#i was trying to fix it up and give it some more Flesh w the intent to port to ao3 but i lost steam sbjdfkse

[bbydoll18xx]

Pet Names And Airplanes (Part 2)

The aftermath of the airplane ride leaves Paige moaning once more.

Paige Bueckers x reader

Part 2 based on this request: I have a request but it's not fully thought out but all the traveling she's been doing has got me thinking. Basically Paige x friend where there's some tension emotionally and physically but neither of them know it rlly. Paige is groggy bc they had to catch an early flight to go somewhere and while sitting next to each other on the plane, her mind starts wandering and she accidentally says smthg dirty out loud to the reader which obviously leads to a build of tension on their flight that they end up having to deal with. How they deal w it and such can be up to you.

Read Part 1 here :)

Themes: bottom!Paige, SMUT, but also some fluffiness

Word Count: 2.7k

To whoever requested bottom Paige, I hope this is acceptable lol

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

How the hell did you get here?

Your heart is beating furiously, and your head feels fuzzy. You are pulled away from the grounding grips of reality as Paige continues to lick into your mouth with a delicious fervor. It was all-consuming, and you think that you would surrender everything in order to keep Paige’s mouth on yours.

Her lips ghost across yours once more before trailing down to attach to the delicate flesh of your throat. Quiet whines are spilling from your lips, as she alternates between hot, open mouth kisses and sucking, soothing the marks with her tongue. You anticipate the trail of tattoo kisses that would soon adorn your neck, leaving you with undeniable proof of Paige’s affections.

Her hands are wandering now, and your eyes flutter shut at the pure absurdity of the situation. Paige is kissing you. And neither of you were dreaming this time.

Paige’s hands fist at the oversized shirt you had been sleeping in, and her lips find yours once more. As her warm hands find their way onto the soft skin of your abdomen, your phone rings, cutting through the room harshly. Your eyes fly open, meeting Paige’s, and she hesitantly pulls away from you, allowing you to grab your phone that was resting on the nightstand. 

“Fuck, it’s Nika,” you whisper, trying to fix your hair and lopsided shirt. Paige does the same, and she fixes the wrinkled bed sheets quickly.

Sliding the screen to open the FaceTime, you wave to a smiling Nika. 

“Hi guys!” Nika practically yells over the phone. “I can’t wait to see you tonight! How was the flight here?”

Looking at Paige, who turns a delicate shade of pink at the mention of the airplane ride, she mumbles, “The plane was aight. Mostly just slept. Can’t wait to see you, too.”

You nod your head in agreement, avoiding meeting Paige’s gaze on the screen of your phone. The three of you chat a few more minutes, cementing your plans for later in the evening once Nika was out of practice. She soon hung up, leaving you and Paige to stare at each other once more. 

You desperately try to avoid glancing down at her lips, but it was nearly impossible. Her tongue darts out to run across her bottom lip, slightly swollen from the kiss. The action unwittingly causes you to catch your own bottom lip between your teeth, biting down in an attempt to subdue your skepticism. 

“We should definitely do that again,” Paige declares, and your heart nearly stops at her words. You were expecting things to be awkward, worried that your friendship would dissolve into a weird dynamic. 

You laugh, and a pink blush blooms across your cheeks at the boldness of your best friend. A wave of relief washes over your senses, and your rapid pulse slows at the realization that things would be okay between you two. Maybe even better than okay.

“I agree,” you whisper, trying to hide the huge grin that was threatening to give away your casual act. “But let's go sightseeing first.”

Paige, who typically was eager to go out exploring, sighed dramatically before acquiescing as you flashed puppy dog eyes and a not-so subtle pout in her direction. 

She was so whipped.

The two of you spend the afternoon in downtown Seattle. The weather was surprisingly sunny, and as you strolled down the street with an ice cream cone, the sheer domesticity of the day hits you like a fucking truck.

Paige has her free hand in yours, the other holding her own ice cream. You glance up at her, and try to hold back a giggle as her tongue chases a stray drop that is sliding down the cone onto her wrist. It was getting harder to ignore the feelings you had for her, and it threatened to overtake you until you were a withering mess of nothingness. 

You are pulled out of your head, as Paige squeezes your hand. As you look up at her once more, the fond smile adorning her beautiful face makes you realize that you were not necessarily alone in your affections. And it was so comforting. 

~

You and Paige walk through the door of your hotel room, and as it shuts, apprehension fills you up once again. You were alone with Paige. And the idea of kissing her again was fucking with your mind.

You kick off your shoes and sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at Paige to see where her head was at. You’re greeted with bright blue eyes and that ridiculous tongue of hers peeking out of her mouth seductively. It was positively sinful, and it gave you the courage to grab her hand and pull her between your parted legs. She leans down to kiss you slowly. While her earlier kisses had been full of want and lust, this one was pure passion. It was a promise, and as you kiss her back, you let all the unspoken words fall from your mouth into hers. 

Your hands roam to find her waist, and your touch causes Paige to speed up the kiss. Longingness fuels her, and soon enough, your lips are meeting hers with an unbridled urgency that you had never experienced before. Falling backwards onto the bed, Paige’s lips pull away from yours to attach to your neck once more, and through the haziness of your thoughts, you think that maybe she has a certain fascination with it. She trails messy kisses down your throat and adds a few small marks below your ear to the ever growing collection. The thought of them fading away causes a pang in your chest, but somehow you just know that Paige will no longer let you go without the purple marks embellishing your skin. 

Paige pulls away from your neck, making you pout at the loss of contact, and she meets your eyes with a smug smirk. She just knows the effect she has over you. Your panties are fucking soaked, and your pupils are blown wide with lust.

You don’t forget, though, how she was moaning out for you in her sleep this morning. And the thought of this pulls out an equally smug look from you. It was your turn to be in control, and you were going to turn Paige into a whimpering mess. 

You sit up in the bed, and Paige moves with you, a surprised look flitting across her face. Now you both are sitting straight up, legs still entangled and eyes connected in a wordless conversation. 

You make the first move.

Your hand reaches out to cup Paige’s cheek, reconnecting your lips in another bruising kiss. She lets out a groan at the contact, relishing in you taking control. You wish you could spend the rest of your life hearing her little noises on repeat. 

Pushing Paige back once more against the soft pillows of the hotel bed, you position yourself on top of her. Your right knee comes to rest in between her parted legs, and as you press it against the sopping heat of her core, she moans out your name. 

“Fuck, P, you like that?” You purr, secretly exhilarated at her pure, unadulterated neediness. She nods at your question, eyes shut in pleasure as you find a spot right under her ear to suck and bite at. She wasn’t going to get away with silence, and you reach up to loosely wrap a hand around her throat. “Use your words, baby,” you murmur, pressing several small kisses up and down her neck as she gives in.

“Need you, princess,” Paige whines. The words are so unfamiliar to the confident Paige you knew and loved, but the stark want in her voice had you nearly drooling with lust. 

You were going to make her feel so, so good. And that was a promise.

“You’ve got me, Paigey,” you whisper, and your hands find the bottom of her shirt, pulling it over her head. She allows you to pull off her pants, lifting her butt up to let you slide them over her hips. As she lays back against the pillows, clad in only a sports bra and boxers, you let your gaze wander over her athletic body. The heat of your stare causes Paige to writhe impatiently, desperate to feel some pleasure. 

“My pretty girl,” you breathe, sliding a hand down the side of Paige’s ribcage, admiring the pale flesh of her toned stomach. You lean down and press open mouth kisses up and down her abdomen before taking off her bra. You admire her again and attach your mouth to a nipple, eliciting another whine from Paige. The sound inflates your ego, and you bring a hand up to pinch the other one. 

“More,” she chokes out brokenly, and you were not going to deny the blonde. You were going to give her everything until she was begging you to stop. 

Satisfied with the marks you leave scattered across her chest, you move down to the waistband of her boxers. Your breath fans over Paige’s belly button, and hers hitches in the anticipation. Looking up at her, trying to gauge her reaction, you see her eyes screwed shut in concentration. 

“Open those pretty eyes for me, baby,” you request gently, and your heart lurches once she complies. Her clear, blue eyes flutter open, revealing her neediness in blown pupils and a darkness that you’ve never seen before. 

She had never looked so beautiful. 

You pull down Paige’s boxers, throwing them onto the floor. The cool air of the room hits her sopping center, and Paige lets out a gasp. You wanted to immediately dive in, but you knew it would be more fun to tease. Pressing hot, open mouth kisses all over her hips and down to her inner thighs, you revel in the moans pouring from Paige’s mouth. 

She is now just short of begging. 

“Please, princess. Need more. Touch me.”  

Getting drunk off of her desperation, you swallow your own instincts to just give in to her and fuck her senselessly. But you weren't going to give in that easily.

“Gotta tell me where you wanna be touched, pretty girl. Just gotta tell me, and I’ll take such good care of you.” Your words are husky, now, darkening your typical giggly disposition, and Paige secretly savors the dominance pouring out of you.

Another kiss to her inner thigh pulls another whine out of Paige, and she’s bucking her hips up in an attempt to feel a shred of pressure against her pulsating clit. 

“Please, baby…please. N-need you to touch my…pussy.” 

Fucking finally. 

For a moment you thought Paige’s stubbornness would prevail, but it seems that her overwhelming neediness was hijacking her typical need for control.

You take a second to savor it. Paige Bueckers was spread out in front of you at your every whim, and you were going to enjoy this. 

Two fingers ghost across her inner thigh and come to rest at her dripping hole. You gather her wetness, swirling it around her folds and up to her clit. 

A long groan falls out of Paige’s mouth as you finally touch her, followed by several expletives when you replace your fingers for your hot, wet tongue. You had been dying to taste her all day, and your patience was rewarded as you licked a fat stripe from the weeping hole of her pussy up to flick across her clit with a maddening pace. 

With no intent on stopping, or even slowing down, you push in two fingers, and the sudden entry causes Paige’s moans to grow even louder. Torn between wanting the whole world to hear just how good you were making her feel and wanting to keep her all to yourself, you whisper “Gotta be a little quieter for me, baby. Can you be a good girl?”

The last thing you needed was unnecessary attention distracting you from making Paige cum like she never has before.

A quieter whimper leaves Paige’s throat, satisfying you, and you reward her with a third finger, curling them all up to the spongy flesh that holds all the pleasure. 

Paige is humping against your hand now, moaning out, “Feels so good, princess, oh my…god.” Her noises are nothing short of pornographic, and you feel your own wetness slide down your inner thighs.

“Tell me who’s making you feel this good, Paigey,” you grit out, intoxicated from her essence and needing the extra validation to push you over the edge.

Paige moans out your name, and your head soars. You had spent many nights dreaming of scenarios just like this, but nothing compared to having her wrapped around your finger, as she was now. 

Quite literally. 

Continuing your brutal assault on her g-spot and eating her out as if she was the last meal left on earth, you feel Paige’s pussy start to clench around you. 

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” You urge, and she lets out a strangled whine. “Let go, cum for me, P.”

And she does. The sound was heavenly as your name leaves her lips over and over again, like it was a prayer. She throws an arm across her face, as if the release was just too much, and you revel in your abilities. No one else made Paige feel like this but you. 

Giving the blonde a few moments to ride out her high, you slow down, letting the orgasm wash over her. Paige’s chest rises and falls, giving way to labored breaths, and once her legs stop twitching from the sheer pleasure of it all, you crawl up to meet her in a slow kiss. 

It’s different than earlier. The passion is still there, but there is no longer something to prove, and the two of you bask in the glow of a friendship that had developed into something more.

“That was fuckin’ incredible,” Paige murmurs, voice raspy now, and you grin at her praises. 

“What can I say? I’m pretty great,” you gloat, feeling like you had an orgasm yourself.

~

Nika is due to arrive at your hotel any second now, and you finish the final touch ups of your makeup. Paige is behind you, staring at you through the mirror with a fond look on her face that has your stomach erupting in butterflies. 

Paige spins you around and pulls you into a tight hug, whispering, “Look at my pretty princess. I can’t wait to fuck you tonight.” A blush engulfs your face at the thought, and it takes an impressive amount of restraint to avoid pushing her up against the wall and attaching your lips to hers.

A loud knock sounds through the hotel room, pulling the two of you away from your affections. Nika’s smiling face appears as you open the door, and she pulls you into a huge hug. 

“Oh my god. I missed you so much,” she mumbles into your neck. You giggle, repeating her words, as the two of you rock back and forth in a friendly embrace. 

Nika pulls away and steps behind you, jumping onto Paige, yelling in Paige’s ear about how she had ‘missed her twin.’ Paige lets out an affectionate chuckle, telling Nika that she had missed her, too. 

Once the hugging was over, Nika stands in front of you and Paige with a smirk on her face. “So what have you two been up to today?” she asks, a playful glint in her eyes. 

You feel her gaze roam over the hickey peeking out under the collar of your shirt, and your cheeks heat up. 

Paige runs a hand across her face, trying to avoid looking guilty, and Nika gives her a knowing look. 

“About damn time, honestly you two.” 

And there was no point in even trying to deny it anymore. 

~

Part 3

this was a lil too much fun to write. hope you beautiful people enjoyed it

[wintersoldiersoul]

Brat

A/N: Literally have a flight to catch in 4 hours and this is how I'm spending my time. Also this was inspired by a video by The Stark Internship on TikTok! I love their account so much definitely check them out.

Summary: Bucky is fed up with your attitude

Warnings: Smut, Daddy kink, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), breeding kink

Everyone has days when they just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. Today was one of those for you. You hadn't slept well in a few nights and you were irritable and on edge. Your had tons of assignments due for work, and your boss was a nightmare. Everything was pissing you off today from the slow walkers on the street, to your shoelaces coming untied. 

“Hey baby,” Bucky said, smiling and giving you a kiss when you walked through the door.

“Hi,” you deadpanned, slipping your bag off your shoulder and letting it fall to the ground.

His expression changed when he saw your mood. “Bad day?”

You nodded, strutting over to the kitchen to get the cold brew from the fridge. “Where’s the coffee?” You asked, unable to find it in the fridge.

“Oh I finished it this morning,” Bucky answered. “I was gonna grab some more tomorrow.”

You groaned, throwing your head back. “Why didn’t you just get more when you finished it? Now I have to go back out.”

“Sorry baby, I didn’t think you’d need coffee at 5pm,” he said apologetically. 

“Well I do because unfortunately for me, I haven’t slept all week because your body is like a fucking furnance and I have a killer headache that only caffeine can fix.” 

“I’ll go out and get you a coffee, okay?” Bucky had seen you in these moods a lot. You got irritable whenever you were stressed or tired or hungry, which was a lot. “You go relax.”

“Thanks,” you answered, slumping over to the home office. You did some more work, trying to get ahead of what you had to do tomorrow. 

“Here,” he said when he got back, placing a starbucks cup in front of you. “How can I help?”

“Just leave me alone,” you snapped. It came out harsher than you intended. “I’m sorry.”

But Bucky wasn’t offended. He just smirked at you. “That’s it,” he said sternly. “You have 30 minutes to get ready and then you and me? We’re going to dinner. And we’re gonna have a great time. And when we get back, I want you on the bed with your legs spread for me. And I’m gonna split you open on my cock and fuck that attitude right out of you, got it?” He commanded.

You swallowed harshly, already feeling your clit throbbing from his words. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he nodded his head and walked out of the room. 

You decided to play into his game while at dinner, acting extra bratty to see just how riled up you could get him. The second you walked in the door, his eyes narrowed. “I’m giving you a two minute head start. By the time I get in there, you better be naked and touching that pretty pussy, okay? Go.” 

You ran to the bedroom, completely submissive to him. You quickly discarded your clothing and laid on the bed moving a hand between your legs. You inserted two fingers inside of yourself, wetness pooling around your fingers. Bucky opened the door just as you were reaching your peak. 

“Good girl,” he smirked. “No cumming though. Not yet sweetheart.” He crawled on the bed moving his face in between your legs watching as you played with yourself. “Bet those little fingers don’t feel as good as mine. You need my thick fingers stretching you out to really feel good.” He grabbed your wrist and made you remove your fingers from yourself. “Nothing to say? No sassy little remark to fire back at me? You’ll do whatever Daddy tells you, won’t you?” His eyes darkened as he spoke.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good,” he said, running flesh fingers through your folds. “Such a perfect cunt,” he grunted as he inserted a finger, curling it slowly to torture you. “Too bad you’ve been a brat today.” He swiftly removed his finger and licked it clean. “Get on your knees. Now,” he commanded while undoing his belt and taking down his pants. Your mouth watered at the wet spot on his boxers where his tip was leaking. You reached out to take his underwear off but he shoved your hands away. “No no no, baby girl. You wait for Daddy to tell you what to do.” He smacked your ass hard and you moaned. 

“Daddy please!!” You begged like a child. “Wanna suck you.”

Bucky laughed darkly. “You need that slutty mouth filled? You want Daddy’s cock to choke on? Wan’ me to fuck your face real hard, don’t you?” You squeezed your legs together at his words, desperate for something. 

“Mhm, want it so badly. Wanna run my tongue over the slit and wrap my lips around your thick cock. Want you to stretch out my mouth.”

He inhaled sharply at your words. Bucky was dominant in bed, but he was so in awe of you that sometimes he just had to give in. “Oh fuck, Princess, the shit you say.” He slowly dragged his boxers down his legs. “Come make Daddy feel good.”

You crawled to him, immediately licking his slit, moaning at the taste of his pre-cum on your tongue. He threw his head back as you wrapped your lips around all of him and bobbed up and down. “Shit,” he gasped, grabbing your hair to move your head quicker. You brought one hand up and lightly squeezed his balls which caused him to start to move his hips, fucking your mouth just like he said we would. “Holy shit, Princess, oh-oh fuck.” He continued to mumble profanities as you moved. Bucky was always vocal in bed - something that you loved. Hearing the pleasure you brought him made everything so much better. “Gonna cum, baby. Gonna shoot a load in the back of your throat and I want you to swallow it all for me,” he said, breath growing more rapid. You continued until you felt the thick liquid hit your throat, swallowing it all with ease. “That’s a good girl,” he praised, pulling his dick out of your mouth. “Now lemme see how wet that little pussy is. Bet your clit is so swollen. Just begging to be played with,” he cood as he lifted you up onto the bed and held your legs apart. He blew cold air onto your clit, the sensation making you feral. You needed him. Your slick was running down your thighs. He brought his mouth closer and closer but never quite connecting it. He ran his hands up and down your inner thighs, making you squirm.

“D-Daddy please! I’ll be so good to you. You can do anything you want. Use me however you want just please touch me!”

He looked up at you from in between your legs and smirked. “Anything? You’d even let me fill this sweet cunt up with my cum?” He asked, causing another moan to ring out from your throat. “Oh you want that, don’t you. Dirty girl. You wanna be full of your Daddy?”

“Y-yes! Please, just-” you stopped short when he put his lips around your clit, sucking with full force. “Oh yes Daddy! Fuck!” He inserted two metal fingers inside you, the stretch sending fireworks throughout your body. His eyes connected with yours as he kept sucking your clit and fingering you. He loved watching your eyes when he pleasured you. Loved how glassy and dazed you looked. He added a third finger, stretching you to the hilt. Your orgasm was coming quick. “Can I cum, Daddy?” He moaned into your pussy signaling yes and you exploded. Your walls clenched and your clit throbbed as euphoria washed over you. 

Bucky didn’t stop his movements, though. If anything, he sucked a little harder and fingered you a little faster. You were letting out high pitched moans continuously, already on the brink of a second orgasm. “DADDY!” You yelled out as the most intense orgasm of your life washed over you, squirting onto his face and the bed. The sound of your liquid hitting the sheets made Bucky feral. He let you ride out your high on his face and his fingers before carefully removing himself.

“Oh, honey, you are too fucking much. Squirting for your Daddy, now that’s what good girls do. So proud of you angel.” He kissed you passionately, letting your taste on his tongue fill your mouth. “Gonna give you my cock now, okay? Gotta make sure all that attitude is really gone.” 

He aligned himself with your pussy and immediately thrusted all the way in. He gave you no time to adjust to his size before he snapped his hips hard, hitting your g-spot everytime. “Such a slutty little thing, look at ‘cha,” he taunted, unable to take his eyes away from his cock slipping in and out of you. “You got my cock fucking drenched, baby girl. You that desperate to be fucked? Making puddles on this bed I swear,” he said, continuing to fuck you hard. His hand reached to your clit, giving it a feather light touch just to tease you a little more. 

“Daddy, touch my clit, please! Been so good for you,” you pleaded.

He laughed. “Nothing is ever enough for you, is it? Got you stuffed full of cock and you’re asking for more?” Despite his teasing, he gave you what you wanted, connecting his fingers to your clit and applying the perfect amount of pressure. “Fuck, feel you squeezing me. You gonna cum again for me? You gonna cum all over Daddy’s big cock?”

“Yes, Daddy!” you screamed, tears rolling down your cheeks.

“Cum with me baby girl, gonna fill you up. Gonna get you all pregnant and round. Fuck you’re gonna look so good carrying my baby,” he grunted, thrusts growing sloppy. 

“Give it to me, Daddy! Fill me up!” You moaned, feeling his cum shooting into your body and setting off your own orgasm. You screamed as you came, squirting for the second time.

When you had both finished, he removed his dick from you and got up to get a towel. He carefully cleaned you up, looking into your eyes with love.

“So, did we fix that attitude?”

“I don’t know,” you smirked. “I think there’s still some in there that needs to be fucked out of me.” 

“You’re trouble,” Bucky growled, crawling on top of you once again.

[cenorii]

Complicated things between Birkin and Wesker

Here I'll try to get to the bottom of why Birkin condemned his friend to death and why, through his fault, Wesker is doomed to be HIV (Progenitor) infected even if he stops using PG67A/W. Dealing with canon and delving into the dark side of lore...

Let's start right away with what I've intrigued you with - Wesker's infection. I compared his infection with the prototype virus to HIV for a reason, because there are many similarities. When Wesker became infected and mutated, he became a perpetual carrier of the virus in his blood. Every particle his body carries the virus. And for some reason this fact isn't brought up at all in the fandom… I haven't seen anyone discuss how infectious Wesker actually is. Like HIV, Progenitor strains are classified as retroviruses.

Wesker is just as contagious as any other creature that has been under the sway of any strain of Progenitor, because there are no exceptions in this case. Thanks to a successful symbiosis with the virus, he doesn't attack humans and has only gotten positive attributes from it, but that's the only thing that makes him less contagious than normal infected.

Even if he stops using PG67A/W, which stabilizes his abilities gained from the virus, it won't fix his situation, because even without PG67A/W the virus will continue to exist in his body, there is no connection between this injection and the virus in his blood, it's just a stabilizer supplement.

Getting his body fluids (for example, blood) into someone else's body would cause an immediate reaction and infection. Knowing what a small survival threshold the prototype virus has and how selective it is, the person would probably just die on the spot. The prototype is not capable of creating random zombie-like mutations, it has only two outcomes - death or success. So the precautions here are the same as for HIV positive people. I wouldn't recommend Chris with open wounds to shoot Wesker up close, because if his blood gets on the wound, it could cause irreversible effects. Of course, such a battle tactic is beneath Wesker's dignity, but I would recommend that he bite his opponents. This would prove to be much more effective than a hand punch, as even Chris can easily dodge that punch. However, I'd like to see him try to dodge someone who wants to claw at his flesh at breakneck speed…

Now let's talk about Birkin. He knew the effects of the prototype virus because he had personally worked on this particular strain. He lied to Wesker about the survival rate after injection (File "Virus Memo" from "Umbrella Chronicles"). His information is a lie because out of 13 Weskers, only two survived the injection of the prototype virus. The survival rate is clearly not 90% as he said, but about 15.3%. Birkin knew that his comrade was at risk of dying, so he could have given him the fake injection and lied to him along the lines of "it's something special, but you can't be injured after the injection or you'll die", thus safeguarding Wesker from the urge to throw himself on Tyrant's claws and also safeguarding his humanity. But Birkin was afraid to go against Spencer, however the old man would never have known whether or not Wesker had injected himself with the virus if Birkin had said he had handed him the syringe. I also think that Birkin was unaware of Wesker's immunity, so by giving him the virus under the guise of a panacea, he was sending his friend to his death. You could say it's a cruel and selfish act on his part.

Although, there is a slight possibility that Birkin could have taken tests from Wesker beforehand and calculated that he was immune, which is why he attributed such unrealistically high survival rates to the prototype virus. In that case, his act has a modicum of nobility, since it's unlikely that anyone took tests from the other 12 Weskers. But that's just a theory, we don't know if he really knew about it and if Birkin could have really selfishly thrown Wesker to his fate, turning him into one of his (and Spencer's) test subjects.

[alttac-co]

Cringe be damned, cause IDGAF (I do) here is my mfb oc

His name is Kyo Noruki, and tbh I haven't really fleshed out all his lore

⚠️ YAP WARNING UNDER CUT⚠️

What I do know is that

He is/was a part of the Dark Nebula throughout season 1, he was a part of it since episode 1, but I don't know his reason for joining yet, but I don't think he really cares for their goals or anything.

He got ANTI-blader spirit, he isn't evil but he simply sees beys as pieces of metal, he doesn't believe in beys being sentient or having spirits or anything, so all of his battles have a sort of empty vibe, like something's just not right, because he has no passion.

Again, he's not evil or a bad person or anything, he just never had a bond with his bey cause he sees it as a spinning top.

(lil tidbit: I hc that he doesn't call out his beys name during battles, he just calls out the moves, bc again, no bond)

Because of his anti spirit, he doesn't take many beyblade related things seriously, like L-Drago eating peoples souls, because to him, 'it's just a spinning top, it can't be that serious', and with Reiji torturing people, he just doesn't get what the big deal is, like 'yea your bey broke, just fix it later?'.

(bc of this I feel like he wouldn't be mentally affected by Reiji, like he'd lose in a fight w him but he wouldn't really gaf)

I feel like Kyo would REALLY piss Gingka off, because he has NO spirit NO passion and NO fucks to give, and his bey is suffering for it.

His arc would probably be Gingka hitting him with his fist of The bladers Spirit™ by the end of season 1, and Kyo trying to make it up to his bey and bond with it in season 2 (idk where he'd be in season 3, cuz ngl, not the biggest Fury fan).

He has his own morals and stuff, but he is more on the morally-grey side of the spectrum, like he wouldn't kill anyone or anything, but he would harm someone if he had to, it's all a means to an end for him.

I am having troubles with his bey though, because honestly I don't really know the etiquette for making up beyblades, I want him to have some kind of fox because it just fits his vibe? idk, but the only fox bey I know of is Spiral Fox, which is taken, so I'm very open to suggestions, I've been thinking about the names Flash Fox and Phantom Fox tho.

Anyway, here's some lil character interaction doodles :D

(ignore how off model he looks, doodle are doodles) but anyway, thank you so much for making it through my brain gunk

I'm sorry, but there will probably be more to come 😔

[throwaway-yandere]

What HaPpEneD aT 10:10? (Yandere!"Gepard Landau"/Reader)

Scriptwriter's Note: I implore you to remember what happened at 10:10. And once you do, come talk to three of my associates. For now, let her help you recall what's going on in the present time. You can remember the time, but we need you to remember the murder weapon, who killed who, and the motive.

Synopsis: Trapped in Serval Landau’s basement for so long, you made a deal with the Sampo to escape confinement. As it turns out, your timing is never impeccable. Aka: a Belobog "murder" mystery. (A/n: ansy here, have fun trying to guess what happened! But please. PLEASE do not read this if you're sensitive to the topics below ⬇)

CW: Yandere and horror themes, "most unreliable narrator AND reader ever" - sam, violence, amputation, mentions of domestic (physical) abuse. His smile is stiff as a board. There’s a portal at the end of the story, your choices matter (there are 2 possible endings). Welcome to the Back Alley.

A murder was announced to occur on Saturday, October 2, at the Golden Theater’s back alley, around 10:10 AM.

It was an unidentified note. Short and crudely pasted cutouts from old magazines were its��contents. Many believe the Astral Express put it together as a twisted joke. It’s no coincidence that the clocks' little hands near the theater were also forever stuck at 10:10. No one took it seriously. Additionally, a nearby bookshop used this opportunity to "hype" its mystery books by joining the bandwagon. While the Silvermane Guards officially took the "threat" as if it didn't exist, others transformed it into an event by creating crime scene props with March 7th and Stelle serving as the main judges.  

Who'd even investigate such a note when the Golden Theater doesn’t have a back alley?

By 5:00 AM, that silly note was not at the forefront of the Silvermane Guards' minds.

It was you.

Sampo shakily exhaled a quick "heya, friend," as his legs continued to speed past the Silvermane Guards, who were all very much ready to fire. The merchanr was forced to inhale sharply and slightly elevate his voice as he worriedly fixed his attention on his 'package.' 

"Y-You're good, aren't you?" 

Inside the shopping cart (who knows where he got that) he had been pushing was a wanted person. A bit feverish, you nodded without much commitment. Even the slightest movements relieved the dubious merchant as he picked up the pace, avoiding the stray "warning" shots that were fired near.

Today, you didn't awaken in the house where you were held captive. There were no mechanical noises or loud drilling. However, your morning did begin with your flesh awkwardly molding against the metal grid patterns of the shopping cart. There was no complaining when you realized it was your old friend Sampo who had carried and set you down. You didn't even consider asking this man where he was taking you.

Days earlier, he had paid you a covert visit and explained his strategy. So you concluded that he was the one who made the "false" murder announcement public. He also implied that little Hook made the note. Your gut tells you that even while it makes sense to assume that she is the author of that absurd announcement, it doesn't seem to be the truth. But at that point, your fears of being tubed with immoral equipment vanished and you felt gratitude rather than alarm. Not that you'd ever figure out that I made it, anyways.

"S-Sampo…" You groaned, not moving from your position as your friend fished out his homemade bombs from his pocket. "W-Where are you taking me…?"

Anywhere is better than her basement.

"To Nat, of course!" You needn't tilt your head to know that he was smiling wide. "Is there any other doctor more reliable than Miss Natasha?"

You'd insensitively joke about Vache Harrower, but your strength betrays you. Not like he'd give you a chance to drop some smart-alecks when he timed his bombs right. 

Just a few short seconds after, your best friend rolled his smoke bombs on the floor and made a larger dash. You heard a tremendous boom from the back, and a silent malicious voice in your skull hoped for injuries.

They worked with her.

Jolting you up, Sampo made one swift left turn and another to the right, making sure that the last remaining guards that trailed you both were lost in the haze. He didn't stop running, but you can tell he's getting tired. Sampo is a merchant, not the sister of the ex-Captain of the Silvermane Guards.

Your nose scrunched.

Serval Landau… that paranoid woman and lousier liar…

The oldest Landau used to be your best friend along with Pela. She had treated you as though you were Gepard's twin at times, much to your discomfort. Even her parents referred to you as their kin. 

Since you had no one to care for you as a child, the Landaus happily raised you. Had you not rejected their offers for adoption, your life certainly wouldn't be where it is now. 

Back "home", Serval would make suggestions that you were more of a Landau than she’d ever be. In turn, you’d cock your head and look unamused. Then act more like one, you’d reply. Yet these forceful encouragements do not reach her.

Even when you beg her to let you out of the house, she won’t let you.

We’ve been over this before, she’d reply. I can’t let you out on your own. You’re missing your right leg, what if that man finds you? 

You’ve never understood that logic. Who was she referring to, your old boss?

Her brother died a year ago.

You once liked him. You'd even go out of your way to say he was worthy of anyone's trust. 

Was. That was before you knew that deep in the recesses of his mind that loyalty was the beginning and end of Captain Gepard Landau's character. Uniting men under his leadership, he sought only the best for his beloved Belobog.

Your mind drives memories of Gepard away and you can no longer remember what transpired to cause this. After all, you undoubtedly considered Serval and Lynx to be sisters, but you never thought of him as a brother. You can't exactly pinpoint why you treated him like that since the very beginning.

Based on your shattered memories, you were stripped away of your position as his aide. Serval claimed it was because you didn't harbor traits of self-preservation. She made a show of how unreliable you were on the field, that you were hysterical and a "liability." Their relentless critique went on for half an hour until the higher-ups had given in to her demands. 

Worse, they permitted her to surveil your movements 24/7. Using your amputated leg as an excuse, she effectively put you on house arrest– not your home, but hers. She's not an effective caretaker either, despite her attempts. Serval's use of transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation is far more brutal than what a normal practitioner would do, but no one can hear your complaints except for Molly. Her tests are never comfortable. And you loathe this.

She acted like your loss of a leg turned you into damaged goods that only the siblings can see value in. That her giving you a prosthetic was a sign of love rather than a shackle.

They said you were “hysterical”, and that you should be forgiven for whatever sin you’ve committed.

Insulting.

Insulting. Insulting. Insulting.

"H-How closer are we to the underground?" You gripped the cart, your heart racing at the speed.

Sampo coughed after accidentally inhaling his smoke.

“S-Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t change the direction of the cart–”

“What?!”

“The cart won’t turn!!!” Sampo screamed.

With each passing second, the gap between the cart and the theater narrowed. Your heart raced as this was your first experience of real danger after being sheltered for a year or so. Even though you were aware that Sampo had no control over the impending crash, you still glanced at him expectantly.

He smiled, drop-dead nervous and boyishly sheepish.

"Give me two minutes!!!"

"Give me two minutes, Captain!!! We still need a few more."

You beamed, holding your axe to chop wood for your comrades in the Outlying Snow Plains. 

At first, you weren't trusted with heavy weapons. Luckily, being "weak" is a curable ailment for everyone. And the cure is called hard work and extreme effort. That, and an axe. 

You were the very definition of a model soldier and he found himself incredibly lucky to finally see you join the Silvermane Guards. You had an excellent posture; you were a sharpshooter and a wonderful axeman– even your breathing looks rehearsed.

And for a damn good reason.

When the Height's economy sneezes, the underground catches a cold.

Unfortunately, that means children as young as you were had to bear the flames.

The Landau parents had taken a shine to you after taking you as a servant from the orphanage. Your captain's father adored you, even though his never-smiling voice had not once indicated his affection. Captain Gepard bears resemblances from his old man in appearance but not his military demeanor; you were the one to hold that torch. 

It was through Mr. Landau you learned how much metrics and timings make a difference between an animal and a human being. You grew from someone who skitters away dynamically like a gas particle to a person grounded with instructions on how each step in a stride must be measured to perfection. Growing up with the Landaus was by no means a happy life, but it made you more keen on what constitutes "proper living." 

To you, being hit by vases and chairs for failing to fold Mr. Landau's clothes in exactly the way he wants them to be was preferable to dying in the streets with your grandmother with nothing to fill your stomach other than the restaurant trash cans nearby. And you were certain you brought more pride and joy to Mr. and Mrs. Landau than you had to your parents who had abandoned you since birth. 

People see Mr. Landau when they look at you and not Gepard.

But that's only because they have never seen the way you behave when it's only you and the Landau siblings are together.

“Working hard, I see,” Gerard said in a light joking manner.

You scratched your neck, embarrassed.

“Nah, I’m actually very lazy.”

“Don’t be so self-effacing,” Gepard smiled kindly. “I don’t miss anything. I’ve heard that you’ve made your rounds and even took on some of Pela’s duties while she’s on leave.”

“Eh, we both know I wouldn’t have done it without Pela begging me to do it for her Tales of– nevermind, Captain.”

Gepard had always viewed your abilities with the greatest reverence and approval. Serval was always quick to emphasize how her "favorite non-blood related sibling" is an "uninhibited performer" before everyone else, so Gepard thought this true in every aspect. You must think of this as writing a song to keep your mind sharp. You lose any sense of reservation once in “the zone”, and if Serval fell for the way your brows furrowed when penning down tunes and lyrics, Gepard faltered when he saw the glint in your eye as you pieced all the information needed to catch Sampo Koski’s whereabouts after your promotion. 

He had never told you this, but Gepard always felt weird sensations pooling in his chest whenever he saw you hyper-focused on something.

Or someone.

“Do you think I can catch him, Geppie?”

Gepard ruffled your hair and your face brightened up.

"Never falter, (Y/n),” he said firmly. “For I wholeheartedly believe in your strengths. Catching Sampo Koski will be a walk in the park for someone like you."

To think that your first caught infamous criminal is your last true friend… Destiny surely toys with those who say “That’ll never happen.” It's always a fun phenomenon to write a script about.

“Walk in a park”? Try “crash in a theater”.

“SAMPO!!!”

You yelped, clawing his shirt and yanking his upper body like a wild animal. His heels screeched as the cart faced the direction of the Golden Theater.

And what nestled near the Golden Theater was its Back Alley, a place that exists on the border between reality and myth. Whispers among children weave tales that those who enter the depths are trapped in a journey of confronting their unresolved trauma and guilt. It is believed that the alley acts as another dimension where the lost must face their inner demons before emerging back into the real world, scarred forever by the distorted horrors they have confronted.

And for the first time in your life, you saw it.

You saw a fence that was never there before.

Your heart dropped.

“SAMPO!!!”

He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact alongside you.

Sampo Koski lived by a particular quote: "True happiness always entails the manifestation of the dignity of mankind,”

And only a few knew that it's only 1/3 of the full quote. The next part includes: “and true guilt is the catalyst for self-reflection and the pursuit of redemption–" 

Flickering street lights and unmoving 10:10 clocks cast eerie shadows of dawn. It’s said that the people who traverse its trails encounter manifestations of their inner turmoil, a reflection of their deepest regrets. Some emerge transformed, carrying newfound clarity, while others head on a downward spiral. 

He wondered which one you would be.

“I’m sorry, (Y/n).”

Sampo smirked…

And let go of the cart.

“But the Back Alley is waiting for you.”

His hands, calloused but clean, tenderly held yours. You felt ice even without a metal ring wrapped around his finger. At that thought, you blinked.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Yes, dear?"

"You don't have a ring on you," you said with an unreadable expression. "Will we ever have a chance at getting married?"

You thought it was funny; he didn't.

We.

What did you mean by “we”?

Him and you?

Or you and someone else?

Surely you and him, right?

But is that really an idea that he needs to know?

The Supreme Guardian was right.

Doubt breeds arrogance.

“W-Well–” Gepard’s breath hitched, awkwardly fumbling his cuffs. “I don’t know about that.”

You muttered. “So the future's uncertain.” 

“Of course.”

“Hmm.”

He gulped, realizing that you were mad at his response.

But he can’t let any of this continue any longer.

“(Y/n), I have something I’d like to tell you…”

“Nghh….”

You heard the shopping cart roll towards a wall– must be the same one you crashed onto. As you caught a glimpse of your surroundings, you were astounded to see how foggy it was. The wall-mounted advertisement for a love-matching service is hardly visible. It was impossible to see past the surrounding streetlight, even with "un-smoke bombed" eyes. 

Doesn’t look like you’re in the administrative district.

You cannot see a single familiar building from this fog.

No heaters in sight and your breath practically singed your throat. The fog prickled your skin, but for reasons unknown, you did not shudder as a feverish man would’ve. Strangely enough, you felt fine.

You tried squinting at the road again.

Your heart dropped.

... There was no road.

You can't tell if it's the snow and the fog– but there's no pavement towards the exit in sight. It's as if wherever you stood floated. It was a literal dead end. As you peaked into the cliff, you did not see the bottom.

There was nothing there.

Even if you tried jumping, you weren't sure if there would be anything to fall on.

Capable arms wrapped themselves around your form. They were far stronger than your eyelids, which would barely open. Semi-automatically, your hand reached for this person’s shoulder, attempting to reposition yourself from their hold. You can barely make out their face, but their hair was slightly darker. This stranger lacked the envy-inspiring golden allure that the Landaus have.

Not processing that information fast enough, you spoke.

“S-Sampo, wh-what happened–”

You went pale.

No.

No.

No.

You pushed this "man" aside and dropped to the ground, barely maintaining balance on your one remaining leg. The man has now grown to be a towering figure over you, his star-bright eyes peering at you, paranoid. The air felt heavy, laden with a palpable sense of the unknown. Only the sound of your lonesome "real" foot scurrying away broke the silence.

“A-Are you alright?! W-What’s wrong....? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The man sauntered closer. His light but lifeless eyes locked onto yours, piercing through your soul. He had dirty blonde hair and he wore a sweater similar to the one that you never got to give to your best friend's younger brother, but–

“G-Gepard…?!?!”

The man tilted his head.

You squinted, hoping to find solace in a detail you might’ve missed or so. 

Finally, your shoulders slackened, exhaling a large white cloud.

“No… You’re… not.”

He sent you a fleeting look of pity before making an awkward joke.

“Do I look similar to a past lover?”

His smile is stiff as a board.

“No— my— my deceased… boss…” You spoke bitterly.

This person, who looked eerily similar to the dead Gepard Landau, stared with red-rimmed eyes. Did he cry earlier? With nothing else to focus on except for the thick fog, you remain frozen in place.

“This is…”

Terrifying, you wanted to say but that would be offensive.

“Impressive…” You gawked, slowly forgetting the vulnerable position you left yourself in. Sharply, you drew a breath. “You look like you could be a Landau.”

Your hand reached to touch his cheek, and the stranger leaned into your touch. Far too engrossed by this encounter, you did not care for his slightly hollow eyes and more than elated expression. It was the bigger picture that you saw.

It was the near-perfect image of the deceased Gepard Landau.

His skin was pinkish and his heart raced.

“Your hand is warm…” He commented softly, face red.

“Your face, your voice— it’s just your hair and your sense of fashion that’s different, and—”

“My name is Gerard,” his smile remains stiff as a board, but there's a touch of friendliness to it. “I don’t believe I appear anywhere near ghostlike.”

You’re inclined to believe that he’s lying.

No one can look THIS similar to Gepard.

And that name as well.

You don’t know what to think.

As you were about to retract your hand, he held it back in place, guiding it closer to his lips. He breathed in. His breath marked the fog. “Gerard” inched closer, stepping his foot near your prosthetic right leg. With little distance between you two, your temperature has progressively grown hotter. It’s uncomfortable watching you both like this. I should’ve closed my eyes.

“See?” He mumbled.

“Can you sense how warm I am?”

“So you’re not Gepard… Or a ghost, I guess.”

You laughed to yourself. You’re not sure about your statement, either.

But while this man may appear friendly, his eyes were a haunting reminder that some things can never truly be left behind.

“As I have stated before, my name is Gerard.”

Even his name sounds like his.

“I-I’m sorry, I was dazed,” You pinched your temple. Without his warmth, the cold bit your cheeks which made you turn around. “T-Thank you for carrying me out of that shopping cart, Gep– Gerard.”

You looked around again. Nothing to see but fog. Far from surprising.

“Gerard, where are we?”

The dirty blonde man laughed. 

“The Theater’s Back Alley.”

“The Back Alley?” You scoffed quietly, contemplating on how Gepard insisted to you before that it never existed– and now his promiscuous doppelganger is arguing otherwise. “There aren’t any back alleys around the theater.”

This place doesn’t look like an alley. 

It’s far too large for it to fit the description. This must be an abandoned town. Unbeknownst to both of you, way before your time, this place was called Chernobog.

“Yes there is,” Gerard hummed. “It’s where we are now.”

“Then can you carry– lead me back to the main district?” You decided to humor him. “I’m not supposed to be wherever this place is.”

“I wouldn’t allow it.”

“Why not?”

Gerard grinned. His radiant smile baffled you as his demeanor changed from slightly teasing to tender from just the crinkles of his eyes. 

“Because I love you, of course. I can't just let you leave.”

You froze.

Why? Why does he speak as if it ever so slightly comes from the diaphragm as he did? 

Why does his voice sound so much like Gepard’s?

You thought it was wrong.

Gepard would never say those words.

Not to you. Never.

As Gerard’s casual confession hung amidst the fog, a peculiar heaviness settled on your heart. It wasn't the words themselves that caused this unease but rather the haunting resemblance his voice had to Gepard’s. His voice was rich with authenticity, free of malice, and his confession was short but somehow sweet.

But you didn’t want to hear that from him.

You averted your gaze. A flood of memories had suddenly surfaced at that precise moment, including the hearty sound of Gepard's laughter. It appeared as though the dead had come back to play a cruel game. Unable to bear his comfortable “joke”, you recoiled and feigned deafness, face veiled behind an indifferent mask. Perhaps the Aeon of Preservation may have advocated for this. In a sense, perhaps denial meant safety. Silently, you begged for your thoughts to stop, for the resemblance to dissipate, and for the ache of grief to be buried again.

“Back on the topic at hand, if you wish to exit the Back Alley: I don’t wish to help you,” he smiled.

His smile is always stiff as a board.

“Why not stay here? Are you not a wanted person?”

You glared.

“How did you know that?”

“Murder, right?” Gerard drawled, his eyes softening in what you call disgusting pity. “Someone important. Someone that made you stuck here.��� 

“Stop making accusations,” you spat, offended by his left-field slander.

“I’m not,” Gerard said. “I know who you killed. How about you? Do you remember who it was?”

Silence.

“But that doesn’t matter now,” he announced firmly. “Why don’t you come with me? Let me shield you from the monsters.”

You froze.

“Mon… sters?”

“Yes, monsters.”

Unexpectedly, a far-off wail of sirens and static radio pierced the air, disorienting. There was nothing to be seen when you lifted your chin to strain your ears in search of the source. Gerard's urgent voice broke through your daze.

"Run." 

With a swift and practiced motion, he swept you off your feet, cradling you in his arms back to the position you woke up in. He knew your current prosthetics were not meant for running. A prosthetic limb is like a new fingerprint and Serval would never make your new identity one similar to escapists. At the moment, you had a prosthetic leg for everyday use, and not blades for running.

As Gerard hurriedly carried you through the dense fog, you felt no sense of security as you had before. Something lurked just beyond your line of sight. In an act of spur-of-the-moment bravery, you stole a glance over Gerard's shoulder, and thus, you were paralyzed.

What emerged from the depths of the fog were grotesque “figures”. 

Their bodies were mutilated, with their arms hanging loosely at their sides. They reared their heads, twisting and contorting. It was humanoid in stature, blanched and nearly armless. If it were not for some tissues, you were certain they wouldn’t have arms to begin with. Their flesh seemed boiled together like patchworks of human remains. They started to inch closer, their movements disjointed.

Fear coursed through your veins as you realized their intentions were set upon you and Gerard. But his voice cut through, his words not faltering.

"Hold on tight," he said steadily.

“Whatever you do, don’t let them get to you, (Y/n),” Gerard whispered. 

“Please, do it for me.”

For the duration of “dawn”, Gerard carried you to safe locations. You have not met a single human person throughout the day. This was a concerning observation after knowing how large the “alley” was. He knew the area like the back of his hand and successfully guided you to hospitals (which, unfortunately, had more of those monsters from before) to patch some minor wounds from Sampo's “shopping cart trip” mishaps. 

Before you could walk to the hospital bed, he grabbed your wrist in a tight hold.

“Shhh…” Gerard tugged your arm. “You don’t need to walk. Please, permit me to carry you.”

Despite your whispered protests, he rarely let you move around. Which made sense since your staggering did alert them of your location.

But you don’t like the way he touches you.

Those Gepard-like eyes lingered on you as if he were trying to memorize every inch of your skin. His actions were marked by an unwavering vigilance, always on guard for the slightest sign of danger even when you encouraged him to relax a bit. It was as if he was driven by an unspoken longing or unresolved past experiences. And you've only just met.

This time he made sure to turn off his radio. Suspiciously enough, "Gerard" carried a Silvermane Guard issued radio but it only seemed to make sounds whenever danger lurks by.

You tried not to think about that. Save for the dusty bed and wispy drapes, the posters strewn across the hospital walls caught your attention. The wall didn't have anything else notable other than those prints. They must be the same ones you saw on the streets, yellowed with age. The prints ranged from love hotlines, anger management tips, and a wanted poster.

Your poster.

Unlike the previous ones, this one was preserved thoughtfully, plastered right at the center amongst all the prints. Intriguingly, floral stickers were peppered around your images. Not the childish ones you'd buy for a cheap price, but more refined illustrations. You're not too versed in the language of flowers, but they did look like blue roses and marigolds. If only you could recall what Gepard said about what those flowers meant...

For now, you hazarded an astute guess as to why it was cleaner than the rest, staring unamused at Gerard. He sheepishly smiled, face flushed as he tried not to notice your glare. Gerard seemed proud of his handiwork.

It was nearly cute.

If it weren't for the fact you seriously don't know who he is.

“Gepard—”

“Gerard,” he corrected you in a commanding yet soft tone, ironically similar to your old Captain.

“You don’t have to patch my wounds.”

“Just let me,” he pressed on, wrapping your scrapped arm with gauze. “This was part of my combat lifesaver course.”

You shifted from the bed.

“You’re a soldier?”

…

He didn’t answer.

You tilted your head.

“Are you sure you’re not a Landau–”

“Affirmative.”

He could’ve twisted the gauze tight enough to make you wince in pain, but he delicately wrapped it and added immense pressure not to your wounds, but in his gaze.

“I am not your “Geppie” and I am not your old employer.”

With a voice that commands resolute clarity from you, you doubt he’s telling the truth. 

You paused.

“How?”

“How what?” He muttered.

“How did you know that nickname?”

You gulped.

“How much do you know about me?”

You were on high alert the moment he called you by your name when those monsters chased earlier– you have never introduced yourself. Couple that with the fact that he was to accuse you of murder, you didn’t know what he thought of you. 

This time, he didn’t smile.

“Enough to know that I love you.”

“You say that like it makes any sense!” You snapped.

“I know everything because you wanted me to love you, and I do love you too. I am not a shield for the people like him. I don't have the burden to protect anyone else, doesn’t that make me a better man for you now? There's no need to make sure the Silvermane Guards are always at the ready. I don't have to worry about pride- about being a Landau.”

He delicately reached out, guiding your hand to rest against his cheek. His softened features conveyed a love for your "warmth", but the pool in your stomach made this experience unbearable.

“My life is reserved for only you. That is my oath.”

You ripped your arm away from him with disgusted eyes.

“Just tell me the truth already!!!”

He looked down, frowning.

“You don’t need the truth...” 

Gerard's eyes glistened with a bittersweet melancholy as he watched you, a faint smile tugging his lips. He had a look that says he knew all too well that you are unaware of the depths he was willing to go to protect you. The dirty blonde man reached out, his hand instinctively yearning to rest upon your shoulder, but he withdrew it quickly, his fingers curling inward.

“That’s why you’re here. In this foggy back alley.”

He scooted beside you. Even if he couldn’t bring himself to comfort you enough, you knew he spoke the truth when his voice cracked in a small whisper of: "I’m with you."

Gerard grabbed your hand again and softly kissed your fingertips.

No one could miss his sharp gaze. The man has deluded himself that you were his to protect at all costs. A nature that stemmed from a deep-seated desire to control something that he couldn't acceptably justify. A pure obsession that defied reason at its finest.

You know that look all too well.

But you can’t put a finger as to where you’ve seen it. What a shame.

You looked at your hands.

... Strange.

Since when were you wearing a golden ring?

Your eyes intuitively gazed at Gerard's hands.

All of the sudden, your throat dried.

You're both wearing wedding rings.

“You don’t have to be alone again,” he mumbled. “We can live here. You could plant and look after flowers with me– though I’ve never been good at it. It’d be a quiet life, just as you’ve always wanted.”

“If that’s what you’re offering then you’re no different than Serval,” you laughed to yourself. 

His eyes darkened.

Before you could comment on it, he cut you off with another considerate smile.

“You must be hungry. There’s a cafeteria downstairs, I’ll procure some rye bread.”

“(Y/n), babe, where are you?”

You looked up. An alarmed woman’s voice called out.  

“... Serval?”

No reply.

The voice seemed to be coming from the door.

“Serval, are you there?”

“(Y/n), i-it’s okay! C-Calm down, calm down,” the voice continued. “Things just happen. I’ll help you okay? Shhh, d-don’t cry, don’t cry, I'm here…”

“What are you talking about?”

“I won’t let it happen. They don’t even have to know you were here. P-Pass the mop now, shhh…”

It made a sound far too damaged to be called a soothing chuckle.

“What are you on about?–”

The broken voice began to sing, sounding as though she had been clinging onto a husk of someone who’s been too far gone. 

“C-Calm your nerves, my p-precious friend,

For "tomorrow"'s problems will never end.

In this short song, I s-softly sing,

You're cherished, my dear, in e-everything.”

You reached for the bed railing and supported yourself upright. Prepping your leg for a short walk, you placed your foot down–

THUD.

The door swung open, making you jump slightly.

Gerard came back, his breath nearly stripped away as he sauntered over. His only saving grace was his stamina, but otherwise fear would've dragged him down. There was not a single piece of bread in his hand. I’m glad he came, you would’ve been out of the alley immediately otherwise. And that's not good for us.

The voice was gone.

The sounds from afar now ring more of an animal than a human. 

"(Y-Y/n)," he called out. "We need to leave."

You tilted your head, about to question what was wrong but you were cut off by his abrupt scream.

"NOW!!!"

He took you by the waist, carrying you in a way there was regard for your amputation but fast enough to make you feel unease. You gasped as Gerard's hold on you tightened, sprinting out of the "safe location."

"W-What's going on–"

"They're close," he whispered. "They're coming. It knows we’re here."

With one free hand, he pushed down passing cabinets as he bolted. Nothing was on his mind other than to flee with you. You didn't dare look at what was behind. You didn't want to face the truth.

"Gerar–"

Despite your desire not to see these creatures, a lone monster stands at the end of the hall.

It loomed before you, a grotesque fusion of flesh intricately molded together like human flesh sewn tight to a Silvermane Guard uniform, its form twisted and contorted while multiple unnerving eyes peered from its misshapen visage. Although it may have eyes more than you have fingers, you have a sneaking suspicion that they are completely inoperative. Its skin bore an unsettling array of intricate carvings, etched like cryptic scars across its entire body.

Something about its appearance resonated with you.

It slugged closer, staring. As to “where”, you can't tell. Each inch of its body had slits for eyes enough to instill paranoia. At least one pair must've been staring at you. Yet, most of it was on him.

Gerard.

"Tch..." His eyebrows furrowed, troubled.

He ran towards the end of the hall and miraculously swerved to avoid its axe. His pace quickened. 

"(Y/n), whatever you do, don't think about why these creatures exist. Even when I'm gone."

“What do you mean?”

“Just don’t. That’s an order.” He said, sounding more of a plea than a warning.

The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly as you struggled to keep up with Gerard's swift pace.

As he ran, questions burned in your mind, desperate for answers. His words echoed in your head, but your curiosity had implicit demand for a shred of understanding. You couldn't help but glance back, catching a glimpse of the creature still in pursuit. It persisted in its relentless pursuit of you, unwavering in its resolve.

"F-Faster!" you gasped between labored breaths. “It’s closing in on us!”

Gerard's expression remained stoic, his eyes focused on the path ahead.

He ran towards a door and pushed it open with a kick. You both stumbled through the threshold, entering what appeared to be the cafeteria, but the sterile scent mingling with the food made that guess somewhat unconvincing.

Gerard quickly assessed the room, searching for any signs of danger. The sound of distant alarms and muffled screams echoed through the corridors.

“Just what the hell is that?!” The words escaped you unintentionally in a mortified whisper.

Gerard cupped your mouth.

You both forgot to close the door.

What a horrible mistake.

The unsettling monster began its search. It emanated shrill sounds that pierced through your ears, making you almost move to cover them. The cries reached a hauntingly high-pitched cry that echoed like metal against metal. The mournful wails never resembled wolfish growls but rather heartbroken cries. Its speech resembles the guttural syllables "I" and "U" in an auditory expression of grief.

It turned around, but it also had eyes on its back.

Cowering in terror, you huddled close to Gerard behind the counter of the desolate cafeteria, seeking refuge from the approaching monster. 

As the creature drew nearer, its grotesque eyes fixated on you and Gerard, its elongated limbs reaching out with chilling anticipation. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you heard Gerard’s breath hitch as you both clung to the faint hope of survival.

But to your horror, as the monster approached head-on.

Its rotting flesh bypassed you, swerving past your trembling form, and seized Gerard instead. 

“(Y/N)!!! RUN!!”

Gerard pointed at the nearby mop.

He wants you to leave him.

A gasp of terror escaped your lips as you watched in disbelief.

His blue eyes widened, mirroring your panic but worse, as the monster's grasp tightened around him. Gerard yelped, his voice trembling as his fear of death loomed. Its grip was not merciful. 

It smacked Gerard against a desk.

Again.

Again.

And again.

Blood streamed in his scalp.

The monster took his arm.

And ripped it apart.

And soon.

Nothing.

Thud.

You went as silent as the corpse as you watched it extinguish his life in a quiet finality.

Tears streamed down your face, unable to look away. Maybe it's a trick of the mind, but you were starting to feel a pain from where your leg was removed. Your brain was still convinced that you still had it- and that it is in danger. You feel as if your ankle was angled downwards, hiding from the monster. Such sensations made your skin crawl, especially considering the circumstances. It was not the best time to experience phantom limb pain.

The monster briefly met your gaze as if to mock your survival. It limped away, leaving behind you with nothing but a corpse.

Hours felt like mere minutes before you were snapped out of your prolonged emptiness. Gerard remains on the floor, dead-eyed and bloody. Thankfully, your current PLP was manageable at best but the throbbing sensation distracted you for a while. Your mind was blocking out the blood on his face. It did not process how mutilated it had become, nor did it care to acknowledge his arm that lay on the checkered floor.

His cheeks looked warm, alive.

You fixed his hair.

“Gep– Gerard…”

…

…

You need to leave.

YOU NEED TO LEAVE.

Since that incident, you've been by yourself in the Back Alley, even though you sense that there may be other lost "people" like you nearby, you chose to act alone despite this.

There's no need for another Gerard.

You followed the walls every time you had the nerve to step outside, cursing Serval occasionally for failing to provide you with a prosthetic running leg. That, and her garbage methods she calls "physical therapy."

You have overstayed your welcome despite not knowing how long you have been in this dense fog. Oddly, you've never experienced hunger in your time here. You are unable to move around freely, and worse, you are unable to scream for help, unless you want the people who are still present in the dense fog to find you. 

You don’t have time to grieve for a man you barely knew.

You sighted a police station. Much like every building in this surprisingly large “alley”, it had been abandoned. It looked like the one you worked for, down to the paint job and the door frame. Funnily enough, the door was open, and thus, it was temporarily yours.

What greeted you first upon entering was a creature similar to the monsters you’ve crawled away from– but it did not move.

The still creature lay on the floor, staring at its hand. Its bottom half was similar to a mermaid's. You did not see two legs. When you approached, there was no reaction. You can only presume it was dead. Or that it never had a life to begin with.

You heard radio static as soon as you tried approaching it. But you don't recall ever having a radio in your possession.

“You poor thing…” You found yourself uncharacteristically sympathizing with a monster. The fatigue was eminent in your voice. “What happened?”

You're so stupid. Don't you think that "corpse" looks familiar?

You looked at its other hand and saw it holding an axe.

You took it.

As you brandished the weapon, its Silvermane engravings became more apparent. This was a soldier’s model, one you used back when you were an intelligence officer. Perhaps it will come in handy later.

“I’ve never heard of this station before, then again, I doubt many knew there’s a back alley in the first place,” you scoffed. “But, hmm…”

You turned your head to face the monster once more. You don’t know why you feel oddly calm facing the monster this boldly. With the axe acting as your new makeshift cane, you pushed it down. Nothing happened.

You got back up and took a look around.

For a police station, there were tons of love-related posters hanging around with half of them viciously vandalized. Some of them made you laugh as you read them. The handwriting seemed to belong to someone, but you can't recall whose.

LOVE ISN’T REAL.

I DON’T NEED A MATCH. I JUST WANT ██████.

“Pathetic,” your emotional equivalent of a snort was a slight huff. “And you’re all supposed to be Silvermane Guards? Guess this place was deserted for a reason.”

You hate how you sounded exactly like Mr. Landau just now. Out of all the children in the Landau household, you had it the worst with Md. Landau. Hearing yourself mutter something he would say... you're not sure how you feel about that.

Scoffing, you walked past the corpse and onto the break room. 

Missing just a few posters in your way.

IF I CAN’T HAVE ███, 

THEN I’LL JUST REMOVE ███ LIMBS.

Hours passed. You haven’t found the exit.

You heard Serval’s voice again. She was apologizing to you. Then, silence.

Nothing happened on what you presumed to be the “next day.” You cried to yourself until you saw the same monster who killed Gerard. It was ready to give chase until suddenly, it stopped when you were incredibly focused on escaping.

You tried thinking about why it did what it did. But it left more questions than answers.

Tore down a couple of posters. They were starting to get to you.

You think there is no exit. You made a quick mention about how Gerard probably knew where it is to yourself, but the same monster must've heard you. You felt eyes watching you and it made it's appearance by narrow alleys. You bolted.

You found another human. But he was long dead. You wondered if he was the same person children loved to talk about. The anxious man who lingered at the gates of the Back Alley. If I remember correctly, Stelle encountered this man before. Wonder what she thought of him at the time.

You heard the radio static again when you approached him. You decided to ignore him for now.

You mopped the man's dried blood. Who knew the mop Gerard pointed at in his last moments had it's use.

He looked stiff as a board. He was reeking, but at least he had a smile on his face.

You obtained a key after cleaning up the puddle.

“Was there ever an exit?”

Nothing happened in this timeframe. But you think you have an idea as to why these creatures exist.

Specifically, why they exist because of you.

How long have you been here? Sorry, I wasn’t keeping track.

You also weren't sure how long you'd been searching the town. Quite frankly, I was getting bored of watching. You tried to play this off like a maze game, constantly following the walls to your right as though it would magically lead you to the exit. Did you know that Lady Luck is not particularly lenient when bestowing favors? Your life here is slowly becoming more stale and your constantly improving ability to strategize your routes to avoid monsters has been making your adventure more of a chore to follow.  

It's admirable that you were so tenacious in clinging to life in such a dangerous environment with a single leg, but it was extremely frustrating that you couldn't see this alley for what it was.

As if to cure such boredom, you entered another abandoned building. Turns out, the key you pried off a dead man's corpse fits perfectly. It was a psychiatric clinic owned by one Dr. Kauffman, a licensed therapist who received teachings from Dr. Kang Tu via the Astral Express. I never cared about those people. They're just cashing in on the occult, the easily "hooked", and the disturbed. You harbor at least 2/3 of those qualities. Congrats.

The walls are more notably filled with the same set of posters you've seen scattered around time. This time, you weren't feral enough to tear the posters down. However, you didn't grasp the meaning behind them either. You refused to look deeper, even when you don't recall what would stare back at you. 

Mindlessly, you staggered inside a room. There were no professionals inside as far as you could tell without any of the lights on, just a cold sofa. You walked slowly and sat down. 

As soon as you comfortably secured a position to take a rest, you realized you weren't alone.

Star-bright eyes followed your movements as soon as you entered the room.

“Gepard?”

You blinked.

“Oh. Gerard, it’s you. I thought you were–” You paused as Gerard shook his head, eyebrows furrowed with a smile that repressed his frustration. “Sorry.”

“Anyway, I’m… confused. How are you alive?” You asked. “Your arm– it’s back. What’s going on?”

Desensitized, you no longer knew what to think.

You're being strangely calm, don't you think?

But one thing was for certain: this “man” is not supposed to be standing.

Gerard pursed his lips.

“Anyway?” He mimicked you bitterly.

“What do you mean “ANYWAY”?!?”

You flinched as he took steps forward.

“You didn’t even care about me, didn’t you?!? It’s Gepard this, Gepard that– Gepard is DEAD!!!” 

Gerard screamed at your face, gripping your shoulders tightly.

“Why… Why is it always him first? When I am everything he couldn't be?” 

Gerard chuckled lowly.

“I-I was so afraid. I was so afraid that I won’t be able to see you again– that I’d disappoint you– but no, it’s always Gepard first. Why can’t you be obsessed with me in the way you were so– so…”

He cried. Hot tears ran down his cheeks as his shoulders deflated. Gerard cast his gaze to the ground while his hands reached to wipe his sorrows off his face.

“I would die for you. Why can’t you do the same?”

You tilted your head.

“Strange, now that I think about it–” you said nonchalantly. 

“Didn’t I watch you die?”

Silence.

You should comfort him.

“Gepard,” you started.

Wrong name.

“No, it’s Gepard.”

Wrong name.

“It’s not the wrong name. I know what I’m saying.”

Wrong name.

I continued to correct you.

“It’s not–” You took a shaky breath. “It’s not the wrong name, you fucking idiot.”

He remains still, quiet.

Almost frozen.

Stiff as a board.

You laughed.

“I get it now. Haha. I get it now.”

You look down, staring at the human corpse. Human corpse? No. That’s not a human. A human cannot die twice. 

You get it now. 

You’re in the Back Alley.

There are always eyes that watch the Back Alley.

You look above, particularly to no one, but you believed the scriptwriter must be listening. 

“He’s listening, isn't He?”

Yes. He is.

It's time for us to talk.

The clock struck 10:10.

[resowrites]

Rogue’s Company - oneshot.

Summary: Henry and his wife become parents…

Pairings: AU!Henry Cavill x Wife!OC

Warnings: fluff, mention/some detail of birth (I’ve tried to write as sensitively as possible but please avoid if you’re unsure), banter/British humour, language, dialogue heavy, hastily written/lightly proofread.

WC: 2095

A/N: This was supposed to go up next week but I’ve just got too much on. There are a few more pieces that I can post asap but I’m also happy to leave the story here - let me know if you want more.

Please note: as I've tried to write this story as both standalone oneshots and an ongoing series, I now have to use more imagery to flesh out this arc and I'm aware this may disappoint some of you. But I want you all to know, whether you're a regular reader of mine or not, I will always adore and support you no matter who you are or what you look like. Please also note: this is pure fiction (as in completely made up), and not in any way meant to reflect reality. Love you guys ~ R x

My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Likes, follows, reblogs and comments are thoroughly welcome and appreciated! Gifs/pics not my own. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for visiting!

Rogue's Company.

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the soft but unnatural light. At first, she didn't recognise the off-white walls, punctuated at intervals by bland pictures. After a while, she could hear a strange muffled sound. She realised someone was speaking. "Ollie? Are you awake?" It was Henry.

"W-where… am I?"

"The hospital, darling. You've been asleep the last six hours." Then it dawned on her. She'd given birth that morning.

"Where… where is he?" He smiled softly.

"He's fast asleep, as you should be. Come on, close your eyes." Henry smoothed her hair and hushed her softly, but a burning desire stopped her from slipping back into the depths of sleep. She had to see him.

"Where is he?" His brow furrowed slightly.

"He's just over there, darling. Don't you remember? He guzzled a whole bottle of milk and fell right to sleep…”

"Need to see him--" she tried to sit up slightly but pain shot through her stomach. Her grimace made Henry hold her down by the shoulders.

"Oh no you don't. You've got to try and relax for me darling, or you'll hurt worse." He eyed the buzzer above the bed, wondering if he should call the nurse. That morning suddenly flooded back to her. She remembered the high blue screen, the nauseating sensation as her stomach was pulled apart until… cries. Soft at first and then harder, stronger. They'd had a son. Her need to see him grew desperate.

"Darling, please. I must see him." Henry bit his lip but decided the only thing to do was to wheel the trolley over to her side. He did so painfully slowly, eager not to wake the little bundle wrapped within it. When Henry finally came to a stop, a smile spread across his face. Her eyes were glued to him immediately. Swathed in a white blanket and fitted with a tiny knitted hat, their baby boy was divine. His small fists were bundled up by his cheeks but his bottom lip stuck out, making his expression carefree.

"He's so lovely, isn't he?" He whispered though she could hardly find the words. Instead, tears filled her exhausted, heavy eyes. Henry gently wiped her face as her eyes screwed shut. "Oh darling, you're in pain aren't you?" When she didn't respond, he pressed the red button to the top left of her hospital bed. Moments later, an older woman in bright blue scrubs breezed into the room.

"Good afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Cavill! I was just about to check on you both. How are you dear? Is your stomach giving you grief?" But Ollie couldn't tear her eyes away from the small bundle to her left.

"Sorry, she's a bit preoccupied…" Henry nodded toward their son.

"Ah, well that's alright. I just need to do a couple of checks and then I can bring you both up some dinner if you’d like?" He tried repeating the offer to his wife but her attention was still fixed solely on their little boy. The nurse went about checking her as quickly and carefully as she could. She also gave her some stronger pain relief. But instead of feeling sleepy, Ollie rallied and became fully aware that she was now a mother. Her sobs came hard and fast.

"Darling, what is it?" The nurse patted Henry gently on the arm.

"It's alright, it's just overwhelming isn't it?" Ollie nodded, somewhat embarrassed that she was feeling so overcome. "I just need to take him for a few minutes so I can see how he's doing as well?" She felt reluctant for anyone to go anywhere near him, but she was hardly in a position to resist. He stroked her hand and reassured her when she could hear their little boy stir the minute he was placed on a table at the other end of the room.

"Is he alright?! You're not hurting him?!" Henry and the nurse chuckled.

"He's fine darling! And I'm sure once the nurse is done she'll let you hold him?" He looked over at her for confirmation.

"Yes, of course! But you'll have to support his bottom, she won't be strong enough just yet to hold him by herself. Let me see now, he's still six pounds, three ounces, and eighteen inches long…" Ollie craned her neck to try and get a better view.

"Has he still got two balls?" She swatted Henry with her hand but immediately regretted it when the sensation reverberated through her stomach. She gathered her strength to try and sit up properly. He dashed to help her.

"I'm fine love, stop fussing over me… are those measurements okay? It seems pretty small." The nurse smiled softly as she put their son back in his babygrow.

"It's somewhat on the small side but he's all good, you've got a very sweet little boy. Well, I'll leave you three to it. I'll be back with dinner in about half an hour, if you need help using the bathroom just buzz. For now, try and get some rest and when you're ready with a name, just let me know." She then smiled, handed their son over to Henry, and made her way from the room. For a while, he just stood holding him, rocking gently back and forth. His whimpering hadn't quite died down but Ollie couldn’t stand it any longer.

"Henry, I can't see him! Please, put him on my chest--"

"Alright, alright, here he is…" Henry ducked down, careful not to put too much pressure on either her chest or stomach. Immediately she was struck by his eyes - bright blue like his father’s. She felt her lip tremble. He just chuckled softly. "So… what do you think? He woke up an hour after you fell asleep and just gurgled away happily in his cot. He hasn't cried once!" She stared down at his little face and felt a strange sensation spread through her chest. It was pure, unconditional love.

"He's… glorious. Even though he looks just like you!" It was true. From the dark tufts of hair on his head to the strong jaw and double chin, there was no denying who his father was.

"Yeah, but he's got your ears, look," Henry rotated him slightly so she could see the side of his head.

"Well that's a relief…" They both laughed. “Wow. I can't believe we made that…" He laughed again.

"I know, I still can't even believe he's here! It feels like only yesterday you told me you were pregnant…" Henry kissed her cheek for what felt like the hundredth time that day. But her eyes were still glued to their son who was cooing to himself.

"Bloody hell… he's chatty like you as well."

"You should have heard him earlier, he was having a whole conversation with the nurse--" He lifted him up to place him back in the cot.

"No, don't. Don't take him away!"

"But darling my arm's going dead! I'm just putting him back down for a little while so you can rest…"

"Fine, but pull that trolley down a bit so I can still see him…" Henry did as he was told, smiling at her enraptured face.

"So, I take it you're pleased then?"

"Pleased? I'm besotted. I never want him out of my sight again--"

"You know you cried and cried when they had to take him away to clean him up?" Her eyes narrowed.

"Really? I have no memory of that…" A pit opened in his stomach.

"Do you remember him being born?" She tried to think.

"Only in fragments. I remember his cries, and that he was all slippery. Apart from that my head's still foggy." Henry crouched over and stroked her head.

"It'll probably come back to you as you recover. The surgeon also did a great job, the incision wasn't that big as he's only a wee thing--"

"It certainly doesn't feel small…" She winced as her mind fell back to the soreness she could feel at the base of her stomach.

"Well, give the drugs a chance to kick in, and if you don't feel better in a little while I'll call the nurse back. So, do we have a name?" A small smile curled her lips.

"Yep. Hal."

"Hal?"

"Yeah, don't you like it?"

"Of course, but why that name?"

"Don't you know your Shakespeare? It's short for Henry. You know, as in Henry IV? And you call yourself an actor—"

"You… you wanna name our boy after me?"

"Well, technically Henry V…" She smiled mischievously but he was too choked to speak. "What I also like is that it rhymes with Kal." Henry snorted.

"Hmm, are you sure you don't want to wait until the morphine wears off?" She gave him a knowing look. "Fine, Hal it is! But if he's named after me then it's only fair he's named after you as well--"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean his middle name should be Oliver. What do you think?"

"My name isn’t Oliver, you little shit!" She went to thwack Henry only for the pain to pull her back to the bed. He smirked.

"Mmm, it’s gunna be a fun couple of weeks… and technically it is! You were named after Oliver—"

"Yes, yes, alright. Hal Oliver, it is. Poor little sod. Well, in for a penny, in a pound, let's use another of your names—"

"What, you mean Dalgliesh?"

"No, you twat, William." Henry snorted but felt pride swelling in his chest once again.

"Hal Oliver William. You know that spells 'How?' He could go by Howie—"

"Yeah, no." He laughed.

"Well 'Hal's' perfect, just like him. And his Mum." Henry leaned closer to kiss her on the forehead. "Well done, darling. I'm so, so proud of you."

"I'm just grateful he's here and doing okay--"

"Me too. Can you believe we're parents? It feels so weird!"

"It does. But in a way, it also feels like he's always been here, as a part of us… I know that doesn't make sense."

"No, I know what you mean. I just couldn't imagine life without him now. We're a family of five! Oh my God, my mum and dad are going to be so thrilled—"

"Have you told them yet?"

"Yeah, though I haven't sent a picture. I wanted to wait until you were awake. Shall I take one of you holding him? That way we can send it to everyone?" She smiled and nodded. But just as he went to pick up their son, the nurse shuffled back into the room wheeling a tray of fresh sandwiches and a bowl of strawberries. "Oh, great, I'm hungry." Ollie giggled and the nurse smiled in her direction.

"Well, I'm glad to see you looking a bit brighter! Just let me quickly check you over again and then I'll get out of your hair. How are you feeling now?"

"Elated," she sighed.

"He is a gorgeous little thing. The spitting image of his father, right down to the chin!"

"It's alright, I still love him…" Henry and the nurse burst out laughing.

"So, have you settled on a name?" They smiled at each other.

"Yes, our son is called Hal Oliver William," her voice broke.

"What is it, darling?!"

"It's nothing, it's just… that's the first time I've ever called him our son." He brushed the tears from his own cheeks and gave her another kiss.

"Aww, that's wonderful! I'm so thrilled for you both. And it looks like you're recovering well, your blood pressure's good too. When you're feeling a little stronger, you can have a walk around and take a shower. All being well, you can all head home in the next day or so. Well, I'll leave you three in peace. Just buzz if you need anything." In a whirl, she was gone. Henry began breaking the sandwiches into smaller pieces so he could feed Ollie directly. Normally she'd have fed herself but she was grateful for the help as her whole body still ached from the procedure.

"There we are, just try and have a little bit for me." He beamed at her, still feeling shocked and relieved it was all over. Henry knew their lives would never be the same, but already parenthood was proving to be so much better than he'd expected. He felt like the three of them could take on the world. "Well, my darling girl, are you happy?" She swallowed her small mouthful and gazed up at Henry.

"The happiest I've ever been in my whole life."

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[yujo-nishimura]

Shambles (Working title)

Took a creative break from my master thesis and had an idea about a devil fruit eater who could communicate with the dead.

Warnings: imprisonment, violence, non-consensual sexual behavior

Note: English is not my native language, mistakes can occur, no time for proof reading

Part 1 Part 2

Your eyes were wide with sheer terror as Doflamingo's colossal statue loomed menacingly overhead. You knew, deep down, that you stood no chance against the sheer power and might of the king of Dressrosa. Neither fighting him directly nor attempting to flee crossed your mind as viable options - you were utterly at his mercy.

In a last-ditch effort, you stammered, "W-with my powers, I can help you become even more influential!" But your words fell on deaf ears as Doflamingo erupted in a chilling, malevolent laugh.

"Do you truly believe I have any need for additional power?" he sneered, his grip tightening as he pulled you flush against his chest. "No, my dear, your pitiful little skills hold no interest for me." His smile widened, the pink tint of his sunglasses doing little to conceal the predatory gleam in his eyes. "However, it has been some time since a beautiful young woman visited the halls of my castle."

Suddenly, you felt his hands upon your hips, a hot and invasive grip that made your skin crawl. "If you simply obey my orders," he purred, his voice dripping with dangerous promise, "I may allow you to live a while longer."

With a sinking feeling, you whispered, "What... orders?" The answer became painfully clear as his hands slid lower, gently squeezing the flesh of your backside.

Just as Doflamingo began to lean in, intent on forcefully capturing your lips, the door to the chamber was suddenly flung open. The young woman from earlier entered, with a sense of urgency in her step, her expression indicating she was all too familiar with the unsavory scene unfolding before her.

Choosing to ignore the compromising situation, she swiftly announced, "Apologies for the interruption, Young Master. We have a disturbance outside the castle - a group of pirates led by a polar bear are attempting to attack us."

Doflamingo's wicked smile did not falter at the news. He momentarily released his grip on you, causing you to stumble backwards.

"That sounds most entertaining," he purred, his gaze still fixed hungrily upon you. "See to it that you take care of my... plaything while I go attend to this polar bear and his zoo. I think I know who we are dealing with…" 

Just as you regained your footing, Doflamingo's vice-like grip suddenly encircled your neck, cutting off your air supply. You choked and gasped, struggling frantically against his relentless stranglehold. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he tossed you to the ground at the woman's feet, glaring down at you with undisguised contempt.

"Put her in the basement for now," he commanded. "I'll give her a... proper treatment later."

Through the tears streaming down your face, you looked up at the ill-tempered woman, the cigarette still dangling from her lips. She did not even try to offer you a choice - her arm suddenly transformed into the barrel of a pistol, the weapon's muzzle trained directly at you. Clearly, she too possessed a Devil Fruit power.

Slowly, painfully, you rose to your feet, knowing resistance would be futile against her firearm. Without a word, she prodded you forward, the cold steel of the pistol pressing into your back. You trudged ahead, heart pounding, until you reached the far end of the room.

Suddenly, the floor beneath you gave way, opening into a black abyss. With a shove, the woman sent you plummeting down into the unknown depths below.

The fall was not as deep as you had feared, but the impact still left you winded, gasping for breath as you landed uncomfortably on your back. The ground beneath you was cold, hard stone, and the air around you felt stale and damp. As you slowly tried to sit up, a sharp pain shot through your back, reminding you of the injuries you had most likely sustained. 

"Stay down. I'll get us out of here in a minute and then check on your injury," came a familiar voice from your left.

"Who...who are you?" you asked weakly.

"May I?" The gentle tone of the voice convinced you and you could only nod. Suddenly you felt a warm hand come to rest on your shoulder. Instantly, your Devil Fruit powers were activated, and you saw the vivid memory of the blonde man lying in the snow, his face streaked with blood.

"It's you. From earlier. The man with the sword and the white hat," you murmured.

"My name is Law," he replied, removing his hand and breaking the connection. "I'll get us out of here, and then you'll need to explain your powers to me."

[ironunderstands]

help I have been afflicted by Boothill brainrot time to share some shitty angst bulletpoints with the class (that I’ll probably turn into a fic later)

I don’t think I have to tag anything specific but be warned there’s probably something bad in here so if you understandably don’t wanna read that then scroll. Expect cyborg related angst (and minor spoilers)

Also I hc Boothill as nonbinary (using he/they and occasionally she) so if you’re wondering about the use of multiple pronouns that’s why, it’s not related to the angst, I just don’t want people to be confused.

-has a sensation of touch on the metal parts of his body, but it’s visibly muted compared to his skin and it drives them nuts

-despises hot/cold temperatures due to how they interact with the metal parts of their body, on especially hot days

-very vulnerable to hacking and it scares the shit out of him (thanks past obsession with Genji for giving me this one, the amount of “Sombra hacks Genji and he has a bad time” stuff I have read is unhealthy, even if she would only do it for the shits and giggles or a mission, a character losing control of their body is unfortunately very compelling please don’t cancel me)

-can’t remember their past life or how he died but still has nightmares of it

-phantom pain is a bitch and her name is Boothill

-won’t be seen as human by most people (even actual people write him this way which is a little weird to me, like I know the Robot/Human tag w Boothill serving as a Robot is probably just for reach, but like, he’s still human, he’s not a robot, he’s a cyborg, idk it’s just a pet peeve of mine)

-has to go to the scientist who made him to get “upgrades” (aka whatever they feel like fucking with this week) against their will

-he can’t remember his old life, but they can remember how their body felt back then and the cyborg one distinctly Doesn’t Feel The Same

-Boothill’s synesthesia beacon doesn’t just prevent Boothill from cursing, it prevents her from saying certain things entirely which makes it very hard for him to express his feelings

-charging induces sleep for them, something which Boothill tries to hide as it could be used against him

-debating between making Boothill unreasonable heavy (because metal) or unreasonably light (because high tech) both scenarios cause problems for him, feel free to torture yourself for as to why

-animals (especially dogs) don’t like them as Boothill doesn’t have as strong a scent nor the flesh of other humans which is why it’s hard for them to trust him, which sucks for Boothill because he loves animals

-doesn’t even know the planet they were originally from or how old he was when he died, Boothill doesn’t even know their birthday, so it ended up becoming the day he was brought back to life against his will

-gets called “it” by people who don’t like cyborgs or people that are non-organic/have nonorganic parts of their body/existence, I also share this for the trailblazer because of their dubious origins, I’d like to believe transphobia isn’t a thing in Star rail because it’s already tiring enough irl and there’s no proof for it unlike other real world problems, so the misgendering happens for other horrible reasons! Horrible reasons that are close to canon considering the whole organic/inorganic war thing depicted by the Sim Uni, I’d imagine a lot of people are still bitter about that (honestly I don’t know the details I was there for the jades) and/or ignorant enough to believe that only fleshy beings have a monopoly on personhood (it/its pronouns are cool but not on people who don’t want to use them!)

-constantly pushes the limits of their body (aka self destructive behavior), I doubt Boothill would be trying to hurt herself but it’s more of a “it will get fixed anyway” kinda thing, any injuries sustained still hurt like a bitch but Boothill forces himself to not care because well “it’s his job and he will get healed anyways” (also it’s implied from their LC that he’s a Galaxy ranger against his will from the whole “never living for themself again” thing, so Boothill probably has to get injured for the job and is just forced to grin and bear it

alright that’s all the angst my sleep deprived brain could cook up for now if I did something wrong or missed a tag pls tell me

[stedelovemail]

just unleashed a lot of General S2 Thoughts on twitter but i'll crosspost them here too. a lot of it is me agreeing with things that have already been said. ineloquent love-fueled criticism in here

i am still on my initial first 3 episodes reaction that everything is too fast; it's unfortunate that there are only 8 episodes this time and they're trying to put so much into them at the cost of good pacing and satisfying arcs because this show deserves better than that. i/we all know it COULD be better and that's exactly what we want for it, but alas: max.

i'd probably have stronger reactions if they had more time to flesh out everything they're trying to do – if i had more time to process everything they're trying to do 😭 there still is a lot i'm enjoying, though. the main relationship of course; most of everything w/ the crew, especially when they aren't separated! bc i'm kind of sad about the swede being apart from everyone, and now buttons too.

and archie: she's definitely likeable but we still really don't know much about her, let alone enough to really feel the connection between her and jim…? meanwhile olu and zheng are indeed a "well they're cute!" situation but i don't understand why they're doing it after how big of A Thing jim and olu were in s1. they were the secondary protagonists. now they have less screentime and importance it seems. and who do we have getting more of that instead… oh boy.

i really wish they didn't embrace the fandom white guy favoritism bc izzy's arc is just. insane. mindboggling. completely different character here, plucked straight from woobie fanon to replace his canon self. they want us to fill in the gaps re: development we didn't actually see, but i can't. it was so annoying watching the fandom push oluwande and jim aside to claim that izzy was the third most important/main character, and now they might as well have just done that. it was annoying to see the fandom apply ed's traits and development to izzy in order to sympathize with him, and now they've kinda done that too.

zero acknowledgment (as of right now) of shit he did and now i have to just remember the silk dressing gown dialogue while izzy comes up to ed wearing another robe in bed with stede and congratulates them on having sex?? being in drag after he was the most femphobic motherfucker throughout s1? getting to sing (and ruin that whole scene) to an admiring crew after the whole 'give us another song eddie!" thing that was torn away from ed in s1e10? i'm so over this. i wish he had just gotten worse bc who's this man being so kind and open and giving RELATIONSHIP ADVICE out of nowhere, he's gone from tolerable to completely unbearable for me which sucks with how much screentime he has now. like, go away already.

anyway there's still the finale to hopefully fix some things. i'm not overly worried about ed and stede since it's already obvious they're gonna reunite, but i am a lil worried about how the VERY end will be. david promised something satisfying though, so….. agh…..

[shadowqnights]

hello there! i’m perpetually in awe of the scope of what you attempt w your mcd fics!!! i’m not sure if you’ve answered this already, but do you have any advice for writing Diaries fic? most writing advice is the same, but have you found anything particularly helpful to keep in mind when writing fanfic for MCD specifically???

hiii this has been sitting in my inbox for like a month and i could Not figure out how to answer this i am soo sorry. mostly because i get what you mean about most writing advice being the same and i've been struggling to think of how i would differentiate writing for mcd. sorry in advance since i know i yap a lot here and i'm not sure if this is specifically what you were looking for but ummm i'm just gonna list all of the things i keep in mind/like doing and if any of that resonates with you then its a win. i'm also really tired its like 2am but i felt like doing this Right Now for some reason.

[also i may be the wrong person to ask this because i'm a little bit insane and my mcd rewrite worldbuilding is about 10k in my notion now and i'm barely 1/4 of the way through so i don't really know when to Stop with my mcd scope HAHA. plus loverman alone being 500k. i tend to go all-in when it comes to the scope of my fics you mentioned haha so i'm wondering like. what specific parts of the scope you're interested in. if i answer this all wrong by all means please send another ask correcting me and i can try again!!!]

honestly i think my first thing does blend with generic writing advice I'M SORRYYYY. but truly it is just to read more. i was writing fantasy books before mcd fanfiction + i was reading a lot of fantasy books during my mcd fixation [yeah i know its lasted since 2016 shut up]. i really do think that reading and writing go hand in hand, whether fantasy novels or just browsing ao3, reading other people's work is an important part of my writing process. not only is reading a learning opportunity to get to know your own tastes and wants [and the things you might want to avoid in your own writing] but at least for me i get suuuper inspired reading other mcd fics. i may be picky with my tastes but also when i get inspired i get inspired HARD. too tired to link my fav mcd fics just pretend they're here and ask me later for them. when we're writing for mcd we already have to take a bunch of creative liberty and put the work in to fill in the gaps that minecraft can't offer, and the combination of mcd + fantasy world tends to have a lot of gaps. so reading more might give you some inspiration on how to fill those gaps.

-> by gaps, i personally like to think about things that couldn't be communicated as well in minecraft media but you now get to elaborate on in writing! your hands have this awesome gift of being able to fix the stuff you don't like about mcd and elaborate on the stuff you do like. you get to extend what mcd established in cool words and longer words! mcd fanfiction to me is a really [figuratively] sexy pitch of a show that you might struggle to otherwise recommend to someone in its original form, but trust me its good and the fic makes it sound good. so i guess this list is going to be things that i like to think about that make mcd sound good and appealing that flesh it out compared to writing something like mystreet. all of this depends on how far you are willing to stray from canon, whether you're diving into rewrite or just writing canon-adjacent fic, but in terms of fantasy worldbuilding to chuck into mcd, you can think about:

environment, how you would describe the landscape + even things as simple as weather patterns from region to region. get immersed in the world and use it to affect the characters. everyone's got different preferences when it comes to setting / environment description, and since i prefer character driven writing i do personally find it hard to talk about environment but that's definitely something that reading has helped. i'm also throwing generic worldbuilding in here ermmm fantasy novels love worldbuilding. you will love worldbuilding just like me [hypnotising you]. reading fantasy and getting immersed in Other worlds and taking note of the things you like about them might help you. we are going back to english class and we are going to figure out what the author is telling us here and maybe as a fellow author you like it and go hmmm i want to tell my readers something like that too. there are soooo many ways to get immersed into worldbuilding that like i would want to make an entire other post but errmmmm off the top of my head i like thinking about...

architecture! what does each town look like! whats its design and colour palette and how can you incorporate that into your descriptions [since colour will help you set a mood, establish time and just be a general vibe checker]. food! what are these guys eating in a fantasy world! and if you wanna go deeper every character is going to have a personal taste and even if that's not relevant for the fic you're writing right now the little things are still fun to think about because you can always bring it back around to character building. garroth's plain food tastes and total inability to cook for himself come from his upbringing in o'khasis vs laurance's love of food rich with spice and flavour because of joh's home cooking. dante spent a lot of time without a stable home and thus had to become opportunistic and abandon his previous pickiness. etc. etc. there are soo many ways to differentiate fantasy worldbuilding for a mcd fic to make it feel more well-rounded. also things like clothing choices, accessories/bags/inventory [think about if you could see every character's minecraft inventory - what are they carrying around?]. even just simply what the land looks like from place to place? what is the terrain? what minecraft biome are we in right now and how does that affect things like temperature/weather/appearance? is garroth ro'meave pissed because its hot as fuck climbing this mountain on the journey to find aph? you bet ur ass he is. make him suffer. umm you can also think about small-scale threats like minecraft monsters. you gotta have your small guys. highly recommend worldbuilding the nether too because like. the shadow knights are so cool. ermm. ok sorry i talk too much on with more stuff.

weapons, you're in a fantasy world and you can throw in some variety in weaponry that goes beyond basic sword and also bow and arrow if ur vylad. and also giant broadsword if ur aaron. also a good way to get into characterisation from character to character: thinking about how they fight. what kind of weapon do they have? what's their fighting style? you don't Have to give everyone just a plain old sword if you don't really want to. i'm guilty of not doing enough research on swordfighting before i write fight scenes but i also do looove to make fight scenes messy. some of these characters are trained to fight in a certain way and i hate writing their fancy feet but also some characters will not automatically know how to fight and if they get into a scuffle it might be a bit of a panicked mess! i think (hope) that my writing style tends to help with the frenzied kind of brawls that some characters might get into and how when some characters are threatened they might just blindly kick and claw and struggle. and others might just freeze up and some fights might just involve blind punching and clawing and rolling around because [i like it] i like the idea that even in mcd not everyone is cool and collected when confronted with physical altercation. even trained characters might panic a little and get a little bit sloppy and messy with their technique. others might lock tf in. i promise sometimes i just make things up and also i encourage making shit up sometimes when it comes to stuff like that. because there will be a point where you drive yourself insane trying to research a certain fighting style and if its draining your joy and whimsy and passion for the thing you want to write then take a step back. for things like that you can spare yourself some pain. on the opposite end of the spectrum some things Will require putting in the appropriate effort to research and learn about before you write & put your listening learning ears on if you're approached and told that you've written something harmful.

time, time passes a lot faster in minecraft but in fics you can afford to write time going slower and use it to your advantage. i'm trying to think of examples ummm making travelling seem more exhausting, injuries healing realistically, even mentioning things like seasons and weather and time of day to show the passage of time as a tangible thing rather than the fic being a tiny little character-driven bubble. mcd has a lot of stuff to do with time, eg. the irene dimension skip, but you can also think about character ages and how time passes through each season. minecraft logic has babies grow up in like 5 episodes and speeds things up for the sake of plot but when you're writing you can afford to be more grounded. if you want to apply exact logic levin would be at least around 3+ by the time aph and the gang enter the irene dimension. characters feel way more relatable when you think about mcd taking place over years + the 15 year time skip, even if you don't write that Directly into a fic, its a helpful gap to fill. i like to mention certain events happening over a matter of weeks or months to keep the reader aware of the passage of time and also put certain things into perspective.

injuries, things are gonna hurt. a lot. these guys are fighting insane style with insane weapons. obviously this one isn't for everyone, but i personally do like battering the mcd characters around a lot more because they're fighting with big boy weapons and, if its your thing, a fic can turn a minecraft slapfight real serious and mature real quick. i like writing gore and angst and that's not going to be everyone's cup of tea, but if its yours you can definitely think about injuries. put some research into how those injuries actually occur and how they work in the body + healing times! research how scars look and how they heal as well as long-term injuries. my mcd fics tend to play with body horror and gore and those help add to stuff like shadow knight freakiness and up the stakes when it comes to fight scenes and weapons because it feels like there is a real threat. that's an entirely personal thing for me because that looming major character death tag is Right There and i do kind of enjoy keeping up a constant state of fear. its good to feel like the world has stakes and consequences. and also i like making mcd bloody and a leetle bit darker which does kind of come into play with my worldbuilding so i thought id mention it.

ummm and finally speech/dialogue i think is the biggest one i keep in mind and its a big difference between my mcd and mys fics. i tend to write a lot more flowery (i don't know the right word) for mcd . mcd leans more into the fantasy genre and so i write mcd with a greater focus on world rather than character [i know i said that i prefer character writing before so just hear me out here]. when writing mcd i am far more aware of the greater world that surrounds the characters and even when its not explicitly mentioned i am Thinking about that worldbuilding. whereas when i write mystreet i am in a very character-driven hole and the greater world is not quite as on my mind. even canon mcd assists with this because the world is far more expansive and involves the divine warriors + mystreet doesn't incorporate that world until far later in the seasons and only really vaguely refers to irene as a swear rather than the distinct religious practices present in mcd. comparatively irene has a very constant presence throughout the mcd narrative from season 1 even when her lore was being retconned all over the place. beyond that Awareness of the expansive mcd world, i mention environment far more in mcd fics compared to mys fics. i set scenes way more slowly and take the time to ground the characters in the world and talk about the landscapes/weather/sky a lot oops and it really is because mcd has more of the natural world involved as well as very different architecture. i always like having the environment in mind when i write mcd. and dialogue i write very specifically far more old fashioned and lately i've been trying to make my mcd dialogue feel a lot more traditional. characters obviously are going to speak a lot formally and less casually than their mys counterparts, but i play that up for characters like garroth and zane [zane hasn't been back in a hot minute but when he is back this will come into effect] who don't tend to use contractions as much as ones like laur, for example. i've started drawing out their sentences a bit more, and i also tend to read dialogue aloud to myself a lot to sound it out, see how it feels. even in a fantasy world, realistically characters are going to have vocal quirks, going to stammer on certain words or stumble over their sentences sometimes. i find it adds a sort of realism to their speech to sound out dialogue to yourself to feel how it sounds to say. that's something relevant for mystreet too but still. [and you might have noticed already that my casual typing style tries to mimic where i would usually stumble my words irl or pause for breath or to think HAHA i'm trying to stop it to make my sentences clearer and far more readable since not everyone reads the way that i interpret my own speech into text].

ok sorry i talked so much its 2am here and im literally about to crash so if something in here doesn't make sense its definitely because i'm tired as fuck and about to pass out. that last paragraph was nonsensical im so aware but i hoped at least a little bit of this answered your question. just yell in my asks if i didn't fully answer the question or if you want me to elaborate on anything okay thank youuuu yippeee yipeyipye sorry for yapping bai

[bluestar22x]

Mr. Henley

The Rockford Files - Mr. Henley

Summary: A rich man is murdered and you and Tim must figure out which of his family members poisoned him.

Pairing: Tim Rockford x F!Reader (both in their mid/late 40s)

Rating: 18+ Series

Word Count: 13,800 (ish)

Warnings: Smut (w/no protection), violence, a very angry ghost, inaccurate detective work, medical examiner gore, fictionally speedy DNA results, and a mention of euthanizing a pet (cat).

Author's Note: This part was a long time coming - I almost didn't finish it in October. Ack! But it was worth it. I think I'm happy with the results. This has some inspiration from the Merge Mansion ads. I'm not sorry. Also, it seems 2nd parts are for smut in my little writing world. I have a pattern. ha

xxx

October 10, 1996 (Thursday)

You felt like you were being driven straight into a horror movie setting. An early morning fog encroaching on the long, deserted winding road that led to a Victorian styled gate with golden decals. Tim stopped his car at the front and you noted the number twenty-six that was painted onto one of the stone walls the gate was attached to. You were at the right address. You just weren't sure that you wanted to be.

Tim slid out of the driver's side, leaving his door open as he approached the gate with the key he'd been handed earlier by Chief Bronson, opening it up and letting the gate swing widely inward on its own.

When he climbed back into the car you began tapping your fingers on your knees, unsure of what you’d soon be walking into.

It didn't take long for the sparsely colorful forest surrounding the driveway to clear into a neatly maintained lawn lined with pink rosebushes, spread out before a massive white mansion that looked as old as the gate, although they likely hadn't been built earlier than a half a century ago.

Rich people, you thought to yourself, rolling your eyes at the obvious choice the owners had made to flaunt their money. Nobody in American history who had owned such a home had ever actually needed over thirty rooms to themselves. Most people who'd had twenty plus children couldn't afford a mansion.

"We have an hour before we have to be back at the department to question the family," Tim reminded you after parking the car, as if you needed to be.

You just nodded at him. A year ago you would've rolled your eyes, thinking he was being impatient, trying to rush you, but you'd learned with time he just worried about being late. He was a reliable person. If he could help it, he was always on time. You couldn't say the same, and you'd butted heads with him more than once over it, but eventually you'd both decided it wasn't worth it.

He fixed the position of the dark rimmed glasses that rested over the bridge of his nose (a recent addition to his attire, much to his dismay) and followed you as you strolled up the marble steps leading to the heavy looking white front door. After he used another key to unlock it you shoved the door open and stepped inside.

You didn't know enough about mansions and fancy furniture, but you knew enough to know that everything inside was mind boggling expensive. The trims were definitely made from real gold. The living room was the size of your whole apartment.

And everything was spotless - except for the dining room you headed straight for like a woman on a mission. Even though it was just you and Tim in the house, at the moment, you didn't want to give the mansion's owner the satisfaction of you having gawked at the place.

The only sign something had gone wrong in the dining room was the yellow tape and the bowl of cereal that was still, disgustingly, out on the glass table, half full of soaked flakes and rotting milk. The stench made you block your nose.

At least the body had already been picked up by Joe while the rest of the Forensics team had scoured the mansion. And the man had been found fairly quickly after his death, so the room didn't also smell like rotting flesh. You always tried to look at the bright side of things.

"I see Elliot Henley was a Frosted Flakes kind of guy," you observed humorously. "It's kind of comforting that corn flakes could potentially unite the rich and poor."

Tim snorted quietly at that, amusement sparking in his normally serious eyes. You beamed back at him. You'd taken a liking to trying to make him laugh with you rather than at your expense, like it had been at first. You were getting better at it.

"You getting any vibes, Psy?"

Where once that nickname had been at your expense, it had long since turned friendly, and in turn, you'd grown fond of it. Only from him though.

"Nothing yet," you replied with a sigh, "I'm not even creeped out by the knowledge that a dead man was sitting at this table at eight o'clock last night, face planted right on the table alongside this very bowl."

Tim arched his eyebrows, surprised. "That once bothered you?"

"It still bothers me often enough," you admitted. "I got this job because of my gift, not because of my tolerance for being around dead bodies. You?"

He shrugged. "It got better with time. It's rare a case really shakes me up."

You know exactly what kind of case shakes him up after Annie. Anything with kids. For most people in your field of work, that was the line, but it was especially true for him.

You hadn't asked Tim about his sister. You didn't need to. Helen had given you more than enough information and it wasn't your business. He was your partner, a friend, you might even dare say, but your relationship was very professional and that meant you didn't get to be nosy.

"I'm going to take a walk through the whole place, alone," you decided, "Just in case he's shy. But it's quite possible Elliot's already moved on. Even if our suspicions turn out right, that he didn't just die of a stroke or heart attack, that doesn't mean he'd linger. You know how it goes."

Tim gave you a quick nod. After working over two dozen cases with you he did know enough of how things worked, or at least how you believed things worked, since you'd yet to convince him your mind wasn't conjuring up these spirits.

Stubborn man.

He left to stand by the main entrance while you wandered room to room, trying to keep your mind focused solely on your surroundings, without paying too much attention to how absurdly "classy" everything was.

You walked the east wing first, finding Elliot's mother's room at the far end. Everything was so white it was near blinding. It felt too clean. Unlived in, except for the hairbrush with silver hair intertwined in the bristles that lay on the desk in the corner of the room next to a big bay window.

You wondered if the room had always been this way or if it had only become so sterile after her husband had died.

You concluded that it probably had always been that way when you searched the west wing and found Elliot's room to be in a similar shape, and the same for his older brother's.

Like many rich kids who hadn't worked a day of their youth away because of their parents' wealth, Elliot and Richard Henley had stuck around after they graduated high school, even into their late thirties.

It was interesting to you that Hazel, their mother, had them stay in a separate wing. For privacy or because she couldn't stand them? Either option was likely. Maybe it was for both reasons.

It took you a half hour to thoroughly check each room and give time for any presence to make themselves known, but none did, and with a long sigh you headed down the hall to return to Tim's side.

He was leaning against the door, arms folded, clearly trying to be patient, but still appearing annoyed. When he spotted you moving towards him he grunted. "Took you long enough."

"There's a lot of rooms," you said defensively.

He dropped his arms to his sides. "Please tell me you at least got something."

You shook your head apologetically and he groaned. "Great. So, this was a bust."

"Mostly, yeah," you agreed. "But I did find out that Hazel sleeps as far away from her sons' rooms as possible."

"They probably partied late into the night," Tim guessed.

It was as good of a guess as yours, but for some reason your intuition was screaming at you that there was something more to it, and in your experience it was wise not to ignore it. You'd definitely have some questions to ask the family when you got back to the police department.

Tim gestured to the door and you both stepped outside together, back onto the porch. As he locked the door again, a gust of wind ripped through the sheltered area and you shivered. It could have been just from the cold weather, but normal wind didn't usually make your skin crawl.

You glanced around warily and Tim noticed. His eyes filled with concern at your discomfort. "You sense something now?"

"That gust didn't feel right," you informed him, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth and a sense of security. "Too cold for the season." You snuggled your nose into the wool jacket you were wearing.

His eyebrows furrowed at that. "What does that mean to you?"

"If Elliot's spirit caused that sudden gust of wind," you hesitated, not wanting it to be so, "Which I'm almost certain of, he's furious at something. Probably someone. Not necessarily who killed him. I've had several cases where the spirit was upset about something that happened right before they were murdered, since sometimes they aren't aware enough to remember what happened to them." You bit your lip. "Angry spirits aren't discriminatory. They want to lash out, get revenge, and it doesn't matter who's on the other end of their fury, as long as they are affected. Not everyone is, but sensitives like me are."

"You've been hurt by spirits before?" The lines between Tim's brows deepened. You wondered how much of it was from disbelief and how much was from genuine concern, but the fact there was concern at all was nice.

"No, I haven't had a spirit hurt me physically," you answered. "But they're great at causing nightmares and I had one purposely spook me into stumbling backwards. I was at the top of a flight of stairs."

You could've sworn a flicker of fear flashed in his eyes in reaction to what you'd disclosed, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. "Let's get you out of here then."

You didn't need to be told twice.

x

The first stop you and Rockford made after returning to the department was the Forensics Division to check for updates. You sought out Joe, finding him in the basement examining Elliot's body.

It was your first time seeing Mr. Henley outside the few family photos that had been scattered about in the mansion, and it was unsettling. It wasn't the first time you'd walked in on an autopsy, but it was the first time you'd seen a brain outside a body, in the gloved hands of the medical examiner. Your stomach did a little flip at the sight, and you tried to keep your eyes from directly looking at it and Elliot's open skull after.

"Got anything for us, Joe?" Tim inquired.

The rail thin man continued his study of Elliot's brain while he spoke. "I've got enough. Elliot here had a cardiac event. Some of his heart valves are damaged. But it wasn't natural. And my conclusion has nothing to do with him being thirty-five. Look at this."

Joe placed Elliot's brain back into his head and pointed out some dark pigmentation scattered on his skin and under his nails. "Hyperpigmentation." He pulled out a kidney that was sliced in half. Even for one that belonged to a deceased person it didn't look too healthy. "Renal damage. Any guesses as to what happened to him?"

You frowned as you pondered over it. A lot of things could cause these symptoms. But there were few that would make Joe behave this way. "Poison," you said in unison with Tim. You both glanced at each other. "Jinx," you declared, chuckling. He grunted.

"Arsenic to be exact," Joe told you, theatrically gesturing to his desktop computer in the corner of the room. "The blood results were positive for it. The hair samples are still being studied to figure out when the poisoning began, but by the evidence it seems it has been a long while."

"Arsenic is natural though," Tim pointed out. "He could have ingested too much of it by mistake through drinking water or food."

"Ah." Joe nodded. "Yes. But a very high dose was in the milk sample we took from his bowl this morning. That's not typical of pasteurized, grade A milk. Guessing he wasn't dying fast enough for whoever was adding it to his diet so they threw caution to the wind. Funny enough though, the high dose wasn't in him long enough to be the reason his heart failed. That was from the previous attempts stacking up."

"Please tell me someone's on their way to pick up that bowl before someone else gets dosed by accident," you said, though you were certain no one would dare eat from that disgusting bowl.

"Katie's on her way to rectify our mistake of leaving it behind," Joe assured you.

"Do you know if he sought out any medical attention?" Tim asked.

"I called the local hospital," Joe stated, "His primary care doctor works there, but hasn't seen him in two years and he hasn't shown up in the Emergency Room ever. I have no doubt he was suffering for weeks from this, but for whatever reason he never went to the hospital. Maybe he had nosocomephobia?" He shrugged.

"What's that?" you questioned, squinting at him in confusion.

"It's an intense fear of going to the hospital," Tim informed you. "My great tia Lucia had that phobia. She broke a hip one time, fully separated it. Despite the pain, she insisted it couldn't be broken even as she tried and failed to stand over and over. My grandmother was with her at the time."

"That's awful," you remarked, mouth agape. You'd never broken anything before, but you knew hip fractures were one of the worst breaks a person could have. She should have been seized up with pain.

"Fear is pain's greatest competitor," Joe told you solemnly.

Tim tilted his head in his direction.

"So, who do we think did it?" you quizzed. "It must be someone in the family, right?"

"Usually is," Tim replied. "Hazel would be most likely."

"Isn't their mother like eighty?"

"Seventy-eight," Tim corrected you. "And it doesn't take a body builder to kill someone by poison. You should know murderers come in all shapes and sizes and ages."

"Of course." And it wouldn't be the first time you'd helped investigate a murder where the mother killed their child.

"Anything else?" Tim asked Joe.

Joe shook his head. "I'll let you know if there's anything else useful to you as the results come in."

"Time for the interrogations then," you figured.

Tim was already halfway out the door.

x

Upon your arrival at the Homicide Division, Pete Woodward, a young, eager homicide detective-in-training approached you and Tim. Practically flew at you, really. "We've got Hazel and Richard Henley in separate interrogation rooms, ready to talk with you, Rockford. Victim's sisters will be in at noon."

Having lived in the same home, being family, Hazel and Richard were the priority to talk to. They'd been brought in as soon as the investigation had begun, though not officially arrested since there wasn't any solid proof either one of them had motive to kill Elliot yet.

You followed Tim into the first room finding Richard standing inside in a corner, looking bored out of your mind. You wouldn't have expected that from a man that had just lost his brother. Maybe suspect number two was actually the murderer?

"You want to take a seat Mr. Henley?" Tim inquired, gesturing at the gray chair across from yours and his as you both sat down.

"Call me Dick," Richard told him, plopping down on it.

"Really?" You couldn't help the slipped comment. You just didn't understand why anyone would be willing to take on that nickname, especially as a rich person. Did he not notice the possible implications of using it?

Richard either didn't hear you or didn't care; either way he paid you no attention. Tim's eyes however did dart to you for a second before he cleared his throat. "This conversation is going to be recorded, Dick. Is that alright?"

"Whatever you must do, detective. I've got nothing to hide."

Tim pressed record on the voice recorder to his left. "What can you tell us about your brother?"

Richard snorted. "Besides him being a hopeless lazy leech?"

"Aren't you also living with your mother?" you countered.

"I work," Richard informed you defensively, "I only moved back in because I recently got divorced and my new home hasn't been finished yet."

"Uh huh." You'd barely started talking with him and you were already starting to lean more towards him as Elliot's killer than their mother. He had clearly held disdain for his younger brother. That was a pretty good motive.

"Did your brother have any enemies?" Tim questioned.

Richard shrugged. "None that I know of, except his own damn self. He was a loner, mostly. Spent a lot of time online playing games."

"Do we dare ask you how he was with your family, with you?" you inquired.

He chuckled and leaned back. "He was Dad's favorite when he was alive, for some damn reason. Mom loves him out of duty. Our sisters and him get along fine but they don't hang out."

"And you and him?"

"I don't like him not putting in any effort to make his own life," Richard told you, eyes narrowing, "But I wasn't upset enough over it to kill him, if that's what you're wondering."

"We have to consider every possibility," Tim explained to him. "Murders often are committed by those closest to the victim."

"So it is murder?" Richard asked, pursing his lips. "You sound certain."

"We've got evidence that suggests Elliot was slowly poisoned with Arsenic," Tim replied, "Found some in his bowl of cereal."

Richard's eyes widened. "Shit."

"Who normally fed him his meals?" you prompted.

He frowned. "He usually made his own cereal whenever he chose to eat later at night."

"Was he the only one in the house who drank two percent milk?"

His jaw slacked a little. "Yes. Mom and I drink whole milk. You think maybe whoever did this poisoned the whole bottle?"

"I only just considered it now," you admitted. Your eyes flicked to Tim. "Looks like Katie's going to have to bring the jug in now too."

"I'll call her," he said, standing up as he dialed Katie's number and leaning against the wall as he explained to her that she needed to go back to the mansion a third time in less than half a day.

Poor Katie, you thought.

"Who besides you and your mother have access to the fridge on a regular basis?" you pressed.

"The cook, maid, the gardener, the whole family," Richard listed. "None of them have motive to do it."

"That's for us to decide," you told him as Tim sat back down.

Richard turned to him. "Anything else you want to know?"

"Plenty," he said, lifting his eyes to meet Richard's. "Where were you this morning?"

x

It was nearly a half hour later when Tim finished with Richard, letting him go with a warning to not skip town. You were ready to feel that twist in your stomach, your gut instinct, to tell you letting him go was a mistake, but you didn't get it. As much as you'd thought Richard's attitude towards his brother was bordering hate you didn't get murder vibes from him. His nickname suited him well, but being a dick didn't automatically make someone a killer.

The interrogation with Hazel, their frail appearing seventy-eight-year-old mother who looked every bit like the grandmother to four she was, went similarly to the one with Richard. Although Hazel did not share the anger Richard had towards Elliot, she wasn't shedding any tears either. It was so odd to you. You'd had a shaky relationship with your mother before she passed, but you still had felt the loss after she died. You'd still sobbed when she was laid to rest in the cemetery of your hometown. You'd heard of people being numb at first to loss, like they were in some kind of daze, but you doubted that was it.

You started to truly understand for the first time what kind of people tended to find themselves leading successful businesses. You didn't like what you saw.

"Mrs. Henley, did you hate your son?" you inquired boldly.

Her eyes grew wide. "Of course not. I wouldn't have let him stay home if I did. To most he was lazy, but he helped me around the property. Spent time in the garden with me every afternoon. Adopting him was the best decision I ever made."

For the first time in the last fifteen minutes you and Tim had been talking with her there was sadness in her eyes.

Maybe she isn't a psychopath after all, you mused.

"You adopted Elliot?" Tim prompted.

Hazel nodded. "We knew his biological mother. When she died, we decided to take him in, treat him as our own. It's what friends do."

"So kind of you," you said, trying to sound sincere. You couldn't help but think that there was something more; that there was no way this lady had adopted a child out of the goodness of her heart. Adopting him had probably come with tax breaks or something like that.

Elliot and Richard's older sisters, Heidi and Jeanine, who were both in their forties, blonde, and mothers to two children each, all in their teens, weren't much better than Hazel and Richard, clearly not much more than spoiled trophy wives to their rich husbands.

"Maybe Elliot poisoned himself," Heidi suggested, "He didn’t have a lot going for him, you know? I loved him, but he was always the mess up of the family. It had to have eaten at him."

"My brother was kind, but didn't make anything of himself," Jeanine said later during the interview with her. "I'd think him committing suicide makes more sense than murder. None of my family are capable of that."

The linear ceiling light above started blinking furiously above the three of you and you felt the air get thick with tension that was cutting knife worthy. Anger. Your breathing picked up to compensate for the lack of oxygen getting to your lungs. You shivered as a draft hit the back of your neck. Out of habit your eyes darted to and fro, looking for danger but finding nothing visible.

You knew he was there though, watching, and he was trying to tell you his sisters' theories were way off. He definitely had not killed himself.

Tim and Jeanine clearly hadn't felt anything in the air change, surprised by the intense reaction you'd had to the lights flickering, but they had at least seen the lights go off. Once again Tim was studying you, expression trained. "You alright?"

"I'm okay," you answered, "Nothing new for me."

It was true it wasn't new, but it had still shaken you. Kind Elliot Henley seemed to have a lot of hate in his soul in the afterlife. You honestly couldn't blame him though. None of his family, even his sisters who were supposed to like him, had shed any tears in front of you and you were pretty sure shock couldn't account for any of it.

After the interviews were over, you and Tim headed to the office you shared.

"What a piece of work that family is," you muttered as he closed the door behind you. You turned on your heels to face him.

Tim nodded. "Sure is."

"I’m almost certain there's no way either Jeanine or Heidi murdered him though."

"Their alibis are too solid," he agreed. "And they sounded more like they pitied him than were angry at him."

"Exactly."

"We're still going to do a solid background check on them."

"Of course."

He sat down at his desk and you at the computer one, and you both got to work.

x

After thorough searching you and Tim uncovered that the Henley family were generally law-abiding citizens - except for a few speeding tickets (Richard) and a couple court cases for tax evasion by Hazel and her belated husband Roderick, one that had been proven and had ended with him being in prison for a few months. Not with the general population, of course. You'd bet his prison room had been private and clean. Safe.

Though the day had mostly been a bore, you still found yourself exhausted by the end of your twelve hour shift, not hesitating to turn down an invitation to eat out with the floor secretaries from Helen. All you wanted to do was make a sandwich, eat it, and go to bed, as much as you liked Helen.

And that's exactly what you did, not even taking time to read before bed like you typically did.

You startled awake just after midnight to a loud cracking sound. It sounded like one of your potted plants in the living room had been knocked down from one of the wall shelves and had broken when it hit the hardwood floor.

Back in your early thirties you'd taken in a smokey gray cat with stunning light green eyes named Blue that had been owned by a woman who had been murdered in a burglary gone wrong. He'd been a serial houseplant tipper. It had been almost guaranteed one of your houseplant pots would fall victim to him during the course of a week until you learned to tape the underneath of each one to the shelf beneath them.

In your sleep haze you figured he'd finally managed to knock one down, but after a few moments your mind caught up and you remembered that you'd had to give Blue’s vet permission to euthanize him over six years ago, his kidneys having failed at the ripe age of twenty.

Dread seized you, tightened your throat. Had someone broken in? Had you forgotten to lock the door? You were usually very careful about it, but you had been pretty tired.

You reached blindly under your bed for the handgun you kept there, locked away in a black box in the off chance you'd ever need it, and without switching on any lights loaded the chamber with a couple bullets before heading down the short hall with it, into the living room.

You turned the corner carefully, gun at the ready, finger curled right next to the trigger, but the room was clear, except for the spider plant and its pot that had shattered on the floor, spilling most of its dark gardening soil all over the surrounding floorboards.

You sucked in a deep breath and moved into the kitchen but no one was there either. There had to have been someone though. Unless there had been an earthquake, but one of that magnitude would've jostled you awake before the pot had fallen.

You felt it then. Him then. That eerie feeling of being watched by someone no longer quite human creeping under your skin, making you quake, as it often did.

Saying that you were alarmed would be an understatement. Bullets didn't harm spirits.

You slowly twisted around to find him there, looming smack in the middle of the start of your hallway, half hidden by the shadow of your fridge, barely seven feet from you. He was standing with a hunch in his back and an arm curled around his belly, a stance of someone with some kind of severe abdominal pain. His eyes did not hold any of that pain though. All you could see in them was rage.

It was the kind of expression that would make any sane person flee, especially since he wasn't a little guy, so that's what you did, bolting for your car keys on the table and then the front door.

Before you could make it out, as you were slipping through the doorway, you felt searing pain as something sharp dragged down your back, and you concluded in terror that he'd scratched you, all the while racing for your 1991 Taurus.

It wasn't until you'd already driven a mile out from your house that you were able to breath properly again. It was at that exact time the tears spilled from your eyes and everything that had happened during the previous ten minutes settled into your memory.

Elliot was severely pissed, feral. The worst kind of lost spirit. And it had taken him less than a day to get that way. It seemed that the kind man his family had described had hidden an inner darkness. Maybe he'd been successful in life at beating it down, but in death all bets were definitely off. You'd never known a spirit to lose control so fast, even those who had managed to attach themselves to their murderers.

And he'd clearly latched onto you, followed you home. It wasn't the first time a spirit had, but it was the first they could actually harm you to any degree by touch. You swallowed hard. You'd only temporarily escaped. He'd find you again. It would be instant if you returned home any time soon, so you drove around the city aimlessly for a couple hours, after hiding your gun in the glove compartment. You didn't have a concealed weapon permit, but you didn't think leaving it on the passenger seat was wise either if a patrol cop happened to pull you over.

It was past two when you found yourself rolling up into Tim's driveway, not sure where else to go. You knew where Helen lived too, but you did not want to chance dragging her into the mess you found yourself in. She was just a secretary. At least Tim had some training dealing with violent situations, not that it would help much in the face of a being he could not see, let alone hurt.

That was your reasoning at least as you studied the plain looking two-story house in front of you. It was encased in white painted wood where yours was in brick, but with the addition of that second floor it was bigger. Probably not much more expensive though. The house was old, aged by at least three decades where yours had been built less than a decade ago. The paint was also chipping, the outdoor upkeep of it clearly not a priority for him.

Despite the house looking prime for a haunting it called out to you, beckoning you inside, because the man who called it home was your most trusted friend and you knew his presence could at the bare minimum comfort you after the trauma you'd just been through.

You approached with the energy of a woman half your age, sprinting up the front porch steps and pounding on the oak door more demandingly than you had intended.

Tim swung it open a full minute later, in nothing but dark gray sweatpants, his heavy eyes peering out at you, his hair tussled from what had probably been a deep, satisfying sleep.

You'd have felt guilty for waking him if your heart hadn't nearly stopped at the sight of his bare, broad shoulders, defined upper arm muscles, and soft belly.

You'd admittingly dreamed of him more than once in the last year you'd known him, your subconscious mind not caring one bit that he was your partner, but your brain hadn't quite done him justice. You wondered in what other...areas your dreams failed him, but you refused to let your gaze drop below the beginnings of the happy trail on his lower stomach.

"Psy, what are you doing here?" he asked, eyes widening as soon as his brain registered who was standing in front of him.

"Can I please stay here tonight?" you pleaded hurriedly, afraid if you didn't get what you wanted to say out fast that you'd chicken out.

"What's going on?" he questioned, pursing his lips. There was worry in his eyes again. He stepped aside before you could answer, gesturing for you to enter his cozy home.

You did so gratefully and folded your arms self-consciously over your chest. It had just occurred to you that since you were in nothing but thin cotton long sleeved forest green pajamas that your breasts were well defined underneath, especially after standing outside in the chill of an autumn night for some time.

"Elliot's spirit followed me home," you informed him, rubbing your upper arms with your hands, attempting to warm them up. "He attacked me."

"Attacked you?" Tim sounded startled. You met his eyes and saw his concern deepen. He hadn't thought to say that it was impossible because it was all in your head. You wondered if he was finally starting to come around to the idea that spirits existed.

If he wasn't, he surely would after what you'd do next.

"He scratched me," you continued, voice shaky as you turned your back to him and curled the tips of your fingers around the hem of the back of your shirt. "How bad is it?"

You rolled it up as high as you thought the scratch went and heard Tim inhale sharply as you revealed it to him. You felt his rough yet gentle hands glide over yours as he lifted your shirt up just a little higher to take in the full damage.

"Elliot did this?" he growled, sounding outraged, a fierce anger in his tone that you had not been prepared for, typically a man who was subtle with all his emotions.

"How bad is it?" you repeated, wanting desperately to know.

"There's three long marks diagonally along the center of your back," he stated stiffly, attempting to rein in his upset. "They are about four inches in length, start to finish. Luckily they don't look too deep, but judging from the blood on your shirt, they did bleed for some amount of time."

You stepped away from him and dropped your shirt back into place before facing him again. "I wouldn't do that to myself."

"I know," he said firmly. You could tell from his tense expression alone that he believed you. "There's no way you could've reached back there to scratch yourself up like that. No normal human's nails could mark you that badly anyway.”

There was great relief from him finally accepting that spirits were real, especially that night. You desperately had needed him to believe it after having been shaken up so significantly. Your sight was blinded by tears again.

Tim reached out to squeeze your left shoulder supportively. "Does it hurt? Do you want to go to the hospital? I can drive you."

You shook your head, unable to prevent the smile that briefly adorned your face, remembering how'd he been with you when you first met. Oh how the times do change. "No, I just need a place to crash. Can I take your couch?"

"Better yet, you can take my spare bed," he replied, dropping his hand back to his side. "Follow me up. I'll show you to the room and get a fresh shirt and dressing for you. Going to need to clean those marks to make sure they don't get infected."

You nodded and trailed him as he climbed the stairs to the second floor without another word, flipping on lights as he went.

He entered the first room on the left and made his way in the dark to the nightstand to turn on the white lamp centered on its surface. The light emitted from it was dim, but good enough to use while cleaning your wound. Without a word Tim gestured for you to sit on the edge of the bed and strolled out of the room to collect the items he'd need to treat the scratches on your back.

He returned a few minutes later with scissors, gauze, medical tape, disinfectant, and an old plain black t-shirt in hand. He offered the shirt to you as soon as he was within your reach. You noted the charcoal gray t-shirt he'd slipped on while he was gone.

"I didn't think you owned anything besides black and white suits," you teased, trying to lighten the mood as you accepted it, folding the black shirt up on your lap until you could switch it out with your bloodied pajama one.

"We've never been around each other on our off days," he pointed out, a hint of a teasing tone in his voice. "I like to be comfortable just like anyone else."

For some reason it had been hard for you to imagine him in anything else but his work apparel. It was strange seeing him in casual clothes. Strange because it felt almost intimate. Like it was a part of his life you shouldn't have seen as his professional partner.

"Gonna sit behind you," he informed you quietly, gruffly. "Can you hold up the back of your shirt while I clean your wounds?"

You nodded, finding yourself tongue-tied, and couldn't help but note how much the mattress sank as he settled on it just outside of your peripheral vision. You could feel the front of one of his knees lightly brushing against your back after he was seated. You tried not to think about it as you lifted your shirt so he had easy access to the scratches.

"This is going to sting," he warned.

Nodding again, you tensed as he pressed a wet gauze to your upper back, hissing at the sting of the disinfectant he was using. It was the only painful thing about Tim tending to your wounds. His calloused hands occasionally brushed your sensitive, slightly inflamed skin, but they were as gentle as they could be. You found yourself trembling under his touch, and it wasn't because of the pain. With every feather light glance of his fingertips the desire you'd consistently tried to stomp out for months flared with newfound strength.

"Sorry," he apologized in the softest tone you'd ever heard him speak in. "Almost done."

You clutched at the mattress beneath you as he taped gauze to your upper back, trying to focus on that rather than his presence, grateful that your reactions were only coming off as ones of pain to him. He wasn't completely wrong.

“All done,” he finally announced, and you expected to be relieved when his hands pulled away from you, but instead you felt your hunger for him surge within you. You couldn’t keep still. You needed his hands back on you.

You twisted in place, dropping the shirt that had been on your lap, and crashed your lips into his desperately, hands splaying out on his chest as you prayed silently that he would respond, and respond he did, tugging you closer, curling a hand around the base of your neck, licking into the heat of your mouth, and you realized in that moment that he had desired you just as much.

When you both took a breath, he pulled his head back far enough to study your face, searching for anything in your expression that could tell him what more you wanted from him. He would only give as much as you asked for.

You answered his silent question with another searing kiss, your hands traveling to his back and up into his hair, ruffling it as you sought purchase. You pressed yourself closer to him and he embraced you, arms wrapping around your lower back, careful to avoid your bandaged wound.

It wasn’t long before you guided his hands to the edge of your shirt and he got your message instantly, easing your sleep shirt up off of you and chucking it to the floor.

The chill in the room had your bare nipples immediately hard, and he didn’t miss it, his thumbs tracing your stiff buds, blown dark eyes flickering between your breasts and face. “Okay?”

“Yes,” you whined. You lolled your head back and one of his hands left your chest to support your neck again as he leaned towards you to lave at your exposed neck. Your fingers slipped into his short, slightly wavy hair again as you hummed under his attentiveness. "So good."

You reached for the chord of his sweatpants to untie it, the back of your hand brushing against the hardening bulge behind it, and he groaned as he jerked away from you, as if it was painful to do so. “We don’t have to do anything else if you don’t want to.”

“Where’d you get the idea I didn’t?” you chuckled. You definitely did not want to stop.

“I don’t have any condoms on hand,” he admitted after a few moments. “The last box I had expired.”

“Well, lucky for the both of us I’ve already gone through menopause,” you told him, kissing the corner of his mouth fondly, his moustache scrapping pleasantly against your lips. “And I’ve been just as focused on work as you have been the last few years or so.”

He caught onto your underlying meaning and tilted his head to catch your full mouth again as you loosened his pants, tugging them down as far as you could while still on the bed, revealing his black and white checkered boxers.

In a brief, humorous thought, you made a mental note to get him items of clothing that weren’t black, white, tan, or gray for his next birthday. The man needed more color in his life.

He didn’t notice the amusement on your face as he stood and kicked the pants the rest of the way off him, and when you laid back so he could remove your pants, it was gone. Nothing but want to invade your mind and your face.

Slowly but surely the last articles of clothing remaining on you both were added to the pile on the floor as your mouths and hands explored each other greedily. Once you were free, you knelt on the edge of the bed in front of him and reached out to hold the heft of him in your hands, stroking him confidently, spreading the precum leaking from his head up his entire length. Your firm, yet caressing touch had his knees buckling, and he groaned into your mouth as he braced himself against the bed with an arm, the other molded around your hips. You glanced up at his face briefly as you continued to pump him with your hands and the edges of your mouth lifted, taking delight in watching him watch you work him up with hooded eyes.

Once he was firm you shuffled back on the bed to make room for him to join you, mirroring your kneeling position. He reached down between your legs and you gasped as his fingers made contact with your clit, circling and tracing it until you were thrusting against his hand and him sliding two thick fingers inside you was enough to make you come, a warmth flooding your core as you lurched forward, panting against his chest, giving yourself time to enjoy the waves of ecstasy that followed. It had been quite some time since someone had made you feel that way.

When it was over you firmly pushed him back onto his palms and heels, a soft smile on your face. He raised his eyebrows slightly at you, wondering what you had in mind, but did not resist, curiosity winning out over any yearning he might have to be in control.

You had an idea of what you were doing, but most of it was instinct, wanting to be face to face with him without either of you being on your backs. You clung to his shoulders with your arms, lifting yourself up high enough to hover over him as you climbed onto his lap and folded your legs around his waist, lining your entrance up with his head before you let yourself slowly drop down on top of him.

He was thick, and it was a tight fit, but the foreplay had done its job, making you slick enough to take him deep. The drag of his cock inside you had him gritting his teeth the whole time you slid  him into you. He wound his strong arms around your lower back to brace you as you began to roll your hips against him and he joined in your rhythm, gliding in and out of you at a steady pace. Your faces stayed close, cheek to cheek, his beard prickling yours. You whimpered when he hit you particularly deep and he turned his head to nuzzle his nose against yours. “Okay?” he rasped between soft grunts.

You nodded vigorously, eyes snapped shut, breaths heavy. There were no other words spoken between you as you rocked together, letting your bodies and the sounds that slipped out of your mouths do the communicating.

It took you a little longer than it would’ve when you were younger, but when he found that special spot inside you his insistent press into it had you squeezing him and moaning loudly, invoking praise from his lips in the form of your name. He stilled in you soon after, cock spasming, spurting hot inside you as he emitted a low satisfied hmph, kissing along your lower jaw through both of your aftershocks.

When it was over, he let himself fall back onto one of the bed pillows and you followed him, still on top of him, allowing him to linger inside you as he softened, as your racing hearts returned to their normal rhythms, as you caught back your breaths. You were silent the whole time, not saying a word, just enjoying the intimate closeness with him. Trying not to let any of the fears and doubts knocking at your door in as your mind cleared from your lustful haze.

Eventually you rolled off him and he made a move to stand, only having managed to sit up when you pressed a palm against his broad chest in attempt to stop him from moving anymore.

“Stay with me, please?”

His eyes turned up to the doorway then back to your face, his expression saying what he wouldn't. He was uncertain if he should stay, though you could tell he wanted to. A brief kiss to his shoulder was all it took to convince him. "Alright. I'll stay."

You both took time to clean yourselves up in the bathroom across the hall, dressed back into your sleep clothes (you wearing his black t-shirt), and unmade the bed together, curling up under the thick blankets immediately after. You flipped onto your side, a hand folded under your pillow, and you smiled as he molded his burly body against your back, careful not to put any pressure on your wounds. His right arm draped over your stomach and you reached down to clasp his hand in yours, grateful for his affection. You felt safe in his arms, in a way you hadn't felt in a very long time, not when violent deaths and literal ghosts were a consistent part of your work. The warmth radiating off his body relaxed you as well, lulling you to sleep.

The last thing you felt as you drifted off was him burying his face into your neck.

x

You woke in the early morning to the beginnings of daylight spilling into the bedroom from the small window inside it. You were still warm, but when you registered that Tim's body was no longer pressed against yours, dread filled you. Had he decided to go back to his own bed after all?

You forced yourself to stand, quietly moving down the hall to peer into the next room over, the only other one with a bed in the house. The bed had been clearly used the night before, but it was empty, and when you dared to walk over to touch the sheets, they were freezing cold. You couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped your lips at that before you tip toed back out the room. It had to be a good sign that he'd stayed the whole night with you, right?

You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you headed for the bathroom and locked the door behind you so you could pee in privacy, still trying to push away your anxiety over how this morning would go. How Tim would be with you, what he would say. Where would you stand? You couldn't imagine the previous night being the one and only time you ever spent with him intimately, but you knew if he didn't want a real relationship you'd turn down any halfway offers. You weren't built for sex without emotion tied to it. It was in part why you hadn't had any for years, besides the forementioned workaholic issue.

You tried to ignore the ache that was forming in your chest as you washed your hands then brushed your teeth, splashing water in your face after, in an attempt to look put together when you were anything but after all that had occurred with Elliot and then Tim.

You strolled into the kitchen, finding Tim at the counter, pouring steaming hot coffee into two mugs. "Just in time," he said, his back still turned to you. You mused that he must have better hearing than you if he'd heard you padding into the room in your socks. None of the floorboards had squeaked. Maybe it was the job that had made him hyper aware.

"You want some coffee?" he asked, like everything between you was the same as it had been twenty-four hours before. You felt a tinge of annoyance that he could act so normal, but you hid it from him.

"Sure, if you have sugar and milk."

"Of course." He nodded at you and reached inside the fridge so he could grab the whole milk inside and mix a teaspoon of it into the coffee mug on his right, followed by a teaspoon of sugar from the canister on the countertop. He left his free of additives, preferring his black, something that still had you twitching your nose even after having seen him drink it nearly every day for the past year. You couldn't imagine drinking coffee as is, even if it was made with high quality whole beans.

Tim passed you your mug as you sat down at the small kitchen table in the far corner of the room. Instead of joining you he leaned back against the counter, eyes focused on his mug when he wasn't sipping from it.

"Are we going to talk about last night?" you inquired after a few minutes, the silence bothering you more than the fear of the conversation you were about to push.

Tim lifted his head to meet your eyes, appearing a bit ashamed. "I shouldn't have. Should've backed off. You were afraid. Seeking comfort. I feel like I took advantage of you."

You huffed. "I didn't sleep with you because I was afraid. I slept with you because your hands felt good on my skin. Because I trust you. Because I have feelings for you. Have for a long time. Do you know how good you look in suspenders?"

He snorted quietly, eyes falling back to the mug in his hands. "I've felt something for you for a while too. I've just been denying it to myself."

"Because of my abilities?" you guessed, trying not to be bothered by what was in the past.

He shook his head, looking back up at you. "I've been in denial about that too. Last night was not when you finally convinced me the spirits you see exist. It was slow, it snuck up on me, my belief, increasing with every case we took on that had an active one interacting with you. The way you consistently knew things you shouldn't have. The occasional unexplained eerie feeling I got sometimes right before you'd react to one showing itself to you. That's what eventually sold me. I just never imagined one would hurt you."

You recalled his reaction when he saw your scratches for the first time. "You were afraid for me. Last night."

"Of course," he confirmed with a growl. "Still am. He hurt you, he could hurt you again, and because Elliot's already dead I can't do shit about it."

There was a hint of defeat, of helplessness in his voice that made you feel like your heart was in a vice grip. You wanted nothing more than to run up to him and hug him, to reassure him it would be fine, but you denied yourself of that moment to further the conversation.

"The only way Elliot leaves me alone is if we solve the case," you told him. "And we've got a little over a couple hours before we can get back to that task. In the meantime, we need to figure out where we stand."

"Like if we pretend this never happened or we report to HR?"

"Something like that."

He peered back down at the coffee in his mug. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?" You curled your fingertips tighter around your mug. "I want whatever you want, unless that boils down to meaningless sex. I can't do that. What do you want?"

He sighed heavily. "A part of me wishes I could take last night back, and another part has no regrets." You swallowed hard, but said nothing as he continued, "This will complicate things at work. No matter what route we take. There's a reason HR frowns on people in the same unit having any kind of intimate relationship with each other."

"Because they're stupid," you muttered, sipping at your coffee, eyes shifting to peer up at him, waiting expectantly.

He couldn't help but chuckle even as he shook his head disapprovingly at you.

"I asked what you wanted, not HR," you reminded him, as you abandoned your mug at the table to join him by the counter.

When you got just within arm's reach he cupped your face with one palm gently, stroking his thumb over your cheek. "I want to see where this goes," he admitted.

"Then let's do that," you said as a weight lifted off your chest. "Screw HR."

Tim grunted. "We'll have to tell them eventually."

"Well, eventually is not going to be today."

He nodded his agreement as he guided your face closer to his, pressing a kiss to your lips more sweetly than you could've imagined him capable of.

When he pulled away you touched your forehead to his shoulder. "I need to get my work clothes at my house."

Elliot was not likely waiting there for you, and he could turn up anytime, anywhere, he even could've popped up right then and there in Tim's kitchen, but you still were not looking forward to it.

"I'll go with you," he offered immediately. "Let me put on my glasses and a pair of jeans and I'll drive you, go inside with you. You can grab whatever you need to get dressed for work and bring it back here. If that would make you feel safer."

He knew as well as you that it didn't matter to Elliot where you went, but he also knew going back to your home so soon after the attack would be difficult for you and that him being there would make a difference to you mentally.

"Thanks," you murmured. "I'll take you up on that."

"You can also stay here until the case is solved," he added, "No strings attached. I'm not expecting last night to happen again any time soon. I'm not trying to rush things. I just don't like the idea of you being alone while Elliot's still around, even though I know logically I wouldn't be able to stop him from hurting you again."

You beamed at him and wriggled your eyebrows. "Who says I don't want to repeat that any time soon?"

He cursed under his breath as you pulled away from him with a playful smirk and headed for the door. "I'll wait in the car."

"That's not fair, Psy," he called after you.

You didn't look back, but you were smiling warmly as you exited the house.

x

Luckily your fears of returning home were unwarranted, your quest to gather a few sets of clothes and beauty products uneventful. Maybe it had something to do with Tim standing formidably in the doorway to your bedroom as you packed your suitcase. Did the dead ever get intimidated by the living?

In any case you were grateful to get out of there without another confrontation with Elliot.

As soon as you and Tim arrived back at his house you both showered, him in the master bathroom and you in the hallway bathroom. He was dressed in a half hour and you in an hour, barely finishing up in time to not be late for work.

You and Tim took your own vehicles (well, he took his detective car), not wanting to spike the curiosity of any prying eyes and nosey noses in the department. Helen, bless her soul, would've been the first asking twenty questions and it was the last thing either of you wanted with your newfound relationship literally only hours old.

When you entered the Homicide Division you spotted Tim towards the back of the room having a conversation with Katie. You strolled up to them, a polite smile on your face.

"Anything new, Katie?" you asked lightly as you came to a stop between them, making sure you were no more closer or farther from Tim than you usually positioned yourself.

"Nothing with me personally," she told you, "But the Henley case, oh boy. Dex, the poison expert on our team tested a mystery substance in a gas can found half buried in the woods behind their mansion."

"And there were traces of arsenic."

"Of course," she said, "But that's just the beginning. There was blood on the canister. Just a speck. Looks like the killer cut themselves on the hard plastic trying to open the lid. I swabbed it and compared it to the oral samples we took from each of the Henley’s. Compared it to a blood sample from Elliot for good measure..."

You waited but after several seconds of silence you huffed. You hated when people stretched out tension, like a reality show going to commercial break right before the winner is revealed. "What'd you find kid?"

You could've sworn Katie's eyes were glowing with excitement. Whatever information she had was juicy.

"First off, you remember how Elliot is adopted, right?"

You raised your eyebrows. "Yeah..."

"Well, turns out he is actually related to Richard and his sisters," Katie informed you, "But not Hazel."

"Roderick cheated on her," you concluded, eyes broadening. "And she let him adopt his son when his mistress died?"

"She might have not known," Katie offered, "Not until now at least."

"Are you suggesting she's our prime suspect?" Tim quizzed.

"I would be," she replied, "...if it wasn't Richard's blood on the canister."

"He described Elliot as a leech," you recalled. "A lazy one at that. It wouldn't be a big stretch to think that after finding out Elliot is their father's bastard son that he might consider him unworthy of living in their mansion. Worse than an interloper; living, breathing evidence that their father was not faithful to their mother."

"We've got enough for you to get an arrest warrant," you stated.

"Let's get going then," Tim said, buttoning up his trench coat. "The sooner we have that warrant the better."

He didn't mention that it was because Elliot had become a threat.

x

By mid afternoon Richard was back in the same interrogation room he had been in the previous day, dressed in a suit and tie, having been caught on the front porch of the mansion right after returning home from a business meeting.

At first he wouldn't stop rambling, mostly about how he was going to sue the whole department for every penny for falsely accusing him, but he'd been quiet since Tim had revealed that Forensics had DNA proof that he'd opened the canister of arsenic, the gravity of his situation having finally sunk in.

"I know you said you're not going to talk anymore until your lawyer gets in," Tim started as he sat down in front of him, "But indulge me. Let me tell you how I think everything went down."

Richard stared at him, maintaining a neutral expression.

"I think somehow you found out Elliot was actually your half brother," Tim continued, "And I think you decided your good-for-nothing half brother had to go. You couldn't risk it getting out that your father, the head of your family, had once had a mistress. You had to keep your family's reputation clean of that kind of scandal for the sake of your business' success. Am I right?"

Richard had been well trained in the art of, well, training his face, but you had trained yourself well in the art of observation and you'd had several more years than him to practice. When Tim had called Elliot his half brother Richard's eyes had widened just a bit.

"You didn't know he was your biological brother," you realized. "You didn't murder Elliot." You took a step towards him, away from the wall your back had been pressed against. "Who had you open the gas canister, Dick?"

He refused to speak.

"Was it Jeanine? Heidi? No..." You paused, "It was Hazel after all, wasn't it?"

"Dick, without your statement, without the truth, we will have to go ahead with prosecuting you," Tim declared. "All the evidence points to you. Unless you can say otherwise or tell us of other evidence that would contradict what we've gathered."

"Guess I'm going to prison then," he snarled.

"Well, no one can argue you're not a good son," you said with a shrug, trying to act casual. "Guess there's nothing left for us to say here."

You headed for the door and Tim followed you out. "You have an idea."

"Actually, I don't," you admitted. "I was hoping you did. Since my little ghost problem won't go away until we put his real killer behind bars."

Tim worked his jaw. "We let Richard sit in prison for a few days, then let Hazel visit him and talk with her again after. Maybe she loves him enough to confess."

"A few days?" You arched your brows and he narrowed his eyes at you, his expression warning you not to say anything else.

"I don't have any ulterior motives behind the time frame," he told you. "We have the weekend off and Richard needs time to stew. To realize how awful prison truly is. Either he breaks or Hazel does."

You couldn't help the crooked smile that formed on your face. "Cold..."

“Apt.”

"True."

x

You spent the rest of the day digging up information on the Henley family history at the public library seven minutes away from the department and going over some photos that had been confiscated from the mansion.

One in particular got your attention. A wedding photo of Hazel and Roderick. “They look so happy,” you observed from over Tim’s shoulder as he studied it in one hand, his glasses grasped in the other. Something occurred to you. “Do you think she killed him too, for cheating?”

Tim shook his head. “I checked into his death. It was from lung cancer. He was a heavy smoker.”

"Of course.”

Tim checked his watch. "Time to clock out. Do you want to head out to a bar?"

It was a fairly common for him to ask you if you wanted to hang out at Liquid Alchemy on a Friday night, or after a case was closed, but it was the first time he had suggested a bar and not Liquid Alchemy by name. You cocked an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

"There's this upscale full bar in the Lazy Queen restaurant on the other side of the city," Tim informed you. "I've never been, but I've heard good things. Though it's a little pricey for everyone here. For one night it wouldn't hurt to indulge though. I'll pay."

You got the message. The bar's location and prices would keep anyone you knew from work away and would allow you both to enjoy the rest of the night without prying eyes.

You glanced at the doorway of your shared office, making sure no one on the floor outside of it was within earshot. "Sounds like a date."

"If you'd like it to be."

"I would."

Tim dropped the photo in his hand on the desk and put his glasses back on before pushing himself up onto his feet with a small grunt, his left hand briefly clutching at his stiff lower back. You held back a comment about him needing to get a new office chair. You'd already mentioned it to him several times before, but he was stubborn.

"I'll head out right now," he told you as he shrugged on his trench coat, which had been draped over the chair in front of his desk. "Give me five before you follow me. We'll meet up at my house and you can jump in with me, okay?"

You grinned. "Sounds like a plan."

He dared a quick kiss to your temple as he passed you on the way out of the room and your lips pulled back even more.

Dating Tim was going to get dangerous. You could get used to him being affectionate with you.

x

The Lazy Queen's restaurant had the best Margaritas you could ever recall, and they hit hard too. After only a couple your usually not-so-lightweight self had become a chatty twenty questions kind of gal. It was so out of character for you Tim was amused by your behavior, lips quirking up on several occasions as you continued through your list of questions which he all answered patiently.

"Horror or action films?"

"Action."

"Have you ever seen snow in person?"

"Of course. It snows in Portland. Just not every year. Heard rumors we might this December, but it's not something to bet on."

"What's the story behind this?" you quizzed, stretching forward to clasp his left hand in yours, displaying the small target tattoo in between his thumb and index finger.

"I got it when I first started basic training," he answered. "It was to remind myself to hit bullseye every time. Literally and figuratively. To never lose sight of my goals."

"And have you not?" you inquired.

"Not what?"

"Lost sight of your goals."

He shrugged, taking a sip of the fancy drink in his right hand, and you realize you've forgotten the name of it. You pushed your current Margarita, your third, away from you. "I've had to take a few failures like everyone else. We can't solve every case."

There was something in his dark eyes, a hint of grief and guilt, that sobered you up a bit because you knew then that he was thinking about his lost sister.

"Think you're sober enough to drive us home?" you asked him with a sigh.

His eyebrows shot up. "You moving in permanently?" He was smiling lightly, teasing.

"Not yet," you huffed. "You know what I meant. Your home."

"Yeah," he said, an index finger circling the edge of his glass. "I'm sober enough. I don't even have a buzz. I've been nursing this lone drink all night. You didn't notice?"

"Shut up."

x

You were running barefoot through the forest at night at full speed, in a flowing white dress that reached your knees, eyes darting over your shoulders on occasion to make sure whatever you were trying to escape wasn't gaining on you. It was too dark out to see that far behind you though.

Fallen leaves crunched under your bare feet, damp moss made you slip twice, and you had to leap a few tree roots that stuck out of the ground but you didn't slow your pace for even a moment.

You heard a river roaring in the distance and for some reason you were convinced that crossing that would save you, so you aimed for the sound, stretching your legs out as far as you could in hopes of covering ground even faster. You stopped looking back, certain if you kept moving that you'd get to safety.

You pushed through a thicket of trees and had to skid to a stop, narrowly preventing yourself from falling off the cliff on the other side of it, one of your feet halfway over the edge. You were right next to a waterfall. You gasped at the close call.

Remembering that you had been running from something you twisted around and your eyes grew into saucers when you spotted it. A black human shaped mass easily flowing through the trees, into the same open space you were in.

"You can run, but you can't hide forever," said a furious masculine voice. It was coming from the black mass, though you could not see a mouth, let alone see it move.

"Why are you chasing me?" you demanded fearfully.

"Because you are fleeing," the voice growled, like it was the simplest thing. Maybe it was to him. Nothing but a predator chasing prey.

You swallowed hard as he took a step forward. "I spent so much time living fictional lives, I forgot how entertaining the living could be to mess with."

Your eyes grew bigger. "Elliot," you whispered. "You don't belong here."

"In your dreams, or in the world?" he hissed as his form reshaped into the man you'd seen lying dead on a cold table less than forty-eight hours ago.

"Both," you replied. "Spirits who stick around can become troubled fairly quickly."

"You think I'm one of your troubled ghosts?" He chuckled, a gleam in his already eerie gray eyes. "All I've done is discover the benefits of being dead."

"This isn't the man who sat with his mother in the garden," you noted.

"No," he agreed. "That man was murdered by her. Apparently."

At your surprised reaction he beamed. "I was there when you interviewed my brother for the second time. I just made sure you couldn't tell. I'm getting better at stuff like that."

You shivered. "This isn't you, Elliot." You knew it to be true in your gut. Everyone had the capacity to commit evil, some more than others, but what mattered was how you had behaved, and while Elliot had maybe been lazy, nothing you'd heard or read about him had hinted at him behaving badly in any kind of way. The in between had twisted him beyond recognition.

"Who says anyone has to stay the same?" He strolled towards you and you took another step back, finding yourself teetering, dangerously close to falling over the cliff. He grinned. "It's fun messing with you."

He shoved you, catching you off guard for a second, sending you flying over. You heard your skull crack against a stone before you collapsed into the frigid water at the bottom.

x

Your eyes snapped open and you pulled ragged breaths from your lungs as you shot up into a sit in Tim's guest room bed. For a few seconds you didn't move other than to press your right hand to your chest and close your eyes as you focused on recovery.

It had felt so real, but it had all been a dream. You could hardly remember the last time you'd been so relieved. It was short lived though, as you realized that Elliot might've been the crafter of your nightmare. After all, though it was rare, it had happened before with other spirits. It would explain why you were still shaking. He was nearby, close enough to affect you, for you to sense him on some subconscious level.

On the way back to Tim's house you'd both decided that sleeping in separate bedrooms would be best for your relationship for a bit, not wanting to rush into it any more than you'd already had.

You regretted that as you rolled over and ran your hand over the cold spot next to you on the mattress in an attempt to seek comfort. You'd taken pride in yourself all your life for being independent, for not needing anyone else when you left the office, but there were occasions, nights like these, when the solace of another body besides yours would've been much more preferable.

For the first time in your life when a spirit had taken the reins of your subconscious, you had the option to change your situation. To seek that comfort you wanted so profoundly. You slid out of bed and walked into the doorway of the room next door, quietly knocking on the solid oak, trying to wake Tim without startling him.

He still flinched a little when he woke up, glancing around sleepily as he rolled from his side and onto his back. When he noticed you wordlessly standing in his doorway he blinked at you, confused. "What's wrong?"

You were suddenly shy, feeling stupid. Like you going to see him was childish, even though your nightmare hadn't been just a nightmare and you had every right to be afraid. "Elliot's nearby."

Tim sat up in bed quickly, the blankets that had covered him up to his shoulders slipping down to his waist. He had kept on the plain red shirt that he'd worn that night to bed with a fresh new pair of light gray sweatpants. "Where?"

"I don't know," you replied. "But he was in my dreams. He said he overheard that it was his adoptive mother who killed him and then he pushed me over a waterfall and I woke up."

"I'm sorry, Psy," he said, standing so he could rub your arms comfortingly. "Maybe waiting for Hazel to confess was a mistake."

You shook your head. "It's the only good plan we have. Any other could've screwed up the case. It's not your fault. And at least he didn't show up here in the house."

You still weren't exactly sure why.

"Do you want to stay with me?" Tim questioned. "Share the bed? Would that help?"

You shrugged. "Maybe. He doesn't seem to like interacting with me when you're around for some reason."

"He is shorter than me," he stated as if it made total sense.

You snorted at his joke but some part of you wondered if Elliot really was intimated by him. Sometimes spirits still acted like they were living and breathing. That could include fearful behavior.

In any case, you weren't about to turn down the offer you'd been hoping to get. "I'll take the right side, if that's alright. I sleep better there."

"You're in luck," Tim told you. "I actually sleep on the left most nights."

He returned to his bed, lifting the blankets high enough so you could easily follow, tucking yourself into his side. "Is this okay?" you asked him.

"Perfect."

Saturday and Sunday night were also spent cuddled up with each other in the same way. Tim didn't complain, and since you didn't have sex, you figured you were still complying pretty well with the promise you'd made to each other to slow things down while you began to learn each other on a much more personal level than you had before.

You were really reconsidering it though.

x

Monday morning you and Tim returned to work refreshed, coming back from a mostly relaxing weekend filled with old movies, takeout, and the background noise of rain.

You were so ready to get back to the case on that crisp, sunny day that it startled you when you spotted Hazel waiting for you both outside of the department's main entrance, extending her wrists out towards Tim in a gesture telling him to arrest her.

You and Tim both nearly dropped the coffee shop cups in your hands.

"I've come to confess," she declared, as if she needed to. "I killed Elliot."

Tim slapped the pair of cuffs he always kept on him while on duty onto her wrists and made sure they were secure. "Hazel Henley, you have the right to remain silent..."

x

Within ten minutes you, Tim, and Hazel were settled into one of the interrogation rooms, and Tim was holding up a voice recorder in front of her, flicking it on to record. "Start from the beginning. State your name and explain why you are here."

"My name is Hazel Henley, and I am here to confess that I killed Elliot Henley."

There was a slight tremble in her voice, but you were almost certain it was from having to admit to a crime and not because she regretted that he was dead.

"Mrs. Henley, why did you kill your son?" you prompted, trying to ignore a thickness that started to fill the air, making it a little harder to breath, putting something deep inside you on edge. Elliot was in the room, and he wasn't trying to hide it.

"Because he wasn't mine," she huffed. "Not really. Not at all in my eyes."

You frowned. "You didn't care about him; not even when you intially adopted him?"

"No," she answered bitterly. "How could I? Knowing he was my husband's bastard son?"

Tim lifted a brow. "You knew?"

"Of course I did," she said with annoyance. "I'm not stupid. Roderick was the one who came up to me suggesting we adopt him, nearly begged me. It was obvious. He would've never begged for a kid that wasn't of his own blood. Son of a friend or not."

"You knew Elliot's mother?"

"She was a neighbor of ours," Hazel explained. "Born into her money. Loved doing charity work as a job. The only sweet thing about her. She lived alone but had a way with people. Knew how to intertwine herself into everyone else's lives, make them worship her, or at least invite her to parties. She probably got pregnant on purpose in attempt to make Roderick leave me for her. I got the last laugh. Or so I thought, until the bitch died in a car accident."

"Why'd you agree to adopt Elliot?" you inquired, genuinely curious.

"Because Roderick always got his way," Hazel told you. "I wasn't always a strong-minded woman. I was worried saying no would be the last straw in our already broken marriage. I was trying to mend it."

"Then Roderick died..." Tim trailed.

"Then Roderick died," Hazel repeated. "And I was free to get rid of him before I got too old, before he could get a cent more of our money."

"Why did the canister of arsenic have Richard's blood on it?"

Hazel raised both of her hands in the air, palms down. They were tremoring slightly. "I can't get a good grip on most things nowadays. I needed someone to twist the lid open and pour some into a few smaller jars."

"He had no idea what you were doing?" you asked.

"He didn't even question what was inside," she replied. "He just poured it and left. My ever loyal son. I'm only confessing because he doesn't deserve to be in prison because of me. He has so much life left ahead of him."

You felt a flash of anger lick at your insides. Even though Elliot's spirit had attacked you twice, he'd only done that because of what Hazel had done to him. "Elliot had so much life ahead of him too."

She scoffed. "Playing video games? He was just like his mother. Living off his father's money. No ambition."

"You'd be surprised the money people can make playing games while others watch," you told her. "Some make millions."

"He wasn't," she assured you, eyes narrowing. She turned them back to Tim. "Anything else you need to know?"

"Plenty more," Tim said, "Starting with where you got concentrated arsenic."

She nearly smiled at him. "That's an interesting story, but a long one."

He gestured at her to go for it. "We have all day if necessary."

So she jumped into a story about how she found herself buying from black market dealers.

It was afternoon by the time you and Tim were done with her, by the time a prison guard was pulling her away from you both at the door where prisoners were dropped off.

On your way back to Tim's car you spotted Richard walking free, out of the chain link lined yard, a duffle bag over his shoulder. And Elliot was right there behind him, leaning against the fence, watching.

He must have felt you peering over at him because Elliot glanced up in your direction, and what you saw in his eyes surprised you. Getting justice must have calmed him because his expression was nothing like the one he'd worn either of the times he'd attacked you. It was like the madness had finally been lifted.

Strange how that sometimes worked.

You hesitantly gave him a curt nod and he gave you one back, disappearing immediately after, to God-only-knows where. Or maybe gods-only-know where.

You just knew that a subtle, insistent tension you hadn't really noticed was there before snapped and it seemed like the sunny day had become even brighter.

Elliot was gone.

x

That night Tim followed you back to your house, wanting to be there as you unpacked and settled back in, even though you'd assured him that Elliot had most definitely moved on.

That had eventually led you to asking him to stay for popcorn and a movie, to which he agreed to readily. It was almost ten o'clock when he got off the couch to leave.

"I'd better go," he said decidedly. "Getting late for a work night."

"I've been thinking," you told him.

"Oh?"

"About our agreement," you continued, standing up to give him a swift kiss on the mouth. "And I was thinking we should amend it."

Tim arched an eyebrow. "What were you thinking?"

"That we just do whatever feels right in the moment," you answered. "Within reason of course. We still have to be professional at work, of course. Even after we tell HR what's going on with us."

"So...no more slowing things down?"

"Technically we've already been in a relationship for thirteen months," you told him. "Just not a romantic kind. And we had our first date. Already have done plenty of cuddling..."

A subtle smile played on Tim's lips. "What are you suggesting, Psy?"

"You could stay here tonight," you replied, placing your hands on his suited chest. "You could show me what you'd have done that night if I hadn't taken lead. If you want."

He dived in to kiss you until you were both panting, until you were burning up inside. "I want," he confirmed, barely a whisper away from your mouth.

You grinned. "Then lead the way."

xxx

Tagged: @harriedandharassed

xxx

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[fainthedcherry]

2024 Human Art VS 2019 Human Art !!!!!

AS PROMISED, HERE'S A POST WITH SOME NEW ART!!!

And also an art comparison, just to see, how much I improved in drawing the 2 bois <3

I'm MEGA tired despite having slept after work, but I WON'T let that deter me from writing a description!! YAPNADO AHEAD;

FINN AND MARCOOO. FINNANMARCO. BEEN A WHILE SINCE I'VE ACOUSTICALLY AND FERALLY YELLED ABOUT MY 2 FICTIONAL MEN WHOM ARE CLOSE TO MY HEART.

I'm SO glad, that in the new drawing, Marco finally looks like the twink he always was, but still enough meat on the bones to look NORMAL lmao, can't say that about the 4 other sketches of me trying to redraw this ref for years. xD (why yes, his wings took forever, why do you ask? /lh)

I'M MEGA SUPER DUPER GLAD, that Finn FINALLY looks like a chubby, wild bastard TOO, OH TOOTHPASTE MAN, HOW MANY HEARTACHES YOU GAVE ME OVER STRUGGLING TO DRAW AN ENDOMORPHIC BODY TYPE. BUT I CAN NOWWWWWWWwwww!!!!!

God this habit of loudly reading out my posts as I type them made me realise what a bad Schwarzenegger impression I do on accident bc I'm overly excited to post something after a month of silence SDKFSKLDG

ONE THING I ALWAYS WANTED TO DO. IS PUT EVERY DETAIL I NEEDED ON A BIG REF. SO I DID! I've drawn closeups of the boys's eyes, I've drawn Finn's tongue so that I don't need to constantly remind myself what his blush and flesh colours were sdfkldsgkl, I FINALLY denoted their heights, so people know that they're tall TALL dudes (and that Finn obviously will struggle w/ his lanky mfing legs, we LOVE giving a middle-aged man heart attacks once he reaches his 40's!!!)

ANNDDD ALSO SOME SIDE VIEWS OF THEM. The last side-view I had of F & M, looked REAL bad. Like, Marco's face looked WAY too stereotypically European (to my fault bc surprise surprise not many African people live in Europe so I had poor frame of reference but I've been fixing it via looking up images online instead, at least it helps but yeah, I have a hard time so far unfortunately💀), Finn's was just... B u c k e t. NOT LIKE HANDSOME BUCKET. BUT JUST BUCKET. IT NEEDED FIXING (fun fact I accidentally made Finn have the most attractive jaw shape for men according to beauty standards and I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW I JUST WANTED THIS MAN TO LOOK S Q U A R E AND THAT'S IT, MINECRAFT STEVE HAS MORE RIZZ THAN MOST MEN OFFICIALLY).

OH YEAH ALSO A CLAW REF AGAIN FOR FINN!!! His old ref looks too cool for me to give up on it tbh even as dated as it is sfjklsdglk, BUT I felt like I needed to redraw them properly.

FUNNILY ENOUGH A PERSON I COMMISSIONED SAID I HAVE SOME REALLY CLEAN AND NICE LINEART. I wish I heard that 5 years ago when I was really insecure about my bad lineart skills xD, I don't use lineart anymore nowadays outside of reference-drawings like these I don't plan to redraw in the next years unless necessary soooo yeah! They're gonna appear much rarer unless I go off and about making more ref sheets of all of my Sonc OC's sfklsdgsdfksdg

This drawing took 5 days to make btw. Not the hours spent on this LOL. 5 days of my life I'll never get back tho bc I care too much about my babies and I feel they deserve proper refs sdfklsdglk

WHAT ELSE SHOULD I MENTION.....HOPEFULLY I PLAN TO DRAW MORE HUMAN REFS IN THE FUTURE INSTEAD OF STAY IN MY COMFORT ZONE OF SONIC OCS ONLY. I for years wasn't confident in my ability to draw humans, but I can do so NOW at least!!!!!!!!!! Even if I'm like...3 years too late to how I wish my art looked back then already dsklfdsg, I have some high standards I need to continue to knock down as my 2024 resolution sdfklsdg

^IT'S BEEN WORKING THOUGH AS YOU CAN TELL BC I'VE BEEN UPLOADING SOME BAD DOODLES AND SKETCHES, BEEN DRAWING MORE GARBAGE AND BECAME MORE INVOLVED IN MY BELOVED FANDOMS. I wanna continue doing so! It was the most fun I've had with art ever. I hope to properly meet more fandoms I left in the past bc I thought it'd be embarrassing to share my passion for a franchise back then. I EMBRACE THE CRINGE NOW AS AN ADULT AT LEAST EVEN IF 7 YEARS TOO LATE ON THAT FRONT TOO. We all age and mature ig but I just become more silly year by year,,, c:

Oh yeah if you also see this btw lemme know, whether the new watermark tiles are subtle enough to not be noticed!!!! I know, watermarks are annoying and nobody likes them, but ever since AI invasions, I REFUSE to put my work online without ANY form of proof that somebody took it from my page. I just want people to stop lying on the internet for cloud and pick up a pencil. It's not that hard smfh. The only time I could excuse AI art is w/ amputees man. That's the only time I could empathise with someone, who wants to be an artist but LITERALLY can't bc they got dealt a bad hand in life. I digress my AI hate can be rambled about some other day, I know I love yapping and writing essays about THAT topic for sure sfklsdklg

I chose to post this ref to my Tumblr first tho, bc I still wanna work on my drawing of Abbacchio,,,, he is quite dear to me and I'd love to put effort into a doodle of him that won't take too long. Like 4 hours or 5 hours tops. I still have yet to figure out, if his cute star shape on his head is a hat or part of his hair. Bc I CAN'T TELL TBH AND I'VE BEEN DRAWING IT AS PART OF HIS HAIR PATTERN BUT I THINK IT'S A HAT NOW EVER SINCE I LOOKED AT MORE ASBR CAPS OF HIM I TOOK FOR REFERENCES. xD

Also another side-note, but I've ofc reduced down the lankiness of the dudes I draw™, but I in result wanted to sliiightly make larger feet/hands bc my Sonic phase will continue to possess me 'til the end of time /hj, if you also wanna lemme know what you think on that, bls do! I am messing about with stylization still. I am finding my footing with stylizing humans sOOO yeah!!!! I hope to some day be satisfied with my artstyle change of '24! So far it's been really rewarding and eye-opening to me and my journey as an artist for my 7 years of existing on the 'net w/ my silly goobers I like to scream about to in the void <3

Once again, tagnado also incoming below bc I dunno how to properly tag my art so lemme throw in things I THINK are relevant to this post sdkldsgkl

See you hopefully tomorrow w/ a lil doodle dump if I get around to it!!!! : D

[sashi-ya]

𝑥𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡; 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑦 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝐍𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐞⋆˙⊹ Sanji x afab! reader. nsfw

request: Anonymous asked: love the list!! i'd like the request 'naughty or nice' with Sanji nsfw 👀 w/ afab with f pronouns? thanks! | tw: nsfw. kinda sanji being a top, kinda. oral sex. masturbation (both). creampie implied | wc: 1k | masterlist | taglist: @zella07 @jin-supremacy01 @alexkanroji @jenwooly @owlham|

While Sanji has always been a sweetheart, tonight things took an unexpected turn; Sanji is the one topping you and his strong hips feel menacing to your body...

“You’ve been a very naughty girl this year, (Name)-chwan” he whispers, nobody should listen to you two as right by your side your nakama sleep.

“S-Sanji-kun, what- what’s going on? You ne- never act this way” you ask, allowing him to crush you against the wall of the Thousand Sunny’s hall.

Sanji lets you go instantly. He never, ever, will do anything to hurt you. “I’m sorry, (Name)-chwan. I thought you want- wanted this” he mumbles, with his eyes glossy from forming tears.

Soon, you remember what you told him during dinner; while everybody was feasting on his delicious preparations, someone brought up the famous “naughty or nice” topic to the table. And while you helped Sanji to do the dishes -well, look at him do them- you came closer whispering how much of a naughty girl you’ve been this year…

“No, don’t say sorry. I was just surprised… I love it ~” you purr, pulling him closer to the initial position where your back got pressed against the wall and your hands were held by him by the wrists.

“You do…? Naughty girl…” the blonde asks, grazing his goatee against your chin. His kitty like lips barely touch yours, and the single all blue eye showing fixes on yours.

You nod, biting your lower lip and making a little sexy dance to make him even more hot and bothered. “Will Santa give me my present either way?” you ask, with pouty lips making Sanji smirk with a Vinsmoke devilishly smile.

His strong grip lets go of your wrists, but now his cooking hands begin to peel your clothes in a rather violent and passionate way. You don’t complain, you want him to go feral. He kisses your shoulders as they get exposed, and then down in between your breasts.

And there is nothing Sanji enjoys the most than a pair of boobs. He nuzzles on them, he inhales the natural scent of your skin, and then slowly but surely he concentrates in the erected buttons. He bites and nibbles. He pulls and sucks with great dedication while his hands sometimes squeeze them against his pointy nose. He is in total heaven, indulging in the sweet taste of your flesh while you do too, squirming under his embrace.

You try to supress your moaning by biting your lips harder, even if some low whines scape your mouth. Those whines, and the grunting of Zoro turning around in his cot -completely asleep- make Sanji to use one of his soft hands to silence you. “Shh, my sweet chocolate… you are gonna wake them up ~” he purrs, with a smirk so perverted that again doesn’t belong in his usual sweet self.

You widen your eyes, as not only his tongue enjoys the bumpiness of your nipples, but also his free hand is now diving into your sex. Middle and ringer up your entrance, beckoning motion he knows works best. Sanji is usually pretty soft and romantic, but you have requested for him to go wild, and that’s exactly what you are getting.

And it’s so good the way he pleasures you, your legs begin to shiver and your knees to come closer one to the other. Your nails carve on the hard surface of his suit shoulders, your forehead becomes sweaty, and it gets almost impossible not to whine loudly.

“You are being too loud, (Name)-swan! Let’s go somewhere else…” he mumbles, taking his fingers out of your sex, completely dampened in your arousal honeys. Sanji lifts you up with absolute no effort and takes you to his kitchen. The blonde deposits you over the counter, spreading your legs just so he can fit in between them and then kneels like a prince he is.

His mouth gets to your core’s height, and before attacking you with his mouth he licks his lips sexily. Pale hands, a little veiny, bury in your inner thighs to leave them spread apart as the tip of his tongue touches the ambrosia of your folds.

You cover your mouth as he plays with your anatomy and your heels end up on his back. He enjoys it so much, he begs you to keep doing it. Sanji can’t help but love the fact of putting you over his, of your feet being on top of him.

The prince of Germa adds his fingers to the oral delight, and your orgasm surrounds you until exploding. And as the good cook he is, he doesn’t waste a single drop of your climaxing reaction. But it’s not over, and you don’t want it either. Sanji is about to explode, and he needs so much relief too.

“Com- come here” you plead, with a suffocated murmur by your own residual orgasmic spasms.

Sanji immediately stands up, caressing your cheek with loving but expectant motion. “Yes, my adored (Name)-swan?” he asks, panting, with his hardness about to break through the gabardine of his pants.

Your trembling hands unbuckle the fine belt around his tiny waist and soon his erect sex gets exposed. It feels warm to the touch, and the drips of precum bathe your fingers as you begin pumping his shaft.

Sanji, defeated by your soft -but precise- touch, presses his forehead on your shoulders. He lets himself go, completely at your mercy. And mercy is what you don’t have, because while you jerk him off you kiss his pale, milky skin of his neck. Leaving the imprints of your feral needs with your teeth, enjoying how red it gets and his whimpers fill your ears.

“You have been a very naughty boy, too… don’t you, Sanji-kun?” you ask, whispering in his ear. You can feel his whole body shaking, like as if he had been struck by a lightning of pure pleasure.

“I- I did ~” he purrs, with wet kisses on your collarbone. This time less precise and rather desperate as he gets closer to climaxing too.

“Then… why don’t you fill me up with your cum, naughty boy?”

[chvoswxtch]

hi again, court!

it's once again the anon that sent the massive ass paragraphs rambling about the punisher after i finished watching it. i feel like i should either just un-anonymise myself or give myself a name or something to make it easier to identify myself?? but idk?? i'm still new to tumblr so i dunno how these things work

anyways, just wanted to say, i also am just so happy that they are taking the reboot seriously!! i only really got into like the daredevil/punisher in like the past year or so. so i feel like i don't really have the same grounds to stand on as some longer term fans but i just remember being so disappointed with karen/foggy originally not being part of born again so i'm so so glad that that changed and we have the true trio back. and frank being in it just makes me SO happy because i have become incredibly incredibly attached to frank (it might be a little unhealthy but big strong men who are morally questionable is my type haha)

i totally agree with season 2 feeling rushed, it definitely felt like some of the plots were supposed to be fleshed out more or like storylines would have carried on into a season 3 and billy not being fucked up enough is SO FUCKING REAL. like frank literally BRUTALISED him but he comes out looking okay?? like idk?? it just doesn't look convincing i feel like ben barnes' acting is good and he plays the subtle psycho (though you're right, him being more outwardly bloodthirsty and vengeful would have been AMAZING) but the visuals don't hit right. but this is such a wider issue with pretty actors in hollywood?? especially cause they also did it when he played the darkling in shadow and bone. i dunno if you ever watched shadow and bone but like his character should have been way more scarred but they just didn't make it as brutal as it probably would have been in reality and it makes me so mad because i just don't understand why??

AND THE WILL THING, LITERALLY, WHEN HE FIRST CAME ON SCREEN, I LOOKED AT HIM AND WAS LIKE 'is that?? is that WILLIAM LAMONTAGUE??' and then everytime he came on and was being psycho, i was like 'someone get jj to sort her husband out' and also this is so DUMB but i love to think that this is what will was doing during criminal minds and that's why we never see him, he was just off being pilgrim and terrorising frank, obviously it doesn't really work timeline wise BUT the thought of it just makes me laugh so it is now my headcanon.

I HAVE FOUND ANOTHER MADANI LOVER. that makes me so BEYOND ECSTATIC. I CANNOT TELL YOU HOW HAPPY THAT MAKES ME. karen is literally a stronger woman than i could ever be. both with madani and tbh with frank, i dunno how she doesn't crumble in front of either of them. like i wish i had karen's strength. but like yeah if madani even LOOKED at me, i would be spilling all of my goddamn secrets. i'm so glad i'm not the only one who sees the lack of love (i may end up trying to fix that with some fics hehe)! i am such a whore for her, it's actually insane. like the past few days since i finished watching it, she has been on my mind 24/7, what i would let her do to me is EMBARASSING. i love that woman so much and i'm so glad i'm not alone.

i'm done ranting for now but i cannot promise i won't ramble in your inbox again. i truly have punisher brainrot (and criminal minds brainrot too but that's not important right now)

thank you for reading my ramblings again <3

welcome back nonnie!

totally up to you love! if you’re not comfy coming off anon & wanna give yourself a lil nickname, that’s totally fine with me :)

don’t even worry about how long you’ve been in the fandom, that doesn’t matter. you’re here & your opinions & feelings are just as valid as everyone else’s. to your point about big strong men with questionable morals: yes

I haven’t watched shadow & bone but I have seen ben’s character in that role and maybe he’s the problem like maybe they try to make him look bad & it’s just impossible bc it’s ben barnes 🤷🏻‍♀️

LMAO pls that would be so funny. hey will what have you been up to lately? oh nothing just terrorizing the punisher in new york no biggie

karen is a strong woman bc the second frank or madani looked at me like that i’d fold & be like yeah literally anything you want I will give you. if you do end up writing any madani fics pls send them my way! i’ll get around to writing for her eventually. it’s been hard for me to focus on writing anything other than bodyguard frankie bc that’s my baby

I don’t ever not have punisher or criminal minds brainrot so pls feel free to rant with me anytime <3

[thisisreal-right]

I miiiight have an obsession w writing my fav ships smoking together

Jesus, seven tabs of acid really was too much.

He’d like to think that, maybe, if Billy had been there when he taken them, he would have stopped Marcus. But Billy hadn’t been there. Billy had been getting blown by some random hippie chick.. Billy hadn’t been there. And maybe Marcus cared about that a little more than he let on.

Billy might not have been there then, but he definitely was now.

Marcus’ head felt like he was grasping at ocean waves, trying to pull in the tide all by himself. Every time a coherent thought was trapped between his palms, it wriggled through his fingers and dived back into the ocean of hallucinations.

But he knew one thing. Billy was there now. Billy was there. With Marcus, in the shitty little hotel room, putting up with him while he was tripping balls. And maybe, just maybe, that helped him a hell of a lot more than Marcus had the energy to think on.

Seven tabs was too many.

But even now, as a clown with a violent red grin wiggled its fingers at Marcus from the corner, as butterflies with sunsets on their wings nested on the ceiling, Billy’s side profile as he gazed out the window was the most beautiful thing Marcus had ever seen.

He lacked the critical thinking skills and common sense to feel ashamed of his staring, to turn away, to stare somewhere else. Maybe he didn’t care much. Billy’s hair hadn’t been styled for a few days. It looked soft. The sides of his head weren’t shaved and the stubs of hair looked like velvet. Marcus wanted to run his hands over it.

Billy had a bruise by his eye. Marcus wanted to kiss every bruise on his body until they grew wings and joined the sunset on the ceiling. As pretty as those colors were, they didn’t belong on Billy’s skin. At least not those ones. Different bruises, maybe. Marcus's eyes darkened at the thought. No. Definitely different bruises.

Billy tilted his head back and exhaled smoke, lips just barely parted, neck barred, eyes just barely open. Marcus followed the movement, hungry.

Suddenly, his pale skin looked like the most enticing thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to nose along that sharp collarbone, to lick a stripe up from the joint of his neck to that little place behind his ear. Marcus wanted to sign his name in bruises, good bruises. Heat coiled in his gut as Billy lolled his head towards the window.

Seven tabs of acid was too many.

But Marcus felt more clear headed than he had in a long time.

“Billy?”

Marcus’ stomach dropped when Billy’s eyes fixed on him, half lidded and exhausted.

“Hmm?” He hummed around the joint he was sucking on. Marcus took in the sight, greedy.

“Pass the joint?”

Billy shifted slightly, “I dunno if that’s a good idea, Marcus. You’re already trippin’ pretty hard.”

Marcus was up before he could give it another thought. Billy watched with his laser eyes as Marcus lumbered to the window. Fire

Fire licked along his palms and up his arms, leaving charred flesh behind. He planted them on the cool glass of the window on either side of Billy’s head. The flames receded underneath his skin, lapping at the bone and leaving the nerves raw. Marcus could feel the heat the other boys body generated through the layers of clothing between them. He was on fire, but he wanted more of Billy’s heat.

Marcus looked down at Billy, boring his eyes into his skull. Billy took a drag.

Seven tabs of acid.

That’s what Marcus could blame it on. That’s what he could blame for the stomach swooping, heat inducing, half lidded stare he leveled at the other. That’s what he could blame how his hand came up to rest just under Billy’s chin, tilting his head up just so.

Billy was pliant, his eyelids fluttering as he looked up at Marcus.

Marcus could blame the tabs for him leaning in, for him pulling down Billy’s bottom lip, for him tilting his head.

Marcus could blame the acid for how close he got as Billy exhaled the smoke, for the way their lips brushed, just barely as he inhaled it second hand. He could blame it for how long he stayed there, hand drifting down to rest against Billy’s throat.

He could blame it for the words that followed the smoke past his lips, “So pretty.”

Marcus could blame the acid. But Billy couldn’t. Billy couldn’t blame the acid and he didn’t have chemical courage frying his nerves. So even as he sat, with Marcus's hand resting, just there, on his throat, his breath fanning across his flushed and bruised cheekbones, lips barely brushing, he made no move. He sat frozen, eyes lidded with want and hands firmly at his side. If he leaned into the touch, who could prove it. He moved nigh but an inch.

But Marcus was feeling brave. He brushed his thumb over Billy’s pulse point, before letting it drop to his wrist. Marcus lifted Billy’s hand to his own mouth, he twisted it, he placed the filter of the joint to his lips. His dark eyes never left Billy’s. Not as he brushed his lips against the calloused fingertips holding the joint. Not as he wrapped his lips around it, not as he inhaled.

Marcus grinned, a dark cutting grin. He leaned back in. His hand left Billy’s frozen and he placed two fingers beneath the other boy's chin.

“Open up?” He asked, coyly, little ribbons of smoke curled around his jaw.

Billy jolted, hands moving to the back of Marcus's head. He pulled. Pulled the curls at the back of his head, pulled him in, pulled his mouth inches from his own. Marcus’s pupils blew impossibly wider.

They were closer than before, their lips were electricity, and the air was charged.

Billy was embers.

And Marcus was fueling him into a fucking wildfire.

“Good,” Marcus whispered when Billy finally exhaled

Maybe seven tabs of acid was too much.

But the acid was far from the most overstimulating thing he was experiencing. Cold air rushed in to fill the space as Marcus retreated.

He burned the pad of his thumb along Billy’s lower lip as he backed away. It teased the entrance of his mouth. If Billy just hardly surged forward in attempt to capture it, who would know. He missed, but Marcus’s grin left him tingling.

He flopped back on the bed, head already floating from thought to thought faster than he could keep up.

Billy cleared his throat after a second. “Wha- what was that for?” His voice was lower than it usually was, scraping along Marcus spine and resting in his gut.

Marcus shrugged.

“I wanted a hit.”

“If you asked me again I would have given it to you,” Billy supplied, exasperated.

“Maybe. But maybe I wanted more than just the joint.” Billy was silent.

[white-rabbit-writes]

I Don't Cry

By W. Rabbit, Esq.

I don't cry. Or, that is, I try not to cry. My tears burn. Logic tells me it's the dust. I don't blink often enough, dust and debris lodge in my eyes and the burning is the salt seeping into the microscopic cuts left behind.

When I do cry, I have the overwhelming feeling that if the tears could just fall then the burning would stop. But they never do. The tears pool in my lower lids and they sit there, burning.

The red veins in my eyes swell and I look pitiful.

I try to wipe the tears away, to force them to fall from my lids, but they refuse. They're too thick. A tissue comes away dry and useless. If I wipe with my hands I feel the tears being forced back into my skull. They slice under my retina and cut deep into the flesh of my eyes.

When I first saw my father cry I knew our tears were different. Even young I felt the pain that came with crying. While his tears flowed freely down his face as he hugged me and told me it wasn't my fault, mine cut deep and burned like they were on fire.

At the time, I worried my tears would hurt him as they hurt me. If, by some miracle, they managed to fall they would slice into his shoulder like small daggers. But they never did, and I knew he was safe.

I am too empathetic, I get this from my father. It doesn't take much to form a lump in my throat. For a time I tried to feel nothing, but that day my father held me, he told me feelings were human. That I should allow them to be felt, whatever they might be.

Feelings are Human. I am allowed to Feel.

This is my mantra as I hold my face skyward and breathe through whatever pain I may be feeling. I swallow as hard as I'm able and force the prickly lump that forms when I cry back down my throat. I blink painfully and roll my eyes back and forth, the thick tears slice their way behind my eyes. This gives me a splitting headache and I find my glasses become more useless every time. One day, I fear, there will not be a prescription strong enough to fix the damage my tears cause.

I asked my doctor if my tear ducts could be removed, but he told me tears were important. I told him crying hurts and he laughed. He told me feelings are human. I was reminded of my father. How he told me it wasn't my fault.

The doctor prescribed me eye drops. He told me my eyes looked red and dry. He told me crying was a good thing.

Afterwards, my father asked how the appointment went. I told him. When I spoke he could hear the barb working its way up my throat. With the gentle voice of a loving parent he told me you are allowed to feel. I could hear the struggle in his voice, he always cried when I talked about my eyes. I imagined the tears flowing down his face and I felt jealousy bloom in my chest.

It's not your fault he told me. I hung up.

I stared at the pavement of the clinic parking lot. Jealousy turned to rage, I breathed heavily through my nostrils. My vision began to blur as the tears slid over my pupils. I dropped to my knees and choked. The lump had crawled farther up my throat than ever before. I couldn't see and I couldn't breathe.

I clawed my throat trying to push the lump down with my hands. It didn't work.

I scratched my eyes, trying to pull the tears away. The pain was unbearable.

I hoped the doctor or the nurse at the welcome desk would look outside and see me. No one came. I fell to my side and tucked my knees to my chest. With no breath to hold I continued to struggle for air even after I'd decided that to suffocate was my fate. I closed my eyes with great effort and felt the tears cut the inside of my eyelids. In my mind I repeated my mantra over and over: Feelings are Human. I am allowed to Feel. The comfort it used to bring was drowned out by the sound of screams. For a moment I dared hope it was me. That in my panic the lump had disappeared and my voice had come back without my noticing. But the screaming was I'm my head. I was still choking. The lump was nearly in my mouth now, it crushed my uvula and flattened my tongue. Yet still it crawled, undeterred.

This comforted me, the lump would work its way out and if I was lucky I'd have enough heartbeats left to start breathing again. My mind began to accept this yet I still heard the screaming. Then I realized the sound was coming from my mouth but not my voice.

It was the lump.

Whatever was crawling out of my throat and between my teeth was screaming. The sound reverberated in my skull and I opened my eyes in renewed panic. I strained to see but the tears continued to blind me. My hands released my knees and flew to my mouth. I reached my fingers passed my teeth and felt the barbs of the lump in my throat. They dug into my fingers and seemed to grip of their own accord. I pulled as hard as I could. The lump scratched its way across my tongue until it released my fingers and gripped my teeth.

I rolled onto my stomach and tried to cough with what little air my lungs still possessed. The barbs shot out and covered my lips, using them as leverage to pull itself out. With a sickening shlorp the lump emerged from my mouth, screaming like a newborn. Finally I sucked in a harsh and painful gasp of air before coughing hard and rolling onto my back in exhaustion.

I felt the wetness of the lump still on my face as it crawled up my cheeks. My eyes were wide with pain and terror yet I still couldn’t see beyond the tears. The barbs that had gripped my fingers and teeth pricked my cheeks as it moved towards my eyes. Then the screaming stopped and I felt something new: something rough and warm like a cat's tongue. It lapped around my eyes as if searching before it began licking my open eyes. I tried screaming but my throat was too raw for anything but a shallow rasp. At first the pain which I had become accustomed to in my panic was renewed. It was sharp as the lump's tongue moved my tears across my eyes.

Then the pain began to fade. The lump was drinking my thick painful tears right out of my eyes. A feeling of relief rushed through me and I began to cry again, but instead of pain from my tears I felt soothed as the lump licked them away before they could slice my eyes more.

Slowly, my vision returned. First I saw solid colors, then shapes, then the only thing obscuring my vision was the lump still drinking my tears.

I could see it in full now. It was a harsh black, so dark it seemed like a void. The barbs pricking my skin were thinner than a strand of hair and in abundance all over its surface. It had no eyes but the tongue it licked me with emerged from a wide mouth that seemed more like a large crack in its shell of a body. The cat's tongue it possessed was just as pitch black as its outer surface only it was matte dry while the outside shone with a wetness I assumed came from my saliva.

It was utterly disgusting, but something about the soothing feel of the tongue made me laugh instead of wretch. It started as a soft rumble in my chest that hurt my burning lungs, but within moments I was laughing deliriously. This was the third emotion I'd felt that brought tears to my eyes and the lump never seemed to lack enthusiasm as it cleaned my tears away for me.

Before long I calmed down, my tears stopped welling, and the lump closed its mouth which became imperceptible from the rest of its body.

I stared at it for a while in silence. If it had eyes I'm sure it would've been staring back. Once it became clear to us both that I would not be producing any more tears, the lump opened its mouth and let out a scream, the same painful sound it made as it birthed from my mouth. I flinched and turned my head sharply causing the lump to fall off my face. Its screaming was interrupted by a moment's hesitation before it leaned back, screaming again, and used its barbs to roll away.

I watched in shock as in a confused serpentine pattern it rolled towards the clinic.

The automatic doors opened and the lump rolled in, still screaming. Once the doors closed and I could no longer hear the screams my shock vanished and I quickly got to my feet and ran inside the clinic.

I asked the nurse if she'd seen something roll in screaming but she just looked at me and reached for the emergency landline within her small, windowed office. She pressed the number nine before we both jumped at the sound of a scream. But it wasn't the same scream I'd come to know from the lump, this was a decidedly male scream of terror. We both rushed down the hall towards the sound. It had come from the observing room the doctor had seen me in. Once we reached the threshold the nurse began to scream.

Inside, laying on the floor, was the doctor. The lump was on his face licking the blood that flowed from the sockets that had once held his eyes. Its barbs dug deep into his skull, it scooped and moved aside the flesh it found there like a dog digging for a bone in its yard. I realized, sickly, that my lump was searching for tears to drink.

At the sound of the nurse's scream the lump stopped digging and, quicker than either of us could comprehend, rolled off the corpse of the doctor and made a beeline for the nurse. It used its barbs to grip her scrubs and climbed its way up her body. She screamed louder now and slammed her body back against the open door. She tried swatting at the lump as it crawled up her clothes but the barbs were far too strong and they cut into her hands causing her to bleed.

The lump made its way to her shirt and I grabbed the v-necked collar. I pulled as hard as I could and ripped her shirt down the middle. I spun her around holding the side of the shirt with my lump, pulling the shirt off her arm and wrapping my lump in the fabric. With the scrub shirt fully off her I closed the gap by grabbing the other side of the ripped fabric. The scrubs became like a sling with my lump trapped inside. I swung the sling above my head and brought it down hard on the edge of the computer desk to the side of the door. My lump began screaming so I slammed it again and again against the desk until I heard a wet crunch and the screaming stopped.

I took the bundle to the corner of the room and dropped it in the small, lidded trash can labeled with the red toxic waste sign. I turned to look at the nurse and we stared at each other for a moment, wide eyed and panting before she rushed out of the room and down the hall.

Assuming she was calling the police and accepting my fate as a murdering criminal I stayed put and stared at the marred face that had once been my doctor.

A few moments later the nurse returned, only she was wearing new scrubs and was holding a cigarette lighter. She ran to a cabinet above the desk and pulled out a bottle of Isopropyl Alcohol. She walked up next to me, avoiding looking at the doctor, opened the toxic waste bin, poured some of the alcohol onto the remains of her scrubs, lit the cigarette lighter and dropped it into the bin, igniting it immediately. A shrill squeak emitted from the remains of my lump.

The nurse then kicked the bin over and poured more alcohol onto the floor creating a trail to the corpse of the doctor. She dropped the bottle onto his chest and his body caught flames almost immediately.

I was staring at her. She looked at me, and explained that no one would believe us if we tried. Then, with the gentleness of a nurse who has dealt with patients for many years, she ushered me out of the room, closing the door as we left, down the hall, and out the main doors. We walked together to the parking lot. Once there she pulled out her mobile phone, dialed 911 and told the operator that a fire had started in the clinic and she believed the doctor was trapped.

She then told me to leave, that she would handle it. Her courage and charge of the situation was so far from what I'd expected that I simply did as I was told. I drove home, the image of the doctor's eye-less face burned into my mind, alongside another I struggled to place.

Once I was home and sat in my living room I called my father. I told him what happened, voice harsh, my throat still raw. And as I did so I thought back to the first time I'd seen him cry. My throat had hurt back then too, but in my memories there was no lump in my throat struggling to get out. Just thick, painful tears in my eyes and my father's voice sobbing into my ear; it's not your fault.

It was then, on the phone with my father, who was silent as I recounted the last hour, that I placed the second face I'd seen alongside my doctor's as I drove home. It'd been my mother's, from when I was very young and had no control over my emotions. Back then the lump hadn't scared me. The same as how a child knows to throw up when their stomach hurts without being told I knew, as a child, to let the lump crawl up my throat and lick away my tears. But my mother had not.

She had come into my room after hearing my childhood lump scream. She saw it licking my face and began to scream herself. This scared my lump, it rolled off me and up my mother's clothes. She was powerless to get it off and I was powerless to stop it as its barbs dug out my mother's eyes in front of me and she collapsed dead on my bedroom floor.

My father had arrived, following my mother's screams and my cries, he took one of my children's books and beat my lump to death. Then he held me, sobbing wet streams of hot, human tears onto my back as he held me. All the while saying over and over it's not your fault.

I asked him, while he was on the phone: was it my fault?

Feelings are Human, he told me. You are allowed to Feel.

I do not cry. Not anymore.

End

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If you made it to the end, thank you so much for reading my first story on this page! I hope you enjoyed it!

-W. Rabbit, Esq