “Sleep now.”

“Alright,” you whisper. “Wake me up when you do, yeah?”

“Sure.” He says, looking down at the top of your head. He leaves a kiss in its ruffled mess.

“G’night, love.” He breathes. 

You murmur it back, and fall into your slumber.

────────────

Simon opens his eyes with his heart thundering in his chest. He doesn’t know why, and likely pegs it to mere habit. Three months stuck in hypervigilance will have your body unconsciously overreact at the most subtle of changes, even if there are none.

There’s too much light in the room for it to be night, and a single look at the window tells him the sun is just shy of rising. 

During the night, you must’ve moved around and he must have followed you, because now he has your back to his chest. An arm slung around your waist, the other tucked beneath your neck. 

He gently tugs the duvet a little higher, over your shoulder, and spends the next few minutes just looking at how peaceful you look.

Next to a killer. 

His stomach churns wildly. 

You’re home,  his heart says. You’re not a killer here. 

A shame, truly, that his brain doesn’t agree in the slightest. Two organs fighting like separate entities, and the whole brawl is happening inside of him, mercilessly tearing his flesh apart. 

But it’s already broken, isn’t it? What else is there to shred. 

Yet he’s home and you’re comfortable next to him. So how broken can he be, really?

Torn. Shredded. Lookin’ like you went through the grinder and barely came out of it alive. 

He forces his eyes shut and buries his face in your hair, nuzzling your nape. 

Pretty thing, she is. Who the fuck d’you think you are, mh? 

A sharp inhale. Breathing you in. You smell sweet enough for the sounds in his head to buzz out. Not silent yet, but quiet enough for him to have a breather.

You don’t know how long it takes for his body to expel the exorbitant amount of adrenaline produced in three months of deployment. How his back cracks when it hits the comfortable mattress of yours and his bedroom, after having spent way too much time packed like a sardine on sordid cots or much-too-small sleeping bags.

How he fucking hates it, when you feel so soft and untouched, while he has more scars than bloody years on his back. 

Not right. Ain’t fucking right to you. 

His hand snakes from your waist to follow the curve of your arm. He follows the bulge it makes under the comforter. The rain has turned into a light drizzle, allowing the sound of his skin brushing over yours and the shuffle of the blanket to echo in his ears.

He scoots impossibly closer, pressing your back against his chest hoping your skin would mold with his. Nose buried in the crook of your shoulder; kisses light as breeze following the length of it. 

You smell so good you disarm him. He sighs as if he’s been utterly defeated, lost a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting. 

His mind hushes, finally. His heart unwinds itself – springs let loose, pulse calm. 

There’s you. The way your breaths come. Your limbs stirring at the gooseflesh left by his kisses. The rising sun lapping at your skin. The rise and fall of your back. 

It’s calm.

Your head turns slightly, looking over your shoulder. You must only see his eyes, lazily glancing at you through pale lashes.

Yours are a dawning sun.

They’re soft and gentle, pale yellows and blues, peeking above the sheer horizon of sleep you’re trying to overcome. Idle, slow, but most welcome.

“Hey,” you croak, blinking the drowsiness away. “You okay?”

He hums a quiet yeah in your skin. Hasn’t even noticed his hand returning to your stomach and pulling you in, angling you against his lap. 

And fuck him, but he’s sporting the hard-on of a lifetime. 

He knows you’ll understand that he’s been deprived of such pleasures for three months, but it doesn’t make him any less embarrassed. A hand in his pants, while he hid somewhere more private in the middle of nowhere was a temporary fix that fixed very fucking little. Especially not after having been spoiled by you.

Simon doesn’t necessarily want to fuck you, now. Sure, his dick might have a head of its own, and he wouldn’t complain against it were it to happen, but he still has control of his actions. And now he just wants to feel you, whether inside or out doesn’t matter – as long as it’s you.

Nevertheless, he isn’t expecting you to have much different plans. Naturally, he isn’t going to protest.

Your ass tentatively presses against his length, the satin of your shorts sliding easily along the cotton of his boxers. You’re still so sleepy – he sees you digging a knuckle in your eye, nostrils flaring as you let out a big yawn. 

Were you aware of what you were doing, or were you being a goddamn minx?

“Well, good mornin’,” you murmur, a lick of a smile on your lips. “Brought me a souvenir from bumfuck nowhere?”

Minx it is. 

He snuffs out a chuckle by harshly pressing his lips against your shoulder, sewing his lips shut. Unfortunately, his chest rumbles against your back and you catch it before he manages to catch himself. 

Your hand goes to rest above his own on your stomach, fingers intertwining. 

Soft skin on both sides: palm to your belly, knuckles to your hand. He’s sandwiched in bliss. Three months away, barely any contact, and all he apparently needed to alleviate some wounds was just a handful of hours spent asleep in your presence.

His lips part slightly. Kisses turn wetter and teeth bite at your neck, his tongue darting out to subsequently soothe the ache. Your hand has already guided his own to your breast, and your mouth is breathing sounds he’s missed.

And he tells you, because why should he hide a thing from you.

“Missed ya,” he croaks, voice a little shaky for reasons unknown. He could look in his head (or his heart) and find them – surely, they’re there. But he figures the present feels much better than the jumbled mess inside.

Reasons can wait.

“Let me feel you, yeah?” 

Your head bending backward to his face is the answer you give him, back pressed flush against his chest. You guide his hand up and squeeze it around the fat of your breast to assert your approval. 

But he’s not satisfied with that. Needs your voice to tell him it’s alright, that you’re not under some sleep-induced spell. That you’re fine with having him feel you, and you’re not just offering yourself because he’s been away for so long and you want to give him some sort of reward.

Simply, that you want him as much as he wants you.

His voice is raspy and low, “Words, love.”

"Please," you whisper and vigorously grind your ass against his groin. “Touch me.”

He hisses and presses forward too, meeting your movements. 

He’s still a little out of it, senses overrun by the general fatigue clinging to his muscles as the aftermath of deployment, his bones weary and getting accustomed once more to the comfort of a bed instead of a cot. 

Mind absolutely quiet.

He flicks his thumb over your nipple. Rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Your shuddering breath prompts him to pull at it, and it causes you to arch your back off of him, pressing further against his painfully hard cock. 

He grunts against your shoulder, hand busy teasing your breasts and hips rutting against the plump flesh of your ass. You grind back against him, working in tandem to relieve at least some of that ache. 

Each movement is a languid stroke of fabric that gives him enough pleasure to cause his resolve to falter. When he turns your head sideways, leaving your tits to grasp your jaw, he loses it. Your flushed cheeks, lower lip trapped between your teeth, the whites of your eyes still a little red from sleep.

Lips on lips, slotting together like magnets. 

Too long. 

Too damn long. 

Sure, he kissed you when he came back, a bunch of hours before. But this is a whole other thing. The connection behind it, the pinch of your brows conveying the same desperation he has. Hands grabbing at flesh, bodies grinding against each other. Tongues dancing privately. Eyes closed to shut the world out. Moans and pants, dotted with the occasional curse slipping from his lips when the length of his cock catches the cleft of your ass.

His palm slides down and crosses the threshold marked by your shorts. He’s awfully delighted to find out you have nothing underneath them. Feels blessed when his middle finger slides down your cunt to find it impossibly wet. 

“Oh - Simon,” He hears you whimper, and he almost comes in his briefs then and there because he has no right to hear you say his sullied name with such devotion behind it. 

Seemingly feeling the need to respond in kind, your arm blindly reaches behind, and you slip it between your butt and his groin. Your hand is soft as it palms his cock, the cotton of his boxers an annoying barrier. 

The tip is leaking tremendously, and he should be embarrassed about the obvious wet spot he must be sporting on his briefs. However, he can’t even manage to concoct the thought that your fingers are already fumbling with the elastic band of his underwear and finding their way in.

Simon shudders when your warm hand curls around his shaft. 

You glide your hand up, collecting precum on your palm, before sliding back down again – velvet skin being pulled over the head to steer clear of overstimulation, and then down once more. Similarly, he crooks his finger to gather your wetness and uses it to roll idle circles around your clit. 

And it goes on, and on, and on, and on. It’s slow and drawn out, both of you wanting to reach that high but at the same time don’t – cutting off pleasure doesn’t seem fitting, when both of you have been starved of one another.

He bends the arm beneath your neck to pull your head back, next to his own, cheek to cheek. Simon’s hips jerk to blatantly fuck your fist, yours flow with the movement of his fingers circling your clit, stroking yourself against his hand.

He starts getting antsy, however, when he notices that he can’t properly reach you. Can’t have you unravel on his fingers like he’s done so many times before. Simon wants – needs – to see you unfold and squirm under the pressure of his hand. Needs to have you cream on his fingers – as simple as it’s primal.

He murmurs against the shell of your ear, “Need to stretch you out, love.”

And – goddamn you, you whine. Your hand doesn’t stop its languid movements, but it further slows down, as if you needed all of yourself to cooperate and form a single thought.

“Jus’ do it, I missed you.” You whimper, breathy and high-pitched. “Won’t hurt much, I promise.”

Simon sucks in a sharp breath, closing his eyes because your voice has gone straight to his cock and he needs to disassociate for a second to recollect himself.

You’re a temptress, even in your loving, tender desperation. And how sweet it is to know that he isn’t the only one craving those intimate touches he can only give you. You’ve had your fair share of relationships and lovers, but has he? Some quick ones, enough to get rid of natural aches. Definitely not with a connection so deeply ingrained. 

And he tastes, then, the beauty of mutuality. Of giving and receiving. 

He retreats his hand and prompts you to do the same. Helps you take off your shorts and pulls his cock out of his underwear. He holds you still with one arm around your waist, palm flat against your lower belly to angle you better. 

Gingerly, he guides the tip to your slit, dragging it upward until it catches your clit and you hiss, and then down to your hole. Back and forth, happily realizing that he has, in fact, made you wet enough to make it hurt less. And while he tends to be open to many requests made under the bedsheets, anything that causes you pain is a huge, firm no in his book. 

Which is why he’s a bit hesitant now, pressing chaste kisses against your shoulder, trying to soften the ache that will inevitably come. A juxtaposition, really, to his cock dragging a raw, slow dance down your cunt.

It’s then that you turn your head in the pillow to groan against the fabric, and your legs clamp together and essentially choke him between the plush of your thighs.

The sensation is initially a sharp jolt that makes him spout a series of curses under his breath. But then the glisten of your cunt mixed with the precum you’ve diligently smeared all over him, with your folds and your plump thighs wrapped around him in a warm, wet hug – he sees the appeal. 

And thrusts. Shamelessly – once, twice, thrice. Snapping harshly, only to draw back slowly. Grunting to your skin. Chest vibrating against your back.

“F – fuck,” he manages to choke out, wringing his eyes closed to regain some control over his actions and failing spectacularly.

Your moans don’t help. They perfectly align with the slap of his hips against your ass, with the wet noises of your sodden cunt against his cock. It’s as filthy as it’s fucking wonderful, and he’s terribly afraid he’ll finish before he can even fit the head inside of you. 

The grip he has around your waist only tightens, leaving you breathless by the second. Simon has his mouth next to your ear, giving you the privilege of hearing even the smallest breaths he exhales. 

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispers, panting from the effort. 

Curiously, he takes a peek over your shoulder as he fucks your thighs, catching the flushed head of his cock stroking your clit and appearing each time he thrusts in. It’s fucking debauched and he loves it to bits. So much that he groans and rolls his eyes, struggling not to paint your thighs with his spend.

“Need to fuck you,” he hurries, choking on the words. “Now, love.”

Rapidly (and reluctantly), he pulls out of the pillowy, snug space your thighs had inadvertently created for him, almost hissing when the cold air hits the sensitive skin of his cock, coated in yours and his arousal. 

“On your back, swee’heart,” he gently guides you down, adding a brisk yet tender “C’mon.”

And you comply, feeling almost like a ragdoll in his hands. Lips parted and slick as they form small Yes’s to convey the same ache he feels. It takes him less than a breath to place his mouth over yours again. 

As he hovers above you, thick arms on each side of your head and chapped lips crashing against your own, he slots his hips between your legs. The softer flesh of the inside of your thighs is still wet from when he’s buried his cock between them. He feels the fluids stick to the skin of his hips.

Taking his time, he lets a hand wander down your chest, flowing to your belly until his fingers reach your core – where you’re wet, and warm, and still pressing up against his cock, searching for friction.

He plunges a finger inside, making the movement of your hips stutter and your mouth gasp at the sudden intrusion.

“Gotta stretch you out," he repeats languidly, because he cannot - for the life of him - put words into sentences without thinking about the structure beforehand.

He’s aware he’s big. It used to chub up his ego when he was younger and brash, but now he can’t be arsed about it. Big or small, he’s learned that it’s how you use it – and to be frank, he hasn’t used it much before you.

But he knows it’s going to hurt if he just puts it in with little to no preparation. He hasn’t seen you in three months, and you can trust him when he says he’s as ravenous as you are and can’t bloody wait to be inside you where he’s warm and blessed – but causing you pain? When it can be avoided so easily (and he can make it feel good, too)?

Absolutely not. Categorical. 

He wants you to indulge in the blissful touches and the highs he can bring. Needs you to associate him to kindness and soft breaths and how much he hungers for you – he'll gladly eat you up, but only if you say so. 

“’S not gonna hurt,” you mumble again, sounding a little drunk in the effort to convince him. “Please.”

Your eyes flutter to him, and they’re this dark pool he can’t seem to navigate. Lust overflowing like fat, miry tears that can’t fit in the space of your sockets, and then something even darker – longing. You’re looking at him as if it's the first time you’re seeing him.

He gets it, then, how good you’ve been at hiding it so he wouldn’t hurt at the thought of hurting you. He must've unconsciously taught you a thing or two, by wearing stoicism, neutrality, and more tangible skull masks. 

You’ve missed him body and soul. 

You’re there, eyes heavy and full, begging for him to come back to you. 

How long have you been waiting for me like this? 

“Oh, love,”  he breathes and kisses you again.

A long finger inside, pushing against the place he knows makes your eyes water.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, thumb steadfast on your clit, as if he could apologize just by using his fingers because words tend to fail him when he needs them the most.

And so, he slides in his ring finger too, feeling the momentarily tight fit and the subsequent way you relax to welcome him. Your lips part to sharply breathe in, eyes scrunching close at the stretch. He can feel your hands stiffen against his back until they travel up his spine and tangle through shorn blond hair. 

You’re keeping him close, with your forehead pressed to his almost to the point of pain. Your noses are in the way of the onslaught you’re causing on his mouth. Strained, heavy pants brush his lips when you part from him to breathe, before lavishing him with attention again.

You’re always good with words. You always know what to say, and yet you’re being extremely quiet – it worries him more than the look you have in your eyes. 

“M’sorry.”

For being away. 

For not telling you where I was. 

For leaving you to wonder whether I’d come back, or not. 

For not calling. 

I’m sorry. 

“M’so sorry.”

My girl.  

His hand cradles the back of your head as if he could get you any closer, and he fucks you with his fingers.

“Don’t be,” you reply, your voice so faint and lost in the sounds of your bodies he has to perk his ears for it. “You’re home.”

My sweet, sweet girl. 

And he buries his face in your neck, leaving wanton kisses that have very little erotic power to them. He’s just trying to taste you, really. Trying to commit you to memory again, conveying fierce apologies to your skin. 

He can feel you clench around him, almost sucking him in, each time his fingers reach deep.

“Fuck, need to see you come.” He murmurs to the skin of your neck.

Thumb aching, he replaces it with the heel of his hand. A continuous and tortuous curl of his fingers inside of you, palm cupping your cunt and rolling against your clit. His cock aches when you whimper and stifle it by biting into his shoulder. A sharp exhale. Skin sweaty and pressed against his chest. Hands tugging at his hair. 

“Don’t-” You croak. “Just- just fuck me, Si.”

He groans because stop being stubborn, will ya?

“I’ll cum the moment I get in, swee’heart.” He tries to reason and almost loses it at the raunchy, squelching sounds caused by his fingers between your legs. "Lemme take care of you before tha'."

But it's like talking to a wall.

"'s fine, love. I don't care, yeah?" Your hips move against his hand, but at this point, he gathers it's just a natural body response to pleasure. “You’ll take care of me tomorrow, and the days after that.”

Just when he’s about to rebut, you sandwich an arm between your bodies and curl soft fingers around his cock. The simple act makes him stop his motions, and he feels you pulse and clench around his fingers.

“Please.” You whisper, voice like silk. 

He crumbles, then, at the sight of your eyes. Watery and glossy and wide – lust a long-forgotten thing. 

He nods briefly when he surrenders. A jerky movement of his jaw as he swallows thickly. Doesn’t dare to avert his gaze from yours when he retrieves his hand and loves to catch how your brows pinch at the sudden emptiness inside. Sloppily, he coats his stiff cock with your wetness with a few weak pumps.

His eyes stay on you, as he goes in blindly, guided by touch only, and drives the tip to your hole. Tries to gauge your thoughts by the expressions on your face, and fails miserably, for once, at keeping his own concealed.

Barely aware and in control of what his face is conveying, he gathers you must appreciate it because you shift your palms to cradle his cheeks. He doesn’t know why you do it because there’s nothing on this godforsaken planet that could make his attention swerve to any thoughts but how beautiful you look when your lips stroke his own with featherlight pressure.

And he slides in, comfortably easy. Feels your puffy lips stretch to welcome him whole, inch by inch. Piece by piece of him, in every way you want to interpret it. 

His jaw is locked tight because as soon as your walls envelop the head of his cock, he already feels himself shutting down. His eyes close – he can’t afford to look at how you morph for him. How your pussy swallows the first inches of his cock, puffy clit begging to be touched and lavished. How your mouth parts against his own to yield soft moans and breathy whispers that encourage him to please, please, please go deeper. 

He can’t. Stubbornly thinking he must last long enough to give you some pleasure or it will all be worthless. And so, it’s a repetitive dance: an inch in, and a full pull out. Stop. Another inch, and pull out. 

It’s driving him fucking mental.

“Let go,” you say, tearing his head out of the gutter. “Look at me, and let go.”

He can’t exactly decide whether you’re being the devil on his shoulder, or an angel sent from heaven – either way, the aim is to ruin him. Yet it doesn’t matter when he opens his eyes, and you look so beautiful his heart cracks, with a thin layer of sweat on your brow and the sheen of his spit on bitten lips. 

You don't have to tell him twice at this point, because the way your hands force his face steady so he keeps his eyes on you does most of the trick. His resolve crumbles at breakneck speed.

He bottoms out, pushing his pelvis flush against yours. Your eyes roll back at the same time, legs going stiff and tight around his hips. He does a tentative roll that causes the coarse hair on his groin to press against your bundle of nerves.

"Fuck," you breathe, your voice cracking at the edges. He echoes it right after you, or at the same time – he's not sure, but in his defense, he's not confident about a single thing right now.

If not how absurdly scorching you are, all wrapped around him.

With that, he hooks one arm around your waist and tucks his other hand behind your head. He holds you close like you might slip away, and he’s sure as hell not taking any chances.

He fucks you slowly, deep thrusts that fill you up all the way, and greedy love bites on your neck. Open-mouthed kisses at your throat, sliding up to your jaw and cheeks, all the way to your lips. Truthfully, he’s both trying to get his senses chock full of you, and keep his mouth shut so no words spoken while in ecstasy escape.

The slap of his hips against yours drowns the taps of the morning drizzle against the windowpane. He’s got your face buried in the crook of his neck, and your pants echo in his ears like a fucking promise that threatens to unravel him.

Each thrust has him fully sheathed inside of you. It fills him with primal pride and fuels his pleasure, because you take him so fucking well he can't help but think he's modeled you in his perfect image. He grunts against you and tugs at your hair out of sheer desperation to hold on – just a little longer.

But you’re swearing in his ear. Breathless fuck’s whispered like a curse and a vow at the same time. You shift your hips to change the angle and that makes him hit even deeper and he swears he hears you whimper in that telltale way he knows well.

He lifts your hips up and hooks your legs over his shoulders.

And he absolutely rams into you.

“Christ I missed you.” He rumbles and his voice cracks while your moans rise in pitch and your nails scratch his back. “Fuckin’ thought of you," Thrust. "Every bleedin’ day.”

He’s rambling now, intoxicated on the feeling of you. His words are slurred and strained and, deep down, there’s a more sober version of Simon Riley cursing at himself for speaking his heart out.

Luckily, it’s drowned by the slap of flesh against flesh and the wet sounds of your cunt milking him dry. 

Finally, he thinks, he's using his strength not to wield a heavy M4 or to ram against hostiles, but to fuck you on his cock – knee-deep in the mattress for leverage.

He lets go, like you asked.

He murmurs in your ear (Fuckin’ beautiful), words alternated with heavy pants (An’ all mine) and the animalistic grunts of a man cocooned in bliss (All fuckin’ mine).

His hips stutter and he knows he’s close, but you’re not even nearby, in spite of how he can feel you clench around him, sucking him in. And God, the guilt that fills him almost makes him stop even if he has that sweet, sweet release just around the bend.

But you won’t have that, naturally. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, clammy and sticking out weirdly because he’s sweaty and hot. He feels his head being shifted to the side, so you can look into his eyes.

And oh, how can you look at him like that? How is he even deserving of it – fuck you and your relentless ways to crawl under his skin and make him feel like he’s worth a damn, with your eyes glossy and hooded. A thick veil of admiration, fondness, and you. 

You, you, you. 

Where have you been all his life, with this color in your eyes?

“Come inside.” You plead tenderly, breathless and raspy, as he pounds you into your own bed. Your fingers smooth back rogue strands that are sticking to his forehead. “Please come inside.”

And you crush his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. One that marks his demise. He’s falling hard into your embrace, figuratively and literally, too.

He uses whatever shreds of strength he has left to ram into you as if his life depended on it, punching gasp after heaving gasp out of your beautiful lips into his hungry mouth.

It works like a spell because he feels the familiar pressure building at the base of his cock. Syrupy hot warmth runs down his legs to the tips of his toes. Tingling. Tightening. Burning so good he thinks he's melting within you.

Suddenly, his head spins, and he groans in your parted lips as he ruts into you one last time – until he has you filled to the brim. His eyes slam shut as he spills inside of you – cock pulsating and hot. 

His high takes its sweet time, canceling out all background noises and only leaving your sweet breaths to fill in his ears, and the pounding of his heart. 

Simon unceremoniously drops on you like dead weight, allowing your legs to return around his waist. His lips slide off yours until his head is tucked in the crook of your neck. He’s absolutely spent, but there isn’t enough fatigue in this world that could keep him away from you. You’re sweaty and he’s worse, but he doesn’t see why, in the haze of his orgasm, he shouldn’t have his lips reach every inch of skin he can.

His kisses are lazy – a stark contrast from the desperation he’s displayed until now. 

He feels safe. He feels at home, still buried deep inside of you, feeling the come that couldn’t fit inside ooze out and onto the bedsheets. A bummer to clean, he’ll realize when he’ll get his sanity back.

And he wants to tell you so many things when he feels your hands skimming down his back in a soothing dance. Wants to tell you how you’ve flipped his life, with the ease of tossing a coin – heads and tails. Opposites so striking you should be deemed a witch. 

He was in deep fucking shit before you offered your smile. Inching closer and closer to dead-ended alleys and dark, murky thoughts that could only lead to dreadful places.

You gave him something to yearn for, something to miss when he's away, and something to cherish when he's here. 

There’s nothing he can do to return the favor but love you in equal measure. 

It’s not the first time the word love has come up in his head when his mind was lost in memories of you. And while he’d rather not dwell on it now, while you hold him to your chest as he comes back to his senses, he knows the time will eventually come.

Yet he doesn’t dread it. Not one bit.

Fear pocket sewn shut. Finally. 

He lifts his head to look up at you and finds you doing the same – he’s sure he’s thoroughly fucked in the best way imaginable. 

“I’ll take care of everything later,” you say, reading his thoughts. “You okay?”

It takes him a while to respond. Mental gymnastics to reawaken the parts of his brain that are still tingling in the afterglow. 

“Never better, love.” 

“Sleep?” You offer, as if he isn’t still buried inside of you and effectively crushing you under his weight. 

You don’t seem to mind, and so he trusts you and doesn’t either.

His eyes are half closed as he slides down to rest his head in the valley of your breasts. "Y' didn't cum," he mumbles, leaving an open mouthed kiss on the fat of your tits.

Your fingers brush through his hair to keep him close, and when your nails scrape at his scalp he feels gooseflesh rise along his arms. 

"'S fine," you whisper gently, and he's struck by the earnestness in your tone. But then you quip, "I'll have ya on your knees tomorrow."

And he scoffs. "Makin' it sound like a punishment."

You purse your lips and land a kiss on the crown of his head. "Then stop complaining."

He grunts something he himself can't even discern. 

“Y’need to piss first.” He grumbles mindlessly, as if the thought of you standing up annoys him but he knows a UTI is even more aggravating.

You snort. “Charming."

And he responds in kind. "Chivalry's dead anyway."

There's a few seconds of silence only broken by your quiet chuckle. "I’ll wait for you to fall asleep, then ‘m off to the loo. Deal?”

He grunts in agreement, liking the compromise you’re offering. “Deal.” 

And his head stays quiet. Sleazy hands and raging voices cease, silenced under the thunder of your heartbeat.

“I missed you.” He thinks he hears you whisper, your voice thick and wet. He closes his eyes with his head on your chest. “’M so happy you’re home.”

────────────

Simon wakes up with shy sunbeams peeking through the blinds and brushing his brow. You must’ve closed them when you woke up, to shield him from the sun.

He blinks idly, momentarily lost in that phase between sleep and waking life, still unsure of where he is. His mouth is pasty, and his eyes struggle against sunlight. The duvet is up to his chin, and it smells of grapefruit-scented softener, and of you. The pillow is a little wet, and he embarrassingly notices that it’s because he’s drooled on it – he smacks his lips once, twice, but his tongue might as well be a dried-up cinderblock.

It has been a long time since he’s slept like this. Since his mind has shut down and left him alone. Since his night has gone smoothly, sleep comatose and dreamless – nightmare-less.

And you’re not there, but that’s okay.

Because he hears your music from the kitchen, kept at a low volume so you won’t wake him up. The clanking of utensils frames the beat, pans and pots being moved around as you hum to yourself following the melody. The smell of eggs, sausages, potatoes, and fresh veggies – a full English. Wafts of that disgusting coffee you drink in the morning intertwined with the softer notes of the tea you’re brewing for him.

You were right: he is home.

And he can’t see your eyes, but that’s okay too.

He guesses he’ll never remember their exact shade, Simon’s fine with it. No better thing than to discover you once more, each time he gets to come home.

They change with you, following the flow of whatever you allow to show, and of what he’s learned to read. They’re the color of that life he’s unwittingly always looked for. That life promising a pocket of peace for himself. Chock full of love and nice things he’s always been deprived of.

A balm to both his ancient and newest wounds.

He has never shared a single story about his past, never told you why his body is like a tattered book whose tale is as horrific as it looks. But you don’t mind, and he doesn’t know why because he’s firmly set on the idea that you must know someone inside out to be sure you care.

And it’s then that it hits him, that you do know him – better than anyone. You know the man he is. You want the man he is now, the man he will be one day – as mental as it sounds to him. His present, and his future. And sure, his past might have made this man you know, but he’s not the same Simon under his father's thumb or the one felled by Roba’s tortures.

Although he’s not sure he can reopen certain sutures without the wounds bleeding all over the floor, he'll try. He’ll clean up, if he must, knowing that you’ll help him have each injury scab over again. 

What baffles him is that you’re not saying he has to. You’re saying he can. And this choice you’re giving him is a privilege he’s never had the chance to bear.

He can tell you everything, and you’ll listen. He can keep it to himself, and you’ll stay, accepting that there will be places of him you’ll never venture – and to you, that is fine.

As long as he stays, too.

There are no words he can use to express his gratitude. He can only love you – and it might take him a while to acknowledge that he’s capable, but he already does love you.

You appear at the door as he’s lost in his own head, still tucked under the duvet. Strips of sunlight cross your form, curving around the beautiful shape of you.

“Good morning, you.” You say, with a smile that reminds him of the sun.

Lazily, he offers one of his own to you. It’s lopsided and he thinks not quite as beautiful. 

He hopes you forgive him for it: takes practice to be happy, and he’s still learning.

And so, he smiles, and looks at you like you're the most tangible form of joy he's ever witnessed. 

His voice is raspy from sleep, and soft from you.

“Mornin’, love.”

[painted-flag]

OF FLOWERS AND DEATH - aemond targaryen

Chapter 16: Every Little Thing

☾⋆⁺₊✧ dark elf!Aemond Targaryen x f!human!reader series. ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series masterlist. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ word count: 4.3k ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series warnings: 18+ depictions of violence/gore, eventual smut, warfare, sickness/disease, some moments of misogyny, and mentions of alcohol consumption. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ Death's hand extends towards the unwilling.

You carefully put on an intricate gown made for you. As you were back at the capital, you had worn their elvish clothes for the first time since you left on the trip. The journey to Lake Rosemange was spent in your more modest human clothes. You had thought it was a welcome feeling, but it did not hold a candle to the feeling you had wearing the soft and luxurious elvish fabrics. Amara had chosen the gown as you broke your fast with them in your room. It had been a while since you could speak to them and was refreshing. 

“Imagine her surprise when he returned with another’s undergarment in his pocket!” Liriel had spoken. The two had been catching you up on courtly gossip. As much as you wanted to not partake in such gossip to maintain a more elevated persona, you could not help but revel in it. The scandals all lured you in. It was far more entertaining than any town square shows put on where you had lived. 

As Amara tied the laces on the back of your dress, your gaze swept up to your bed. Within the pillowcases lay the scouting record and book found in Cole’s room. Thinking of it made your throat close and muscles tighten. When Amara stepped back and went to join her wife on the settee, you sucked in a breath. 

“I think I’ll choose my jewellery for the day.” The underlying meaning behind your words was not lost on the two elves. You wished for a moment of solitary peace. They got up from their seats and bid you a quick goodbye. 

When they had left, you made your way to the vanity. While scanning over your options, your eyes kept moving toward where the scouting log and Cole’s book were kept. Your fingers brushed over the cool metal of a necklace you found particularly pleasing and knew it would compliment the expanse of the bare neck that was exposed from the dress. You put it on and then walked to your bed. 

The items were calling to you. You shakily pulled them both out from under the pillows and laid them on the plush blanket of your bed. You dragged your finger across the black cover and ruminated on the information Aegon had gathered. The whole night was spent drifting in and out of sleep. You were reeling from the information. Cole was one being you knew was not trustworthy. He was slimy and vile, but was there really enough hate in him to be a purveyor of the dark arts? 

You were caught between multiple points. You wished to mourn; for your father, Lyra, and everyone else who had perished from the taint. Yet your body was pulled towards your duty as a healer and passion as a researcher to find a cure no matter the cost, regardless of your health and sanity. Then, more recently, another point had driven itself into your chest. It was a matter of a single blue eye that threatened to swallow you each time you gazed into it. The point, driven like an anchor, pushed you overboard and into murky waters; pulling you down from all those other cares to think of nothing but him alone. 

The gods had been cruel, exceptionally so, to test your patience by sending such a siren call in the form of Aemond.

You once again scanned the items in front of you. There was something there. There is some underlying meaning behind the discovery of this information. It was a trickery. The scout's log showed Cole’s presence in the area and the book was damning that he was capable of some kind of evil – or at the very least an untrustworthy interest in darker things. The main cause of your distress was Aemond’s possible part to play in all of it. He and Cole were nearly inseparable, always talking to one another. There was a strong bond, one which would naturally lead to sharing information between one another. 

During your thinking, a knock on the door jolted you out of it. While you normally would have made haste to hide the items, your brain had been working overtime as of late. It led to you not caring much at all anymore. You looked over your shoulder to see Aemond walking into your room. You turned your head to the bed, keeping your back facing him. You could not look at him. 

Cole likely played a part in hurting – nay killing – your father; to which Aemond could have known about it.

It would suit Aemond not to tell you. The taint was a burden on both kingdoms. He could use you for your talents, recognizing that they may have made a mistake in killing your father before he could find a solution. He planned to have you make the cure, or at least get close, and then dispense you. Your kingdom would be none the wiser of such misdeeds and a conflict would be avoided. The elf kingdom could use the cure on themselves only and sit back as your people died out. 

That was the ultimate goal of the Great War so many centuries ago – at least what had been taught to you. 

You steeled yourself and crossed your arms to soften your emotions, “What can I do for you, your grace?” You wanted him to leave before you broke down – before you confessed all that you discovered and demanded an answer. Though you knew, it was far too late to go back. His presence alone weakened you. You were beholden to Aemond and thus unable to keep anything from him.

“I was coming to check on how you were settling back in,” Aemond answered. You wanted to scoff at his possible fake care, but at the same time fall into his arms. The supposed dichotomy between the two mocked you with similarity. 

“Everything is good, my things have been unpacked.” You responded as you looked out the large windows of your room and towards the garden. 

“I did not mean your things,” His footsteps sounded closer as he walked further into your room, “I meant, how are you handling everything? With Lyra…” 

You sucked in a breath and held back the tears that threatened to spill. Your lungs shuddered, but you remained steadfast in your bubbling malcontent. You could sense him standing at the bottom of the three steps that led up to the loft area of your room where your bed and personal study were. 

“I’m still mourning,” You then turned to face him and looked down upon his form. Seeing him, the unadulterated care in his eyes and softened face made you question your knowledge. Surely, this could not have been all a ruse? Surely he is not such a good actor as to make you fall for these falsities.  

“Of course, I–” Aemond had begun, but you cut him off. 

“But I’m mourning my father as well,” Aemond gave you a questionable look, as the last conversation with your father ended on the mutual understanding that he could still be alive, “I know he’s dead.” 

“Why would you say such a thing?” Aemond placed one of his feet on the steps as if to walk up to you, but saw you take a step back. Your flinch looked as though it slapped him, for he took his foot off the step and moved his hands behind his back to show he was not a threat. His eye seemed to flit about your room with nervousness. 

“You told me there were no reports of humans in that area in the last century and I was stupid to believe it.” Your voice was just above a whisper and cracked by the end. It was not fair to accuse him of what you were thinking, but in your grief, you made stupid decisions. 

“I told you the truth of it. What would I gain by lying to you?” Aemond responded. 

“A victory. My father murdered by Cole then another human to use for a cure and then dispose of when the time comes. Once done, you can protect the elven kingdom and watch mine burn, as some kind of late victory from the Great War.” It was wrong to throw that at him, so terribly wrong; especially how he had poured his heart out to you on why such a war started. However, your mind was clouded with mismatched pieces of evidence that you struggled to string together coherently. 

A shift was made in Aemond’s continence, “You think this is some plot to destroy your kingdom? You accuse my good friend and ally of murder?”

“That day in the forest, when you saved me, you told me that every little thing is out to kill.” It felt so long since that day, but truly only a month ago. The way his sword was aimed at your neck came back into your mind, vivid and clear. He had only spared you, just slightly, and you were supposed to be thankful for it. Like not killing you was a gift. Perhaps, he should have just done the job and been rid of you. Now, the same look you gave him after such a threat was directed at you; confusion, shock, and a little bit of fear from Aemond. 

“There were plenty of times in which I could have killed you, but I didn’t. Now I know you are angry and confused but…” He paused and backed up, his eye darting around to not look at you, “I revealed parts of myself to you that…” His voice got caught in his throat.

“Words said in heat are often more destructive than battles.” It was a whisper, as if he was recalling it from a deep memory from his past. His hands tightened into fists and he leaned on the balls of his feet, “I have told you the truth as you are my friend. Let us not fight when tensions are high. We shall talk later.” 

You wanted to scream at him, to lug one of the pillows on your bed directly at his head. How could he be so reasonable? Gods, why was he so reasonable? You wanted confrontation. With it, you could get answers. However, all Aemond did was look at you. His face held traces of grief but still had pieces of reverence. It was heavy, the way he gazed upon you with such fondness and an equal amount of intense emotional pain.

Aemond nodded before swiftly turning to exit your room. His hair swerved with him. The sound of the door closing, bordering on a slam, was what broke you. Tears escaped your eyes and you had to hold up your body on the bed from collapsing. 

Clarity instantly washed over you in one giant wave. Aemond had been nothing but forthright with you – especially since he revealed the origin of his scar. He was rude at first, but there was a perfectly clear reason why. Yet, you had taken that and thrown it in his face. The wave of clarity that washed over you swept back into the ocean of your emotions, leaving behind a shell in the sand of your mind. 

The shell shined and held a simple truth within it. The answer to the one burning question that was always piqued when Aemond would look or talk to you. It always bugged you, that you could not find a reason why your heart would beat quicker and heat would wash over your face. 

You were falling in love. 

It was not what you expected. All your life, a simple path had been laid in your mind. Meet someone, gradually come to like them, and then eventually build the foundations of love. It would be calm and come slowly. There would be time to adjust to it. The motions of the ocean would gently lick at your feet as the tide rose over time. 

Yet, Aemond came and built up a storm; water eroding rock and pummeling the sand. While violent, his storm would never harm you, but you had just harmed him. You could not say you were in love, but there was no denying that it had begun to wrap you in its embrace. 

You shoved the items back under your pillow haphazardly and then moved quickly down the steps and toward your door. You needed to get out of that room – to get away from what just happened. You shakily walked down the dark stone hallways of the castle and towards the laboratory.

Here, you could think clearly and devise a plan to apologize to Aemond. 

You walked to the main study desk and rested your hands against the worn wood. You looked out at all of the items and ingredients laid on the surface, including some of the recent samples you collected from Lake Rosemagne. 

While looking at the ingredients that composed all your recent experiments, including the one that successfully halted the taint, all you could think about was what the book found in Cole’s room and the scouting record. Images of the pages moved across your vision when you had flipped through it. The page you had stopped on with the mortua terra flower and a crude sketch of Lake Rosemagne settled in you. 

Your eyes squinted as you took in all the items in front of you. There was a scratching at the back of your brain; an itch that got worse and worse. It was there, like the forgotten phrase on the tip of one’s tongue. There was an answer clawing at you through a murky haze. Your gaze moved from the vials of lakewater that were collected, then moved to the mortua terra flower, and then it drifted towards another table in the laboratory. 

In a small vase was the elf azure flower. It had been your preferred perfume scent when you came to this kingdom. There was always a vase full of them in the lab, you had made sure of it. You had noticed them growing in the forest when you came back from a short trip out to your home with Aemond. His words came to mind when you glanced at the budding flowers. 

Giēñagon syt se gīs.

Cure for the soul.

That was the elf superstition. Yet, wisdom oft comes from superstitious knowledge that had been passed down for longer than earth's memory. Like a shot arrow, an idea hit you like never before in your life. 

Of course.

Of course, it makes so much sense.

You had been correct in assuming that a cure would need two big components that cancel one another out. At first, it was the poison against poison, which only lasted for a few seconds. Then you tried using dark magic against itself, which halted the spread of the taint in both plant and body but was not a definite cure. What if you used another arena to fight in? Instead of using the infected host as a fighting ground for the potion to act against, would it not be worth it to have the fight be in the potion itself? 

The mortua terra plant against the elf azure flower. The mortua terra was a symbol of death, but the elf azure meant light. 

In Cole’s book, you saw a drawing of what looked like the outline of Lake Rosemagne with the mortua terra flower and a myriad of weird symbols and sketches. If you used the lake water as a base – for it is believed to have balancing powers – it would have to make some form of an impact as they were on opposite sides of the magic spectrum.

This was truly a new frontier for you, but you were determined to follow it through. You wasted no time in expertly assembling all of the ingredients you would need. Your hand grabbed a nearby stick to transfer the flame from one of the torches on the wall. You lit up the bottom portion of a holder for one of the empty cauldrons. Then you took a sample of water from Lake Rosemange and brought it to a calm simmer. 

You followed out with the rest of the ingredients that made the complete base for your last experiments that had been tweaked by Daeron to be stronger. The whole time, your hands had been shaking slightly and you had to take a few breaks to calm down. This morning and the day prior had been a whirlwind of emotions. They compounded in you, but you swallowed it all down to do your work. This was not a brew you wanted to mess up. 

The last step was the two flowers. You put on gloves to handle the mortua terra and plucked a few of the petals off of it, which gleaned a light purple in the dull torchlight.

Just as you were going to place them in the brew, the door to the laboratory opened. Your back was to it, but you could tell that this time in the mourning was around when Daeron would start his day and assumed he had come in.

“I’ve just had the biggest epiphany. It was all wrong, well, it was all correct as well. It's hard to explain, but I think using the water from Lake Rosemagne in combination with mortua terra and elf azure has the possibility of making real change,” You received no response, but truly it did not bother you. So much of your attention and energy was going into this. 

When the silence dragged on, you continued, “This just might work, Daeron. Gods, what if it does?” You plopped the dark petals in the water and went to reach for the azure. After, you would need to cut your hand. 

“I did not think you would figure it out so quickly.” It was not Daeron’s voice, but a deeper, more venomous one. You halted in your ministrations and turned around. There Cole stood with a look of wroth in his eyes. In his hands was his tome and a copy of the scouting papers. He had been in your room and you could not help but wonder just how often he had done that before.

He held up the items, “You think I'm stupid enough to not notice these went missing?” 

You swallowed hard and backed against the desk. There was no other means of escape for you except the other door on the other side of the room that led to the sick hall. However, its distance was just far enough that if Cole were to run he would get you before you could even call for help. 

“You said it, not I.” You spoke. There were a million scenarios that came into your head. Ways he would kill you, possibly knock you out to take you away and torture you. There was no happy ending – not even a tame one. His actions confirmed an underlying suspicion of yours. He not only was dabbling in the dark arts but had something to do with the taint. 

“You think you’re funny?” He stepped forward. 

“From time to time, I do have some good quips. What the hell were you doing in my room?” You confronted. On the inside, you were quaking like a leaf, but you could not show it. Cole would not see your fear. 

“I could ask you the same thing. This book was in my room.” Cole responded. You could not out Aegon as your accomplice, you could not stomach putting him at risk any more than he was for helping you. This was your burden, not his. He was only being a good friend. 

“What are you doing with a personal journal on dark magic?” You hit him back with that one. His gaze darkened and he dropped his held-up arm with the items still clutched feverishly. 

“I’ve told you before, humans should stop trifling in matters that do not concern them. Bad things can befall such… unsuspecting souls.” You could not tell what it was, but there was some underlying meaning beneath his words; a sick joke embedded in his malcontent. 

You were in danger. You could feel the imminent dread claw its way through your body. In the corner of your eye, there was a wooden box on the table that held a bunch of loose-leaf pieces of parchment, ink bottles, and quills. You and Daeron shared similar scattered minds and often needed to quickly jot things down and could not wait to find your journals lest the idea slipped from your mind. 

If you could grab that and throw it at him, it may give you enough time to run to the door and get away or at the very least scream for help in an area that may be heard. He seemed to catch on to your wandering eye and clue together what you were thinking.

In a split second, he dropped the items to run to you, but by then you had grabbed the box and thrown it at his face. The ink and flying parchment temporarily blinded him and you made for the door to the sick hall. 

After just a step, searing pain hit your side. You stumbled and stopped running, the air in your lungs having been knocked out by the force. You felt a weird mix of pain and numbness. Looking down, you could see the hilt of a dagger poking out from your side. Your shaking hands reached down to feel the escaping blood. You looked back up to see Cole with a curled sneer as he observed you.

Cole moved forward. You barely stumbled back by the time he used one hand to grip your throat and hold you in place while the other went to grasp the knife’s handle. 

“Your kind lives for so little, yet take so much.” He drove the knife further into you which caused you to cough violently at the intense anguish. Cole released his hold and you dropped to the ground among the strewn-out mess you made. All you could do was sob out, every ability to move your body had stopped.

He kneeled to be in your vision, “You will bleed out, just like your father.” 

Ice washed over you. He not only played a part in the creation of the taint, but he had murdered your father. Likely because he had been near Lake Rosemagne – one of the vital ingredients in the cure. It made you feel sick that he died simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

A genius who strived to make a difference by helping people had been killed by a coward. 

“You fucking bastard,” You coughed out. You made a futile attempt to move towards him, possibly hitting him, but it was difficult to even move. 

“Ah, but at least I’ll live. As an added benefit, it's laced with the taint.” Cole taunted. As if stabbing you was not enough, he had put some of the taint on it to be sure you would die. There was no limit nor measure of hate this elf would not cross. 

Another thought came to you. Aemond had been telling the truth and had no clue about your father's murder. Most of all, he had no inkling to Cole’s misdeeds. The closest member of his council was seeking to kill the world for reasons unknown to you. 

He will never know, you thought. This was it. You were dying. Cole pulled out the knife that had been stopping most of the blood flow. He then stood up and made his way to the exit, giving you no more words. 

The fucking coward could not even see it through before leaving the scene. 

You needed to warn Aemond and everyone else. You needed to pass on the idea for the cure. As much as you wanted to get Cole for what he had done to your father, that held little importance when compared to the rest of the realm. Your hand waved around the floor to find a quill. You scrambled for some parchment and dragged the tip of the quill through a blot of spilled ink. Your hands could not still, but you wrote with a frantic nature as you bled out on the ground. There would be no time to write out a step-by-step guide, but some hints would do. 

Mother’s flower, 

Lake water, 

Every little thing, 

You hoped it would be understood by Aemond. You could not risk outright writing that Cole was a traitor for fear that he would see it and immediately hide the evidence. With this, at least there was a chance. The flower that Aemond’s mother adored, the azure, in combination with the lake water was the key additives to the previous experiment. The final line was more personalized, hinting at the words of advice he had given you – aimed at exposing Cole. Your vision became darker as spots clouded it.

He would piece it together, you knew he would. 

You turned around to lay on your back and stretched out your arms. The parchment you had written in was clutched in your hand. You closed your eyes and waited. This was not how you ever thought you would go out. Like many, you had hoped it would happen at the end of a long and satisfying life in which you went to sleep and never woke up. 

You were too young for this, but alas, Lyra was also young and your father was too kind for the deaths they faced. 

Nothing was ever fair. You took in one last breath; a slow inhale where you could smell the floral scent of the azure flowers that filled the room. Shortly after, you exhaled your last breath. With it, your consciousness fled.

Chapter 17: The Winds of War Preview

Again, that was not unusual. However, when he knocked again with a little more force to make sure he was heard, Aemond was surprised by the slow creaking it made as it opened. It was ajar, which was unusual. His fingers gripped the handle and he pushed it open. His gaze was lowered and noticed the strewn about papers at first. His brow furrowed as he scanned the area further until… 

Gods no… 

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[carminecherry]

THE LAST TRAIN | mikey sano

this is part two of the series kill the lights

⇝ PAIRING: timeskip!biker!mikey sano x fem!reader

⇝ SERIES SYNOPSIS: after moving by yourself to tokyo, you black out at a party and wake up with a new friend. as she sweeps you up in her fast-paced city life, you feel yourself falling deeper and deeper for her mysterious brother. but something dark is brewing in the city. as his past threatens to resurface, mikey must fight not only physical enemies but the mental battle of his feelings for you. he can't resist you , but could he ever forgive himself if something happened to you? he'll love you selfishly and protect you savagely.

⇝ PART TWO LENGTH: 7.5k words

⇝ PART TWO WARNINGS: Alcohol, suggestive content (18+ minors do not interact):

all characters are 20+; Alternate Universe! Canon Divergent. a friend from university invites you to his house party. as the drinks flow, you slip into a pleasant buzz. that is until a particular masked man makes his appearance, unveiling himself.

⇝ AUTHOR'S NOTE: some world building and character introductions. I upload to AO3 first and i'm slowly but surely cross posting here. iiif you can't wait and want more, check out my AO3. more chapters coming soon! keep an eye on the tags and stay safe! <3

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT.

You glanced over at your illuminated phone screen, soapy dinner dishes in hand and a podcast playing over your headphones. The name flashing on your screen made the corners of your mouth turn up. You and Yuuki had been chatting a little more here and there. The tone of your conversations confirmed your sense that this was purely friendship with no nuance or hidden intention. Not overthinking the messages anymore allowed you to relax. You rinsed the bubbles from your hands and wiped them on your work pants.

Unlocking your phone, the message read, 

“Party tomorrow night starting @9:00. Bring something to share.” 

You liked his message, sliding over to your calendar app to put in the details. You typed up a quick message to Emma, 

“Hey, are you going to Yuuki’s party?” 

As you were typing, a bubble with 3 dots appeared from Emma’s side. You hit send right as you received a message from Emma saying, 

“Yuuki’s tomorrow night?” 

You cracked a smile, happy the two of you were on the same page. You liked each other’s messages in confirmation.

Tomorrow was Friday, the welcome end to a very long week. The bookstore and cafe were enough to make ends meet but business was slow. Moreover, you were trying your damnedest to get a job as an interior designer. The competition in the city was fierce and your sanity and sleep were suffering. One more rejection letter might tip you over the edge.

As long as the bills are paid on time you could push through. You slid out of your work clothes, discarding the garments into the washing machine. Pulling on a light summer night set, it took the remainder of your energy to perform your skincare routine and brush your teeth. You practically fell into bed, the promise of a party conjuring imaginative scenarios in your mind as you drifted off to sleep.

***

Work had been uneventful. This was arguably worse as it meant you had been counting down the minutes until you could clock out. You had spent hours listlessly tapping on the counter with your nails. It had been a solo shift which meant you didn’t have anyone to keep you company.

You had a bad habit of getting lost in your imagination, your attention swallowed up in the pages of whatever book caught your attention.  A few uncomfortable conversations with your coworker Shinji about “ignoring customers” had left you feeling uneasy about reading on the clock. Luckily you were working the book-side of the shop today which meant you could leave work after counting the drawer and locking up. 

The minutes ticked down and the shop remained empty. You practically cartwheeled over to the door to flip the sign to “closed.” With trained fingers you count down the drawer; perfectly even. You shouted a farewell to the barista as she mopped the cafe floor. Pausing, she waved goodbye and you were on your way out. She’s a new hire and you had wanted to chat with her during the shift but had stayed dutifully at your counter. 

You had made it home in record time to change and freshen up your makeup. Last time you had felt underdressed, so you decided you wanted to show up and show out tonight. Yuuki’s a fashion guy so why the hell not. You check your outfit and makeup one last time and then you’re hustling out of the door. 

You stopped at the convenience store outside of the station and bought your “something to share”. Or, in this case, things to share. Hopefully a bottle of Jack and a 2L of Diet Coke would suit everyone’s taste. You cradle the bottles in your arms and make the train ride to Yuuki’s apartment in the city. You do your best to ignore the eyes on you, at least you’re giving them something to look at.

It only takes 20 minutes before you’re being buzzed into Yuuki’s building and riding the smooth elevator up 15 floors. There’s no mystery about which room is his. A pulsing beat is already vibrating the walls and sleek black door situated at the end of the hall. You wondered if there would be any noise complaints from the neighbors before banishing the thought from your mind. Tonight is about letting loose and relieving stress, not being the fun police. Tonight, it’s not your problem. 

You move to adjust the bottles to one arm, freeing up a hand to knock on the door. Before your knuckles make contact it swings open, startling you. A large figure is backing out, calling back to the guests already inside. At full height, your head reaches just between his shoulders. Broad shoulders that were rapidly on a collision course with your face. 

“So, two more 6 packs, some more bags of ice, and- Oh!” He dodges you at the last minute as you sidestep straight into the wall; a failed attempt to move out of his way. “Hey, sorry about that.” He steps back to give you more room. He’s even taller when he faces you. Long, silky, black hair thrown up in a messy updo. His eyes are sharp and a unique rusty-brown color that are highlighted by his thick, dark lashes. The man knew how to dress too.

He moves again to hold the door for you as you try to play off your wall collision. Before you can enter, another man casually strolls through the open door, “If you think too hard you might hurt yourself, B. I’ve got the list; you just need to carry everything.” The dark-haired man, “B”, makes a face at the figure who stands a couple inches shorter than him. 

His hair is bleached in chunks and styled with a slight wave. It’s one of those trendy, choppy haircuts that only a small percent of the population can pull off successfully. It makes him look like a vogue model. Which he could be. This man is pretty. His features are softer than the other’s. He has plump lips, round cheeks, but his eyes were the most captivating. They were large and an interesting shade of yellow-hazel. A perfect beauty mark under his left eye. Despite his cherubic features there was a deviousness to those eyes. Another hint that he may not be as angelic as he appears is the massive neck tattoo peeking out of the collar of his shirt.

“You’re paying though, Kazu, and I expect a tip.” B sneered. His canines have a sharp snaggle to them that is unique and… Attractive. “I always tip the help.” Kazu responded nonchalantly before he turned those eyes to you, looking you up and down obviously. “Get out of the way so she can go in.” B says, pulling his companion from the doorway. 

“Sorry about him, I guess you can’t buy manners.” B quips to you, earning him an elbow to the ribs from Kazu. You make your best attempt at a natural smile and manage, “It’s all good, thanks.” You duck into the party, a little out of your element after seeing such good-looking men.

You hear, “Who is she ?” in a not-quite whisper between the pair as they walk from the closing door. The intended meaning of the comment is not clear and acts as a big motivator to get a tall glass of literally anything ASAP. 

The apartment is cast in low mood lights set to smoothly fade to the beat of the music. There was a haziness to the air. Did he have a smoke machine or something? If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were at a high-end club and not a college buddy’s house party.

You make your way into the spacious living room that is already thrumming with bodies. You set your “somethings” on the table and pull out your phone to send a quick message to Emma about her ETA, social anxiety already sinking its claws into you. Before you can hit send, two hands clap down on your shoulders.

“BOO!” Emma exclaims as you whip around to face her, startled for the second time that evening. She laughs, “She’s so cute when she’s scared.” Tossing the comment over her shoulder to the man standing behind her. Draken, the biker from the other day, her boyfriend. His features are hard to read but you notice a slight tick upwards at the corner of his mouth. 

In a flurry, Emma is on you, pulling you into a big hug and spinning you around. “It’s so good to see you again! Thank god you’re here, it was turning into a total sausage fest.” She pouts, pushing you to arms length. “It’s good to see you too.” You smile. She looks you up and down, surveying your outfit before giving you two thumbs up and mouthing, ‘you look great! Wow!’.  You return the compliment with  dramatic hand movements to indicate she , in fact, is the one who looks great.  

You lean conspiratorially towards her, a glint in your eye, “Speaking of sausage fest, I just saw two absolute SMOKESHOWS when I came in!” You say in an excited whisper. The gossipy tone that can only be achieved between women. Draken chokes a bit on his drink and turns away from the two of you. His reaction draws your attention before Emma’s twinkling laugh brings it back to her. 

Grabbing you by the arm and swaying with you she laughs out, “Don’t let them hear you say that~ Their heads will get too big. I guess it’d be fine if it’s Baji, but Kazu is already insufferable.” Your eyes go wide, “Wait! Do you know them?! Uhg of course you do” You bring your hand to your head. “When will it be my turn?” you whine with faux drama. “God is so unfair in the gifts he gives to his children.” Emma gives your arm a few playful slaps leaning into you while stifling a laugh, the action drawing the gaze of a few of the other party-goers. 

Draken further turns his back to the two of you and you notice a slight bounce in his shoulders. “You have to stop. It’s too early and I’m too sober.” Emma manages. “Come on, let’s get a drink.” With that, she guides you to the refreshments table and sets to pouring two drinks.

Living in the city, you have gotten used to seeing more beautiful people than in the suburbs. But as you scanned the room, Yuuki’s apartment looked more like a runway show than a “bring something to share” house party. You thank yourself for taking the extra time to get dressed up. The extra eyes on you during your train ride had been worth it. Fears of being overdressed swiftly quelled. Emma gave a quick speech about friendship. A plastic tap of your cup as a ‘cheers’ and you're bringing the drink to your lips. 

You have to hold back a fully-body shiver as what smells like a fruity drink tastes like straight strawberry vodka. You swallow hard, the drink making your throat and chest feel warm. You turn to look at Emma who is sipping her drink like juice. You brave a few more sips before looking into your cup. You already feel like you’re getting buzzed and you gauged the remainder would spell your death. You actually want to remember tonight. 

You attempt to discreetly set your cup on the table and move to pour your own drink.  But Emma quickly notices and boos quietly at your mixology, You make your way back to the pair, a more reasonably portioned Jack and Coke in hand. 

“Not a fan of Strawberry Absolut?” Draken offers as you rejoin them. Surprised to hear the stoic man engage you first, you reply in a voice slightly too loud, “Not a fan of not remembering things.” Responding with a nod the man picks up your abandoned cup, pouring it into his. He takes a big sip and in your mind you say a silent prayer for him. Given his size, he’d probably be okay. 

Emma jumps in with a pout, “Well I LOVE strawberry Absolut. What even is that?” She asks tapping the rim of her cup to yours. “It’s a Jack and Coke.” To which she scoffs, “That’s like an old man drink.” “At least it’s a drink and not one big shot.” you quip back to which she takes an exaggeratedly big swig of her drink. The three of you chat there for a while. Your cup empties as time fades in and out like the party lights casting the walls with shadows and silhouettes. After bottoming out, you refill your drink. 

On your way back to the pair you survey the room again, the crowd growing in the time since you’d arrived. Emma’s attention moves with yours. “Say, do you know anyone else here?” you ask. Her eyes scanned the crowd, “Hmmm, most of these people are posers hoping to rub shoulders with actual cool people.” Emma’s candid take almost had you spitting your drink out of your nose. You have difficulty imagining these model-level gorgeous men and women, most of which are dressed head-to-toe in designer clothes, as posers. 

They carried themselves with an air of confidence that made them utterly unapproachable to you. You laugh a little, appreciating her brutal honesty. Her eyes turn to you as she continues, “I really just know the boys that Mikey and Draken hang out with and Yuuki, of course. Most of these other people aren’t worth the time.” Speaking of, “Oh, is he here tonight? Mikey?” Your curiosity gets the better of you.

For the last few days your mind had wandered back to the dark figure on his bike. The way his masked gaze had put you in a near flight or fight response. Truthfully, you were also curious what was under the helmet. If he’s related to Emma, he was sure to also be a solid 10. AND he has the biker thing going for him. The image of him in that leather jacket that had been tight in all the right places appeared in your mind; an image that you’d spend a lot of time with over the last week. As if in response to the memory, the familiar feeling of eyes locking onto you sweeps over you; as strong as the first time. The hairs on the back of your neck raise.

“He gave some half-assed reply when I told him about it earlier.” Emma shrugged, pouring herself yet another drink. “He knows it’s happening so he might show up.” You knew it though. He was here. As if on cue, you turn to face the now open apartment door. Three figures filled its frame. The taller figure, Baji, carried three heavy looking bags and was shoving the smaller figure, Kazu, who was noticeably carrying nothing. Kazu seemed to spit back an insult, his furrowed brow indicated they were bickering. The 3rd figure was slightly shorter than Baji but had a presence that made him seem larger. There was no mystery, that was Mikey.

It was your first time seeing him without his helmet on. You must say, your imagination had not done him justice. He had bleached hair like honey. His bangs are up and out of his face while the rest of his hair curved in gentle waves, ending just below his jawline. The light from the hallway trickled into the hazy apartment, casting his locks in a gilded glow. It almost looked like a halo. 

His eyes were different though. He was too far to see any real detail, but they were dark. Dark in a way that gave stark contrast to those of the pretty blonde sipping her drink next to you. What is gentle on her face is defined and sharp on his. He had a hollowness to his cheeks that made his cheekbones stand out strikingly in the low light. 

You’ve seen many beautiful people in your life, more after moving to the city. Fuck, half of them you see in this room tonight. But there was something special about him. He stood in front of the pair, his eyes locked with yours as he stepped through the threshold. 

Yuuki appeared as if conjured from thin air and brought Mikey in for a firm handshake in greeting. You were pulled back to reality by Emma whispering over your shoulder, “Speak of the devil.” Draken leaned down to whisper something to the blonde before moving past the two of you to greet his friend. 

You turn to Emma, eyes wide. You mouth dramatically, ‘That’s your brother?!’ She rolls her eyes and rests her head on your shoulder, “For better or worse, that’s my big brother. I’m kind of surprised he came.” You adjust to offer the softer part of your shoulder to her, turning your gaze back to the group that just entered. You jump slightly as you lock eyes with Mikey once more, your heart flutters and you quickly break eye contact, cheeks warming at being caught. 

She pulls back at the movement. Her honey eyes scanning you with an intensity, you note, she and her brother share. A devious glint appears in her eyes, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. She turns from you with intent and pours a tall cup of, you lean slightly to see. Yup, straight Absolut Strawberry vodka over ice. She tops her cup off as well before she turns back to you with a mischievous look, handing you the cup.

“Emma, please, you’re going to kill me. I feel my organs shutting down.” you whine. “Go give it to Mikey. Like me, he has excellent taste. I’ve gotta go to the bathroom real quick.” The sarcastic comment you were loading about her “excellent taste” disappears as you turn quickly, panic flashing across your skin. “I’ll go with you, girls’ code.” You offer. “Nah, just go, I’ll be right back.” 

She turns you by the shoulders and gives you a nudge of encouragement and thumbs up before disappearing in the crowd of bodies. Traitor. You walk towards the group of tall men. This is your worst nightmare. You distract yourself, the smell of strawberry bringing your gaze to the cup in your hand. A smile plays at your lips. If you ignored the fact it was straight vodka, the contrast of a scary biker sipping on a sweet, strawberry drink tickled the part of your brain that managed absurdist humor. 

The distance was closed too quickly. You were lost in your imagination and hadn’t game-planned anything in way of an introduction. You look up to meet the gaze of Mikey. You stood there, frozen. The conversation of the group fizzling out around you. You feel eyes on you and your face begins to heat. You extend a cup to him. Realizing it’s the wrong cup you quickly withdraw and extend the other, splashing a bit of liquid out with the too-quick motion. Anxiety is clawing at your chest.

He looks from you to the cup and back to you. You realize how odd it must be to be offered a drink with no way of introduction. You attempt, “Emma…” You clear your throat. “This is from Emma...” You’re drowning. At this point you can feel you’re beet red. Yuuki steps in, placing a hand on your shoulder and with a laugh he supplies, “This is my friend, Y/N. We went to university together. She just moved back to the city.” Bless him. Baji jumps in first, volunteering, “I’m Baji, it’s nice to meet you.” He seems polite, sweet despite his appearance; towering stature, sharp features and all. 

“Kazutora, but cute girls like you can call me Kazu.” he says, leaning in to invade your bubble slightly. What a flirt. “Don’t be a dick, K.” Baji says, putting out an arm to push Kazutora back to a standing position. Sensing tension forming between the two, you offer, “It’s nice to meet you two.” “It seems you already know Draken.” Yuuki continues. Draken tilts his cup in acknowledgement. “Mikey.” the final figure states, taking the drink from your hand to finalize the introduction. 

Yuuki clocks the beverage immediately and offers, “How about we get you something nicer. I’ve been saving some Patron for the night you finally made it to one of my little parties.” He gestures dismissively to the sea of bodies behind him. Little party? You survey the room to confirm he was in fact talking about this full blown rager. How humble of him you think, sipping your drink. “This will do.” Mikey says with a definite tone, signaling the end of discussion. He takes a sip from the cup like it’s water and not straight liquor. These siblings are built differently. 

Speaking of, Emma appears behind Mikey and jumps on his back in a sneak attack hug. “Heeeeyyyy Miiiiikeeeeyyyy~” She drawls. His face softens in a flash and you see the resemblance more clearly. Now that you’re closer you can get a better look. His lips have sharp corners with a fullness like his sister’s. His eyes are different though, his are more angled and a slightly deeper shade like whiskey or amber. They share the same thick lashes though. He catches you staring again and you flick your gaze to the left, only to see Draken who eyes you in a knowing way. You avert your gaze to the safety of your cup. 

Mikey swings his sister around to set her down in front of him. “Hey, Em. Good to see you’re having fun.” She nods enthusiastically. Finding Draken without looking, she leans back into his tall figure. He drapes his arms over her before saying, “Y/N works at that old cafe we used to kick it at.” This causes a stir in the group.

“Oh no way! How nostalgic.” Baji says. “Huh, I thought they closed that place after what happened.” Kazutora said in a puzzled tone. “Seems like they rebuilt and renovated. They even added a bookstore.” Draken offered. This seemed to satisfy the former who shrugged, “Hopefully it’s less of a dump in that case.” This comment earned him a slap to the chest from Baji. Kazutora turned his eyes to you, “No offense.” You wave a hand in a ‘none taken’ motion. “It was rustic ” Baji said, lacing the word venomously. You get the impression this was an argument they’ve had before. “More like rusty I felt like I needed a tetanus shot every time we went.” Kazutora bit back. 

There was a lot to unpack. This was the first time you heard any history about the cafe. Admittedly, you chose to work there purely on vibes and the fact the hourly rate was above average. Your nosy side wanted to know more. “What happened there?” You ask innocently. All eyes turned to Mikey conspicuously. Maybe the question wasn’t as innocuous as you thought. 

Mikey shrugged, “There was an incident. The place was nearly torn to the ground afterwards. I’m glad to hear they could rebuild and salvage.” It was a non-answer with no real points to ask follow-up questions without giving away your nosiness. The delivery was also not one that left anything up for discussion. You simply nod, shoving the prodding questions down.

Emma piped in, eyes closed, “We should go back~ For old times sake~” Her words were blending together. Her drink must be hitting her harder than she anticipated. Mikey gave Draken a look which was returned with a nod. Wordlessly, Draken took the drink dangling from Emma’s hand which earned him some soft booing before Emma resigned herself to snuggling into his arms. You chimed in with, “If you come when I’m working I’ll sneak you guys some cafe goodies.” 

“How long do you plan to work there?” Yuuki asked, pulling you out of a daydream of the attractive group lounging in the cafe. A harmless enough question, but you felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness. You had momentarily forgotten where you were; this chic apartment packed with beautiful, rich people. Your gaze dropped to the floor as you replied, “Oh, you know. Until I can get a foot in the door at a company.” You realize you’re being vague, but you didn't want to risk betraying how lost you really felt. 

“You’ve got a show coming up, right?” You masterfully change the topic, shifting the spotlight to Yuuki. “Yeah, I’m working on the Autumn collection now.” Yuuki says, rubbing the back of his neck, telling the group more of the details as they engage him. Happy to have succeeded in avoiding that uncomfortable line of questioning, you look around, taking everyone in. Baji and Kazutora dip out of the conversation and seem to be bickering about something new on their phones, too quietly for you to pick up. 

Yuuki draws your attention again with a sweet smile. He says, “You should come.” You blink, nodding a ‘yes’, not entirely sure what you’ve agreed to. “Typical, Yuuki. Only inviting cute girls.” Kazutora teases, rejoining the conversation. You peer past him to see Baji pacing near the door, his phone pressed to his ear. 

Yuuki claps back at the accusation, “I’d invite you, but no doubt you’d end up acting like a damn dog.” “I’ll be good.” Kazutora whines playfully. “Ask Mitsuya then.” Yuuki dismisses, smirking at Kazu. Kazutora pouts. In that moment Emma lurches from Draken’s arms and throws up directly into the pot of a neatly pruned house plant. In a heartbeat, Draken is next to her, holding her hair back, eyebrows knitted in concern. Nearby party guests turn to see what’s happening. 

“Damn, Em, party foul.” Kazutora whoops sarcastically. Mikey gives him an icy glare that shuts Kazutora right up. Baji appears behind Mikey and whispers something in his ear. Mikey turns to respond and points between Kazutora and Baji, clearly giving some instruction before the pair are making a swift exit. Baji throws over his shoulder, “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Kazutora simply winks at you as the door shuts behind them.

You wave absently at the closed door before you hear a weak, “Y/N~.” You turn quickly and kneel on the other side of the pretty blonde, still hunched over the expensive-looking pot. You rub small circles into her back. Feeling like you’ve sobered up slightly. She turns to you and cutely says, “Oops.” You can smell the strawberry liquor on her breath. You let out a small laugh and look at Draken. 

“Alright babe, I think it’s time for us to get home.” He says in a voice as soft as velvet. “Nooooo~” She protests. “I wanna stay with Y/N~ The night is yooooung~” He scoops her up. She nuzzles her head into the crook of his neck, mumbling something incoherent. He whispers in a soothing voice, “I know, baby. I know” before standing.

He turns to Mikey and they share a look. He offers to Yuuki, “Sorry about your plant. I’ll take care of it.” Yuuki brushes it off, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen my fair share of party fouls and this doesn’t even make the list.” “I can attest to that.” You add, hoping to ease any guilt Emma may be feeling. 

Her bobbing head and lazy smile give you the sense that she doesn’t have a care in the world. Draken stoops slightly to whisper something to Mikey who simply nods. With that, Draken carries a very sweet, very drunk Emma from the apartment. Before the door closes, Emma peeks her head over Draken’s shoulder and waves a goodbye to you. 

Everything had happened so fast, your senses dulled by the alcohol. It’s then that you realize your group of seven had dwindled to three. You turn just in time to see Mikey slide something into Yuuki’s pocket. You look at your friend with curious eyes. Yuuki’s laugh is strained but he takes no action to challenge the man before him. You see movement in the distance and notice a guest flagging Yuuki down. Your heart jumps into your throat as Yuuki too notices the man. 

 Yuuki welcomes the distraction. And with a, “thanks for coming, enjoy the party you two” is making his way across the room. You stand there, feeling abandoned. You chance a glance at the tall blonde standing next to you. He notices. Your mind goes blank. He holds you captive under his gaze. As if reading your mind and finding it empty, Mikey finally breaks the silence with, “Let’s sit down.” You blink, coming back to yourself. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any-” But Mikey is already on the move. 

The crowd of people naturally parts for him. He caught the eye of some guests but stares were quickly withdrawn. You trailed after him, grateful that you didn't have to elbow your way through the crowd. An edge of claustrophobia made a bid for attention in your fuzzy brain as the mass of bodies closed behind you. 

Absorbing the two of you and cutting off your way back to the door. Mikey stops abruptly, causing you to bump into his back. His back is muscular, like walking straight into a wall. You maneuver your cup to avoid a spill. He doesn’t seem to register the collision. His head turns to scan the room, locking onto something in the distance. And he’s off again, forcing you to quicken your pace to catch up.  

The crowd parts to reveal an elegant lounge sofa. The pair sitting nearest to you were deep in their flirtations. The woman is in a revealing cobalt satin dress, a dramatic slit trailing up her leg to end at her hip. Her long, chocolate hair falling in a curtain around her and her partner’s face. She’s sitting in the lap of a well-groomed man. He’s wearing a dark patterned suit and a black button-down shirt, though most of the buttons are already undone. 

The man’s hand rested high up on the woman’s leg, kneading small circles into the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. One of her hands was stroking a pattern into the silky material barely covering his chest, the other running through his short, dyed blue hair. He has an interesting design shaved into the side of his head that her fingers trace absently. It started at the temple and twisted behind an ear punctuated by several piercings. Their faces barely inches apart, conversation clearly hot and heavy. 

The PDA makes your face feel warm and you look away. Getting the feeling you were invading their privacy. Though, this didn’t seem to bother Mikey who stood, unmoving, over the couple. Perhaps noticing the shift in energy, the man’s gaze is ripped from the woman on his lap. Immediately the man is on his feet, moving to hold the woman close to his side. She seems confused, but what objections may have been spoken die when she sees the blonde man before her. 

“Mikey! I didn’t know you’d be here. It’s good to see you m-man.” The man spoke quickly, stumbling over the end of his statement as his eyes swept over you. Mikey sized the two of them up. You couldn’t help but notice how the woman adjusts herself under his gaze, angling to give a better view of her chest to the blonde. 

Her boldness surprises you, given she has the arm of the handsome man whose bones she was about to jump still wrapped around her waist. You weren’t the only one to notice, as the grip around her waist tightened. Her mouth twitched mischievously, as if a goal had secretly been accomplished. 

“Hakkai.” the blonde responded with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Turning his sole focus to the man. You too looked at him, his eyes a pretty shade of blue. He has thick lower lashes that are heavy and give him a permanently sleepy look. You wondered if he had dyed his hair to perfectly match his irises on purpose. You see now that he has a large scar over the right side of his mouth that twists slightly as he talks. The scar took nothing away from his handsomeness. If anything it made his appearance unique, hotter.

The man, Hakkai, smiled sheepishly. “Here, have a seat.” Offering him the spot he had just occupied. “We’re actually going to head out.” He says leaning into the woman at his side suggestively. At this, the woman stops undressing Mikey with her eyes and returns her attention to the blue-haired man, giving him a sultry laugh. Mikey’s face is unreadable. 

The couple walk around Mikey who doesn’t move for them. The woman brushes against him and in a voice dripping with honey says, “Bye bye, Mikey.” He doesn’t acknowledge the advance. Instead, turning to Hakkai, “Monday.” He says, emotionless. The other man freezes, “Monday.” He confirms, not meeting Mikey’s eyes. With this, Mikey nods and waves them off. The pair disappear in the crowd. Mikey sinks into the plush sofa, brushing off the parts of his body the woman had touched. Seeing you still standing, he pats the spot next to him. You sit, eager to split from the crowd, head spinning with questions. 

You run your hands over the lush velvet to calm yourself, taking in the room from your seated position. The modern lighting fixtures, not currently in use, hang high on the lofted ceiling. The dark furniture devoured what little illumination was being cast from the party lights. The silver accents twinkled prettily. 

You scanned the bodies in the crowd, form fitting suits and dresses with the occasional designer logo popping out of the mass. Your gaze drifted to your left, meeting a pair of amber eyes now alarmingly close to your face. You hadn’t realized you were swaying, leaning into the warmth of the body next to you. You snap back to reality, the proximity causing you to abruptly lean back. Some of the brown liquid spilling from your cup . “You’re pretty clumsy, huh.” He commented. “Yeah, and you have a staring problem.” You quipped back. The silence that followed signaled the lighthearted nature of your jab hadn’t landed.

You busied yourself, drying off your lap. By some miracle you managed not to get any liquid on the sofa that surely cost a month or two of your rent. “So… Bookstore.” “So… Bikes.” The dry statements hung in the air. You offer, “So, I don’t know anything about bikes. Do you like, maintain it yourself?” “Yeah, something like that…” He replies. The silence that follows makes you squirm. 

You feel like the undulating mass of people is about to swallow you whole. Reaching your limit, you rise, “...Well, it was nice to meet you... I hope Emma feels better. I’d better leave if I’m going to catch the last train.” You lie. You hadn’t checked the time for awhile. If you were more sober, this fact would have worried you. 

“I like bikes.” Mikey says. “…That’s nice.” you reply, shifting your weight between your feet. “Working on something, building it from nothing with your hands. It’s nice to have control that way. When something breaks, I know I can fix it. If I mess it up, I know it’s my fault.” He says thoughtfully. You return to your seat, Mikey’s crumb of vulnerability being snatched up. 

“So, how long have you been into them, bikes?” He pauses, responding, “I guess since middle school.” It takes a moment for you to key into the math, “And what got you into them?” “My brother did.” A hollowness to his voice. “Oh, that’s cute.” The word was one that rarely described him. “Cute?” He repeats. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, I guess I’m like picturing you playing with motorcycle figures or something.” “Not figures. I started riding when I was in middle school.” He says flatly. Maybe he did have a sense of humor. “So, what, were you like a 12 year old biker?” You tease. “Yes.” His tone is unchanging. “Stop playing. That’s, like, super illegal.” “Yeah, I guess it was.” He says under his breath a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So what, were you in a little biker gang or something?” “Not little.” He said, sipping his drink. Was he being serious? The conversation petered out. 

“Well, I for one, know nothing about bikes.” You say, hoping to fan the flames a little longer. “Wanna learn?” The question caught you off guard. He hadn’t said it in a teasing way. “Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah that actually sounds really cool!” You say, excitement unmasked. To your surprise, he rises from the sofa. You look around before you mirror the action, catching up to the blonde before he’s absorbed into the crowd.

You trailed behind him like before. The beat of the music hummed pleasantly on your skin, the sensation mingling with the warmth of the liquor from your drink. You made your way to the door and let him hold it open for you as the two of you exited. 

***

Yuuki’s eyes trailed after the two figures who had surreptitiously made their exit. A silver pair matches his. The handsome man next to him hums, “How indecent, Mikey. Making us all watch your foreplay.” He teases, bringing his cup to his lips. “Is that what that was?” Yuuki asks sarcastically. The awkward interaction of his friend and the blonde not conjuring the same image as the icy-white haired man.

“If you knew him.” The man says with a smile, leaning into the body of the man next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Either way, it’ll be interesting to see how it plays out.” Yuuki leans into the man’s touch. “Indeed.” He says with a soft smile. “Back to the festivities, darling, your adoring fans await.” The white haired man says, giving Yuuki a peck on the cheek. The romantic gesture goes unnoticed by the inebriated crowd.  “They can wait a little longer, Mitsuya.” Yuuki says in a low tone, bringing a hand up to toy with the silver earring hanging from the ear of his partner, stealing a proper kiss as the party continues around them.

***

 You stood next to the tall blonde, waiting for the elevator. The cup in your hand is nearing its end, the dangers of senselessly sipping. The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to welcome you to the mirrored space. Entering, you steady yourself on the hand rail. Using the reflective surface, you check your makeup and fix some smudged eyeliner. Mikey hits the button for the ground floor. With a ‘ding’ the two of you are descending.

You turn your attention to the blonde in front of you, doing your best to be discreet, taking in the view of his back. The fabric of his shirt is thin and taut over his muscled shoulders. There is a pretty shimmer the way it catches the low light of the elevator. You see the taper of his waist and how the dress pants accentuate his long legs among other things.

 “And I’m the one with the staring problem.” You tear your gaze from his back to see him clearly watching you in the reflective surfaces of the mirrored walls. You’ve been caught yet again, red blooming across your cheeks. He snickers.

Before you can defend yourself with a snarky comeback, the doors open with another ‘ding’ on the ground floor. He strides with intention out of the sliding doors and rounds the corner. Again, you have to quicken your pace to keep up. As you turn, you see him circling the bike from the other day. It's midnight black and glossy. The shine is the only thing that gives away its presence on the unlit street. 

He sets his cup down on the barrier between the sidewalk and shrubbery. Y ou stand there, admiring the vehicle before he beckons you over. He points to the bike, “This is a motorcycle , AKA, a bike ” You blink. Is he messing with you? “This is the seat . You sit on it.” He holds up the sleek helmet and taps on the top. Drawing out the words he says, “ Hel-met .” Your jaw dropped, a wide smile spread across your face. He was messing with you.

You decide to play along, bringing your unoccupied hand to your ear, leaning towards him, “What? Hel … Sorry, one more time?” His face is stoic but you see his eyes light up. “Helmet. It protects your head. Like this.” He wrestles the safety wear over your head before you can move away. You try to fight off the headwear in vain, protesting, “No~ my hair! My makeup!” He bites back a laugh, one side of his mouth being pulled up before it’s covered by a hand. Huffing, you pull the helmet off, cradling it in your arm. You pout. “And did you really just mansplain a helmet?”

“You might want to keep it on,” he says, fighting his crooked smile. “Even if you had left earlier, the trains stopped running about an hour ago.”  He seats himself on the vehicle. “Hop on, I’ll drop you off at home.” Warning bells cut through your tipsy brain fog. You heard your parent’s voices lecturing you about the dangers of motorcycles, and strangers for that matter. As if sensing your hesitation he adds, “Emma will kill me if she finds out I left you stranded at the party. I’m sure she’ll feel bad enough already that she had to leave early. That and the hangover she’s about to have tomorrow.” 

Remembering Emma eased your nerves slightly. Nonetheless, your grip tightened, making the cheap plastic cup in your hand pop slightly from the pressure. That reminded you, “You’ve been drinking tonight, do you really think you should be driving.” With this, he rises from the bike, walking over to his discarded cup. He gives it a hefty slosh around before presenting the contents to you. It was nearly full. “As much as I love strawberry, I don’t really like drinking at parties.” “Real party person, huh.” You shoot back, your last real hang-up flying out the window. 

“Gotta stay sharp.” He says pouring his drink into the bushes. He moves to take your cup to do the same. Before he can, you finish it in one shot, needing the liquid courage. He raises his hands, backing off as you look around for a place to discard your cup. 

Damn, you’re eternally mystified by how clean the city can be despite there being no trash cans. Seeing this, he swipes the cup from your hand, stacking it in his own before crushing them with a satisfying crunch. He discards them in the bushes, earning a disgruntled noise from you. “Someone will clean it up.” He dismisses moving back to take his position on the bike, the engine turning over. “No one would have to clean it up if you threw it away properly.” “Just keeping your hands clean, darling. Leave the dirty work to me.” He says, a tone of sarcasm peeking through. 

You huff, pulling on the helmet to cover the blush spreading across your cheeks. You climb on to the back of the bike, unsure how to situate yourself. After a moment of you adjusting, trying not to sit too close to the blonde, he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you flush to his back. It’s warm. The thin fabric is like a second skin.

“Hold on or you’ll fall off” he says seriously. Thank god you were behind him, in the safety of the helmet. You could feel your ears turning red. “R-Right.” You feel yourself getting cold feet. “Hey, you know, I never said goodbye to Yuuki.” You ramble. “I mean, you can go up if you want, but I have a feeling he’s busy playing the gracious host.” Mikey responds. “Yeah… Yeah, I guess I can just text him.” You say mostly to yourself. 

“Hey, we can just call a taxi if you’re uncomfortable. I don’t mind waiting with you.” You visualize the cost of a taxi at this time of night and that’s much scarier than riding on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle. “No. No. It’s okay.” You say, wrapping your other arm around him, signaling you were ready. 

“Where should I drop you off?” “Near the 7/11 next to the station, the one with that awful statue.” You say, steadying your voice. You feel him rev the engine before you hear it. The thrum sends fireworks of adrenaline shooting through you. You tighten your grip on the figure in front of you. “Nervous?” he teases, chuckling. The vibration mixes with the engine. “N-No.” You sputter. “You’re a bad liar.” He replies. Without another word, the two of you peel off into the night.

[all-mirth-no-matter]

Time After Time | Chapter Eleven

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader, Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character

Summary: You join the Shelbys for Christmas Eve dinner.

Warning: language, alcohol, smoking, ethnic slur, heavy fluff, probably bad retelling of Greek history don’t come at me

ao3 link | catch up on tumblr here

Chapter 11: Dazed & Confused

I bet you know just what you’re doing. You’re not the type that’s used to losing. First you build me up, then with just a touch, leave me here in ruins. Something ‘bout your eyes, I can’t even walk in a straight line, under the influence. Oh, I’ve been dazed and confused, from the day I met you. Yeah, I lost my head, and I’d do it again. Either I’ve seen the light, or I’m losing my mind. There’s something ‘bout you, that’s got me dazed and confused.   — Dazed & Confused, Ruel

God you felt so stupid. It wasn’t like you were a stranger to this house — hell, even a stranger to having dinner at this house. But after meeting Tommy, it didn’t feel like just having dinner at a friend’s place anymore. Would this nervous feeling ever go away?

You’d gone all out for this special occasion, with Ada’s help after you’d expressed your nerves. She’d been far too giddy for your liking over your anxiety. But you let her take you shopping that morning and helped you tame your hair and even refrained from fighting her when she shoved a deep red lipstick into your hands after claiming that it was too dark for her to wear. 

Your hair had to be re-managed after your shift at the pub that afternoon. Apparently, Harry closed the place for Christmas Eve night. You thought that was a mistake, surely men were looking for some drunken solace after the children had gone to bed, but you bit your tongue at Harry’s excitement and accepted the extra time off. 

After the age of twelve, Christmases in your house had become a less-than-joyful time of year for you. It felt like a switch — one year you were a happy kid surrounded by excited parents drinking hot cocoa and waiting for Father Christmas — and then the next you were fighting over hanging tree lights, complaining about going out into the crowded malls, sitting in three separate rooms of the house to numb yourself with whatever was on the TV at the time. The littlest things would set off your mother, leaving you either raging with anger or crying in the garage waiting for your father to get home. 

The magic had disappeared along with your childhood. And it only got worse after your father died. You’d been reckless those first couple years, sneaking out any chance you got to run around town with your friends. When you left for college, you selfishly dreaded coming home during the breaks. That’s when your mother’s psychosis started to get worse.

Looking back, you couldn’t help but wonder if your mother hadn’t been alone for all that time, if she’d had someone to confide in or even just to talk to, if her sanity could have been salvaged, even just a little. But deep down you always assumed it was something darker going on inside her that made her act the way she did. By the end, if she wasn’t numb, she was crying, and you just had no idea how to handle her. 

After her death, you simply avoided holidays, always volunteering to work the extra shifts or treat it as if they were any other days of the week. 

Since arriving in 1918, you’d been so preoccupied with surviving, with trying to figure out what was going on, the idea of Christmas or any other holiday had been nonexistent. Which is why you’d been surprised at Tommy’s (or technically Ada’s) invitation to a Christmas Eve dinner. 

Fidgeting with your dress, you stood nervously at the doorstep and knocked. Behind the door, you could hear the sound of voices and pots banging, even a gramophone playing. 

The door swung open to reveal Ada, shouting her hello before pulling you inside for a warm hug. You chuckled at your friend, who clearly had been enjoying some pre-dinner drinks, and walked further into the house. 

The betting shop doors were open, the tables that usually hosted piles of books, papers, and money now cleared and replaced with plates, napkins, and silverware. You took a scan at the guests around, surprised at the number of people here. 

You recognized a few of them — the two men who’d been with Tommy and his brothers last night at the Garrison, Benji, and the man who stood out on the streets preaching. Then there was Martha sitting near the fire with Polly at her side, looking better but still not completely on the mend. Finn ran past you, shouting as the older of John’s kids chased after him. The rest of the men in the room you didn’t recognize. 

“Y/N!” Polly shouted, finally noticing your arrival as she left Martha and pulled you in for a hug. It appeared she’d also been indulging in some pre-dinner drinks, this being the most affection she’d ever shown you. “Let me get you a drink and then introduce you.” 

She shoved a glass of something brown in your hands, a quick sniff indicating it as whiskey, and began to walk you around the room, starting unfortunately with the group of men Benji was with. 

“Lovelock, Scudboat, and Hancock, this is Y/N. A family friend and barmaid at the Garrison. She’s under our protection, so you know what that means.” 

“Aye ma’am,” Scudboat smiled, nodding his head respectfully before lifting his hand. “Nice to meet you, miss.” 

You smiled genuinely at the man, already appreciating his vibe. Lovelock didn’t offer any words, but nodded and gave you a smile and handshake as well. 

Hancock, or Benji as he’d introduced himself to you as, gave you a smirk. “We met last night,” he said suggestively, lingering his hand around yours longer than you thought was appropriate. “But it’s good to see you again.” 

You didn’t respond, pulling your hand away and instead offering a polite smile. Luckily, Polly pulled you away to work the room. 

Jeremiah was the name of the preacher, accompanied with his young son, Isaiah. You were curious how he fit in with the group, but saved your questions for another time. 

Charlie and Curly worked at the Yard down by the Cut. You realized this must have been the ‘Uncle Charlie’ that Tommy mentioned the other night. They were both quiet, but nice. Curly was beginning to ask you if you liked horses, but Polly shoo’d him before pulling you along to the next man. 

Danny Owens, or Whizz-Bang as he mentioned everyone called him, said he could only stay for a drink before going home to his wife and kids. He was fidgeting with his hat, muttering something about wishing Freddie or Barney could be there. Obviously you recognized Freddie’s name and wondered if you’d finally get to meet Ada’s mystery man. It wasn’t the case though as you finished the rounds of introductions.

A shout of the men behind you caused you and Polly to turn, seeing Arthur and John enter the room. They welcomed everyone around them with a loud greeting. You kept your eyes on the doorway, waiting for the one family member who had not yet arrived. 

As if on cue with your thoughts, Tommy walked into the room quietly, leaning against the door edge to watch the scene. His eyes scanned the room until they fell to you. The corner of his mouth rose in that familiar resilient smirk, obviously unused to being caught doing his surveillance. He gave a subtle nod over his shoulder before pushing off and turning toward the family room.

Your heart raced a little as you took the bait, excusing yourself and grabbing your drink before walking across the betting shop floor. When you walked through the door into the family room, you heard the gentle shut of the door behind you, but your eyes were transfixed on the tree in front of you. 

You’d noticed it when you first walked in, but now, the simple Christmas tree was lit with candles tied at the end of its branches. 

The last time you saw a Christmas tree lit up, it’d been multicolored and flashed like a bad shop neon sign, glued to the plastic thistle of a fake tree. The sight of it at the time had made you groan at the very idea of the holiday you dreaded, thinking about all the money that was wasted during this time of year on stupid decorations like that one and worthless presents that would just end up in the garbage in a month. 

But this. The real fire dancing on the wicks, sending beautiful shadows across the whole room against the lush pine leaves. It was enough to take your breath away. 

“We lit it just now with the kids.” Tommy’s deep voice behind you brought you out of your trance as you felt him move to your side. “We’ll re-light it again before they go to bed.”

“It’s beautiful.” 

“It is,” he replied as you finally looked over to him, his eyes already on you. The implication of his words and that look made you blush. 

You bit your lip as you shook your head and the possible compliment off.  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” you found yourself admitting. 

Tommy’s brow creased. “Do they not have Christmas trees in America?”

“Um, they do. Just not decorated with real candles,” you replied, not exactly lying but not responding with the whole truth. 

You weren’t entirely sure when electric tree lights would be invented, or common place, even. To avoid further questioning, you asked one of your own, a genuine query you couldn’t help but wonder now that the bewilderment had faded. 

“Does the tree ever catch on fire?” 

He chuckled softly, “Yeah it has. That’s why we only light it for a little while each night, usually before the kids go to bed. This year it hasn’t yet, surprisingly. But the year before we left, Finn was tryin’ to light it for John’s kids and lit the whole bottom row on fire. Luckily Pol was there to put it out before the house caught.”

You were watching him as he told the story before he let a short breath out his nose and a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, as if reminding himself of his own memory had been a pleasant surprise. 

He cleared his throat, his smile returning back to his neutral expression as he busied himself with pulling his cigarette box out of his pocket and lifting out a stick. He ran it between his lips before lighting the end, the action causing you to lick your own lips before you remembered something.

“I, um — I got you a gift,” you said, feeling suddenly very embarrassed. 

He paused at your words, his brow creased as he watched you pull a small box out of the handbag you’d been carrying. 

“A gift?” He repeated, turning his body away from the tree and toward you. 

You shrugged, trying to shoo away your nerves. “Yeah, ya’know, it’s Christmas. It’s not anything super fancy, but saw it this morning when Ada took me shopping and I just, I don’t know, I thought you might like it. Sorry it’s not wrapped,” you lifted the box and offered it to him. 

Tommy took it tentatively, his brow hooked as he examined the plain cardboard. “You didn’t have to,” he said, not yet opening it. 

“I know. It’s just — it’s a thank you,” you finally spat out, your eyes chancing a look up to meet his, “for everything.” 

His brow was still creased as he looked down, and your embarrassment and stupidity reached it’s peak as you realized how much of a mistake this probably was. 

Did people not get each other gifts in the 1900s? Ada hadn’t said anything when you picked it out and asked if she thought this was something Tommy might like. She had given you a shit eating grin, but hadn’t deterred you or told you you were being weird. 

“I’m sorry,” you found yourself saying, turning away from him to try and hide how red your face was. “You don’t have to use it, you don’t even have to open it, I’ll just take it back and we’ll pretend this never happened—“

“Y/N,” Tommy’s voice said softly, causing you to look back over at him, the box open on the table and the cigarette case now in his hand. 

It was a simple case, minimal decoration around the border, but the minute you saw it, it made you think of Tommy and his damn cigarettes. Part of you wanted to get it engraved, something snarky about killing his lungs — but you could only afford the case, so you got it on a whim. It’d definitely been more than you could afford, but it was the holidays, you reasoned. You’d start saving again next week. 

Tommy tested the case, using his thumb to click the flap open, then closed it again. He did that a couple times before letting out a humored breath out of his nose, the corner of his cheek rising as he pulled out his box and moved a few sticks into the case. 

“Thank you,” he said sincerely as his eyes found yours, lifting up the case to emphasize before smiling back down at it. “It’s the best Christmas gift I’ve gotten in years.” 

You swallowed, dropping your head as your cheeks reddened again. The feel of his fingers against your cheek caused you to lift your head again, not realizing he’d gotten so close. Your eyes found his, serious and soulful as he peered down at you, the light from the candles dancing off the glassy orbs. God, he was beautiful. 

A bang on the door caused you to jump before stepping away. Polly shouted from the other side, instructing you both that dinner was ready and to get our asses out there. 

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Every time.” 

Tommy met your laugh with his own softer one as you turned toward the door. Before you could reach it, he grabbed your arm and spun you back toward him, pulling your body against his as his lips crashed against yours. 

He wrapped the hand still holding your gift and his lit cigarette around you to curve your body against his, his other hand raking through the base of your head and neck, nearly lifting you up to meet his hunger. Without a second thought, your own hands found themselves around his shoulders as you clung to him, your kiss matching his eagerness. You tilted your head and opened your mouth just enough for him to dive in deeper, breathing in sharply through his nose as you let out a needy moan.  

Fuck the dinner, screw all the people on the other side of the door. You’d let him take you right here on the couch, on the floor, you didn’t care. All you cared about was his hard body against yours, his hands gripping at you, his mouth and where else it could consume you. 

When you found your feet flat on the ground again, he pulled his lips away just enough before giving you another slow kiss, then another, before pulling away completely. 

He smiled as you caught your breath, still surprised and slightly disoriented from the action. You thought he was going to kiss you again as he brought his hand back to your cheek, but instead he used his thumb to rub what must have been smeared lipstick off your face. A pathetic whimper left your throat at the disappointment. 

“Better not keep Pol waiting,” he said easily, adjusting his suit and sliding his new cigarette case in his jacket pocket before pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his own lips. You watched as the white fabric turned red from your lipstick and smirked, thinking of other scenarios where you could leave pieces of you with him throughout the day. 

He noticed your look and rose a brow as you licked your lips, shooing those ideas away for more socially appropriate ones as he opened and held the door open for you.  

Ada and Martha were helping to set the table when you joined them, grabbing two plates from Polly before adding them to the make-shift dinner table. Once every seat was served, Ada pulled you into a chair next to her. You looked at the head of the table, expecting to see Tommy but surprisingly it was Arthur who stood up and rose his glass. To his right sat Tommy, then John and Martha; to his left was Polly, then Ada and you. 

Arthur cleared his throat, causing everyone to quiet and turn their attention to him. 

“Um,” Arthur cleared it again, pulling down at his vest as he fidgeted. “I um, I’m not much for speeches. But um, I wanted to— wanted to thank you. This year— these years, being away, it’s been—“ his voice chocked as he looked toward Tommy. 

Tommy smiled up at his brother and stood, gripping Arthur’s shoulder as he held up his own glass. “It’s been good to be back,” Tommy said simply, finishing Arthur’s prompt, possibly not in the same direction Arthur was heading, but a good detour to keep the moment light. He continued to keep his arm on his brother’s shoulder, as he addressed the rest of the room. “We all know the hardships and blessings we’ve been dealt, this year especially. And soon, it’ll be a new year. A fresh start. This is our opportunity to seize, and we’ll be damned if we’re going to let it slip.” His eyes flicked to you before rising his drink higher. “A toast, a simple toast, ya brotha’?” He pulled Arthur closer as he chuckled, rising his own glass higher with his brothers. “To good fortune, good health, good horses! Happy Christmas!” 

“By order of the Peaking fuckin’ Blinders,” Arthur added, his voice strong again. 

Everyone exploded with cheers as they raised their own glasses and shouted “Happy Christmas!”

The night went on as everyone ate and talked. You were enjoying the dinner, laughing as you watched the family dynamic between the core Shelbys as they enjoyed each others company. Everyone’s inhibitions and guards seemed to be set aside tonight, giving you what you assumed was a rare glimpse at what dinners pre-war must have been like for the group. 

On the other side of you sat Charlie and Curly, and you were grateful that Benji had been placed at the end of the other side of the table, just far enough so that easy conversation wasn’t possible. But you felt his eyes on you, causing you to shift in your seat every now and then when you’d catch his gaze. After the second time it happened, you found yourself sighing, knowing you’d have to have an awkward conversation at some point with him to convince him you weren’t interested. 

The dinner party was winding down, with most of its guests already gone. Even Ada had given you a kiss on the cheek before whispering that she was sneaking out. She wiggled her eye brows, causing you to roll you eyes and shove her away, whispering your own ‘be safe’ back at her. 

Of course, Benji took the opportunity to swoop in to fill the opening. 

“Your first Christmas in Small Heath?”

You nodded, taking a sip to keep your mouth busy. 

“I’ve always liked winter over summer. Sure, it gets bone cold, but there’s less smoke in the air during the winter,” he mused, topping off his own glass and offering to do the same for you. 

“That so?” 

He shrugged, “Dunno, just feels like it, I guess. Maybe it’s more to do with the days being shorter.” 

You nodded, slightly surprised at the insight. “Could be.” 

“Do you have to go back to the Garrison tonight?” 

You coughed at his unexpected turn in subject. “Um, no, Harry closed the pub for Christmas Eve.”

“So you’re free, then? We could go get a drink—“

“We have a drink,” you replied, holding up your glass. “And we’re guests at a party.” 

“Come on, no one would miss us if we left—“

Scudboat appeared behind Benji, dropping a weighted hand to his shoulder. “Gotta go, Hancock.” 

Benji’s brow creased as he scoffed. “Now?” 

“Aye, it’s Russel. Just got the order.”

Benji huffed, “It’s Christmas Eve. Can’t we do this after the holiday?” 

“You know the drill. It’ll hurt his family more to see that face Christmas morning. Will make him think twice next time. Tommy’s orders. Now!” 

Scudboat left you both as Benji turned back toward you, blowing a big breath out of his nose as he cursed under his breath. “No rest for a Blinder.” 

No rest for the wicked, you found yourself thinking, your tongue too tied to say the words aloud. Russel — you recognized the name of a copper from the family books. He’d been one of the more recent discrepancies you’d alerted. And now he was going to get beat up, or cut, on Christmas Eve. 

And it was on Tommy’s orders. You swallowed down a big gulp of your drink as Benji said his farewell. 

“Ready?” 

Tommy’s voice behind you caused you to jump startled. You turned to face him, his own expression seemed slightly perturbed as he watched the Peaky boys leave the shop. 

“Ready for what?” Your voice wasn’t as strong as it normally was, feeling both caught off guard as well as slightly uneasy about the darker side of Tommy. 

It wasn’t like you were an idiot. You knew this came with the territory. Tommy Shelby was a gangster, as much as he wanted to call himself a businessman. Violence was as much a currency of this business as money. And here you were, contributing to that violence. 

But you knew the world you were now a part of wasn’t that simple. Maybe this copper deserved it, maybe he didn’t. If you were going to be a part of this company, you’d have to trust the people making the calls, even if it went against your own moral code. 

Did you even have a moral code anymore? Were you just making excuses?

“To talk, like I promised,” he replied, his eyes finally moving back to you. “Unless you’d rather join Hancock.” 

His jealousy caused you to chuckle, despite your prior thoughts. “I told you last night I wasn’t interested in him.” 

He hummed, “Maybe you ought to tell that to him then, eh? This way,” he placed his hand to your back as he directed you back toward the house. 

You noticed him exchange a look with Polly before leaving the room. 

“Where are we going?” You asked hesitantly as he directed you toward the stairs. 

He didn’t answer you, instead taking the lead as he brought you to the top of the stairs and opened the door. “My room.” 

The room was small and plain. A bed even smaller than yours in the corner, a nightstand, a chair, a dresser, and a fireplace. The decor was also minimum: a mirror hung at the head of the bed, a lit lamp on the nightstand, a crucifix on the wall by the door, and a few other photos and paintings dispersed between the walls, nightstand, and fireplace, which was also already lit. 

The air smelled different in the room. There was something else, in addition to the outside air, sweat, and cigarettes that you’d grown used to. Your eyes searched for a source, but gave up when Tommy closed the door behind him. 

“You’re not worried someone will hear?” You asked as Tommy chose to sit in the chair by the nightstand, leaving you to either continue standing or sit on the bed. 

“This room is pretty sound proof, long as we don’t do any shouting. The other guests will leave through the betting shop doors. They won’t stay for long, Pol knows that we’re here and will clear them all out soon enough and lock up behind ‘em. I’ll walk you home when we’re done,” he said, pulling out the cigarette case.

He pulled out another stick and ran it across his lips, causing you to lick your own and making you fully aware that you were finally alone in a bedroom. God, your stupid libido. First you were questioning your own morality, and now all you wanted to do was jump his bones. 

“Did you, um — did you drink the tea yet?”

Your eyes flicked back toward him, surprised at his question. “That where you want to start?” 

He shrugged, lifting up the case before setting it gently on the nightstand. “I hadn’t intended, but in the spirit of gift giving, seems as good a place as any.” 

You turned away from him, anxiously avoiding his question by continuing to examine the room and get your mind out of the gutter. The box in question was currently sitting in your dresser drawer, shoved in there after you’d finally unpacked so you wouldn’t have to look at it. 

“And why not?” Tommy followed-up, taking your silence as a no. 

You shook your head, taking a deep breath before answering, “I have to think about it. I’m convinced it’ll either give me a seizure or just end up being a really bad cup of tea — both of which I believe will happen before it lets me talk with the dead.” 

“Perhaps you should talk to Pol. She’s always been more in tune with that side of things, she could offer you some guidance.” 

“Maybe,” you mumbled, still unconvinced. 

“We’ll revisit that another time, eh. Where is it that you want to start, then?” He asked. 

Your mouth felt dry as you tried to consider your options. Honestly, you’d expected Tommy to take the lead in this debrief, almost demanding answers or explanations. You hadn’t expected him to hand you the reigns, and you found yourself struggling to get a grip. 

He was watching you as you considered his question, refusing to speak first. You took a gulp of your drink before finally sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

“My nightmares — the two dreams that I had in the wagon, I’ve never had dreams like those before. I’ve had realistic dreams before. Mundane or stress-induced dreams where I’m living out my normal day and then wake up and can’t believe I have to do it all again. I’ve had dreams of memories, replaying of certain events. Hell, I’ve even lucid dreamed, where I recognized a dream I’d had before and been able to change the dream. But I have never in my life had dreams like the ones I had in that wagon.”

Tommy’s eyes flicked toward the wall across from him, some recognition in your words. If you hadn’t been so lost in your own recounting, you might have picked up on it, but instead you continued on. 

“It felt so real — more than a memory, like I was actually standing in that garden, feeling the wind against my face. But it wasn’t my memory. It wasn’t me. It was like I was watching and feeling the memory of another.”

“Whose?” 

You swallowed before looking back up at Tommy. “I think I was dreaming about the story of Cassandra and Apollo.” 

You left out the part where in your dreams Apollo just happened to look exactly like Tommy, just with golden eyes. The logical part of you knew that your brain was just inserting what it knew into the dream. Wasn’t it a known fact in your time that people only saw the faces of those they knew in their dreams? That’s all it was, you told yourself. 

Tommy took a long drag of his cigarette. “You goin’ to explain who those people are, or just leave me in the dark?”

“Do you know much about Greek mythology?” you asked, trying to gauge how to approach this. 

Tommy shook his head. You took a moment to collect yourself, your brain ready to jump into explanation and story telling mode. This was one of your favorite subjects, after all. You took a sip of your drink before leaning against the wall, making yourself more comfortable on the bed. 

“Where I’m from—” you started, swallowing as you decided to stop trying to hide the little details of your life — if you were going to do this, you might as well dive in. “I got to learn about it in school, mostly in language arts or social studies. I asked a teacher once why we were taught Greek over other mythologies, like Norse or any Asian religion — she seemed to believe it was because of the influence the Ancient Greek, and then Roman, society had over Europe, which then influenced Western civilization. There’s written records on top of word-of-mouth story telling that has lasted tens of thousands of years. And the influence they still have on philosophy, architecture, military, governance, agriculture, medicine — hell, even the word alphabet is Greek for alpha and beta, the first two letters of the Greek alphabet. Shakespeare wrote plays based on the mythology, Renaissance artists created masterpieces in an attempt to bring it to life. She said it was close to the same reason we learned about Medieval stories even though there’s no historical truth to King Arthur and Camelot. But we all learned them. And it started with literature.”

Tommy blew a puff of smoke, seemingly unimpressed with your pretense. “Ok.”

“Two of the oldest works of literature that’s still widely referenced are Homer’s epic poems — the Iliad and the Odyssey. The stories are pretty significant because of their themes about fate, glory, heroism, pride, wrath. And there’s so many phrases that originated or were inspired by the stories: an Achilles heel, Trojan horse, a face that launched a thousand ships, stuck between a rock and a hard place—”

“You’re losin’ me, Y/N.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m just — I’m trying to figure out how to make it make sense. The Iliad tells the story of the Trojan war, a ten-year battle between the ancient cities of Troy and Sparta, mostly focusing on the abduction of the Spartan Queen Helen, and the hero Achilles who was recruited to help save her. That’s a crazy oversimplification of the story, and honestly I’ve read so many retellings I’m not even certain on the actual story anymore. But it’s really quite interesting if you want to hear about it some time — I think you would especially find the character of Achilles interesting—”

“Y/N,” Tommy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he waved his hand along. “Madam Despoina said you were named after a Trojan princess. That was Cassandra, ya?”

The sound of Tommy saying your middle name out loud for the first time made your chest tighten.

You nodded, avoiding the feeling. “A Trojan prince was the one who stole Helen, the Queen of Sparta, so the Spartans and the Greeks attacked Troy to get her back. Cassandra was a Trojan princess who was also a priestess.”

Tommy hummed, “And you said that God gave her the gift of prophecy, but then He wanted to fuck her and she refused.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his retelling. “Something like that. But the Greeks didn’t believe in just one God, they had a pantheon of gods, goddesses, titans, and other creatures who all had roles they played in the creation and general day-to-day motion of the world and its people. One of those gods was Apollo.”

He leaned back in his chair, “The god Madam Despoina kept going on about.”

“Exactly. He was the god of, well, a lot of things — but he’s mostly tied to references of the Sun and light. He’s also the god of music, the arts, medicine, archery, town building, and prophecy.”

“And that’s where the Delphi come in?”

“Yep. They were priestesses who spoke his word at his temple, where people would travel from all over for a consult with the oracles. The Greeks considered this temple to be the center of the world.”

“So the princess wouldn’t fuck this god Apollo, so he cursed her. Why not just take back the gift?”

“A common myth is that a god couldn’t undo the work of another god, even their own work. So when Cassandra wouldn’t sleep with him, he couldn’t take back his gift of prophecy. He cursed her instead. She had no choice but accurately predict the future, but no one would believe her. Throughout the war, she tried to warn the Trojans, her family, of the dangers of their actions, but they couldn’t believe. Eventually, the visions of disaster and frustrations of being called a liar and madwoman drove her insane.”

“Why didn’t she just lie? Say the opposite and then they’d believe her?”

You shrugged, smiling at hearing the same question you’d asked your own teacher. “I don’t think she could lie. I don’t think she could even stop herself from telling the prophecies, otherwise I don’t see why she wouldn’t have just shut up early on.”

“What happened to her?”

“She predicted the fall of Troy, and the deaths of her family, we well as her own death. Before that, during the siege, she was raped, and then given away as a concubine to one of the Greek Kings. She and the King were then killed by the Queen and her lover.”

“And what happened to Helen?” he asked, genuinely curious it seemed to the story. 

“In Homer’s story, Paris, the Trojan prince who kidnapped her gets killed along with most of the rest of his family, and she’s reunited with her Spartan husband.”

“Lucky her.”

You scoffed, “Comparatively, I guess.”

“Does the story match up with your dreams?” 

“Kind of. In the stories, it’s always implied that either Cassandra promised that she’d sleep with him in exchange for the gift and then refused when he came to collect, or that she didn’t promise him and he just assumed that she’d give herself to him if he gave her the gift. Madam Despoina seemed to imply that there was another side to the story.” 

“Which is?” 

“In my dreams so far, it seems like maybe they actually both were in love with each other. But then something shifts and he’s cursing me— her. And that’s when I wake up.” 

“That explains why you kept saying you were cursed,” Tommy mused, taking another sip of his own glass before reaching for the bottle that was already on the nightstand and refilling it. He offered to refill your own glass, which you accepted. “And the main question — what does that all have to do with you?”

You took a deep breath, taking a big gulp of your drink, the warm liquid burning down your throat. “I think Madam Despoina thinks that my mother named me after the Cassandra from this story. It seemed like she was implying that I’m a descendant of Cassandra, or I don’t know, maybe a reincarnation? Both of which are ridiculous.”

Tommy’s brow creased, “Why?”

You shook your head, flopping down to lay flat on the bed, setting your glass on the nightstand. “Because it’s just a story, it isn’t even real! Homer wrote the Iliad like hundreds, maybe thousands of years after the war would have happened. If it even did at all. There’s some evidence of civilization in the area Troy is thought to have been, and even some evidence of war I think, but still. Now, the odds of Madam Despoina being a descendant of the Greek Delphi may be more likely, since there was more evidence of the temple discovered and records found. I still think it’s highly unlikely, but who am I to question her. Maybe some distant relative passed along the stories and traveled across Europe.”

“That’s the rumor,” he nodded. “Came from Balkan gypsies, they say. Would explain why their clan is so deep and connected.”

“As well as the divinity shtick.”

“And the tattoo, it connects you,” Tommy added as he stood up out of the chair and walked toward the bed, lifting up your legs and sitting at the end of the mattress, pulling your legs back to drape over his lap. 

“I got this tattoo on a whim,” you said with a shrug, as of trying to shake it off your back. “I just drew it one day and decided to get it for my first tattoo.” 

He chuckled, “So, what, after everything you’re just goin’ to chalk that up to a fuckin’ coincidence?” 

You huffed, “I don’t know. What else am I supposed to believe? That I thought of the tattoo because something in my blood or heritage or some mythological corner of my subconscious knew that one day I’d need to meet a Balkan gypsy family of fortune tellers who’s ancestry dates back to my own?”

“Is that harder to believe than the two of us having dreams of each other before we’d ever even met?” He asked, the question feeling like a cold splash of water. 

“No,” you groaned, throwing your hand over your face. “Both are just as ridiculous.”

Tommy rubbed your leg reassuringly. “Just one more question, and then I’ll drop the subject — for now at least.” 

You sat up, realizing you were practically in his lap as you waited for him to continue. 

“When I went to speak with Madam Despoina alone, she told me that our fates were entwined. That I shouldn’t repeat the follies of her god and that if I listened to you, if I didn’t push you, if I trusted you, we would achieve so much more together than apart. That you can predict the future, and I would be a fool to take your advice lightly.”

“Tommy, I can’t—“ 

“Can you predict the future?” He asked softly, running his fingers along your jawline. 

“It’s not that simple, Tommy.“ You looked between his eyes, swallowing before dropping your gaze. “I know things. Not everything, I can’t predict Ada’s future or tell you what Harry’s going to have for dinner a week from now. But I know that the prohibition amendment will pass in America at the beginning of the year. I know the worker strikes will only continue to get worse. I know the Irish will continue to fight against the British government for independence, and eventually between themselves. I know that jazz music is going to be everywhere.”

“You knew when the end of the war was goin’ to be,” he added. 

“And I know other things — things I can’t—“ you swallowed, lifting your eyes back to his and bringing your own hand to his face. 

“Perhaps you are Cassandra,” he said, his eyes moving down to your lips, “and this time, I’m to believe you. I’m to protect you from this bloody curse.” 

Your breath hitched at his words, “You— you believe? Me, all this? How?”

“Talk to Polly. Drink the tea. Who bloody knows if Madam Despoina is telling the truth or if she’s a fuckin’ nutter. But I trust my gut, and my gut has wanted you from the moment I saw you in my dreams.” 

“Really?” You whispered with what little breath you seemed to have. 

He smiled, humming. “And since you yelled at me down by the Cut.”

“I didn’t yell,” you chuckled, feeling the mood lighten again, your face just a breath away from his own. 

He pulled you forward just enough for your lips to meet for the fourth time that night, kissing you softly. You kissed him back, the build up from tonight and two nights before making you needy. 

“Tommy,” you whimpered when his mouth left your own for your neck. You swallowed thickly as an insecure thought crept through your mind. “I’m not a doll though, Tommy.”

“I know,” he said against your skin, his breath causing you to shiver. 

“I don’t know how to help you,” you added, suddenly worried about whatever promises Madam Despoina seemed to be making for you. 

He pulled away from your neck to meet your eyes again, running his hand through your hair. “You’ve already helped me, Y/N. I don’t care if you can tell the future — I don’t care if you can’t. I just know…” he paused, his adam’s apple bobbing as he rest his forehead against yours, “I need you, Y/N.” 

>> next chapter

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[shiny-jr]

🕷 impersonator [ miguel o’hara ] 

– Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Gender-neutral reader.

– Note: It’s literally just a very small Miguel post to get it out of my mind. I’ve been wanting to write something with him for a while now, and I had a totally different draft with a whole story idea that would’ve lasted a few chapters, but ultimately I scrapped the whole idea and just decided to do something small. It ain’t much, but it’s honest work.

There was something wrong about being used to placate an unhinged man who called himself a hero. Maybe it was the passionate look on his anguished face whenever his red gaze was fixated on you, or the despair that seeped into his tone when he whispered sweet-nothings, or it was just your common sense that saw all the blaring red flags, but you knew this was wrong. Miguel may have declared to everyone that he was a good guy, a hero, quite possibly even to the point of deluding himself, but some of his choices were morally questionable, and criminal at best.

The glowing red sticky strings he used to form webs were probably stronger than the thin strand of what was left of his sanity. It must’ve been some sort of last-ditch effort by his fellow spiders to present you to Miguel O’Hara, perhaps to appease his growing anger and extremity. It’s like they had offered you up on a silver platter. You, who was shockingly similar to a loved one he lost in his own dimension. You were the poor pitiful bug caught in a spider’s web, with no hope to escape.

And at first, you hadn’t even realized your fate was sealed, you were already trapped. In your own dimension, he showed up. You knew Miguel, he was a scientist at Alchemax who was a bit of a nerd despite not looking like one, and he played soccer on the weekends. And yet, after months, you finally realized this wasn’t your Miguel.

Your Miguel would gladly partake in back-and-forths where you poked fun at each other, but that stopped and he began to give compliments to you of details he never once noticed before.

Your Miguel would peer at you through the lens of his glasses and smile while resting his head on the table, but he stopped wearing his glasses and instead he stared at you intensely while only smiling whenever your attention turned to him.

Your Miguel had brown eyes that looked like honey in the sun paired nicely with his pleasant smile, but recently his eyes looked almost red at night and when he smiled he displayed fangs.

On top of all this, he seemed to forget certain dates you had planned and sometimes the names of friends and loved ones escaped his memory. The first time this happened, for a split second, you swore you saw his expression drop and his eyes widen as an ominous frown appeared on his face. But when you blinked, his expression was back to normal, a relaxed smile on his lips. He brushed off his mistake and calmly explained that he remembers now, it just slipped his mind for a moment. Was it your imagination seeing that dark expression on his face, or was it real?

What was once fleeting affection with Miguel, like awkward glances where you accidentally made eye contact, or brief and shy kisses on the cheek, also began to change drastically. It all quickly morphed into something more intense. Gazes full of desire that glinted in those dark red eyes, deep kisses that you always stopped on the very point of no return, murmurs of promises to protect you that were said in a strangely solemn tone.

It became clear that something was wrong. The man you once loved wasn’t the same, as if he were a completely different person. This Miguel was not someone to be crossed. You would soon learn that once you confront him and claim to know he wasn’t your Miguel. Well, this Miguel had tried to smoothly integrate himself into your life. However, since that didn’t work, he could resort to other methods. Afterall, as Spider-Man, he had a reputation of being effective and forceful if need be.

[psycheetamore]

Another escape, another hunt 

Summary: Our lord has managed to get his Fremen prey into his palace. But she will not succumb to his desires so easily, even if her body wishes to do so. How he loves his game.

Tags: MDNI, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen Is His Own Warning, anticipation of smut, predator/prey - the author regrets nothing

Part 2 of 6 of my contribution to the predator/prey thrope for Kinktober of @lady-phasma - nr 1-4 are chapters of 1 story (1-3 Feyd/OC hunt related, nr 4 is the reward for our lord), and nr 5-6 is me sharing my favourite chapter that I have written to date with the hunt between Rabban/OC. The 6 bits will be posted through daily posts.

Word count: 1.8k

Losely based on chapter 11 of Choosing to Follow Destiny

His slaves were standing outside of his quarters, as the na-Baron sought entrance. 

“Is she readied?” 

“My Lord…” and the slave paused. “My lord, we could not get the cuffs on” as she fell to her knees and started to grovel asking for forgiveness.  

He kicked her to the floor and proceeded: “you are lucky. I am in a good mood.” 

Several minutes ago, the terrified slaves that had dressed the new interest of the lord Harkonnen, locked her up in a separate room in his quarters. It did not take a lot of effort to force the lock. She felt vulnerable, dressed in clothing that did not deserve that word considering how little of her frame it covered and that could be meant only for ladies of the Harkonnen night. Feeling the mark he had left on her neck, which seemed to have been treated. Her braids loosened to have her long black hear flow across her back. Horrible shackles the slaves tried to put on her. She could not allow herself to think what he was planning to do. For her sanity, and to keep control over her physical urges that seemed to long for him. She could still feel his strong fingers gracing her lips. Yet, it could not distract from the recognition that she needed to move. The longer she was in his vicinity, the more difficult it would be to escape.  

Feeling her heart throb in her throat, against the healing wound he had left, she surveyed his chambers for any weapons or other tools that could help her gain some leverage. But it did not come at a surprise that nothing was present. It could not be anything else than that he prepared for roaming around here. Fear started to seep into her bones as she started to understand the gravity of the situation she was facing. The second-best option was looking for heavy blunt objects. Something that could allow her to issue a blow and try to get away. As she was scouring as quickly as she could for such objects, she heard him arrive and talk on the other side of the door. She grabbed a plaid laying over his bed and scooted softly to hide in the darkness next to the door.  

She noticed a body drop and the door opening. This was her one chance. As he walked in, she threw the plaid over his head and pushed him, making room to run away.  

Surprisingly, he was disconnected for a blink of a moment, just enough. She did not wait for a second opportunity, and dashed.  

The hallways were as dark as his room, the night having fallen and scarcely lit. There was no distinction between the left and the right side of the hallway, so intuitively she took off to the left. 

From a distance she heard him shouting: “run. Run as far as you can. Challenge me. We both know you will end up chained to my bed.” Shivers flowed over her back. 

She ran and ran. She should find some light coming from the moons anytime now. That would give her guidance on where to go. It felt like she ran for hours, probably mere minutes. Corridors went up and down. What was this place other than a maze, she thought, completely lost and getting out of breath. Functioning on pure adrenalin she forgot her fatigue and anything else holding her back. She just ran. 

Suddenly she heard footsteps coming from a corridor she was running towards. With muted steps she backed up against the wall, carefully peaking around the corner. A chance to sip some air, and perhaps more. A guard, dressed in a black Harkonnen uniform, was paroling. He did not seem to be on high alert. Perhaps her escape did not yet reach everyone. She pressed herself against the wall, waiting for the guard to walk past, so she could overtake him. Completely oblivious the guard walked past her. It took her one well-placed kick to the backside of his knees to get him to fall on the ground. He fell on his hands and knees, but it still made a terrible noise. This would surely attract other guards or Feyd-Rautha himself, so she immediately started kicking him to the head, bruising her feet, adrenaline masking the pain it caused. It took a few kicks for him to lay flat on the ground, allowing her to grab the bat and dagger he was carrying. She started to run in the direction he came from. 

After yet another corner she took, she lost the little sense of direction that had remained. But there was no time to worry. 

She continued to run until she abruptly recognised an imposing figure in the shadows from afar. The stance, the body, the clothing: it could be no other than her captor who had spotted her, staring at her with a tilted head and black smile on his face. She stopped, froze for a second, turned around and started running the other way around. Even with her newly acquired weapons she was aware that she would hardly be a match for him in these circumstances. 

Feyd-Rautha chuckled. Feisty and spirited. He was happy to see that she lived up to his expectations. He did anticipate she would free herself from the first room, and try to make a run for it. There was a reason he did not bring guards. He had, however, imagined that he would be able to keep her in, as he had carefully removed all sharp and heavy objects. A true fighter he was dealing with. And, by god, she even managed to obtain some weapons. Lovely. She clearly had not given up just yet, just like he asked.

His hunter instinct was kick-started by seeing her flee away. How he loved a game like this. With his longer legs, boots, and overall better condition, it did not take too long before she was within an arm's reach of him. 

She heard him gaining distance on her. His footsteps grew closer and closer. She gave it her all. She needed to outrun him. Her heart was throbbing in her throat from exhaustion. She needed to push through. Or find a way out. But where? No tangible options presented themselves. A sudden ambush perhaps. Short term, but still. 

He was just steps away from her, she could hear it. She decided to push for a last final sprint, to get him to speed up as much as possible, allowing her to suddenly divert her track and use his momentum against him. In the process, she managed to dart around him, while brushing the dagger across his arm. Now standing behind him, he turned to face her. Wearing his evening clothing, but still with boots and a belt with weapons, he showed her the blood on his fingers, which came from the wound she inflicted. Yet another wound he would have her repay.

“It is a dangerous game you play, little one. I have killed for smaller offences” he said menacingly, although his face gave away the joy he felt. "How is my mark on your neck feeling?"

“Kill me” she taunted. “Let's get this over with.” 

“No” he answered. “We both know I won't do that. You are far too lovely to meet such an end. In any case not such a quick end” as he grabbed a knife from his belt in a leisurely pace. He started to walk towards her, shifting his head from left to right, seeing straight through hear face into the inner workings of her brain.

She tried to maintain their distance by moving back as he closed in on her. But there was only so much space, as she was backed against the wall.  

He tigered around her, managing to get her into a corner. “Your strike, lovely lady. I will give you one strike” as he invited her through a gesture to come at him.  

She looked in his eyes and saw darkness. This was a dangerous man, with dangerous games. He was in control. Her only way out would be to disarm him, and hold him hostage until she could get out.  

She decided to make a go for it. Holding the club in her right hand and the dagger in her left hand, her strategy would be to get him to focus on her left hand, lose the club, switch the dagger to her other hand and strike.  

But her eyes gave her away. As she tried to execute this plan, he knew what was coming. He had seen every step that she had anticipated, and before she knew it, his hard chest, just covered with an evening tunic, had pinned her against the wall. She could feel his heart beat through the nothings they both wore. She could feel the heat flowing from his body to hers, as he kept her legs in check by pushing one of his between hers. His growing groin pressed against her bottom. Her body started to respond involuntarily, creating the moisture he craved. Forcing her hand to open, he managed to release the remaining weapon and kick it away. Only now did he turn her to face him, while holding her shoulders with an iron grip. 

She tried to kick him, causing him to push his entire body against hers to keep her still. As response, she pushed her hands on his upper arms. His strength was felt as she was pinned against the wall. His solid arms, his muscular torso, the growing excitement in his nether regions. It caused a further growing excitement in her nether regions as well, the likes of which she had never encountered before.  

“Why do you resist me? You belong here. You want to be here. You want to kneel before me and take everything I have to give to you.” Vile, tainted words came out of his mouth as honey, while his lips touched her neck and ears. He started to kiss, nibbling on her ears, allowing his warm tongue to roam over the ridges of the wound that was sure to become a scar from her ear to her shoulder, claiming her, marking her as his, while holding her head still. “Don't resist” he said with a chanting voice, feeling how her breathing located to the top of her chest. With nearly nothing covering her, she started to fear he would feel the warmth and wetness radiating from her body onto the leg that he had positioned so strategically against her most sensitive area. He wrapped his arms around her back to press her against him, as he softly bit on her neck. “Don't resist. Succumb to me” he continued to chant. He felt she was slipping away, as if her legs were not providing support anymore. 

“I can't” a small voice said with a deep sigh. His mouth on these sensitive areas, his vicinity, all the vile words that had left his sculpted mouth; she started to loose control. Breathing more heavily and rapidly, which he could feel through his chest that still forced her against the wall. 

He knew she was starting to break. All it took was a bit of affection. It was quicker than he had anticipated.  

He softly replied: “you can. And you will” as he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. Pinching her bottom, awfully near her core with a mind of its own, he said: “you want to submit to me.” 

+++

Next parts listed on my pinned post

[juneknight]

.Be Lost. || 2.5

Chapter 1 | Chapter 1.5 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 2.5

Next chapter is the last.

*

His grin is broad, beatific. It turns teasing almost right away. He leans down and brushes his nose against yours before releasing your wrists and rolling off of you. 

“I want to be just friends for just a while longer,” he admits in a whisper. “Throughout dinner. There’s something important I need to tell you.” 

*

‘There’s something important I need to tell you’. Have more infamous words ever been spoken, besides ‘we need to talk’? His sentence infuses you with dread and a strange calm all at once. This is it. The other shoe is about to drop. Marc deciding that he doesn’t want to dominate you will be the best-case-scenario outcome. 

Worst case scenario? He’s already done too much with you to salvage the friendship, and you both will have to part ways. Maybe that’s what he meant by wanting to stay just friends for a while longer. All these thoughts spin in your brain like a cyclone, sucking up your sanity while you pick at your entree at the (expensive) restaurant Marc insisted on bringing you to for dinner. Your hand is clammy where you are clutching your fork. You consider stabbing yourself with it to end the dinner early. 

It isn’t the worst dinner you’ve ever had together (that honor goes to the miserable time you and Marc had tried double dating, each of you bringing a lackluster date and spending the whole time—as you understood it now—fuming when the other showed any hint of affection towards their partner). But this is close. So close. 

Even Marc seems nervous. He is quiet(er). He clears his throat every now and then like he is about to say something, but then just reaches for his wine and takes another sip. When he cuts himself off after one glass and moves on to water, he drinks nearly two entire glasses thanks to this procrastination-sipping. You want to scream. Go ahead and say it! Break my heart already! Just get it over with. 

When he insists on dessert, you can’t take it anymore. Over dark chocolate cake with chocolate ganache, you sit your fork down and say: 

“What is it?”

“Have you ever seen the birds outside your window?” he blurts out. You stare. He clears his throat. Another sip of water. “At your apartment. On your balcony, you have a bird feeder. I just—do you ever stop and watch the birds?” 

“Yes,” you say, twisting your napkin in your lap. “Hence the bird feeder. Why—?” 

“You have this one bird that comes back often. It’s a house sparrow—I looked it up. House sparrows are like most birds, where the males are all beautiful and the females are more plain. Except this one bird. She had a bib, like the males do, but her’s was a downy gray instead of black. She came back every day. Multiple times a day, sometimes. Maybe she had babies that she was raiding your feeder for, I don’t know. 

“But I started talking to her about you while you were gone. Because I missed you. And I always miss you when you go away during the winter, don’t get me wrong, but this time…Well I had to talk to that fucking bird, or I would have—yes, another water would be fine, thank you—” 

You glare at the waiter’s back, irritated by the interruption. Something about this strange tangent has your attention. Maybe it’s the serious expression in Marc’s eyes, marred only by a hint of something sharper. Desperation, maybe. Maybe that’s what makes his words string together, turns him into a rambler. Still, you would have him see this through. 

“Go on,“ you coax. 

“I started talking to that fucking bird, because I couldn’t call you all day, and if I didn’t talk to something, I’d go crazy. I told her all about you. The way your skin gets lit up at night when you fall asleep while we’re watching television, colors changing blue, red, brown, white with whatever is on the screen. I told her about how you can’t let your food groups touch when they’re on your plate. I told her how you laugh so hard sometimes that you snort, and that those are always my favorite laughs.” 

“This bird knows all my secrets then,” you murmur. “I hope she doesn’t work for the government.” 

“All birds work for the government. I told her about my day. Work. Friends. Traffic. Dreams. Besides our every-other-night phonecalls, this…fucking…bird was the highlight of my day. I mean that unirionically.” 

“I’m starting to get jealous.” 

“And then one day she was gone,” says Marc. “She missed the morning rush. I sat on your bed, looking out at the balcony, waiting. And she never came. She never came back. I didn’t realize it until sunset, when she’d missed dinner, that I’d wasted my entire day off waiting. That whatever happens to birds—wherever she went when she wasn’t with me—she was gone, and she wasn’t coming back.

“That made me think of you. Going away from me, going wherever birds go. Taking all these pieces of me with you, and never coming back with them. You have those, you know. Pieces of me. So many pieces. I’d say that I have one last one to give you, but—” he snorts softly, looking down at his plate, “—you’ve had my heart already.

“And I don’t mind leaving them with you. I don’t mind you leaving. I know your work is important, and that you love it. I just want to know that you’ll always come back. I want you to have a reason to always come back—to me.”

“What are you saying?” you wonder, eyes wide as moons, mouth feeling a little numb. It almost sounds like he’s—

“I’m in love with you. I don’t want tonight to be a one-and-done, and I don’t just want the sex—yes, thank you, the check is fine—-” 

“I’m sorry,” you say to the waiter, holding up a finger. “Could you give us a moment without interruptions? Very important conversation. I apologize—thanks! You…you don’t want the sex?” 

“I don’t just want the sex. Important distinction,” says Marc. He laughs a little, but it sounds weak, punched-out. “You’re scaring me a little. Everytime I went over it in my head, you said it back straightaway. Then there was usually a spontaneous firework show, maybe some birds—” 

“Doves?”

“House sparrows.” 

“Marc—” you get shy suddenly. He’s opened himself up to you, fulfilled your wildest dreams (except the thought of Marc Spector loving you was so wild that it hadn’t even been in your dreams), but the idea of opening yourself up in return was terrifying. Couldn’t he just…tell? “Come on. You have to know…” 

Marc’s jaw gets tight. His eyes fall to his plate. “I didn’t. I thought—maybe I’ve just been seeing things. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have fucking—God, I’ve gone and fucked it all up, haven’t I?” 

“No—Marc, you aren’t getting it. The way you feel—it’s the way I feel, too,” you admit, nearly at a whisper, so quiet that he is leaning closer to you across the table straining to hear your words. “I’ve felt this way all this time. A long time before I even let myself realize it. It’s always been you. It would break my heart if all that happened tonight was amazing, kinky sex—excuse me, I just said—!”

The waiter clears his throat. He brandishes a bottle of wine from behind his back. “For new love. On the house.” 

“Is it corked?” Marc asks, his eyes on your own. There is something dark in his eyes, something that makes your mouth go dry in an instant and your hands clench into fists in your lap.

“Yes, sir.” 

“We’ll take it to go.”

*

Marc goes to open your car door for you but instead crowds you against it right there in the parking lot, one hand braced on the window beside you and the other on your hip. His body throws off warmth, and you find yourself arching away from the cool metal of the car against his body, all the breath rushing out of you in a whoosh. 

“Listen,” Marc says, leaning in to nuzzle against your temple. “You have to tell me now if you have any doubts. If you do, we’ll get in the car and I’ll drive you back to your apartment, and tomorrow night I’ll take you on another date like nice normal people do when they’re in love. But if you don’t, if you get in this car, you’ll belong to me. You know that, don’t you? Your body—”

“I want it, Marc, I want it,” you breathe. “I don’t have any doubts, I promise—”

He reaches up and grips your chin firmly, pressing your lower jaw up until your teeth clench together. His thumb rests over the seam of your lips, locking them closed. Something about the simple act makes you whine in the back of your throat. “At, At. It’s my turn to talk, yeah? Be a good girl and wait your turn. 

“If you get in this car, then for tonight you’re mine. Your body, your mind. Your words and your actions. Your sounds. Your pleasure. All of it will be mine to do with as I see fit. And I’ll treat you so fucking good honey. So goddamn good. Because I know that’s how good of a girl you’d be for me. So what’s it gonna be?” He lets go of your mouth. 

“My safeword is wine.” 

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips thinning. He nods, like he knew it was headed this direction. His hand drops and finds the handle of the car door, and but he doesn’t open it. Not yet. 

“One condition,” he says. “Non-negotiable.” 

Anxious, you say: “What is it?” 

“We kiss first. Here. Now. While we’re still just us.” 

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, do it, please—” 

He kisses you, and it’s—wow. There could be fireworks, for all you know, but they’d be coming in second. Second to the taste of wine on Marc’s tongue. Second to the soft firmness of his lips. Second to the way his broad hand cups the back of your head and tilts it just-so, so that he can deepen the kiss the way he likes. Second to the way he starts to smile against your mouth. A smile that turns into a broad grin. 

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “That was the best kiss I’ve ever had.” 

“I found your bird,” you whisper shakily against his mouth. 

He pulls back, startled by your words. “You—what?” 

“Your missing bird,” you say, reaching for his hand. You place it over your racing heart, which feels like the beating of wings beneath his touch. 

[not-poignant]

Daily excerpt from today's writing, chapter 25 of Palmarosa:

‘Your naivete is very nearly charming,’ Raphael said, smiling above him. ‘Do you know how many I’ve witnessed in these moments of tumult and conflict? Almost enough to know exactly what thoughts move through your insignificant mind. I took you out of the dusty dark and restored you, saved you, and you mock me before strangers.’ ‘I want- I think I want to go ahead with the second contract. I don’t want to wait any longer.’ Raphael’s cold smile broadened. ‘If we’re sharing our thoughts, Astarion, then I think I want to punish you first for consistently breaking with our first contract. A more patient devil would wait, but I’ve been patient enough. Besides, I shan’t be too cruel. It will be proportionate, I assure you.’ Astarion was rather losing his appetite. ‘Now?’ Astarion said. ‘And if I…don’t want to commit to the second contract?’ ‘Oh, you will,’ Raphael practically purred. ‘You’ll bear my marks and bruises and you still will. Haven’t you realised that the reason no gods heed you, is that you already have one that you cannot forsake no matter what?’ Astarion stared up at him in confusion. Raphael crouched down, eyes flashing golden-amber. ‘It is the sun, my aberrational wretch. All of you fear it, but your lives revolve around it. It’s all you’ve ever wanted since you lost it, and you’ll choose it before you’d choose your own sanity. So here you are, quite mad, and watch – Astarion, my pet – you’re about to agree to the punishment, and walk with me quite willingly, and still sign your signature in blood at the end of the day.’

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (30) Journey

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 30)

Summary: Rosie struggles a bit during her pregnancy. Thinking about her own mother only makes her nauseous, and not because of morning sickness. A solution is found and nature does the rest.

Thirty Years Old

Of course, we were at Baker Street the first time the baby kicked. Not surprising since we lived there, it was the occasion rather, Timothy’s birthday.  Dad and Papa came up from Sussex to celebrate with us, and the moment I hugged Dad, a violent kick made me wince.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Dad asked worried.

“The baby,” I whispered. “It kicked. For the first time.”

Dad beamed at me, as if it was his presence that elicited this action. Papa looked proudly at him, and I just knew that this baby would be spoiled beyond belief. My parents were already besotted. Not that Marie and Daniel were less excited, but they’d been through this four times already.

***

The evidence of my pregnancy with my growing belly, didn’t stop me from marvelling in the craziness of it all. Every now and again the thought hit me: you’re having a baby!

Another thing that haunted me occasionally was the thought of my mother. How had she felt about being pregnant with a man that abandoned her? Not that I blamed Dad one bit. She had almost killed Papa, which still made me nauseous, and it stung my heart. Sometimes I was filled with rage aimed at the woman who I’d been inside for nine months. Other times, I pondered if she’d planned it all to end like it did. To save Papa’s life, sacrificing herself. The thoughts were fruitless of course, and for my own sanity, I managed to stop before I was overwhelmed with the need to know.

There was no secret that both my parents had gone to therapy before and after the Eurus business, and Dad suggested that I try it too, to get some tools to cope when the emotions got the better of me. I did, and it helped.

***

Nature is a wonderful thing. After months of discomfort and hours of agony in labour, all was forgotten once our little girl was laid on my chest. She was perfect, obviously. Brown strands of hair and dark eyes, the colour not yet established. The midwife took at photo of the three of us to send to our families in due course. 

“Best not wait too long, or Sherlock might talk Greg into giving him access, the hour be damned,” Timothy quipped.

I sighed and kissed the wonder who slept peacefully, wrapped in soft blankets.

Once the nurse had cleaned me up and I got a room, I fed my daughter, which was an overwhelming experience, and I cried through the whole event. Timothy was a calming presence and burped her when she made it clear that she was full, thank you very much.

“Call them,” Timothy urged.

***

I was anxiously waiting for my first visitors the next day. The day before, or night actually, Papa had insisted on asking uncle Myc to send a car down to Sussex to pick them up and bring them to London asap since the last train had departed hours earlier. Both me and Dad called him childish, and he finally settled on visiting after breakfast the following day.

Papa was almost lost for words when he realised that we’d named our daughter after them. It took Dad a bit longer to grasp it, and they were both teary-eyed and quite soppy when they greeted Joanna Shirley for the first time. She clearly had a thing for Papa’s voice, just like I’d always had, because when she started to wail, he talked her through it, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.

Seeing Dad holding my daughter, while Papa encircled Dad’s shoulders, made me tear up again. I was so happy for that little person who had such wonderful people in her life, to spoil her rotten, but also to teach her obscure things, comfort her and support her for as long as they could. It was like seeing my own childhood unfold in front of me. The first years I didn’t remember, and I couldn’t wait to experience that, not to mention adding my uncles into the equation. 

Speaking of…

***

The day I was released from the hospital, Timothy was oddly jittery when I asked if he’d made the last preparations for my return home with an infant.

“Of course,” he assured me.

He was a terrible liar, just like Dad.

It turned out that the forces of nature, which was The Fab Four, had taken matters into their own hands. Timothy had been in charge of making tea and ordering takeaway, while two men, I think you can guess who, did the physical work, while the brothers directed and supervised the remaking of my old room into an extraordinary nursery.

The white walls had been painted sunny yellow; the cot was the one we’d already received from my uncles, a pale green armchair stood in the corner, a bee plushie and Ted were placed on top of the duvet, and a white rug lay on the floor. Bee-patterned curtains, and my own bee-blanket, an oak bookshelf filled with my old books and some new ones, made the room feel welcoming.

“You’re all insane!” I scolded the proud foursome.

“Indeed,” uncle Myc agreed. “Nothing but the best is good enough for my grandniece.”

“And our granddaughter,” Dad and Papa said in unison.

Uncle Greg rolled his eyes at them, but he was unable to hide his pride and the love he felt for his abnormal family.

Also available on AO3

This whole chapter is a journey of its own, but also part of a bigger one, which has been a joy to share with you all.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

More tags in the replies

[alwaysjustmina]

Whispers of Rain

Chapter 14: And I don't want to get in your way

My thanks as always go out to the following:

@kamonart the artwork for this story (check them out on IG

@papaslittlesunshine for her amazing editing skills, any mistake are always clearly mine. Check her out on Tumblr or her stories on ao3! If you need recs, let me know!!

Lastly @midnight-moth on Tumblr and IG, for always listening to my depraved raindrop thoughts and trying to guide me back to sanity. Check all their work out on AO3, if you haven't read Kilonova, what are you even doing?

Read below or here

With his eyes squeezed tightly shut, Dew knew this couldn’t be real. He tried to slow his breathing to keep pace with the ticking of the clock he could hear, willing his heartbeat to decelerate. If he didn’t open his eyes, he could stay in this vague awareness, between the dark and light. Between knowing if Rain was alive or dead. He could feel the tears slip past his clenched eyes. When he thought of Rain, he felt the panic starting to rise in his chest. He needed to just open his eyes, deal with whatever had happened. He continued to will himself to just give him one more moment, one more second in this ignorant bliss.

He felt a body next to him, a hand reaching out to take his own that was clenched in the sheets. Warmth slowly registered that the hand next to him wasn’t the cold realization that death offered. The puff of air that breathed along his neck, had his eyes snapping open.

The sight before him made him gasp, the other eyes meeting his, disrupted out of half sleep. The smile that quirked the corners of his mouth up before noticing the tears falling from Dew’s eyes, his sobs not able to be quieted any longer.

“Dew?” Rain asked softly.

He raised his one hand not holding onto Dew’s hand to brush the tears falling down from his cheeks. Dew leaned into his touch, pushing his face into the palm of his hand. He couldn’t answer him, his voice lost to the pain of the dream.

Rain seemed to understand something had happened, he didn’t push, just gripped Dew’s hand tighter, his smaller grip encompassed in Rain’s larger. He wanted to pull him closer, to encircle him in his embrace, but he knew that Dew had to reach, Dew had to be the one to reach out for him. He would wait. He would wait forever if necessary.

Rain’s hand grounded Dew in the quiet light of the morning. They didn’t speak, they watched the other, eyes caressing where hands hadn’t in so long as the dawn broke the sky, streaming sun across the bed, landing across Rain’s face, Dew’s dull locks shining in the morning sun.

As Dew calmed down further he found himself pressing himself into the quiet solace that Rain offered, molding their bodies together once again. Dew’s head under Rain’s chin, arm around the waist, legs entwined in a resemblance of gnarled tree branches that have forged together over years, if not centuries, unable to bear being separated.

Rain’s hand found Dew’s hair, brushing it back from Dew’s face gently, running his fingers through it. He missed this quiet between them, these moments that they had fought so hard for over the last year.

“Please don’t leave me,” Dew mumbled so quietly that Rain had to question if he heard him correctly.

“Never, I will always be here for you, my Otter. I will always find a way to be near to you, I will always come for you.”

Dew pulled back from their tight embrace to look into Rain’s eyes, maybe to check the validity of his words, not believing himself worth it. Rain watched the heart wrenching thoughts pass over Dew’s eyes, making sure to offer him a smile and to pour all the love he had for him to show in his eyes, in his face, in his caress. He watched the tears continue to fall silently down his face.

“Please don’t cry over thinking I will ever leave you Dew, that is the last thing you need to worry about.”

Dew’s face softened at Rain’s admission, finally believing a small fraction of what he was saying. He knew they needed to talk about everything that happened, he needed to tell Rain his fear. He knew these things, but he just wanted to exist in this moment, they had time.

Rain whispered over and over again how much he loved him as he held Dew in his tight embrace. Dew found himself nuzzling into Rain’s neck, inhaling his scent, placing small kisses along his pulse, without realizing what he was doing. When the two of them were alone together their bodies automatically sought the other out. It was natural, destined. Rain placed kisses along Dew’s cheek and forehead.

They moved to look at each other again, and Dew found himself making the first move. He pushed forward slowly, his eyelids lowered, watching the plush lips before him. He knew when Rain realized what he was he was doing by the sharp puff of air he emitted from his mouth.

“You sure?” Rain asked before their lips met.

Dew didn’t answer, he pressed his mouth to Rain’s. A chaste kiss, pressed together in a silent moment. He felt Rain’s lips twitch into a smile as they were pressed together. He could feel Rain’s hand that was holding his grip the slightest bit harder. The other arm that were wrapped around each other, he felt both of their flesh rise in goosebumps, electricity flowing between their limbs to the other.

It wasn’t a heated kiss by far, both knowing that they wouldn’t take it further. It felt like the first time they touched, the first glance, the first admission of love. It felt like hope, that maybe everything would be ok. Dew wanted to forget everything that happened and just exist the rest of eternity in Rain’s embrace, with the knowledge that they loved each other.

When they finally pulled apart, they exchanged a sigh of contentment and smiled at the other.

“I love you too, my Selkie, always.” Dew breathed out.

They held each other the rest of the morning, until they heard the others start to move in the house. The sound of life, breaking them from this moment of contentment. Knowing they needed to face the day and start to plan for Ifrit’s demise and the eventual thought of going home and starting to heal.

They slowly let go of the other, arms unraveling, bodies moving apart, fingertips the last to touch as they made their way from the bed. Their eyes never left the other as they moved around the room trying to piece together clothes for the day. They only stopped staring when the other stepped into the bathroom to clean up. The one not in the shower waiting outside, standing by the door, the thought of being apart unbearable. When they came back together their hands found the others again. Their fingers entwined, speaking the thoughts that they both couldn’t say out loud yet.

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

“Rain, that is a dumb idea,” Eidolon shouted from beside Aether.

Rain sighed deeply in exasperation, would Eidolon ever give him a break? Would he ever stop fighting him? He was absolutely grateful to him for being with Dew and getting him through Ifrit’s torture, offering his friendship (he was not going to think about that kiss that he witnessed between the two of them, he was not), but he secretly wished he could punch him sometimes.

Calm, Rain, calm, he thought to himself not for the first time this morning. Rain had Dew’s hand in his beneath the table, his thumb caressing the others mindlessly. He was trying to ignore the fact that after their quiet morning, he found Dew and Eidolon huddled in a corner in the kitchen whispering quietly to one another, Eidolon’s hand on Dew’s arm. Rain wondered if Dew had shared what had made him cry this morning with Eidolon, and he tried his hardest to cut off those thoughts, he had his time with Dew this morning. Dew would share everything with Rain when he could, he knew he would, but fuck if it didn’t kill something inside of him when he found the two of them together again. As soon as Dew saw Rain enter the kitchen he disentangled himself from Eidolon with a quiet, “I will be fine, thank you,” and a squeeze to his hand before walking over and greeting Rain.

“And what is your idea?” He asked back, as neutrally as possible. He would make an effort for Dew. Eidolon was his friend.

“I wouldn’t ask him to meet me somewhere, that’s for sure, the only way you will be able to get him is to do it by surprise. Otherwise he will be prepared and will do every dirty thing in the book to end you. How can you be that stupid?” Eidolon seethed.

“Eidolon!” Dew and Aether’s voices raised in surprise at the same time, shock evident on both of their faces.

Calm, Rain, calm.

Eidolon didn’t stop though, “Why would you put Dew in this position, of Ifrit destroying you, killing you? Why don’t you care what you do to him?”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Well that wasn’t calm, was it?

“You are a fucking idiot, that is my problem. You are going to get not just yourself killed, but all of us when your oh so brilliant plan fails, including the one you supposedly love.”

Rain could feel himself gritting his teeth inside his mouth, grinding them together as he tried to remain calm and not fly across this table in the rage he felt inside his entire being. How fucking dare he? Who the hell did he think he was to question his love for Dew? Calm.

“What, you think you can come up with something better?”

“Absolutely, at least my plan wouldn’t get Dew killed. At least it seems like I may be the only one of us concerned with that between you and me.”

Rain quickly rose from his chair, “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?” He gripped the wooden frame so hard he knew he was leaving claw marks on the wood.

Eidolon rose from his chair, as well, “You know damn well what that is supposed to mean!”

Aether and Dew looked at each other across the table, not knowing how to diffuse the situation.

“Maybe we should take a breath?”

“Hey, let’s all calm down.”

Aether and Dew spoke at the same time, addressing the person by their side. Neither were listening though.

They tried.

Failed.

“You think you can take care of him better than I can? Is that what this is, Eidolon?”

Eidolon scoffed, “What surprises me, Rain, is that you don’t think the same thing.”

“Oh, cause you did so well protecting him while you were both with Ifrit?”

“Where the hell were you Rain? It was months he was there. All I heard is he stabbed you once or twice, I would have dragged myself from my deathbed to Dew’s side, but no, poor little Rain had to rehabilitate.”

It hit a little too close to home, Eidolon’s words. He knew he failed Dew, he should have been here sooner. The defeat of what Eidolon said, evident on his face clearly.

“Even you think this, Rain, just look at yourself, you know you aren’t anyone’s savior. You play the biggest victim here out of everyone.”

Rain’s mouth hung open as Eidolon continued.

“If Dew finds comfort in my embrace, why would you stop him from seeking it out? You say it is all about Dewdrop, but you continue to make it about you, begging him to not seek me out at night to calm his fears.”

Eidolon continued, “You know your the reason he is here, Ifrit had some kind of vendetta against you, your the reason it got so bad. He wouldn’t have tortured Dewdrop if it wasn’t for you. I heard the things he said to Dew when he was-”

“Eidolon, stop!” Dew shouted, but it wasn’t enough.

Eidolon continued, not missing a breath, “hurting him, hurting him in ways you can’t even fathom. He always made sure to bring you up. Tell me, was it about Dew, or did bring this on him?”

The room suddenly was too quiet, all the air drawn out of the space they were in. Rain couldn’t hear anything, the sound of the wildlife outside had ceased playing on the waters edge, the light had slipped behind the clouds, the ticking of the clock stopped.

He had told him. Dew had told Eidolon. He told him what he had asked him for the other night. He told him.

Maybe Eidolon was right, maybe it was all him? Did he cause this for Dew? How much had things changed since they were together? He never thought Dew would share a private conversation with anyone else. The devastating realization of the bond he now understood Dew had with Eidolon, shattered the hope he felt grow in his chest this morning. He couldn’t look at Dew, he couldn’t look at any of them. He found himself pulling away from the table, removing his hands from the chair, slipping his hand out from under Dew’s that had been placed on top of his.

“Maybe you are right, I will rethink my plans and share it with the group when I make my decision.” He slipped out of the silent room, passing through the house and out the front door, he needed to take a walk. He needed out of there before he broke down in front of them all and it gave Eidolon more fuel to torment him with. He didn’t hear as Dew called out to him, lost in his own thoughts and misery. The words Eidolon had shouted repeating in his head over and over.

Dew stared at Eidolon across the table, he watched his friend's body heaving in anger as he spewed the words Dew had confided in him in private. He knew why Eidolon was doing this, this was his fault. He hadn’t made his feelings clear. Fuck if he even knew exactly what he felt. Rain didn’t deserve his vitriol though, Dew did.

When he heard the door shut behind Rain, he spoke up, “Why would you say that to him?”

“Cause it is the truth.”

“Phan-I mean, Eidolon, you don’t know what it was like at the abbey the last few months either, that wasn’t fair to say to Rain.” Aether said quietly from his side.

“I don’t care, he is an idiot.”

“Eidolon, stop, he isn’t an idiot.” Dew’s voice raising in agitation.

“Yes, he is. You deserve better.”

“STOP. I will not listen to this again.”

“Dew, you know I am-”

“Eidolon, seriously, I am not listening to this anymore right now. I need you to stop.” Dew walked away from the table.

He wandered through the house, finally sitting in the glassed in sunroom, his thoughts consuming him. He waited for Rain for hours to return, but eventually the light outside dimmed and he found himself falling asleep in the chair, once again wishing he had never fallen for Ifrit all those years ago. It would have solved so many things.

Rain returned many hours after leaving the house to the quiet house, Aether sitting at the table in the kitchen by himself. He found himself asking where the others were, Aether said Eidolon was in his room and Dew was in the sunroom waiting for Rain to return.

He wiped his hand over his face in exhaustion before sitting across from Aether. Weren’t they just here a few days ago, was that a week or two ago? He couldn’t remember anymore. He saw Aether itching to say something to him about the earlier conversation, but before he could speak he told him he had a plan.

“I want to leave as soon as possible, Eidolon was right that we need to do this as quickly and quietly as possible.”

“We should get both of them and tell them the plan.” Aether knew Rain was getting ready to do something stupid even as he said this, like not to tell the other two they were going.

“No, I think it is better we go now, I just need to get some things, give me a half an hour.”

“Rain, this is a mistake, you need to talk to Dew.”

“I don’t want to hear it Aether, I just want to get this done so we can get hi-I mean them, back to the abbey and safe.”

He rose from the table to take care of the last few things before they left.

Aether found himself outside of Eidolon’s room, pushing his door open silently. He laid on his bed fast asleep. In sleep, it was easy for Aether to forget all the years between the last time he saw him. Phantom was curled on his side, clutching the other pillow on the bed between his arms, his hair sticking in all directions. He wished he could wake him, but he sat there watching him for as long as he could before they left. He wanted to tell him, he knew how hard it was. He knew that Eidolon was in love with Dew, he knew what he faced with that feeling. He wanted to tell him Rain was a good person, that he loved Dew with his entire being, not to fault their feelings for the other. Not to lose sight of his friendship with Dew. He didn’t have to give up his love of Dew because he loved Rain, Dew had enough love for him too. He didn’t need to fight with Rain over who loved Dew more.

He wanted to run his hand through Eidolon’s wild hair and remind him of their youth together, of the happiness they shared in their family home. The two of them running wild through the fields, practicing their powers, watching the starlight they created together. How sorry he was that Ifrit used Eidolon to get to Aether. He wished he could send Eidolon home to their family, but there was no one there any longer, it was just the two of them.

He knew that time was drawing near, he rose from the edge of the bed, bending down to kiss Phantom’s forehead and whisper from the door to the sleeping form, that he would be back soon and that he loved him, his baby brother.

They had time, he would make sure he knew how much love he had for him, how much love their family had had for them.

Rain and Aether slipped from the house silently, starting the car and driving into the dark night by themselves away from the two people that they loved the most in the world.

When Dew woke later that night from the sound sleep he had on the chair he stumbled from the room to see if Rain had returned. The kitchen was empty, the house locked. He went to their bedroom to find it empty of the other ghoul, but he found on the bed a packet laying on the covers. There were many envelopes wrapped with twine, all addressed to him with a note on top.

My love,

I am sorry you will find this and not me here, but I need to do this. I have needed to do this from the day I first saw what Ifrit was doing to you.

I am sorry I am leaving without waking you, walking out on you in the dark of night, but I knew you would insist on coming and this was something you didn’t need to see, to face again.

I walked for hours in the woods, thinking about us, thinking about how I could make our new lives easier on you. I want you to be happy, safe, beyond anything else. I am so sorry if I made you ever feel anything less. You are my entire world, my other half, the one I love. I won’t give up on our love, but if you can’t find happiness with me again, I will let you go. I only want your happiness, that is the only thing that matters to me.

I thought about you every day we were apart, my only thought was to get back to you. Eidolon was right, it took too long, I failed you once again. I should have been faster. I will take care of Ifrit though so you can live in peace knowing he will never hurt you again.

I have attached my letters I wrote to you while we were apart. I hope they prove to you, that you were all I thought about, that maybe I am deserving of your love somehow.

I brought them in hopes we could open them together, but I think this may be better. You can read them if you want. You can decide. I didn’t realize how much we both would have changed while apart. I guess I am the idiot Eidolon said I was.

Forever yours,

I will love you forever, Selkie, if that makes me more of an idiot, so be it.

I will return in a few days and we can go home. I promise I will get you home and take care of this monster for you.

Rain

Rain, what did you do?

Authors note: the letters Rain left with Dew look like this (thanks to @jazz-bazz )

[mooncello]

Short update today! Thanks so much to @monbons, @rimeswithpurple, and @artsyunderstudy for the tags.

Chapter 3 of more than a footnote goes live this week. Maybe tomorrow once ao3 is back up, or maybe Tuesday, we'll see. Until then ...

Dev's got a playlist. 🖤

I'm working on a fic playlist, too. And a studying playlist for Niall.

Seven sentences below! Enjoy some pining Dev.

He’s gonna make a fucking epic boyfriend someday. I actually can’t think about it too much because the thought makes me feel like I’m gonna combust. He dated someone briefly this past summer—some barista in central London with super dramatic, dark academia vibes—and I nearly chewed off my tongue whenever Niall mentioned her. The only reason I kept my sanity is ’cos it never really took off. It never got serious.   I want him to be happy, I really do.   I don’t know how I’m gonna survive watching it happen.

tags and something delightful under the cut:

A couple weeks ago, @rimeswithpurple shared a photo of the fandom friendship bracelets she was making and I ... kinda lost my mind over them lol. I screamed in her DMs about the DeNiall one (because ofc I did) and look what arrived in the mail yesterday!! I mean, look at it, it's perfect. Their shipping name in gold and everything.

I love it so much!! I love this fandom, and all the ways we geek together and celebrate these characters and show our care. Thank youuuu Purple—every time I look at the bracelet, I smile like a loon.

waving at you beloveds:

@drowninginships @valeffelees @run-for-chamo-miles @blackberrysummerblog @orange-peony

@youarenevertooold, @shrekgogurt, @hushed-chorus, @whatevertheweather, @fatalfangirl

@cutestkilla, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @artsyunderstudy, @emeryhall, @raenestee

@iamamythologicalcreature, @bookish-bogwitch, @thewholelemon, @best--dress, @rimeswithpurple

@ileadacharmedlife, @skeedelvee, @moodandmist, @monbons, @j-nipper-95

@ic3-que3n, @theearlgreymage, @theimpossibledemon, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @palimpsessed

@facewithoutheart, @shemakesmeforget

[thebunnednun]

Shadows in the Night! Trafalgar D. Water Law x Ethereal spirit! Reader (Part 3)

P.S. I do not own any of the images or art!!

Song: Starset

Synopsis: While exploring the enigmatic ruins of a lost civilization, Law and his crew inadvertently awaken a hauntingly beautiful spirit. Invisible to everyone but Law, she delights in tormenting him, whispering tantalizingly close and stirring an unsettling desire within him.

Their relationship, fraught with tension and conflict, evolves from enemies to reluctant allies as the spirit reveals a dark truth: they are bound together for all eternity unless he helps her reclaim her physical body hidden within the ruins. Amidst ancient riddles and hidden dangers, the lines between hate and desire blur, creating an intoxicating mix of sexual and romantic tension.

In this gripping tale of supernatural intrigue and forbidden desire, Law’s resolve and sanity are tested. Can he break the curse, or will they remain forever entwined in the shadows of the forgotten ruins, bound by a fate that draws them inexorably closer?

On with the show!!~

-------------------------Chapter 3: Done Deal-----------------------------

"Law,"

"Law?"

"Law dear," the voice whispered softly, a melodious tune that seemed to resonate through the fog of sleep.

"Mhm," Law murmured, his mind slowly drifting toward consciousness.

"You have to wake up now," the voice coaxed gently, and he felt something soft brush against his cheek, sending cold tingles cascading through his body.

Law slowly opened his amber eyes, blinking against the morning light streaming through the open curtains. A gentle weight pressed down on his chest, and as his vision cleared, a giggle reached his ears.

"Hey there, sleepyhead!" a feminine voice laughed softly, the sound warm and full of affection.

Law groaned, the remnants of sleep clinging to him. He felt the pressure of the weight on his chest and stomach and looked down to see a small, delicate form.

"Ah!"

"I know, my love," the voice soothed, "Daddy is waking up now."

'Daddy?'

The word jolted through his mind, and Law's eyes shot open as he tried to sit up.

"Whoa, there!" The same cold hand pressed down firmly on his chest, preventing him from rising too quickly. "Don't send our baby flying now!"

The woman’s warm laughter settled over his skin like a comforting blanket. Now fully alert, he could see a young infant nestled on his chest, lying over his heart. The baby’s tiny fingers clutched at his shirt, and a soft coo escaped its lips.

"Ah!"

Law found himself in a large master bed, the sheets tangled and unmade from a restless night. He looked up, following the voice to its source. A woman stood beside the bed, her figure bathed in the soft, golden morning light.

She was breathtaking. Her beauty was striking, her features perfectly balanced with a unique charm. She wore deep blue jeans that hugged her curves, and a white lab coat hung over her shoulders, partially covering a punk rock tee-shirt that hinted at a rebellious spirit.

Her red lips were vibrant, catching his eye and drawing him in despite the way the light obscured the details of her face. It was the kind of red that demanded attention, vibrant and full of life.

Her eyes, however, were clear and mesmerizing, the only detail he could truly focus on through the glare. They were deep and expressive, a captivating blend of strength and tenderness. Her voice, warm and inviting, seemed to wrap around him, anchoring him in this surreal moment.

"It's nice to see you in the land of the living, my heart," she murmured, her fingers rubbing his chest where his heart pounded rapidly. She traced gentle patterns on his hip and tummy, the intimate gesture sending shivers through him.

"Come on, I'll take over now." She reached for the baby, her movements graceful and tender.

Instead, the infant curled up closer to Law's neck, nuzzling against his skin. As he looked down, he noticed a glint of metal and saw a diamond wedding band on the woman's ring finger while his own left hand sported a golden one.

"Awe, someone~ isn't ready to get up yet."

She leaned in, her lips brushing against his cheek in a soft kiss. The touch sending hot flashes of electricity through his body despite their freezing temperature. "Give Daddy some love to help him wake up," she encouraged the baby, her voice a soft coo.

The baby responded with a happy gurgle, tiny hands reaching up to touch Law's face. The warmth of the moment seeped into Law’s chest, spreading through him like a balm. The sensation was almost overwhelming, a strange blend of peace and joy that left him momentarily breathless.

"Thank you," he managed to whisper, his voice thick with emotion.

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made his heart ache with an unfamiliar happiness.

"Always, Law."

As the woman settled to lean into his warm body and press a kiss to the baby, Law couldn’t help but marvel at the surreal beauty of the scene. It felt both impossibly real and dreamlike, a precious moment suspended in time. The warmth in his chest grew, wrapping around his heart as he watched her.

"Law!"

'No.'

"Hey Law!"

'No!'

"Wake up!"

A different voice called out, piercing through the tranquility of the moment.

Law's eyes shot open, the dream dissolving into the stark reality of the Thousand Sunny's infirmary. He was lying on a cot, with Luffy and Chopper anxiously waiting by his side.

"You're awake!" Chopper exclaimed with relief.

Law blinked, trying to piece together what had happened. "What... what happened?" he asked, his voice groggy.

Brook's voice floated into the room, cheerful yet concerned. "You passed out during the emergency, Law."

Law tried to sit up, but before he could move, Luffy threw himself on top of him, pinning him down. "Stay put, Law! You need to rest!"

Chopper nodded vigorously, his tiny hoof resting on Law's arm. "You really need to take it easy. You passed out from lack of sleep and stress. I asked Sanji to make you some soup."

Law turned his head to look at Chopper, acknowledging his words. "What happened to the sub?" he asked, his voice still weak.

Zoro, leaning against the doorframe, answered calmly. "Robin and Franky took care of it. It's in good hands."

Just then, a knock sounded at the door, and Bepo entered, his face lighting up with happiness when he saw Law awake. "Captain! I'm so glad you're okay!"

Law managed a weak smile. "What's the situation, Bepo?"

Bepo's expression grew serious. "We're trying to figure out what's wrong with the ships. It seems like a frost is hitting the ruins, and the water around us is becoming frozen. We're building a shelter on land in case the worst happens."

Law attempted to sit up again, but Chopper quickly intervened. "Please, Law, trust us. You need to rest."

Bepo nodded, his eyes filled with concern. "We'll take care of everything, Captain! You don't need to worry about us."

Zoro spoke up, his tone practical. "We've called Perona, but the snails aren't working due to the cold. We're waiting for her to respond."

Brook added, his voice a touch more somber. "I'll go look around the vessels for the spirit again." With that, almost everyone left the infirmary, leaving Chopper and Luffy with Law.

Moments later, Robin's voice called for Chopper and Luffy from outside. "We need you out here!"

Chopper turned to Law, his eyes serious. "Get some rest. We'll handle things."

Luffy gave Law a reassuring smile. "Yeah, we'll be back soon."

As they left, Law was alone, the room quiet except for the gentle hum of the ship. The ambient noise of the vessel's systems was a comforting constant, a stability and reminder of his surroundings. He touched his cheek where the woman had kissed him in the dream, the sensation so vivid that he could almost feel the warmth of her lips lingering on his skin. It was a soft, fleeting touch, but it had stirred something deep within him.

The dream had been so real. Her face was a blur, yet her presence felt familiar, like a memory just out of reach. Law’s mind replayed the moments over and over, trying to grasp the significance of the encounter. The emotions evoked were complex, a mix of yearning and bewilderment that left him unsettled. He had always prided himself on his rationality and control, yet this dream had pierced through his defenses, leaving him vulnerable to feelings he couldn't fully understand.

He sighed and sank into covers, the cot creaking softly under his weight. His eyes drifted to the small view port, where the vast expanse of space stretched out endlessly. The fog outside had covered everything in a thick grey blanket. The sense of isolation was profound, and in that moment, he felt the vastness of his own solitude.

Why had the dream affected him so deeply? Was it a message from his subconscious, a reflection of a hidden desire or fear? Or was it something more, something beyond the realm of his understanding? The questions swirled in his mind, refusing to settle.

Law closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm inside. He focused on the rhythmic hum of the ship, allowing its steady vibration to ground him. Yet, even as he sought tranquility, the phantom touch of the woman's kiss remained.

He sighed, the weight of his exhaustion pulling him back towards sleep. As he closed his eyes, the peace of the infirmary and the lingering warmth from the dream began to lull him. Just as he was about to drift off, a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

"Hey, sleepyhead!~"

Law's eyes snapped open, the voice sending a jolt through his system. He sat up too quickly, a wave of nausea crashing over him as the room spun.

"Easy there!" the voice teased, followed by a soft giggle.

Law's vision cleared, and he recognized the woman from his dream. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, a playful smile on her lips. The spirit's vibrant red lips and voice were unmistakable, even in the dim light of the infirmary.

"Ya know," you began, your tone light and teasing, "I was getting bored waiting for you to wake up. And who knew that waving hi to you would make you so weak in the knees for me?"

Law's reaction was immediate and instinctive. He grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at you, his voice rising in a mix of anger and confusion.

"What the hell are you doing here?!"

You easily dodged the pillow, giggles only intensifying. "Oh, come on now, is that any way to treat a lady?"

He threw another pillow, then reached for anything else within arm's reach – a book, a blanket, even a small medical instrument. "Get out of here! Leave me alone!"

You dodged each object with effortless grace, your laughter ringing out like a bell. "I was being nice by letting you have that sweet dream, you know. I could have bitten your face off, but I didn’t."

His eyes widened before narrowing as a hot brush crept up his neck. "You're not real!" Law yelled, his frustration mounting. "You can't be real!"

The spirit stopped dodging and stood at the foot of the bed, her expression shifting to one of mock seriousness. "Oh, but I am, my dear. You can deny it all you want, wish me away. But, I'm always here, watching over you."

She ran her fingers along the bottom of his covers and skipped over his feet before he pulled them in.

'What. The Fuck. Is. Your. Deal?!"

Law’s breath came in ragged gasps as he stared at her, his mind racing to understand what was happening. "What do you want from me?" he demanded.

The spirit floated closer, her presence both comforting and unnerving. "You can’t escape your past, Law. It’s a part of you, just as I am."

Law clenched his fists, his frustration giving way to a deep sense of helplessness. "I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone."

She reached out, her hand stopping just short of his cheek. Law shivered in anticipation, feeling the ghostly sensation of her touch lingering just out of reach. Her sharp nails glinted in the dim light, a reminder of her ethereal nature and the danger she posed.

"Everyone needs someone, Doctor. Even you," she whispered, her voice a soft caress.

Law's breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared into her mesmerizing eyes. The tension between them was palpable, a mix of fear and longing that left him feeling vulnerable and exposed.

Just as she was about to touch him, the door to the infirmary burst open, and Luffy and Chopper rushed back in. 

"Law! Are you okay?" Chopper exclaimed, his eyes wide with concern.

Luffy’s gaze darted around the room, his fists clenching. "What’s going on in here?"

Law blinked, the spirit suddenly gone as if she had never been there. He looked around, confusion and exhaustion warring within him. "I... I don’t know," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Chopper hurried to his side, his medical instincts kicking in. "You need to lie down. You're still not fully recovered."

Luffy sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes filled with worry. "We’re here for you, Law. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together."

Law nodded slowly, the events of the past few minutes blurring in his mind. As he lay back down, he couldn’t shake the lingering feeling of the spirit’s presence, her words echoing in his mind.

"Your choice, Law," her voice whispered in the recesses of his thoughts. "You're running out of time." She waved to him once more before walking past the straw hats and vanishing into the air.

As Law prepared to point out the presence of the spirit to the other crew members, he suddenly realized that they really couldn't see her at all. His heart sank as he understood the truth – he was the only one who could see her. With a heavy sigh, he quickly improvised an excuse, "I want to rest in my office."

Luffy and Zoro immediately offered to help him, their concern evident in their expressions. With their assistance, Law made his way to his study, which Bepo had thankfully cleaned up. As they settled him into his chair, Chopper placed a bowl of Sanji's soup on his desk, giving him strict orders to rest.

"Aye, sir," Law responded weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Once they had left, promising to return soon, Law found himself 'alone' once more. He watched as the lights overhead flickered, a sign of her presence.

"I know you're there," he muttered, his voice tinged with resignation.

She appeared on his desk again, her expression sour. The room seemed to dim slightly as she materialized, her presence casting a subtle chill over the space. Her form flickered in and out of focus, like an image caught between dimensions, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

As much as he'd hate to admit it, Law was relieved to see her. 

"You're really no fun at all when you're this kind of grumpy," she remarked, frowning deeply. Her voice echoed slightly, as if coming from a distant place, sending a shiver down Law's spine. Her fingers traced the cup of writing utensils on his desk before knocking it over. 

"Something caught your eyes, Doctor?"

Law couldn't help but notice how her white dress floated around her, reminiscent of a wedding gown. It billowed softly as if caught in an unseen breeze, lending her an otherworldly elegance. Yet, beneath the ethereal facade, there was a hint of something darker, something that stirred unease in the depths of Law's soul.

"I hate when people give in so easily," she continued, plucking a few papers off his desk. Her movements were fluid, almost hypnotic, as if she were dancing to a tune only she could hear. "That doesn't make it very fun for me."

"Or maybe it's easier this way. We have so much to attend to. Such little time."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, knowing it would only provoke her further. Instead, he leaned back in his bed, watching her with a mix of irritation and curiosity. His gaze lingered on her sharp features, the delicate curve of her lips, and the piercing intensity of her eyes. There was a magnetic pull to her presence, a strange allure that he couldn't quite comprehend.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice weary.

She sighed dramatically, as if his question was the most obvious thing in the world. "You keep asking that. I find it tedious to repeat."

Law's jaw clenched at her words, his memories stirring uncomfortably. Images flashed through his mind, fragments of a past he had tried so hard to bury. He felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach, a mixture of fear and longing that threatened to consume him.

"I don't need to agree to anything," he replied, his tone sharp.

She shook her head, her expression softening slightly. "But you do, Law. You do."

With that cryptic statement, she vanished from sight, leaving Law alone in his bed, his thoughts swirling with memories he'd rather forget. As the silence settled around him, he couldn't shake the feeling of her presence lingering, like she was haunting the corners of his mind.

Speaking of ghosts-

"Come back here! I'm not finished with you!"

A stack of paperwork came flying toward his head, and Law barely managed to block it.

"You're getting on my nerves now, Law," she said, her tone laced with playful menace. She was closer now, perched at the edge of his foot-board as if she were riding a horse.

His eyes traced over the curve of her bottom and hip before looking to the dip of her tummy and waist. Her arms were bare and almost sparkled as she faded in and out of focus. The layers of her dress did nothing to hide her curves, and he found that dangerously low sweetheart neckline again, which managed to conceal her bust.

"Is this all you're going to do? Yell for me to come and go before I give you more nightmares?" she taunted, her voice a sultry whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "And then salivate over me like a dog?"

She moved gracefully, her forearms now supporting her upper body on the bed while her face rested in her palms. The lights continued to play tricks on his eyes, and he felt the coldness of her figure and the purple glow of her eyes locked on him.

Law's breath hitched as she inched closer, her presence an intoxicating mix of danger and allure. He could smell her faint, floral scent, mingling with the electric tension in the room. Her eyes, deep and enigmatic, seemed to peer into his very soul, and he fought the urge to reach out and touch her. She was a ghost, an illusion, but the heat in his chest was undeniably real.

"You're haunting me," he murmured, his voice strained with a mixture of frustration and longing. "Why do you keep coming back?" He was going crazy at this point. 

She laughed softly, the sound like silk brushing against his skin. "I don't know," she said, her lips curling into a teasing smile, "maybe because you make me feel alive."

Her words hung in the air, thick with implication, and Law felt his resolve waver. Every part of him ached to pull her closer, to feel her cool skin against his, to lose himself in her haunting beauty. But he knew better than to trust a ghost, even one as captivating as her.

"They all think you're crazy, ya know?" she whispered, stalking closer to him, her form now almost catlike. He subconsciously swallowed a lump in his throat he hadn't known was there before.

"Poor baby, you really liked that dream earlier, didn't you?" she purred, her voice dripping with seduction. He had a clear view of her plush cleavage now, as she continued to crawl closer.

"You liked it, didn't you?" she repeated, smiling that perfect smile again, her plump red lips revealing her sharp canines.

Law's heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of anger, fear, and something he didn't want to acknowledge. Her presence was overwhelming, her beauty intoxicating in a way that made him feel weak. "Get out of my head," he demanded, his voice trembling slightly despite his efforts to sound strong.

She laughed softly, a sound that sent shivers down his spine. "Oh, Law, I'm not in your head. I'm right here," she said, her fingers trailing along the edge of his bed as she moved even closer.

"Why fight it? Why not enjoy it?"

Her eyes locked onto his, a dangerous blend of mischief and longing. She was close enough now that he could feel the coolness emanating from her skin, a stark contrast to the burning heat pooling within his tummy. Her touch was light, teasing, as her fingers traced up his arm. Law flinched at the freezing contact but didn't pull away.

"You can't deny it," she whispered, her breath ghosting over his ear, sending another shiver down his spine. "You crave this, crave me."

Her words wrapped around his mind like a vice, squeezing out any coherent thought. He hated how easily she unraveled him, how her mere presence could reduce him to this state of helpless desire. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with the effort of resisting her pull.

"You're wrong," he managed to say, though his voice lacked conviction. Law clenched his fists, trying to hold on to his sanity. "Because you're not real. You're just a figment of my imagination," he insisted.

She moved her hand to his cheek, her touch cold yet strangely comforting. She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you sure about that?" she asked, her voice a low whisper. "I feel pretty real to me." She placed a hand softly on her bust line and leaned closer. 

"Reality is overrated," she murmured, her lips brushing against his ear. "What's wrong with indulging in a little fantasy?"

Her lips were tantalizingly close to his, and he could see the flicker of amusement in her eyes, the satisfaction of knowing she had him cornered. The room seemed to close in around them, the air thick with tension and unspoken desire. Law felt himself leaning into her touch, the battle within him slipping away as her allure grew impossible to resist.

He wanted to argue, to push her away, but the warmth of her breath on his skin and the intense gaze of her eyes were making it difficult to think clearly. "What do you want from me?" he asked again, his voice almost a plea this time.

She smiled, a hint of something dangerous in her eyes. "I want you to remember, Law. Remember your dream, remember the love we shared," she said, her fingers brushing against his cheek. The touch was cold, but it sent a jolt of electricity through him.

Law's mind raced, fragments of memories flashing before his eyes. He saw glimpses of a life he had tried to forget, moments of happiness and pain intertwined. "I can't," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I can't go back."

She leaned in closer, her lips inches from his. "You can't run from your past forever, Law. Sooner or later, it catches up to you," she murmured, her breath sending another shiver down his spine.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out her words, but they echoed in his mind. He knew she was right, but the thought of facing those memories was almost too much to bear. "Leave me alone," he pleaded, his voice barely audible.

"You know you want to," she said, her voice a siren's call. "Just let go, Law. Let yourself feel."

"NO!"

Regaining his will, Law managed to turn his cheek at the last second. Her lips brushed against his skin, a mere whisper away from where he had almost lost himself. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and despite his momentary resistance, he found it nearly impossible to pull away completely.

Her breath was cool against his cheek, her proximity intoxicating. Law's heart pounded as he fought to maintain control, but her presence was overwhelming, and the desire she ignited in him was fierce and unrelenting. He could feel the darkness creeping in, the edges of his consciousness blurring as she pressed closer.

"Why fight it?" she whispered, her voice a seductive murmur against his ear. "You can't resist me forever."

With a surge of determination, Law grabbed her wrists, but instead of pulling away, he used his strength to pin her down onto the bed. Her eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of excitement dancing within them. He hovered over her, his breath ragged and his pulse racing.

"Enough," he said, his voice rough with effort. "I won't let you control me."

She squirmed beneath him, a mix of frustration and desire evident in her movements. "Such a stubborn man," she said, her tone almost affectionate. "But you're only delaying the inevitable."

He tightened his grip on her wrists, holding her firmly against the mattress. Her body was cold beneath his, a stark contrast to the heat coursing through his veins. He could see the defiance in her eyes, but also a challenge, daring him to resist her pull.

As he lay there, trying to steady his breathing, he couldn't shake the feeling of her touch lingering on his skin. The coldness of her fingers, the intensity of her gaze – it all felt too real to be just a dream. And as much as he wanted to deny it, a part of him couldn't help but wonder if she was right. If his past was truly catching up to him, and if he had any hope of escaping it.

"Leave," he demanded, his voice gaining strength. "Get out of my head and my life."

She sighed softly, her hand cupping his cheek. "For now," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "But I'll be back, Law. And next time, you won't be able to push me away."

For a moment, they were locked in a tense standoff, his body pinning hers to the bed, his breath mingling with hers in the charged air between them. Then, slowly, her form began to fade, slipping through his grasp like smoke.

As she vanished, Law collapsed onto the bed, his body trembling with the aftermath of their encounter. He knew she was right. She would return, and he would have to face her again.

"Fuck," 

Law was now alone in the dimly lit room, his mind a chaotic swirl of emotions. He slumped back against his pillow, exhaustion and turmoil weighing heavily on him. He knew he needed to rest, but the thought of closing his eyes and facing the possibility of another dream with her was almost too much.

As he lay there, trying to steady his breathing, he couldn't shake the feeling of her touch lingering on his skin. The icy coldness of her fingers, the intensity of her gaze, her body under his, her captivating voice, her attention – it all felt too real to be just a dream. And as much as he wanted to deny it, a part of him couldn't help but wonder if she was right. If his past was truly catching up to him, and if he had any hope of escaping it.

With a heavy sigh, Law closed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away. But even in the darkness, he couldn't escape the memories that haunted him, the ghost he was trying so hard to forget. 

Law sighed, his fingers massaging his temples as he tried to make sense of everything. The spirit's words echoed in his mind, but he couldn't dwell on them. Not now. He was about to lean back when the door to his study opened again, as Bepo, Luffy, and Franky entered.

"We still can't figure out why the power is draining," Franky said, his brow furrowed with frustration. The usual confidence in his mechanical prowess was absent, replaced by genuine concern. "But Robin found the rock Luffy kicked into the submarine. She was about to put it back, but we thought you might want to see it first."

Law sat up a bit straighter, nodding. "Bring it here," he instructed, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. He tried to push the lingering presence of the spirit from his mind, focusing on the problem at hand.

Luffy glanced at the untouched soup on Law's desk, his eyes narrowing with a mix of concern and curiosity. "You need to eat, Law," he said, a hint of worry in his eyes. "It's weird, though. It's still hot after all this time."

Law's focus wavered, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm. He hadn't even noticed the soup, its steam still curling lazily into the air. Luffy, impatient as ever, grabbed the bowl and practically shoved it into Law's hands. "Eat," he insisted, his voice brooking no argument.

Law sighed but took a spoonful of the soup, the warmth spreading through him like a soothing balm. The rich aroma of the broth mingled with the lingering scent of the spirit, creating a bizarre contrast that made his head spin. "Fine, I'll eat," he muttered, reluctantly accepting another spoonful from Luffy before taking over himself. The heat of the soup was a stark reminder of his physical needs, grounding him in the present moment.

Bepo stepped forward, holding out the rock carefully. "Here it is, Captain," he said, his voice tinged with curiosity. The rock was unremarkable at first glance, but Law knew better than to dismiss anything as ordinary in their world.

Law took the rock, examining it closely. Its surface was rough, but there was something almost magnetic about it, a faint hum of energy that resonated with the submarine's systems. He could feel the power within it, a strange pulse that seemed to sync with his own heartbeat.

"What do you make of it?" Franky asked, leaning over to get a closer look. His mechanical eye whirred as it adjusted focus, trying to analyze the rock's composition.

Law frowned, turning the rock over in his hands. "It's not just any rock," he said slowly, feeling the weight of his words. "There's something embedded in it, something that's draining our power." He looked up, meeting their eyes. "We need to figure out what it is and how to neutralize it."

Luffy, still hovering nearby, finally relaxed a bit, seeing Law more engaged. "Good. Then you can get back to full strength," he said with a nod. "And make sure you finish that soup."

Law managed a small smile, appreciating Luffy's blunt concern. "Thanks, Luffy," he said, taking another spoonful of the soup. The warmth continued to spread through him, mingling with the determination that now filled his mind. For now, that was enough to push the spirit's haunting presence to the back of his thoughts.

Bepo watched anxiously. "Please don't get sick, Captain," he pleaded, his worry evident in his wide, expressive eyes.

Robin entered the room, the strange rock in her hands. She placed it carefully on Law's desk, her movements precise and deliberate. "I have updates," she said, her voice calm and steady.

"We've made some progress with the shelter on the land by the ruins. Franky and Usopp have done a good job, but the fog and snowstorm are messing with Nami. She's fallen ill, and Penguin is sick as well. Chopper is taking care of them."

Law's agitation grew, his sense of responsibility weighing heavily on him. He felt a familiar pang of guilt settle in his chest. "It's my fault," he muttered, guilt gnawing at him. "I should have been more careful."

Luffy, noticing Law's distress, turned to Robin. "Robin, there's something else. A spirit has been bothering Law. We think it's connected to all this."

Robin's eyes widened slightly, her keen intellect immediately processing the new information. She thought for a moment before speaking. "A spirit? That could explain the strange weather and the sickness. Perhaps we disturbed her or disrespected the ruins, and this is her way of retaliating."

Law's jaw tightened as he processed her words. "What do we do about it, then? How do we fix this?" He turned to Luffy. "Has Zoro been able to contact Perona?"

Luffy shook his head. "We were able to speak to her for a few minutes, but whatever she was trying to say was lost in the static."

Robin placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding him. "First, we need to understand more about her and her connection to these ruins. Maybe there's a way to appease her or set things right."

Franky nodded, his mechanical arm gleaming in the dim light. "Yeah, we can’t let this spirit keep messing with us. We'll figure it out, Captain."

Luffy grinned, his confidence unshaken and infectious. "We'll take care of this together. Don't worry, Law."

Law took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The weight of his crew's expectations and the responsibility of their wellbeing pressed down on him, but he knew he couldn't afford to falter. "Alright," he said, determination creeping back into his voice. "Let's figure this out."

Robin's thoughtful expression turned to one of determination. "I'll start researching more about these ruins. There must be some clues about the spirit and how to appease her."

Luffy patted Law's back with a reassuring smile. "And you keep resting. We'll handle the rest."

Law nodded, taking another spoonful of the soup. But the food didn't sit well in his stomach now, churning with the anxiety and guilt he felt. His mind was still buzzing with thoughts of the spirit and the dream, but for now, he focused on the task at hand. They had to figure this out, for the sake of the crew.

The strange rock lay on his desk, a silent enigma that held part of the answer to their troubles. Law's fingers traced its rough surface, feeling the faint hum of energy within it.

"We'll start with this," he said, his voice resolute. "Whatever's inside this rock, it's connected to the spirit. We need to understand its nature and how to neutralize it."

Robin nodded, already deep in thought. "I'll analyze it further and see what I can find. Meanwhile, we need to gather as much information as possible about the ruins and the spirit."

Law looked around at his friends, their faces filled with determination and loyalty. They were in this together, and he drew strength from their unwavering support. "Thank you, everyone," he said quietly, his heart swelling with gratitude. "We'll get through this. I promise."

His mind was still buzzing with thoughts of the spirit and the dream, but for now, he focused on the task at hand. They had to figure this out, for the sake of the crew.

Robin left the room to start her research, and Franky followed to help where he could. Bepo lingered a moment longer, looking at his captain with concern.

"Don't worry, Bepo," Law said, managing a small smile. "We'll get through this."

Bepo nodded, his expression determined. "Yes, Captain."

As they all left the room, Law sighed and leaned back in his chair. The lights overhead flickered again, and he couldn't shake the feeling that the spirit was watching him.

"I know you're here," he said quietly, waiting.

Law's eyes followed the spirit as she appeared by his bookshelf, her form shimmering slightly. She looked almost amused as she glanced at him. "What, do you wanna pick up where we left off?" Her voice wasn't as teasing this time, a hint of something more serious lurking beneath.

She cast a disdainful look at the rock on his desk. Law picked it up, observing her reaction. She rolled her eyes. "I'm not afraid of the stone," she said, and as he quirked an eyebrow at her, she sighed. "And no, you can't get rid of me by putting it back."

Law set the rock down and took a seat at his desk. "You kept my soup hot," he stated, more than questioned.

She shrugged, casually picking through his reading selection. "You need to be somewhat healthy for me to mess with you."

He watched her finger his figurines before asking, "Why did you let me touch you?"

She stopped, and the room held its breath. Then, she continued rifling through his books. "I wanted to see what you would do."

"Was that a test of some sort?" he asked, his annoyance growing. He began to creep his chair closer to her, hoping she wouldn't notice.

Her gaze flicked to him, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "Maybe," she said cryptically, her eyes glinting with mischief. "But then again, maybe I just wanted to feel something." She paused, her expression growing serious.

You worry about the wrong things, Law. You and that Straw Hat boy have a very sweet crew out there."

This statement caused Law to stop moving. "I thought you were only here to bother me."

She turned her back to him again, continuing to flip through the pages of a particularly interesting book. "I never said they were off the table either. I must say though, that Lady, Robin, is my favorite so far. Such a shame, though. Really, it truly is."

"What is?"

"They're the best crew I've seen here in eons, and yet it won't stop what's about to happen."

Law's mind raced as he tried to make sense of the spirit's words. The cryptic warning hung heavy in the air, a looming shadow over their already precarious situation. He couldn't afford to let his guard down, not when the safety of his crew was at stake.

His thoughts turned to his comrades, each one dear to him in their own way. They were more than just a crew; they were his family, his nakama. And he would do whatever it took to keep them safe, even if it meant facing down the darkest of threats.

"What are you talking about?" he asked in a low, dangerous tone. 

"Oh, you know," she said, thumbing another page. "Accidents happen pretty often in old ruins. Especially when..."

The room grew colder, the lights flickering between too bright and too dim, making it hard for Law to focus on her. Her dress, he now noticed, was backless, an eerie elegance to her form.

"...especially when spirits are involved," she finished, her voice dripping with menace. "All it takes is one misstep, one moment of distraction, and—"

Law's patience snapped. He grabbed the rock and hurled it at her feet. The spirit disappeared just before it struck, leaving the rock to clatter on the floor.

"I thought you weren't afraid of the stone?"

The spirit reappeared on his desk, her presence looming over him like a dark cloud as she used her heeled foot to turn him around to face her. Grabbing the cuff of his shirt, she pulled him close, her icy nails digging into his throat as she tightened her grip.

"Did you really think that was a smart idea?" she hissed, her breath cold against his skin. Despite being shorter than him, she effortlessly lifted him and hurled him to the floor. He scrambled to his feet, only to duck as she launched his entire desk at him. 

"You mocked me one step too far," she declared, her voice filled with fury. He used his Devil Fruit powers to shield himself from the barrage, looking up at her from behind his barrier.

As she threw the chair at him, she taunted, "You don't really believe in me, do you? Or my power." The room grew colder, a small storm brewing inside. Law could hear the Polar Tang's alarms going off, his crewmates banging on the door, trying to open it.

Locking eyes with Law, she smirked and touched the door handle, freezing it shut. He could hear Bepo shouting about the sub going down soon and the urgency to get him out so Robin could place the sub on land.

Law's heart raced as he faced off against the enraged spirit, her power threatening to overwhelm him. He could feel the weight of her anger pressing down on him, a suffocating force that threatened to crush him under its weight.

With a surge of adrenaline, Law pushed himself to his feet, his mind racing as he searched for a way to turn the tide of the battle. He couldn't afford to let his crew down, not when they were depending on him to protect them.

Gritting his teeth, Law focused his will, channeling his Devil Fruit powers to create a barrier around himself, shielding him from the onslaught of furniture and debris. But even as he defended himself, he knew he couldn't keep this up forever. The spirit was relentless, her fury fueling her attacks as she sought to destroy everything in her path.

Desperation clawed at Law's chest as he struggled to find a way out of this deadly game of cat and mouse. He could hear his crewmates' voices growing fainter as the Polar Tang sank deeper into the icy depths below. Time was running out, and he knew he had to act fast if he wanted to save them all.

"Now they get to suffer because of you," she whispered, her voice echoing in his mind.

Law's blood ran cold as the spirit's words echoed through the chaos, her voice dripping with malice. He watched in horror as she lifted the rock, her grip tightening around it like a vise. "Ya know," she sneered, her eyes glinting with wicked delight, "I was going to let them all live."

His heart hammered in his chest, a surge of panic coursing through him. Fear for the lives of his crew and friends gripped him tightly. He felt helpless, vulnerable, as he faced this powerful spirit alone. The weight of responsibility bore down on him as he realized the consequences of his actions.

"No," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of screams and sirens. "You can't..." 

But before he could finish, the spirit's laughter cut through the air like a knife, chilling him to the bone. With a cruel twist of her powers, she hurled the rock against the floor of the sub beneath his feet, the impact shattering it with a deafening crack.

Water gushed into the sub with terrifying force, flooding the cramped space in an instant. Law stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his ears as the icy tendrils of seawater wrapped around him like a suffocating embrace.

The screams of his crewmates mingled with the wail of the sirens, a symphony of terror that filled the air. He could feel the panic rising within him, threatening to consume him whole.

Desperately, Law tried to summon his Devil Fruit powers, but the saltwater seeping into his wounds rendered them useless. He could feel his strength draining away with each passing moment, his vision swimming as darkness crept in at the edges.

"Please," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper as he struggled to stay conscious. "Stop this..."

But his plea fell on deaf ears as the spirit continued her rampage, her laughter echoing in his ears like a haunting melody. He knew he was running out of time, his breaths coming in shallow gasps as the water closed in around him.

With one last effort, Law reached out to the spirit, his hand trembling as he tried to make contact. "Listen to me," he pleaded, his voice raw with emotion. "Please, just listen..."

But his words were lost in the chaos, swallowed up by the roar of the sea and the screams of his doomed crewmates. And as darkness danced across his vision, Law knew that he had failed them all.

Law's desperation surged as he struggled to stay afloat amidst the chaos. With the water rising around him, he knew he had to act fast. 

"I'll make a deal with you!"

To his surprise, the spirit paused, the storm around them slowing to a crawl. Time seemed to stretch, each moment drawn out to an agonizing eternity.

"So now you want to make a deal? Okay," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she sat down on his desk and crossed her legs. Law could see her face now, her features illuminated by the eerie glow of her purple eyes. Her expression was hardened, her gaze like shards of ice.

"Go on," she taunted, her lips curling into a mocking smirk. "Plead your case."

Law heaved a ragged breath, suppressing a groan as he struggled to gather his thoughts. "I offer myself and my services to helping you," he began, his voice steady despite the pain coursing through his body. "But only if you agree not to harm anyone else."

The spirit scoffed, her laughter echoing in the stillness of the room. "And why should I listen to you?" she countered, her tone laced with contempt. "You're in no condition to make demands of me."

Anguish washed over Law as he thought of his crewmates, their lives hanging in the balance. "I don't want my crew hurt," he insisted, his voice pleading. "I have a right to know what I'm getting myself into."

The spirit's eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement dancing in their depths. "Where is your humanity, spirit?" Law demanded, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Beg for it," she replied, her voice a cold whisper that sent shivers down his spine.

For a moment, Law looked at her with pure hatred, the weight of his powerlessness crushing him. But then, with a resigned sigh, he knelt down on the floor, his head bowed in submission.

He heard faint footsteps approach him, the sound echoing in the silence of the room. And then, suddenly, he felt her heel lift his chin, forcing him to look up at her.

Their eyes locked, Law's gaze filled with defiance even as his heart pounded in his chest. He knew he was taking a risk, placing his trust in a being he could barely comprehend. But in that moment, he had no other choice.

"Fine," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll do whatever it takes to save my crew. Just... don't let them suffer because of me."

The spirit's presence seemed to loom larger as she dropped Law's head, her form radiating an eerie calmness that belied the chaos surrounding them. The dim light of the room cast haunting shadows across her features as she spoke, her voice carrying a weight of centuries-old longing.

"I want you to find my body," she stated, her words hanging heavily in the air like a dark omen. Law's brows furrowed in confusion, his mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of her request.

"Your body?" he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yes," she affirmed, her tone unwavering. "My physical form lies hidden within the depths of these ruins. I need you to free it for me."

As Law processed her words, a surge of questions flooded his mind, but he pushed them aside, his thoughts instinctively turning to his crewmates. With a solemn nod, he fought to steady himself, using the bookshelf for support as he rose to his feet.

Her expression remained unreadable as she dropped his head and stepped back, a mysterious aura surrounding her. "You can't live in those ruins," Law stated firmly, his tone laced with authority.

She looked at him with a mixture of surprise and irritation. "Really? I wasn't aware," she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She examined her pointed nails with disinterest, seemingly unfazed by his assertion.

Law, undeterred by her attitude, held his hand out to her once more, determination in his eyes. "Regardless, I can't let you stay there," he insisted, his voice unwavering.

She regarded him with a skeptical gaze before finally relenting. "Fine," she conceded, a hint of begrudging acceptance in her tone. "But on one condition."

Law raised an eyebrow, silently urging her to continue.

"I want you to find my body," she stated firmly. "Once that's done, you may choose one thing from the ruins to take back with you. Then, you must leave and never return."

Holding his hand out to her, he gave her his word that he would help her.

She regarded him with a look of disgust, refusing his offer. "Try again," she demanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Law bit down the frustration bubbling in his throat before mustering the question. "What do you want me to swear on?"

She regarded him for a moment, a calculating glint in her eyes. "Swear on something more important than yourself," she replied, her voice insistent.

Law fell silent, contemplating her demand. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of his conviction. "I swear on the kindness of Rosinante Corazon," he declared, his words firm and unwavering.

Her expression softened slightly as she searched his face for any sign of deception. Finding none, she nodded in acknowledgment. "Very well," she conceded. "I will not harm or kill your comrades, in addition to helping you find what you seek."

Law nodded in acceptance, holding his hand out once more in a gesture of agreement. However, she giggled and shook her head, her amusement evident. "No, dear," she said teasingly.

"I'll need something else."

With an exasperated huff, Law relented, allowing himself to fall forward. She caught him effortlessly in her arms, a small smile playing on her lips as she held him close.

As the water continued to rise, Law couldn't help but notice how it seemed to cling to her gown, the fabric dampening and molding to her form in a way that was both ethereal and unsettling. Each ripple of water seemed to caress her figure, accentuating the curves of her body in a way that was almost hypnotic.

The fabric, once pristine and flowing, now clung to her like a second skin, the dampness making it translucent in places, revealing glimpses of the pale skin beneath. Her gown, once a symbol of elegance and grace, now seemed to mirror the eerie beauty of the underwater world around them, the dim light filtering through the water casting an otherworldly glow on her form.

Despite the danger closing in around them, Law couldn't tear his eyes away from her, captivated by the way the water seemed to dance around her, enhancing her allure in ways he couldn't begin to comprehend. Each movement she made sent ripples through the water, the fabric of her gown swirling around her like a silken veil.

Even in the midst of chaos, there was a haunting beauty to her, a delicate fragility that seemed to defy the darkness closing in around them. And as Law struggled to keep his head above water, he found himself drawn to her even more, the allure of her presence eclipsing the fear that threatened to consume him.

Law felt a sense of urgency building within him. He struggled against the weight of his own body, the air growing thin as panic threatened to overwhelm him. Through the haze of his distress, he fixed his gaze on her, searching for any sign of relenting.

Her eyes, glacial and piercing, bore into his, holding him in a mesmerizing trance. The dim light flickered around them, casting eerie shadows on the walls as the tension crackled in the air.

Their faces were mere inches apart now, his breath mingling with hers in the cold, damp air. Law could feel the chill of her touch seeping into his skin, sending shivers down his spine even as her closeness stirred something warmer within him.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as they lingered in the space between them, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Law's heart hammered in his chest, his pulse echoing in his ears as he waited for her response.

Then, with a soft exhale, she leaned in closer, her lips hovering tantalizingly close to his. The air crackled with anticipation, the tension between them reaching a fever pitch as they teetered on the edge of something unknown.

"The sub is going down fast," he gasped, his voice strained with urgency. "Do we have a deal?"

The spirit hummed thoughtfully, her fingers tracing the lines of Law's jaw as she cupped his cheeks in her hands.

"Deal," she whispered, her voice sending shivers down his spine. And as darkness closed in around him, Law felt her seal their pact, a fleeting brush of her skin against his, sending a explosive surge of cold warmth coursing through him even as the darkness closed in.

"If only he knew what he had just signed himself up for.~"

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

@mororona @mochiclouds @@xxsliverwolfxx @sosongstrawberry

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Posted on the ao3 account as well.

Part 1 Here. Part 2 Here.

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Seen you soon my loves!!~ <<33

[quinnyundertow]

Sanity’s Last Stop

Synopsis

England 1941

Forced to work after the death of her father y/n finds themselves filling a nurses role at Hillsboro Asylum for the Criminally Insane. The patients and workers alike have her questioning her own sanity in this new insular world during WWII.

Ryoumen Sukuna has become a fixture in solitary confinement for the last seven years. His sanity was barely there before but now it is frayed beyond redemption. A good will gesture brings him and y/n into a strange secret relationship

Okkotsu Yuta swears he isn’t insane he didn’t hurt anyone it was Rika who killed those people. Just because no one else can see her doesn’t mean she isn’t there. You believe him right?

AN: So excited to post this! Horror Dark Romance are my favorite genres so this is not going to be the same as my main fic. Please check the tags and trigger warnings!

Setting is England WWII I realize all the characters have Japanese names but there is no avoiding it with the original source material.

TW: Misogyny, Gaslighting, Gore

I made up Takeda Geto all others are from JJK.

Chapter 1

Mind Your Fingers

England 1941

“Stupid girl, what did I tell you about watching your fingers!” The old nurse yells in your ear, just about making you jump out of your skin. You are watching your fingers. You are being painfully careful so as not to accidentally touch anywhere near the open metal slat at the bottom of the heavy iron door. There is a two inch drop from the door’s mail slot style opening to the ground. Your fingers begin to tremble as you hold the tin tray, full of some slop they called lunch, halfway through the opening. Waiting for the person on the other side to take the proffered meal. The tips of your fingers are starting to turn white as you are only able to barely hold the end of the tray. The weight of it strains against you.

“W-what do I do if he doesn’t come to take his tray?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady and sounding somewhat confident.

“Ungrateful spawn of satan.” The elderly nurse Ogami bites out, causing you to flinch at her disgusting words, “Drop it then. He’ll eat it off the floor or he won’t eat.”

Your heart twists painfully at the cruelty displayed. Even though the people residing here have committed terrible crimes the residents are still mentally disturbed and rely on you for care. “There has to be a better way?”

Nurse Ogami rolls her eyes, heaving a sigh that is meant to relay her annoyance with you, “Move girl.” Despite the woman’s liver spotted and wrinkled fingers she has surprising strength in them as she snatches the tray away from you and unceremoniously pushes it to the floor with a clatter. “Keep up this belligerent attitude young lady and you’ll be out on your luck before the month is out. You may think your special with your young looks and connections but there’s no room for error here.” When the old woman spins to you she has a malicious gleam in silver eyes. “The girl you replaced lost three fingers one night. Stupid girl pushed her hand too far in. Ryoumen was waiting just out of her line of sight and the second he saw one of her pretty tan fingers he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her elbow through the food slot. Bit each of those fingers off like he was eating part of his lunch.” You can’t help but shiver and wonder how much of the woman’s story is actually true.

Straightening your bleached white nurse's frock, you meet her eyes and respectfully dip your head, “Thank you for the warning head nurse, I'll be more careful in the future.” You pull the metal lever that shuts and locks the opening you utilized at the bottom of the door. Moving the wooden stepping stool, you thought to bring today, you push it against the door so you can see through the barred and glass protected window at the middle point of the door.

The massive man inside is easy to spot in the expanse of white. His dull orange almost pink hair is a brilliant flare of color in the otherwise stagnant room. It is a wild mess on his head, stroked backwards from repeat combing motions with his fingers. He sits hunched over at the edge of his cot. His entire frame is hulking and muscular and you wondered how he manages to maintain his physique while trapped here. His elbows are resting on his knees, hands knitted together as they flex sporadically. His face is downturned so you could barely see the bizarre facial scarring he had given himself before his capture. “Inmate Ryoumen Sukuna is accounted for.” The old woman says nothing as you step down and mark up the piece of paper you brought with you to make sure each patient receives their proper medication and meal.

You tuck the wooden stool under your arm before going to push the squeaky metal cart down to the last patient in this wing. “Just one left.”

The elderly woman grunts, turning her back to you, “You always feed those in solitary confinement last. They are being punished after all. They’re lucky they get two meals a day and a warm place to sleep. We have noble men on the front line dying from frostbite with empty bellies.” You had heard around the lunch table yesterday that old lady Ogami, as the other girls called her, is especially bitter due to her precious grandson being shipped off to somewhere in Yugoslavia to fight the German scourge. You can’t blame her for being bitter but you don’t feel like that means you have to treat the patients here worse.

The final painted white metal door S25 looks the same as every other one in this wing. Before Mrs. Ogami could comment, you push up your stool and peer in. The young man in this room is almost the exact opposite physically of the man you had just tried to feed in room S23. He is lanky and thin looking; under fed and malnourished. The second your eyes meet the back of his head the man turns suddenly his eyes locking on yours. His dark raven colored orbs met your own. No particular emotion is held there; the man just looks exhausted. Painted under his eyes are large dark circles, his eyes rimmed in red. You couldn’t help but wonder if they are red rimmed from crying or maybe they always looked like that. “Patient present.” Stepping down carefully, you give the stack of papers in front of you a once over .

Patient: Okkotsu Yuta

Sex: Male

Age: 27

The paragraphs below outlined his lack of dietary constraints, medication required and any other doctors notes. You can’t help but notice his notes from the doctor today stated that due to his consistent compliance he is recommended to be moved back to the institution's general population next week.

You make sure his tray is together. Complete with a small paper cup that has two little chalky pills inside to lower his anxiety. Taking the iron lever in hand you tug so that the meal slot screeches open. After giving Ryoumen his tray only moments earlier you can’t help but keep your fingers as far to the back as possible as you leaned to slip the tray into the three inch slot.

The ward is unusually quiet at the moment and due to this you can hear the inmate’s bare feet padding across the tile flooring. You feel the weight of the tray being released from your fingers as the person on the other side takes it gently from you. The man clears his throat before a soft spoken voice emanates from the slot, “Thank you.”

You are surprised as this is the first person today to thank you, “You’re Welcome.” Your response probably sounded happier than it should have but the tiny bit of kindness gives your day a bit of a silver lining.

“You do not speak to those in solitary confinement!” You wince in response to being scolded again.

“I’m sorry, head nurse” You hear a voice on the other side of the door mumble the apology. You bite your cheek instead of replying before repeating the same closing procedures you did at S23. Though when you look up to confirm the inmate is accounted for he is no longer looking in your direction.

As the two of you leave the solitary ward, your long gray dresses swish below you. You still aren’t used to the way everything looks the same in this institution. All the walls are white and not a picture is to be found as decoration. The only thing creating breaks in the staggering white landscape is an occasional sign directing those inside to various locations (Dispensary, Lobby, Clinic) or reminders to staff (When distributing medications check under the patient’s tongue for hidden pills, For Emergency Security dial 99 or pull panic alarm).

Despite any minor complaints you are incredibly grateful to have this job. Not only is the pay more than fair but it is in the field of medicine where you have always held interest. Maybe after you learn the ropes you can make a difference in the lives of those who live here.

You both pause before the heavy set of double doors that lead from Solitary. Demonstrating to the head nurse you are in fact learning you pull the string that rings the brass bell on the other side of the door and wait for security to unlock the door and permit your exit. The wait for the security officers to release you seems to vary from seconds to minutes depending on what is going on across the complex. Your anxiety always seems to ratchet up in the time from when the bell is rung until the large metal lock thunks and the door swings open.

The security guard who greets you on the other side of the door is grinning from ear to ear as he looks you over. “Did you have fun in there?” Your eyes flick to him briefly before pretending you didn’t hear him. His features are handsome and boyish. His fluffy white hair and striking blue eyes have a habit of pinning you in place when he addresses you. His frame is tall and muscular not that you were looking. You didn’t have to look to know his shirt has the name tag Gojo on it.

When you started here you had barely gotten your foot in the door before you were being warned about him by your fellow nurses. He was labeled a notorious flirt and womanizer. One to avoid if you want to keep your reputation clean and above all other warnings, do not fall in love with him.

The older woman looks like she is about to scold you or maybe even Gojo this time when her train of thought is interrupted. “Ah, there you are Y/n.” The familiar soothing tone nearby makes you look over with surprise and fondness. The entire reason you had ended up working in this facility was due to your father’s long term friendship with the esteemed facility director Dr. Takeda Geto. His son, Dr. Suguru Geto and your childhood friend stopped short of your small group. You couldn’t help the quick flush that covered your cheeks, at the attention. You had hoped to assimilate into the facility with as little fanfare as possible. The newest man to the group stopped and placed a hand affectionately on Gojo as they shared an almost conspiratorial grin. On the outside the two couldn’t be more dissimilar but it seems they had also cultivated a long term friendship.

You quickly curtseyed in response, keeping your head down. Despite your friendship with Suguru you wanted to be accepted in this job by your own merits rather than who you knew. Even if being hired hadn’t worked that way.

“Well if it isn’t the young master Dr. Geto.” the old woman doted; the young part surprising you as Suguru Geto had to be in his thirties now. Her tone is much more engaged than it had been at any point during your training this week. You couldn’t help the tiny quirk of your lips in amusement at the drastic change of mannerism.

Looking up you see Suguru has turned to the woman to address her while Satoru Gojo’s eyes are still locked onto you. His cerulean orbs twinkling in a mischievous manner. He is clearly noting your amusement despite your attempt at hiding it. You can't help but lift your hand to your mouth and clear your throat to cover your expression. Suguru turns at the noise flashing you a gentle smile before pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “How has training been going today?”

You look away to study a nearby sign pointing to the Security Desk, “Head nurse Ogami has been very kind and thorough in my training.” you respond respectfully.

Suguru Geto makes a long humming noise while Satoru Gojo outright laughs at the obvious lie. Anyone who has met the head nurse knows about her taciturn personality. Suguru ignoring Gojo gives Nurse Ogami a charismatic smile before noting, “I would expect nothing less from Mrs. Ogami. You can’t help but note the lack of formality he uses when he addresses the older woman now. The fondness you see in her face is not missed by you as she speaks with him. You can’t really blame the woman. Suguru Geto has been known for his charm and good looks for as long as you have known him. His familial wealth and status don’t hurt his public perception either. “Mrs. Ogami, I'd like to borrow nurse y/n for my lunch break if it doesn’t interfere with your schedule too much.”

Surprise evident in your expression, you look up at Suguru quickly, “I’m sorry Dr. Geto I already took my lunch break today-.” At Suguru’s frown, the head nurse speaks over you.

“Not to worry Dr. Geto we have finished the afternoon rounds. Anything she needs to learn can be postponed until tomorrow.” You can’t help but look between the two of them in confusion. The last thing you desire at this point is any form of favoritism, especially in front of your new coworkers who may or may not know your prior connection to the director’s son.

“I-” you are unable to break the silence before Suguru smiles attentively at you, derailing any argument you were starting to craft as to why you shouldn’t go with him.

You see Suguru turn to nurse Ogami giving her a conspiratorial wink, “I owe you one, Mrs. Ogami.” the older woman brushes him off but a faint blush on her cheeks lets you know his words are far more effective than she lets on.

You feel obligated to thank her despite not wanting to go to lunch with Suguru in the first place, “Thank you Head Nurse.” You dip slightly in the appropriate curtsy before looking up at Suguru questioningly. The smile he gives you in response is benign as he gestures for you to follow him. When he walks past Gojo he clasps him on the shoulder before leaning forward to comment something into his ear that you aren’t privy to. The comment provokes a laugh out of Gojo before he heads back to the Security Office.

When you don’t immediately move to follow Suguru, he prods you verbally, “Shall we?” You don’t really have a choice in the matter. At least it feels that way, as you follow two steps behind him trying to keep a professional distance as he leads you to his office. You haven’t actually been in his office yet. Well, his fathers office. He leads you towards the entrance of the building where the directors office is situated. The location makes it easy for him to attend to visitors or in rarer cases government officials.

He takes a moment to unlock the door before gesturing you inside. Once in you take a quick look of the surroundings. Not much has changed in the furnishings since Suguru had unofficially taken over the room. His fathers medical licenses and diplomas have been swapped out for his own and the desk nameplate has been changed. Other than that all the bookshelves and desk items remain the same.

There are two chairs in front of the large oak desk and one behind it. “Please sit.” There is a tinkling noise at the door as you register he’s locking it from the inside with his keys. You can’t help the small shiver that races up your spine. Even if you have known Suguru the majority of your life the action seems strange and internal warning bells are ringing. He jerks the handle to ensure the door will not be opened by anyone other than himself before he opens his suit jacket and tucks the key ring into an inside pocket.

You sit as instructed but you are hardly relaxed. Your body leans towards the edge of your seat, “Why did you lock it?”

He raises a brow at you with a curious smile, “Does that make you nervous?” He moves around the desk to gather a few items, presumably his lunch.

You resolve yourself to sound unbothered as you decide to respond, “No.” The last thing you want to do is offend him.

To your surprise he comes back around to your side of the desk and sits in the chair next to you, “I hate being interrupted. A simple lock prevents that from happening. Besides, this place is full of unstable individuals. One can never be too safe.”

“I see.” You are trying to find a way to voice your concerns to him without being labeled with the tags that women are so often given for having boundaries.

He’s spreading out his lunch an easy going air to him as he leans back in his chain before crossing a leg over another, “Come on, give me a smile you look much prettier that way.”

You try but it doesn’t feel very convincing. You had only been here two days and you had noticed a fairly big change between Suguru’s attitude now and when you had known him before your fathers death.

All your interactions previously had been when Suguru and Dr. Takeda Geto had visited your family's estate in the countryside. The two of you had talked, played, and studied together every summer for years. Your fathers smoking cigars and drinking expensive brandy in the backdrop. Suguru has always been so shy, quiet, and respectful. Now within the property of the Hillsboro Asylum for the Criminally Insane he is still quiet and respectful but there is a confidence behind every movement he makes. He’s in an environment he fully controls and that factor isn’t lost on you.

He pulls out a sandwich and takes a bite; scrutinizes your uneasy expression, “Tell me what’s worrying that pretty little head of yours. You’ve been on edge since you got here.”

“Ah.” You can’t help but feel guilty. Dr. Takeda and Suguru have done so much for you the least you can do is be appreciative. You manage to muster a much more genuine smile, “I’m sorry Dr. Geto I-“

He gives a lazy laugh, his arm moves to rest behind your back on the chair you’re seated in, “You should just call me Suguru, Dr. Geto feels so stuffy.”

His fingers slowly gravitate to a strand of your hair that escaped your starched white nurses cap. He catches it within his fingers tugging it lightly.

You blush heavily at the intimate touch, “I’m worried about perceived favoritism. I don’t want to be treated any differently than the other employees. I want to assimilate with the other nurses.” He’s watching you closely and you can’t decipher his expression, his fingers still gently twirling in your hair. Your face grows heated, “Private lunches in locked offices won’t look proper.” It wasn’t just your reputation you were worried about even though that was a concern. You hoped to make friends out of the other nurses in this new place you would call your home.

Suguru leans back and considering your words a long humming noise escaping his throat. He sits forward, his elbows resting on his knees now as he takes you in. He has a soft smile on his lips but it isn’t quite meeting his eyes. “It’s a little late to worry about favoritism, don't you think? Why else would I have hired you if not for that? I could have hired any old local girl if not for my preference for you.”

You feel a lump growing on your throat. When Dr. Takeda visited just after your fathers recent passing the job he offered seemed like a lifeline. “I-I have knowledge in the field and experience with medication management-“

Suguru laughs out loud, cutting your words off, “Come now y/n. Sure you’ve read some books but you aren’t particularly bright. Women like you are a dime a dozen.” He takes a bite of an apple his tone conversational and casual. “With the job shortages around the country I have women lined up begging for work and you come here acting high and mighty with unwieldy demands.”

Your face flushes and your eyes burn at his comments, “I’m sorry Suguru I hadn’t considered-“

Suguru stands brushing off his pants and avoids making eye contact, “Of course you didn’t. You only consider your own feelings when all you should be worried about is what I think.” He moves to the door and unlocks it, his every movement laced with irritation. “Leave, your ungratefulness is souring my lunch.”

You quickly stand feeling like you're back in grade school and being dressed down for misbehavior. Suguru has always been so balanced and logical; you can’t help but know it must be you at fault for this disagreement, “I’m sorry Suguru, please forgive me. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. Please don’t be cross with me.” Your tone is higher pitched and more vulnerable than intended. Your eyes glassy with held back tears.

He finally meets your gaze and sighs heavily, “You know I can’t be angry at you for long.” His hand comes up to your face as he softly rubs your cheek with his knuckles. The motion causing a tear to spill down your cheeks. He smiles at that, “There there. Go home for the day and put something nice on. Father and I expect you at dinner tonight, don’t be late.”

Your emotions are all over the place as you head for the exit to the Asylum. You are a fool to think you had been hired on your own merit despite the relationship between your family and Dr. Takedas.

The exit routine for the building takes several minutes. With many weighty doors unlocking and locking. When you reach the front entrance the process is just beginning for another man. The security seeing you approaching waves you forward into the same interlock area as the man to allow you both to do the exit procedures at the same time.

The young man looks up at you, his eyes a golden brown. He’s tall and well built but it is his facial scars that really catch your attention. A thick jagged line races between his eyebrows, the left side of his cheek and lip marred, and under both of his eyes are almost identical check shaped scars. Despite the rugged damage across his countenance when he looks up at you his face goes from a disappointed scowl to concern. “Hey are you okay?”

“Move forward!” A guard calls out ready for you to exit into the next man trap room.

You feel another tear roll down your cheek and you look at the kind face across from you etched with worry. He moves forwards toward you a step and it's only then you notice he is missing a leg, a wooden crutch is braced under one arm.

Embarrassment floods you as you try to wipe away any evidence of your tears. “Yes I’m terribly sorry. How unprofessional of me.”

He tilts his head to the side, the motion reminding you of dogs when confused. “Unprofessional? For having emotions?”

You don’t know how to respond to that. He studies you while the exit procedures are completed and you both find yourself outside in the cold winter air. “My names Yuji, Itadori Yuji.” He’s looking up at the gray cloudy skies with feigned interest, “I’m kinda here a lot. Visiting.” His gaze meets yours again as he gives you a smile that tilts a little on his damaged side. “I don’t think we’ve met yet though.”

Something about his smile is so disarming, “Oh, I’m Y/n L/n, I just started here a few days ago.”

His smile seems to grow brighter, his eyes twinkling with genuine happiness. It has been such a long time since you have seen that in a person. “Well maybe I’ll see you more often then!” He watches you a moment and you return his authentic happiness with a real smile of your own.

“I hope so Mr. Itadori.” He laughs outright at that which catches you off guard.

His grin is infectious, lazy and lopsided, “Mr. Itadori is my Grandpa. Yuji is more than fine.”

You nod the flush on your cheeks now from the cold and pleasant company rather than the shame and embarrassment moments earlier, “Alright, Mr. Yuji.”

He laughs in response, his tone rich. “Not exactly what I meant but that will do. Can I walk you home? I’m heading down to town now.”

The offer sounds nice and you probably would have accepted had it not been in the wrong direction, “I actually live in the nurse’s dorms on the property. Thank you for the offer. I enjoyed our chat and hope we will get to talk again in the future.” You give a quick bob of a curtsey as he gives a jaunty wave in return.

“Nice meeting you Miss L/n!” As he turned to make the slow trek down the lane to the main road you couldn’t help but look back at him. He has the strangest hair color. Despite the rarity of the bright orange pink shade it is strikingly familiar.

Chapter 2+

[dragonoffantasyandreality]

Captain Scarlet and the Singing Squadron - Chapter 2: Lost and Found, part 2

(Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2 -p1, ...)

When the indestructible Captain Scarlet meets with a joyful force!

(Note: this is my most favorite ever part to write! XD)

@uniwolfcorn @teapotteringabout @skymaiden32 @knyee @etrnlvoid @janetm74 @the-original-sineater @thundergeek59 @riallasheng @mariashades @room-on-broom @yarol2075 @river-sam2 @llamawrites @coco9728 @hebuiltfive @thalassastra @bassic-ally @pareidoliaonthemove @graverinth

-0-0-0-

Unfamiliar sounds roused Captain Scarlet from his sleep. He met with his body aching, like he had tumbled off a cliff and hit plenty of boulders on the way down.

But his well-trained awareness immediately grabbed his attention to his surroundings…

He was in semi-darkness.

The sounds turned out to be voices. And they were coming from the wooden door not too far from where he was laying down. Speaking in another language.

Laughter echoed loudly through the door, as Scarlet slowly got up from the uncomfortable bed made of wood logs and thin white fabric. He slowly shook his head, only to be greeted with a headache.

Just what the Devil’s going on here? He thought dumbfounded.

Suddenly Captain Scarlet jumped from the bed the moment the wooden door opened. Pulling his gun from its holster at the intruders.

But the sight nearly froze him at the spot when two figures revealed themselves to him.

“What the-!?”

“Whoa, relax comrade! We won’t hurt you,” the first man raised his hands. He seemed older than the dark-haired man who stepped in next to his friend.

“Fella’s in shock,” said the second man, his southern, Georgian accent clearly pronounced as he spoke.

“I don’t blame him. He hasn’t seen us in a long while!” the first man smiled at his buddy.

Captain Scarlet blinked once… twice… thrice. He recognized the uniforms that they were wearing. Century old, green military uniforms, wearing red and gold badges from a long bygone state. Their epaulets indicated the ranks of captains. And he could bet they were pilots.

“Who… are you?” he murmured.

“I’m Vano, Vano Kobakhidze!” introduced the young Georgian man.

“And I’m Alyabyev! Pleased to meet you, comrade!” grinned the older one.

The two of them shook hands with the rather stunned Spectrum officer.

These two seemed too jolly to be Mysteron replicants, right?

“Err… Please to meet you, sir,” Scarlet said with some uncertainty in his voice, “Mind explain what’s this set up?”

“Well, we were warned of the danger coming this way and we came prepared!” Alyabyev explained, “Our commander later rescued you from the enemy and brought you here. So, you’re safe with us!”

The Spectrum officer merely gave them a squint, and a hum.

“Where’s your commander right now? May I speak to him?” Captain Scarlet finally asked.

“Vo,” Vano turned around pointed towards the open door with his thumb, “He’s waiting for you outside.”

The Spectrum officer nodded. He looked around the room in search of his cap, found it laying on an old table underneath a window, which made him realize he was in a bunker, and placed it on his head. He gave another nod towards the two pilots before walking pass them.

Out into the open.

Captain Scarlet found himself within the outskirts of a birch forest, where he could see the bright green fields outside of it.

However, he felt that he wasn’t exactly alone.

He threw glances everywhere for the supposed ‘commander’, hoping at least of something that could ascertain him that his sanity was still intact. Or that he didn’t have some kind of concoction.

“Looking for me, comrade?” spoke a light masculine voice from behind him.

Scarlet immediately turned around. In front of him, was a man.

The man was a head shorter than him, maybe close to his 40’s; his uniform was of a lighter color than the men he had previously met, as if it was bleached under the sun for a while. He was decorated with badges that suggested a rank of a squadron commander, and a one-time hero. An auburn leather jacket was causally placed over his shoulders, and he wore a military cap with a wheat-crowned red star on the eyelets over his curly dark hair.

He had an oval-shaped friendly face, his eyebrows almost faded, and wrinkles were beginning to appear. However, his dark irises were shining with sparkles of a joyful and kind soul.

“Nou? How are you feeling?” the man spoke.

“I… seem alright,” Captain Scarlet shrugged a shoulder.

“Let’s introduce ourselves, shall we?” the man beamed at him, “My name’s Alexei Titarenko; former commanding officer of the second squadron of the Fighter Aircraft Guard Regiment.”

Scarlet nodded slowly.

“And what’s your name, our good guest?” was Alexei’s turn to ask.

“I’m Captain Scarlet, from the Spectrum Organization.”

A collective noise of awe echoed. At this point, the Spectrum officer was beginning to question his own mind.

I think I need to get out of here… fast!

“No real name?” a young voice called. Another man appeared right next to Alexei, obviously a young adult. With a bright face and an even brighter smile.

“We have our reasons to keep our personal information secret. It is our out most importance that we don’t give too much so we don’t become targets,” Captain Scarlet explained.

“Well, then you can just call me ‘Maestro’, for even sake,” the squadron commander nodded with respect.

The Spectrum officer had to restrain a cheeky smile.

“You’re a musician, sir?”

Suddenly, echoes of giggles and chuckles ran throughout the forest, sending slight chills down Scarlet’s spine. Meanwhile, the commander merely grinned in amusement.

“I wish I was. But know that I just do it for hobby,” Maestro replied joyfully.

He then nodded toward Captain Scarlet’s uniform with a sarcastic smirk.

“That’s your camouflage?”

Laughter roared as new pilots, including Vano and Alyabyev, appeared next to their commander, seemingly fading in from the greenery. Meanwhile, Scarlet pursed his lips to prevent himself from laughing. And from feeling tense from this all too peculiar situation.

“Well, sposiba!” he returned the sarcasm, “May as well help me point to where is the Vitaly Power Plant?”

Maestro clapped his arm, encouraging the Spectrum officer to follow him.

As he was led towards the opening, Captain Scarlet saw other similar people appear out of nowhere. Feeling like a whole regiment surrounded him from the buzz of his existence.

He was looking around with awe that he didn’t notice a big metal wing in front of him. Knocking his head as he walked into it!

“Watch out! Those planes are small,” an old mechanic called out.

Scarlet slowly raised his head.

He saw a squadron of World War II fighter planes lined up at the edge of the forest! He took note of the turquoise bellies, the green spotted paint over the rest of the fuselages, the tiny white stars that marked as points and other painted décor on the sides, and the bright red stars decorated their tails and wings. All fueled up and battle ready.

Maestro, after a small chuckle at his misstep, pointed to a direction in the field.

“There it is, North-West from here,” he smiled cheekily.

“Thank you, sir,” the Spectrum officer tipped his hat, and began walking towards his designated mission target.

“Hope you protect it from the Mysterons! We got your back!”

Captain Scarlet walked some meters across the field, feeling a gentle breeze blowing through his dark hair and his face. Then, a thought hit his head. Causing him to freeze mid-step.

Wait a minute!? How did he know about the Mysterons?

He turned his head back.

It felt like the whole forest was watching him. The figures of the pilots almost blending in among the birch trees, sometimes fading in and out from the movements of the leaves. He could see the eyes from within the moving shades. Resembling pairs of red fireflies.

The Spectrum officer could see the planes. But only oh so barely. He couldn’t tell if they were part of the hills or not.

He turned back to the Power Plant. Still standing, peaceful and untouched. Half of his mind was focused on the mission. The other half was the mystery within the forest itself.

“What are you thinking about?” Scarlet flinched at the sudden familiar voice. He turned to his side to be met with Maestro, who appeared right beside him.

“Does anyone are aware that you guys are here?” he asked.

“Ah, no one believes we roam this place as if its our home,” the squadron commander shrugged, “Even the people at the Vitaly Power Plant didn’t notice that we’re here.”

“Did they just… don’t see you?”

“Like a gentle song in the breeze, drouk.”

Captain Scarlet scrutinized Maestro once more. The more he looked, the more the man seemed alive. His dark eyes glimmered like a candle in the darkness. His posture stood like a beacon. And the whole aura around him seemed warm and joyful to be anything but.

“Well, I don’t know about you, ‘Shorty’, but there’s no way I believe in what you’re trying to imply,” he shook his head ruefully, “Are you sure you aren’t a Mysteron replicant?”

Maestro raised a brow at the slight insult of ‘Shorty’. And the Spectrum officer immediately saw mischief shine in his eyes.

Then, the squadron commander slowly lifted himself from the ground! Raising to Scarlet’s eye level with a cheeky smirk plastered all over his face.

Jaw dropped and wide-eyed, Captain Scarlet fell backwards, knocked out cold on the grass!

Laughter echoed as the rest of the regiment circled the silly scene. ‘Pops’, the regiment commander, walked over next to Maestro with a big grin on his old visage.

“Alyosha! I think you scared the poor soul out of him!” he guffawed.

“Ah, don’t worry. He’ll quickly recover!” The Squadron Commander smiled, waving a hand.

[mako-neexu]

smth smth rambles that are entirely my opinion and i could be wrong (so dont attack me) you know this chapter made guda, fuijmaru ritsuka with already Many Issues worse is because of "mash" or rather kyrie's death but ultimately comes back to mash...that dantes did for them.

we even see a while back how guda was already shaken by not knowing whether mash is safe during lb6 after that fog like their priority is mash. mash.

they were already frantic as soon as they remembered mash almost questioning everyone about her whereabouts and immediately got reckless just trying to reach her at norwich. and when only when they were together did the "narrator" emphasize on the sheer relief guda felt like-- wow the obvious signs in OC chapter 2 makes you realize furthermore that guda's sanity hangs on a thin thread named 'mash' asdfgh

yes guda loves mash!! yes they care about her!!! but look and read at how guda tells absolutely nothing to mash- and that applied the same to kyrie!

(more below)

kyrie wanted to know and ask her senpai about the situation like we see her really wanting it but ultimately backtracking in the end because she trusts guda and she's even supportive. and guda was grateful/relieved that she stays innocent about the weird things going on in their tokyo.

they do compromise at one point that if kyrie really demands on explanations, guda would tell her but...

guda doesnt tell her anything, (kyrie believes in her senpai so even when faced with death, kyrie didnt break under pressure) keeps her in the dark so no one comes after her. for her to be ultimately safe. so she remains...innocent, normal who stands alongside "mama" and "little sister" as they arent involved in the first place about whats been happening. and guda wants to keep it that way for their family. not a real family, but a family nonetheless that cared about guda. an epitome of normal- which mash kyrielight has attained.

and now you see guda, who, upon waking up asks mash kyrielight if she was okay. if she was alright. guda doesnt stop their questions until mash answered. and so mash answered.

"I'm okay, Senpai. My vital signs are normal... so I'm completely okay."

all the while guda had just dismissed being in pain literally one minute ago and just hugged her tight. they "save mash the trouble" to tell her about the pains they went through in the singularity so as not to burden mash. so they stuff their pain inside the corner of their heart again, completely satisfied with mash's safety and disregarding their own health. (you also see in section 23 that theyre cherishing the normal and small moments with mash.)

mash is normal. mash looks pure to guda, her heart filled with "color" in comparison to guda whose heart has become "transparent". an inverse character development which will ultimately destroy them both.

for mash, who sees her Senpai as strong and unwavering, the image of kindness and strength when they held her hand during part 1 crushed by a coffin which she continues to believe them to be that way until now.

for guda, who sees mash as someone who's become normal. one last remnant that reminds them of a past life lost, mash with that purity and normalcy becoming an ideal to protect (as if she was glass) because they no longer have their own. (and mash is also literally the only one left close to guda, who remembers all the events of part 1. which... adds more to how losing mash would break guda even further.)

(also we see guda say 'tadaima' coming home to an empty house, the loss of kyrie and their family still in mind, and a little later, the Avenger mindset comes back and settles in as they're plagued by bloodlust. then when guda comes back to mash, their home, mash is their home. do you realize that? do you realize what im saying? mash says: "welcome home, senpai." and that was enough for guda. that eased everything in guda's tumultuous heart.)

i remembered guda avoiding on telling "mom" that they and kyrie were near the "gas leak site" / britoalter's battleground so like.....of course their lying to medical staff about getting back to the battlefield would carry over here.

deliberately making sure the "normal" components of their fake high school life remain untainted is what we see guda do. they shouldered everything, terrifying as it is, just to protect them but ended up inevitably losing them in the process.

there's also that contrast in seeing a dead body between kyrie and guda. kyrie still stood strong against dantes and remained rational and calm while telling "ojisama" that this wasnt good for guda. meanwhile guda, while still able to think about calling the ambulance after seeing the da vincis absolutely lost their mind when it came to kyrie which their mind thought of mash- and i think guda thought of both as 'one' person so they went absolutely insane right then and there

during the conversation with amatsuka, thats the part where guda became finally stable. because its implied guda's mental state really broke at kyrie's death which their mind automatically thought it to be "=mash is dead". but ukelele-senpai saved the day by reminding guda where they are, if mash and kyrie were the same person, and helping guda calm down and think of seeing that blue sky with mash during the part 1 epilogue.

and augh guda you shit!!! you need therapy!! dont put mash in a pedestal!! dont treat her as if she's fragile!! dont treat her like porcelain meant to be protected while you take on everything for the sake of keeping mash safe because she is the only remnant of your past left, because she is the only "normal" person you have left!!! guda you need to understand that if ever mash gets hurt someday or dies and its out of your control, you need to understand that it wont be your fault!! you need to understand that because someday you will part ways with her as well and you need to be able to be ready to lose again. if you lose mash once and for all, what will you do!?!?!? this is not healthy guda!! gudaaa you hear me!!?? gudaaaaaaa