hoodedboy79

[hoodedboy79]

I heard u were asking for fic requests

I got one 4 u (im sorry if tis makes you uncomfortable !!!)

May you do a papers please fic of Reader x the vengeful father ??

'Vengeful Father'/Reader

Sorry it took me so long!

-(GN Reader)-

===========

‘Entry is not guaranteed.’

Outside, the cold bites through gloves, but inside, it's warm. Not a cozy or inviting warm, but warm nonetheless. The silence between the buzzers is heavier than usual.

Everything seems to be going slower than usual.

"Next."

The man who steps forward doesn't look unusual at first—black coat, weathered face, tired eyes like so many others, but laced with something more haunted. And then he speaks.

"Simon Wens. You know him?"

You glance up. His voice is cold, almost shaking. Not from fear. From restraint.

You blink, eyes flicking from his face to the small, crumpled photo in his trembling hand.

A girl—young, smiling, clutching a stuffed toy. There's a ribbon in her hair. Her eyes are alive in a way her father's will never be again.

"Simon Wens took her from me," he says, voice clipped. Controlled. "I follow him for many weeks. I know he comes here soon."

The silence stretches like a held breath. Somewhere behind you, the radiator lets out a single groan.

"It is big favor I ask," he murmurs, laying the photo on the counter like it might break. "But is important. Let him through if you see him. But take his passport first."

You stare at the photo longer than you mean to. Long enough for the man to quietly step away, his coat swallowed by the gray crowd outside.

"I come back."

And just like that, he's gone.

---

Day 30

The lines blur.

Paperwork passes like the slow drip of a leaking tap—one at a time, steady, endless. You're stamping without really seeing. Your eyes keep darting to the photo tucked under your desk.

Julia.

You don't know her. You won't. But you remember the way her father's hand shook. The way he said 'My Julia.'

Another passport is handed over.

Simon Wens.

The name is printed cleanly across the page. Too clean.

You look up. The man is unremarkable. Calm. No warmth behind the eyes. No remorse.

Your hand hesitates.

You take the passport.

Slide it into your drawer.

A silent warning flares in your head— the 'Detain' button stares at you.

The stamp hovers in your grip. A single beat. Then it falls.

Approved.

A soft buzz confirms the decision.

Citation: Wanted criminal let through.

The red light flares briefly, like a quiet accusation. You ignore it.

Wens takes his papers with the air of a man who believes the world owes him silence. And just like that, he's gone.

---

The line thins.

Then ends.

And then he returns.

The man from before. Julia's father.

His presence is heavier now. Not anger. Not even grief. Something quieter. Something like purpose.

"Did you see him?" he asks.

You nod, slowly. Pull the passport from the drawer and pass it across.

He takes it carefully, running his thumb along the edges like he's trying to feel the shape of justice. Then he places his own passport in front of you. You stamp it without a word.

"Thank you."

A beat.

"Now please… give back my daughter's photo. I show it to him while he suffers."

You retrieve it gently. He takes it like a relic.

"My Julia."

He pauses again. Then reaches into his coat pocket and sets a small token on the counter—a silver coin bearing the mark of the United Federation.

"For your help."

He turns to leave.

But before he does, he glances back at you. Something unreadable behind his eyes.

"You… are brave."

His voice is quiet. And sincere.

Then he's gone.

---

Day 31

The paper headline reads:

'MAN FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY. CONFUSING MESS. AUTHORITIES BAFFLED.'

You read it twice.

Then fold it, carefully.

The token sits beside your coffee. Cold. Silent. Heavy.

You're not sure why you don't put it away.

---

Day 34

You don't expect to see him again.

But late in the day, as the line wanes, he appears.

The same black coat. Same worn face. But something softer in the eyes now. Like the storm has passed, and all that's left is wreckage.

"Hello," he says, voice lower than before.

You look up.

"I was… nearby." He hesitates. "I thought I would thank you again. In person."

You nod. "You already did."

"I know," he murmurs. "But I owed you more."

A pause stretches between you. You watch him shift on his feet, unsure what to do with his hands.

He takes a breath.

"She would've liked you," he says quietly. "Julia. She was… kind."

You don't speak. But your gaze softens.

He doesn't stay long. Just long enough to leave something small—a folded note, left on the corner of your desk. And then he leaves without waiting for you to read it.

You wait until the last person has gone before you unfold it.

Inside, in a child’s handwriting:

'I love you Daddy.'

And beneath it, in his steadier hand:

"I do not know if I will see you again.

But if I do… perhaps you'll allow me to buy you a warm drink.

Just to say thank you.

—M."

You tuck the note away, carefully, next to Julia's photo.

And for the first time in days, when the buzzer rings…

Your hands don’t shake.

==========

Hope this was decent and what was expected!

I've reopened my anonymous asks (I forget I had them closed), and I am making my way through the requests, thank you to anyone who did request btw, but it might take a bit since I'm currently doing exams and things, thank you for the patience though!

Requests are still open.

[hoodedboy79]

Begging for requests again because I have absolutely no ideas, and I've been AWOL for a while sorry about that 😭

I'll write for:

Assassins Creed (Syndicate and Origins mostly, but I'll do any of them)

Papers Please

Vampyr

Fable (Is anyone even in this fandom anymore??)

Cabaret

Honestly I'll write for most things just shoot me a request and I'll see what I can do, I'm desperate for ideas.

(I'm a Male/GN reader blog so please keep that in mind)

[hoodedboy79]

"Next" Inspector & Calensk Pt.2

Finally got around to making a part 2. Honestly I had fun writing this so maybe I'll continue it eventually if I can think of where to go with it.

Also not proof read, so apologies for any mistakes again.

===========

The morning was bleak. The cold gnawed at the Inspector’s fingers as he flipped through passport pages, his mind as numb as his hands.

Stamp. Denied.

Stamp. Approved.

Stamp. Detained.

The cycle continued.

He barely registered the sound of approaching boots until a familiar voice broke the monotony.

"Morning, Inspector."

Calensk.

The Inspector didn’t look up immediately, finishing the document in front of him. When he did, Calensk was standing at the edge of the booth, hands shoved into his coat pockets, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

"You always show up unannounced," the Inspector muttered, not unkindly.

Calensk exhaled a puff of smoke and smirked. "Maybe I like surprising you."

The Inspector let out a quiet huff, shaking his head.

A small silence stretched between them, the kind that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. Then, without preamble, Calensk reached into his pocket and placed something on the counter.

The Inspector glanced down.

A single 10-credit note.

"You detained ten people," Calensk said simply. "Good work."

The Inspector picked up the note, running his thumb over the worn paper. "That many?"

Calensk shrugged. "People get desperate in the winter. Makes our job easier."

The Inspector pocketed the money and leaned back in his chair. "And your wife? She is better?"

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Calensk’s face. He tapped the ash from his cigarette before answering.

"She is managing." A pause. "Yours?"

The Inspector hesitated. He could feel Calensk watching him, waiting.

"She does what she can," he finally admitted. "For our son. For her mother. For me."

Calensk nodded slightly, as if he understood something that hadn’t been said.

The checkpoint alarm blared.

The moment was gone.

"You should get to your post," the Inspector said, adjusting his chair.

Calensk smirked, the expression faint but there. "Always sending me away, Inspector."

The Inspector didn’t respond, but he didn’t look away either.

Calensk let out a quiet chuckle before turning on his heel, disappearing into the cold.

The Inspector pressed the buzzer.

"Next."

---

The hours passed in a blur.

One Kolechian diplomat tried to bribe him. He refused.

One mother pleaded to see her children. He hesitated. Then denied her.

One man cursed him, spat at his booth. A gun smacked into his temple shortly after.

Another stamp. Another decision.

At some point, the day faded into evening.

His back ached. His fingers felt stiff. He reached under his desk for his coat, ready to leave, when a familiar voice stopped him.

"Wait."

He turned.

Calensk was back.

The Inspector raised an eyebrow. "Forget something?"

Calensk didn’t answer immediately. He pulled a small tin from his pocket, shaking out a cigarette before lighting it.

"You walk home, yes?"

The Inspector frowned. "Yes."

Calensk exhaled smoke, looking at him for a moment before speaking again.

"Then I walk with you."

The Inspector blinked. "Why?"

Calensk took another drag, then smirked, the expression laced with something that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Maybe I like surprising you."

The Inspector let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. But he didn’t say no.

They walked in silence, boots crunching against the snow. The air was sharp, their breath visible in the dim light of streetlamps.

The Inspector kept his hands deep in his coat pockets, his body hunched against the cold.

Beside him, Calensk walked with that same indifferent stride, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then, almost too quietly, Calensk said, "Your son. He will be fine."

The Inspector glanced at him.

Calensk didn’t look back.

For the first time that day, the Inspector felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.

Something dangerously close to warmth.

They walked in silence, the cold pressing against them like an unrelenting weight. The streets were nearly empty, save for the occasional silhouette of another worker trudging home. Arstotzka was not a city that welcomed loitering.

The Inspector exhaled slowly, his breath curling in the frigid air. "I didn't realize you cared so much about my son."

Calensk scoffed, flicking the cigarette away. "I don't."

The Inspector glanced at him, unimpressed.

Calensk rolled his shoulders, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "Sick children are bad for work. If you are tired, you make mistakes. If you make mistakes, people get through who should not. Then I must clean up your mess."

The excuse was thin. Too thin.

The Inspector hummed, unconvinced. "Ah. Of course."

A tense pause. Then Calensk huffed, shaking his head. "Do not read into it, Inspector. It is not personal."

"Of course not," the Inspector said, his voice carefully neutral.

They continued walking, the rhythmic crunch of their boots filling the void of conversation. The checkpoint loomed behind them, a place where duty ruled and everything—everything—had to be impersonal.

But here, in the frozen quiet of the city, things blurred. The lines that separated duty from something more became harder to define.

Calensk suddenly stopped in front of an alley, reaching into his coat. The Inspector tensed out of instinct before Calensk pulled out a small, wrapped bundle.

He shoved it into the Inspector’s hands.

The Inspector looked down at it. The weight was familiar. A loaf of bread. Wrapped in old newspaper, the ink smudged from the cold.

"From my wife," Calensk muttered, eyes darting away. "Again."

The Inspector frowned. "I can’t keep—"

"Take it," Calensk snapped. Then, quieter, "She will not stop sending it. It is easier if you take it."

The Inspector hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Tell her thank you."

Calensk’s jaw tightened, but he gave a small nod. "She does not know it is for you."

The Inspector blinked.

"She thinks I have extra shifts. That I eat at work," Calensk continued, voice gruff. "It is better this way."

A strange, quiet tension settled between them.

The Inspector felt the rough edges of the paper beneath his fingers, the warmth of the bread still lingering despite the cold. It was too much. But he would take it anyway.

He had to.

Calensk took a step back, adjusting his coat. "I will walk you no further."

The Inspector nodded. "You have a long way back."

Calensk’s lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "And you do not?"

The Inspector didn’t answer.

Calensk held his gaze for a moment longer before turning on his heel.

The Inspector watched him go, his figure disappearing into the dim glow of streetlights.

Then, with a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the bread and continued walking.

---

The next morning, the Inspector arrived at the checkpoint early.

The cold was worse today. The frost clung to his booth’s window, thick and stubborn. He rubbed at the glass, trying to clear it, but the frost refused to fully fade.

He sighed, settling into his chair.

"Morning."

The Inspector barely had time to register the voice before Calensk appeared at the booth, a fresh cigarette between his lips.

The Inspector huffed. "I should start charging you for these visits."

Calensk smirked. "And yet, you never do."

The Inspector shook his head, pulling out the day's paperwork. "What is it this time?"

Calensk leaned against the counter, tapping ash onto the ground. "A man will come through today. Do not detain him."

The Inspector stilled. "Why?"

Calensk didn’t answer.

"Calensk."

Still, silence.

The Inspector’s grip on his stamp tightened. "If he’s a Kolechian agent—"

"He is not," Calensk interrupted. "And you ask too many questions."

The Inspector stared at him, trying to read whatever was hidden behind that hardened expression.

Calensk finally sighed. "He is…a friend. He has done things for me. You understand?"

The Inspector did. All too well.

He exhaled slowly. "You are asking me to risk my job."

"I am telling you to," Calensk corrected. "You can always say you did not see the discrepancy. Or maybe you were…tired."

The Inspector’s jaw clenched. "That would be careless."

"Yes," Calensk agreed. "But then again, you are only human, yes?"

Their eyes met.

A challenge. A test.

A quiet understanding.

The Inspector finally sighed. "This man—he will have papers?"

"Yes. Good ones. But you will find something, if you look too close."

The Inspector pressed his fingers to his temple. "You are going to be the reason I get executed one day."

Calensk smirked, pushing away from the booth. "Then at least I will not be bored."

And with that, he was gone.

The Inspector exhaled sharply, staring down at his desk.

He pressed the buzzer.

"Next."

==========

Hope this was decent!

Ao3: Hoodedboy79

[hoodedboy79]

Krystof 'Firebreak' Hejek hc's

Finished this on the bus. I'm so sad half term is over 🥲

-(GN Reader)-

==========

• If you’re not a merc, don’t even think about being friends with Krystof. He doesn’t deal with civilians.

• He takes an interest in people who don’t back down. If you can meet his intense stare without flinching or insist on sitting with him at lunch despite the way he glares, you might catch his attention. Most men twice his size wouldn’t dare, but if you do, he’ll notice.

• If you speak Czech, he won’t make a big deal out of it, but he’ll appreciate it. Not because he’s sentimental—he just likes being able to shit-talk freely without worrying about his English or keeping his voice down.

• Krystof doesn’t have grand realizations about friendship. If he cares about you, it’ll hit him in a quiet moment—maybe when you’re patching him up, sharing a meal, or shutting down teammates who think you’re insane for befriending Firebreak of all people.

• He has serious trust issues, so he watches everything you do. Small things you don’t even think about might rub him the wrong way, and once that happens, regaining his trust is almost impossible.

• If you have a fascination with fire, he’ll respect that. Maybe even insist on showing you its true power—how quickly it consumes, how unstoppable it really is. But this isn’t some casual interest to him; fire is everything.

• It would take years before he talks about his sister, his father, or his absent mother.

• If he ever trusts you enough, he might even show you the one family picture he managed to keep through prison—though he won’t say much about it.

• If you insult his father or understand why Krystof did what he did, he’ll get excited. The officers who handled his case offered empty sympathy about the abuse he and Marika endured but still condemned his actions. Hearing someone actually agree with him? That’s rare. And refreshing.

• Krystof isn’t the type to outright say, 'You’re my friend', or show his care through some grand gesture or heartfelt speech. Instead, it would be something small, like calling you by a nickname in Czech, or standing up for you when someone doubts your skills.

• He might let you in on a secret that no one else knows—not anything major, but something that makes it clear he trusts you more than others.

• Firebreak isn’t big on thank-yous, but he still finds a way to show appreciation in his own way—fixing your gear, giving you an extra ration of food during a mission, or wordlessly stepping between you and a potential threat. Things he wouldn't do for just anyone.

• Overall, Krystof is a tough man to crack—and a friendship with him takes a while to achieve. A true slow-burn deal. But it's worth it in the end, since when you are considered Firebreak's friend, you always have someone watching your back, both on and off the field.

=========

I've had this in my drafts since last year, and only just finished them 💀

Hope this was decent!

[hoodedboy79]

"Next"/Inspector & Calensk

I still believe in Calensk supremacy 🛐

Also this isn't proof read so my bad for any mistakes.

=========

Repetitive.

That was the only word that came to the Inspector's mind as he continued checking passports, stamping documents, and listening to the same tired excuses, threats, and desperate pleas.

Some begged, others got too personal, spilling their misfortunes to a stranger who had neither the power nor the will to help them. A few tried intimidation, but most just pleaded, hoping he’d ignore the discrepancies that would have them detained.

It was a monotonous job.

"Good morning."

Startled, the Inspector looked up at the gruff voice.

Calensk stood at the booth’s entrance, his expression as hardened and indifferent as ever. A hastily rolled cigarette dangled between his fingers, but before stepping inside, he flicked it into the snow.

Before the Inspector could return the greeting, Calensk reached into his pocket and placed something on the counter.

A single 5-credit note.

"You detained five people. Well done," he said, nodding, his mouth curling up just slightly—almost impressed.

He promised 10 credits last time.

"This is not enough."

"Yes, I know."

Calensk sighed, hesitating for a moment before continuing.

"My wife sick now. Neighbor spreads the flu." He gestured toward the note. "This is what is left after medicine."

A pause.

"I give you rest next time. Maybe you detain more people to make it easier," he added with a listless shrug before stalking off back to his post.

The Inspector pocketed the note without a word.

"Next."

---

The snow thickened as the Inspector trudged to work, his boots sinking with each step. The cold wasn’t just biting—it seeped into his bones.

Arstotzka was always cold, but today felt worse.

His house wasn't much warmer. Thin blankets barely helped, and his family huddled together at night for warmth, but it was never enough. With winter rolling in, they would have to turn the heat on soon, but they couldn't afford it. His son had already spent too many nights shivering.

That was why he forced himself out the door every morning.

That, and the man leaning against his booth.

"Morning," the Inspector muttered as he unlocked the door, stepping inside.

Calensk followed, closing the door behind them.

"You look tired," he observed as the Inspector slumped into his chair.

"Son was sick again. Kept us up during the night."

Calensk hummed in acknowledgment, eyes scanning the Inspector’s weary face. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard about the boy’s illness.

"The cold gets to him easy. The lack of food doesn’t help." The Inspector exhaled sharply, looking away. "My wife and her mother try to keep him warm, try to keep him from catching anything from the neighbors, but it hasn’t worked."

Calensk didn’t respond right away. He knew medicine was expensive. Too expensive. It was why he’d turned to certain… alternatives to make extra money. And he could see the toll it was taking on the Inspector, too.

Before he could say anything, the checkpoint alarm blared, signaling the start of the workday.

"You should get to your post," the Inspector said, voice lighter now. "Boss will have your head if he notices you're not."

Calensk scoffed, unbothered by the thinly veiled threat. Without another word, he stepped outside.

The Inspector pressed the buzzer.

"Next."

"Entry is not guaranteed."

"Next."

"Please have your papers ready."

More people came through. More were turned away. As usual, curses and insults were hurled his way.

A typical day.

Another buzzer press. Another hopeful face.

This one was different.

A rough-looking man strode in, his posture skittish but his steps confident.

Before the Inspector could ask for his documents, something was shoved into his hands.

"DEATH TO ARSTOTZKA!"

The man bolted back into Kolechia.

The Inspector barely had time to process what had just happened.

Then he heard it.

Ticking.

His eyes snapped to the box on his desk. His breath caught in his throat.

"What is going on?"

Calensk’s voice cut through the moment.

The Inspector turned, panic barely concealed. Calensk followed his gaze—then scoffed.

"Oh. Hah."

"What is this amateur shit?"

He stepped closer, peering down at the bomb like it was an insult rather than a threat.

"Should we evacuate?" the Inspector asked.

"For that little thing? No, of course not."

"Just disable it. Open the cover."

The Inspector hesitated, but did as he was told. His hands trembled slightly as he removed the panel.

"Stupid fucking terrorists," Calensk muttered, unimpressed. "Could not even add a display."

The Inspector glanced at him. "How do you know so much about bombs?"

Calensk ignored the question.

"This is the poorest bomb I ever seen. A simple mind created this."

He pulled a pair of pliers from his coat and shoved them through the paper slot.

"Just cut the wires in order."

With unsteady hands, the Inspector followed his instructions. One by one, the wires snapped.

Then—silence.

The ticking stopped.

The Inspector let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Ok. All done—back to work."

"We should close the checkpoint."

"Bullshit. I need to earn money today."

The unspoken 'So do you' lingered between them.

"Give bomb to me."

The Inspector blinked. "What?"

"I sell materials and give you a cut."

A pause. Then, wordlessly, the Inspector slid the bomb forward. Calensk grabbed it, tucking it under his jacket.

"What a piece of shit," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Doubt it’s even worth much."

He turned to leave.

"Call the next immigrant."

"Next."

---

"Inspector."

Calensk always had a habit of appearing without warning.

The Inspector barely looked up from the disorganized stack of papers in front of him.

"What now, Calensk?"

A brown paper bag landed on his desk.

"Here."

The Inspector finally glanced up, eyes narrowing. "What is this?"

"Food. From my wife. Bread and lard. She made extra." Calensk hesitated, then added, "For your son. Good for colds."

The Inspector stared at the bag.

Gratitude felt foreign these days. Like a muscle he hadn’t used in years.

"Thank you." His voice was quiet. Sincere.

Calensk waved it off. "You look worse than usual."

The Inspector huffed a tired chuckle. "You’re full of advice today."

"Somebody has to be."

The radio crackled. A voice barked out orders: a Kolechian diplomat was expected soon.

Calensk scowled. "Diplomats. Pieces of shit. Always think they’re better than the rest of us."

The Inspector smirked faintly in agreement.

Calensk turned to leave, but the Inspector called after him.

"Be careful with that… thing you took earlier."

Calensk glanced back, smirking. "Don’t worry about me, Inspector. Worry about your lines."

Then he was gone, his boots crunching in the snow.

The Inspector shook his head, returning to his work.

As he pressed his stamp onto the next document, he realized something.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel entirely alone.

"Next."

========

I'm starting to get writer's block again and just losing motivation in general, but I might write a part 2 to this if anyone wants it before I fall off the face of the earth for another 3 months 💀

Hope this was decent!

[hoodedboy79]

"A world without trans people has never existed and never will"

Poster spotted in Olympia, WA

[hoodedboy79]

Vampyr Masterlist

(Jonathan Reid x Male Reader)

=======

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

[hoodedboy79]

Part 5

Not my favourite but hopefully I'll get part 6 done soon.

-(Male Reader)-

=========

The docks were never quiet, even at this hour. Water lapped against the embankments, chains rattled on ships moored further downriver, and a few drunken voices carried from alleyways where men pissed against walls and swayed unsteadily in the dark.

Jonathan would be safe enough in the Turtle. Tom Watts wasn’t the sort to ask questions unless you gave him reason to. The poor sod looked like he’d had the worst night of his life—probably had—but that was none of his concern now.

He needed to get back.

Edwina didn’t take kindly to him disappearing for hours on end, even if it meant dodging the Priwen or keeping their little operations from getting tangled up in the wrong sort of trouble. She liked to know where he was, what he was doing, and more importantly, if he was bringing back anything worth the effort.

His boots scuffed against the cobbles as he rounded a corner, ducking into one of the many maze-like back alleys of the East End. The stink of rotting fish and coal soot was stronger here, mixing with the acrid bite of damp brick and piss-soaked wood. Not the worst he’d smelled, not by a long shot.

He passed a slumped figure wrapped in rags, face half-hidden under a threadbare cap. The man barely stirred as he walked by, too lost to drink or hunger to care. The streets had always been like this to varying degrees but now it was the most common sight, and not just in the East End—the war had seen to that. Too many men never came back, and those that did often wished they hadn’t. Easier to drown yourself in gin than try to claw your way back into a world that had moved on without you.

The hideout wasn’t far. Just past a set of old warehouses, tucked behind a half-collapsed tenement that no one had lived in for years. A convenient place to keep out of sight, though it meant sharing space with rats and the occasional desperate bastard looking for shelter.

When he reached the door, he gave two sharp knocks, then a third, slower than the others.

Silence.

Then the scrape of wood against wood, followed by a muttered curse and the faint shuffle of footsteps. The door cracked open, and a pair of sharp eyes peered out from the gloom.

“Finally decided to show your face, did you?”

Edwina.

The door swung wider, revealing her scowling face framed by the dim glow of a single oil lamp. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other gripping the edge of the door, looking him over like she was deciding whether or not to brain him with something heavy.

He grinned. “Miss me?”

“Thought you'd got yourself done in.” She stepped aside, letting him pass before shoving the door closed behind him. “You been pissin' about all night, or did you actually do something useful?”

“Bit of both,” he admitted, pulling off his hat and shaking out the damp. “Ran into some trouble with the Priwen. Bastards were swarming like rats near the old warehouses. Had to take a few detours.”

She folded her arms. “And?”

He shrugged, moving toward the small table in the center of the room, where an assortment of odds and ends were scattered—things they’d nicked, things they hadn’t found buyers for yet. He reached into his coat pocket and tossed the few shillings from earlier onto the table with a clatter.

“Got these off a body,” he said, nodding towards it. “Not a bad haul, if you ask me.”

Edwina glanced at the coins, then back at him with a raised brow. “Yeah, well, good thing I ain't. That all? No jewellery? Not even a bleedin’ ring?”

“Not every stiff comes gift-wrapped, darlin’.”

She gave a short, dry laugh, rolling the shillings between her fingers. “S’pose it’ll do—for now. If they weren’t still wet with blood, I might’ve thought you’d actually earned ‘em.”

He smirked but said nothing.

Edwina flicked her cigarette ash into a tin, setting the coins down with a careless clink. “If I find out you’re bringin’ heat back here, I’ll have your guts for garters.”

“Since when do I cause trouble?”

That got him a look, sharp as glass.

Fair enough.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the man he’d left at the Turtle. Posh accent, doctor’s hands, looked like he’d been through hell and wasn’t sure if he’d come out the other side yet. Wouldn’t last long in the docks, not looking like that. Not unless he got real smart, real quick.

Didn’t matter. Not his business.

“You done gawpin’ at the walls?” Edwina muttered, watching him through the haze of smoke.

“Long night.”

She scoffed, flicking the last of her cigarette into the tin. “They’re all long.” She pushed off from the table, nodding toward the far side of the room. “Get your head down. You ain’t no use t’me dead on yer feet.”

He tipped his hat at her, smirking. “As you say, boss.”

She muttered something under her breath, shaking her head as she left into the street, most likely to go and see Booth—not something he was going to mention, he enjoyed his life too much to do something so suicidal.

He let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face. He’d think about the rest tomorrow. For now, he’d sleep and pretend, just for a little while, that none of it mattered. Pretend that his mind didn't keep going back to that doctor—and wondering if he'd be reading about the bloke being found gutted in the streets outside the Turtle in the morning paper.

But again, not his business.

=========

This is also available on my Ao3 (under the same username).

Hope this wasn't too bad!

Finally figured out how to do a masterlist 💀

[hoodedboy79]

Part 4

-(Male Reader)-

========

Jonathan barely had time to compose himself—or hide anything—before the door swung open, revealing his 'companion' standing in the threshold, one hand braced against the frame. His eyes swept the room, first landing on the slumped corpse in the chair, then on the gun still clutched in Jonathan's, surprisingly, steady grip.

The man let out a low whistle. "Didn't think you had it in you," he muttered. "Not that I blame you, this place reeks of bad luck. Did you put another hole in 'im just for good measure?"

Jonathan swallowed, forcing himself to hide his shock. "No," he said, his voice barely steady. He slid the revolver into his pocket, an uneasingly familiar motion. "I...I thought I saw something."

The man just cocked his head, his brow furrowed. "Right," he said slowly. "I'd be more concerned if you weren't seeing things. This house's got death steeped into the floorboards."

Jonathan wasn't sure if the man believed him or not, but there wasn't time to dwell on it. The sounds of shouting outside had grown louder, more urgent. The Priwen were close. Too close.

Then, as if fate itself was mocking them, the telltale sound of a door being kicked in downstairs echoed through the house.

"Shit," the man hissed. His hand instinctively went to his belt, where Jonathan now noticed the hilt of a rusted blade peeking from beneath his coat. "We need to go. Now."

Jonathan's thoughts were still tangled in the impossibility of what had just happened, but survival instincts kicked in. He forced himself to move, his body stiff and unwilling, but moving nonetheless.

"The back," the man was already turning toward the hallway. "Most of these places have got a way out—windows, doors to the alley. You good on your feet, or am I gonna have to drag you?"

Jonathan straightened, pushing aside the lingering haze of his failed attempt at escape. "I can move."

The two of them hurried out of the room, their footsteps careful but quick. Below them, the sounds of the Priwen moving through the house were unmistakable—the heavy boots, the scraping of weapons being drawn, the hushed but urgent voices.

"They're here," a voice grunted from the bottom of the stairs. "Spread out. The leech won't get far."

Jonathan's chest tightened. He glanced at the man, who was already moving toward a door at the end of the hall. "Come on," he urged in a whisper.

They slipped into what seemed to be an old study, filled with stacks of rotting books and broken furniture. The graverobber wasted no time, moving toward a grimy window that overlooked the alleyway behind the house.

"Shit," he muttered, peering through the glass. "Bars."

Jonathan clenched his jaw. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. It was never that easy.

The sound of creaking steps behind them signaled they were running out of time. Jonathan glanced around the room, his gaze landing on a battered old writing desk pushed against the far wall. The wood was warped, and one of the legs was broken, but—yes. The faintest glimmer of moonlight seeped through the cracks of what looked like a narrow crawlspace beneath it.

"There," Jonathan whispered, pointing.

The man followed his gaze. His eyes widened slightly, then he grinned. "Smart lad." He wasted no time, crouching low and pushing the desk aside with surprising strength. Beneath it, a small, half-rotted wooden door was set into the floor—probably an old servant's entrance, long forgotten.

Jonathan bent down, gripping the edge. It groaned in protest as he pulled, but it gave way with one final heave. The stench of damp stone and rot hit him immediately, the space below leading to what seemed to be a narrow passage beneath the house.

"No idea where this goes," the man admitted, eyeing the dark hole warily. "Could be a rat's nest for all I know."

"Better a rat's nest than a pyre," Jonathan murmured.

He grinned again. "Fair point."

Footsteps thundered down the hall.

Jonathan didn't hesitate. He slipped down into the passage first, the cold stone pressing against his hands as he lowered himself into the darkness. The man followed quickly, pulling the door shut behind them just as the study door swung open.

They held their breath.

"Nothing here," one of the Priwen men grunted. "But he's close."

A long silence. Then another voice, sharper, commanding. "Check the alley. If the bastard's hiding in the shadows, we'll drag him into the light."

Jonathan exhaled slowly as the boots retreated.

The man let out a quiet chuckle. "Well, that was close."

Jonathan shot him a sharp look. The man only shrugged. "This way," he said, gesturing down the narrow, crumbling passage. "Let's see where the rats scurry, shall we?"

Jonathan nodded, and together they vanished into the dark.

The passage stank of damp earth and the sour tang of stagnant water, the kind that clung to your clothes and never quite washed out—it didn't help that the passage was suffocatingly narrow either.

And then—

The world shifted.

It was like a fog had lifted from his vision, revealing something unnatural beneath. The dark passage was suddenly 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘳, though it wasn’t sight as he had known it before.

The walls faded into a dull grey, the air thick with floating motes of red—𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥. Trails of it, like threads winding through the shadows, pulsing softly in the gloom.

It's like all the colour was sucked from his eyes all of a sudden.

Jonathan staggered, gripping the damp wall for balance. His heart pounded. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?

“You alright?” The man had paused ahead, watching him with a raised brow.

Jonathan swallowed hard, forcing himself to straighten. “I—yes.”

He tore his gaze from the glowing streaks of crimson that lined the floor, the walls, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

He could see it. The blood in his veins. Moving. Flowing.

Could see and 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 the man's heart beating in his chest.

His hunger twisted inside him, sharp and gnawing.

He clenched his jaw and pressed on.

Jonathan moved carefully, his footsteps uneven as exhaustion and his concealed hunger gnawed at him. But the man pressed on ahead, forcing Jonathan to keep up—moving like a man who knew the streets beneath the streets.

Jonathan kept his voice low. "You seem to know your way around."

The man glanced back, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Wouldn't be much of a graverobber if I didn't, would I? When you do what I do, you learn quick—where the bodies get dumped, which streets got cellars no one checks, and most importantly, which piss-pot hidey-holes keep you out of trouble."

'𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘳?' Jonathan struggled to keep up with all of this, it made sense, sure? And of course Jonathan had heard of the profession—if you could call it that—but to meet a man so blatant with it, so willing to admit to such impropriety, was baffling.

The man stopped briefly, crouching to feel along the dirt wall, his fingers pressing against the damp stone. "Aye, here we go," he muttered, and with a bit of effort, he wrenched a loose slab to the side, revealing a narrow opening.

Jonathan hesitated, peering past the man into the gloom beyond. "And this leads...where, exactly?"

The graverobber chuckled, brushing the dust off his hands. "Out, if we're lucky. Close to the docks. That's where we need to be."

The East End Docks. Jonathan vaguely recalled them from his time before the war—though he had little reason to visit back then. A place thick with dockhands, sailors, and men who made their living on the wrong side of the law, men very different to him and the usual company he was expected to keep.

If his guide knew the area well, it meant he was either born to it or had spent long enough skulking in the filth to call it home. Either way, the man had saved his skin thus far, and Jonathan wasn't about to argue with survival.

Suddenly, the passage widened into a crumbling brick archway, and the graverobber led him up a short flight of slick stone steps. He paused at the top, glancing back at Jonathan with a finger pressed to his lips.

Jonathan barely had time to register the warning before the man pushed open a rusted old gate, its hinges groaning in protest. They stepped out into the night air, the scent of salt and coal smoke instantly replacing the damp stink of the tunnel. They had emerged into a tight alley wedged between two warehouses, the wooden walls swollen and warped with years of exposure to the polluted air.

The graverobber exhaled, stretching his arms before shaking out his shoulders. "Right then. We keep our heads down and get to the Turtle." He cast Jonathan a sideways look, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hat. "You 𝘥𝘰 know the Turtle, yeah?"

Jonathan frowned. "No."

The man snorted. "Figures. You got the look of someone who used to drink at places with white tablecloths and piano music." He adjusted his coat. "Turquoise Turtle's a pub, one of the better ones 'round here. Blokes like me keep their heads down there. No one asks too many questions, which-" he gestured vaguely at Jonathan's bloodied state "-seems like a bit of a necessity for you, doc."

Jonathan tensed. "How did you-"

"Oh, don't look so startled." The graverobber started walking, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "Your clothes ain't right for a dockhand, your hands ain't calloused enough for proper graft, and when you talk, you sound like you've spent more time lecturing in a hall than brawling in the street. Plus, you looked at that watch like it meant something, not like you were just thinking about what it'd fetch in a pawn shop. Posh types like you don't end up in places like this unless somethin's gone very, very wrong."

Jonathan said nothing. The man wasn't wrong, sadly. Something 𝘩𝘢𝘥 gone very, very wrong—if only he knew what himself.

They kept to the shadows, ducking behind crates and stacks of rotting fishing nets as they worked their way through the winding streets. The Priwen were still out, their patrols sweeping through the docks in twos and threes, torches held high, their voices carrying over the night air.

Jonathan felt the unexplainable hunger gnawing at his insides again, the dull ache growing sharper with every step. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to focus. Now wasn’t the time to lose control, not again, 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

He forced himself to ignore the streaks of blood decorating the cobblestone beneath his feet—for now.

The man led him through a tight warren of alleyways, weaving through the maze of wooden structures that lined the riverfront. A couple of drunks staggered past at one point, oblivious to their presence, and in the distance, the chiming bells of St. Mary’s echoed faintly through the fog.

Finally, the man stopped, nodding towards a squat brick building tucked between two looming warehouses.

The Turquoise Turtle loomed ahead, its weathered brick façade half-hidden by the creeping fog rolling in from the Thames. A battered sign swung above the door, the faded lettering barely visible beneath years of grime. Golden light seeped from the warped wooden windows, cutting through the murk of the East End night, accompanied by the muffled hum of some light conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from within.

The man exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he came to a halt just outside the entrance. “Right, here’s your stop, doc.” He adjusted his coat, tugging it tighter around himself as he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The Priwen patrols were nowhere in sight now, their torchlight long swallowed by the winding streets behind them. “Looks like we gave those bastards the slip. Best get yourself inside before you keel over.”

Jonathan hesitated, glancing at the pub’s door. The thought of stepping inside—of surrounding himself with people in such a vulnerable state—made his stomach twist uncomfortably. His clothes were still damp with blood, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, and worse still, that 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 coiled deep within him, sharp and insistent.

The man clicked his tongue, watching Jonathan’s hesitation with mild amusement. “Ain’t gonna find many better places to catch your breath ‘round here, mate. The Turtle’s got it's share of rough sorts, but they ain’t the type to stick their noses where they don’t belong. Long as you got coin for a drink and keep your head down, no one’ll ask why you look like you crawled out of a grave.”

Jonathan tore his gaze from the door, studying the man who had—against all logic—helped him escape. He had half-expected the man—the graverobber—to try and rob him blind at some point, or at least demand something in return. But the man had led him here without so much as a request for coin or favor.

“You’re not coming in?” Jonathan asked, his voice rough.

The man huffed a quiet laugh. “Not tonight. Got my own business to get back to. Edwina’ll have my guts for garters if I keep pissin’ about all night.” He tipped his hat slightly, his grin crooked and easy despite the night’s dangers. “Besides, you’re a big lad. Reckon you’ll manage.”

Jonathan nodded slowly. There was little else to say. He could barely grasp what had happened since he’d clawed his way back to consciousness in that wretched pit, let alone think of how to thank a man like this.

The man tilted his head toward the pub. “Go on, then. Get inside before someone decides you’re worth askin’ questions about.”

Jonathan hesitated only a moment longer before stepping forward, pushing open the heavy wooden door. A rush of warmth hit him instantly—stale beer, tobacco smoke, the lingering scent of damp wool and unwashed bodies. The dimly lit area was mostly empty, expected—given the time, and area. The only people he could see was a semi-well dressed man behind the counter, a barmaid hastily sweeping the floor, and a man leaning against the bar—clearly very inebriated, perhaps a dockworker?

As the door swung shut behind him, he turned instinctively to glance back. But the man was already gone, vanishing into London's fog.

========

This is also available on my Ao3 (under the same username).

Hope this wasn't too bad!

[hoodedboy79]

Part 3

This is my favourite chapter I've wrote ngl.

-(Male Reader)-

=======

The stench of decay hung in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of old wood and damp stone. Jonathan's eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness as the red-painted door slammed shut behind him, leaving only the faintest sliver of light from the streetlamp outside. His heart raced, pulse pounding in his ears like the beat of a drum.

He took a staggered step forward, his hand still pressed to his chest, trying to steady himself. Blood—his blood?—had soaked through his clothes, and his vision swam in and out of focus.

"Well," the man muttered from somewhere behind him, his voice low but filled with unmistakable amusement.

"You're about as much use as a dead dog, aren't you?"

Jonathan blinked, trying to focus on the figure now in front of him, hands braced against the door as though preparing to make sure no one followed. His rescuer was... scruffy-looking to put it nicely, dressed in layers of mismatched clothes, his face hidden behind the crooked tilt of his wide-brimmed hat. His boots clicked on the old wood, moving with practiced ease as if he was accustomed to these shadowed places.

"What... what is this place?" Jonathan rasped, his voice betraying his disorientation.

"Not the Ritz, that’s for sure," the man replied, his tone light but laced with a hint of cynicism.

"It’s a safe house, though, these boarded up ones always are. I’ve hidden plenty of bodies in them in the past. The 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 sure won't be needing 'em" He gave a dry laugh, his eyes glinting with a touch of humor despite the grim circumstances as he gestured to something in the entrance of the next room to Jonathan, a body.

"But I’d suggest you stay conscious long enough for us to make sure you don't become one of 'em, from the shock and all."

Jonathan stumbled, his knees almost buckling beneath him as his mind struggled to make sense of the chaos as he stared at the dimly illuminated body sprawled on the floor. The words 𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘩 and 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘸𝘦𝘯 still rang in his ears from earlier, but he couldn't grasp the full weight of it. One moment, he had been in control—an acclaimed doctor, a man of science—and the next, he was drenched in blood and hunted like an animal. With still no clue on what was going on.

A hand shot out, steadying him before he could crash to the floor in a prompt moment of imbalance.

"Keep it together, mate," the man said with surprising gentleness, his voice a strange contrast to the harshness of the world outside.

"You want to end up on a slab, or do you want to figure out how you got into this mess?" 𝘔𝘦𝘴𝘴. Jonathan almost wanted to let out a laugh, such a trivial word for such a matter.

The man's hand fell off Jonathan's shoulder, as he entered the next room, most likely to gawk at the body. Jonathan gathered this man had something of an interest in the dead, for one reason or another.

'𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘳?' The thought crept in as Jonathan tried to remember the last conversation but his mind was reeling too much for any sense to be made.

Jonathan approached the sideboard that was in front, a picture of a man and woman stood upon it—husband and wife, he'd assume. An upstanding couple, presumably a picture of them within their youth if the staining around the edges was any clue to the photograph's age. The woman was quite pretty, a woman that reminded him so much of Mary.

"𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳...𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦?"

His poor, dear Mary.

Jonathan’s chest tightened as his gaze lingered on the photograph. A pang of grief washed over him, sharp and unrelenting.

"Mary, I'm sorry. Whoever did this to us...I will find them.' A whispered promise.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. He chose to focus on the, frankly, strange man muttering to himself in the other room, and hesitantly went to join him.

He was knelt by the corpse and was holding something small and metallic. Jonathan glanced down and froze.

It was a pocket watch, old and worn, yet unmistakable. He recognized the intricate design etched into the casing, the faintly visible initials on the back as the man flipped it around in his hand. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 watch.

The sight of it felt like a dagger through his heart. He had carried that watch for years, a gift from his late father, he had miraculously managed to not lose it during the chaos of the war. Yet here it was, lying next to the lifeless body of a woman he had never met in a house that reeked of death and decay.

"Hey," The man said as he peered up at Jonathan's still form, he couldn't imagine what his face must've looked like, worse than before he'd assume, as the man's eyebrows furrowed and his eyes scanned Jonathan's face— searching.

"What's up with your face?"

"That watch...it's mine. How on earth did it get here?" Jonathan winced at the distance in his voice as his eyes never left the watch. "That's impossible."

"Yours, eh? Funny place to find it. But if it’s yours, take it. The dead don’t have much use for time, anyway" The man said after a moment of silence, finally he stopped staring at Jonathan's face as he rose off his knee, back to his feet, before placing the watch into Jonathan's bloody hand with a shrug.

"I have no use for it either."

Jonathan nodded stiffly, slipping the watch into his trouser pocket. He felt a strange mix of relief and unease as if reclaiming the watch tethered him to some part of his old self, even while the rest of him spiraled into unfamiliarity and finding the watch left him with even more unanswered questions.

The faint trail of blood on the floor caught his eye again, drawing his attention away from the graverobber’s probing stare. It led toward the staircase in the corner, dark and foreboding. He glanced back at the man, who seemed preoccupied once more with examining the woman’s corpse.

"I need... I need a moment," Jonathan said, his voice strained.

The man waved him off dismissively.

"Suit yourself. Just don’t go faintin’ on me, yeah? Last thing I need is another body to deal with."

Jonathan didn’t respond. He turned toward the stairs, his feet moving almost of their own accord. The air grew colder with each step, and the sound of his shoes on the creaking wood echoed unnervingly in the silence. The blood trail glistened faintly in the dim light, leading him upward.

The upstairs was a decent sized hallway, but empty for the most part- excluding the bookcase and random pieces of wood that barricaded one of the doors, a door he would not be trying to open, the walls lined with peeling wallpaper, marked with stains of where photographs once hung. Jonathan approached one of the far doors to the left, which wasn't blocked off by anything, his unease growing.

As he stepped into the room, he was first met with a tarnished standing mirror, that was mostly leaning on the wall in front. For a moment, he avoided looking at it, his gaze fixated on the blood trail that continued across the floor. But something compelled him to glance up.

The breath hitched in his throat.

There was no reflection.

He raised a trembling hand, waving it over the mirror’s surface as if it was the layers of dust that was concealing him, but the glass remained empty. His mind reeled once more, refusing to accept what he was seeing—or rather, what he wasn’t seeing. His heart hammered in his chest, and he stumbled back, gripping the wall for support.

"𝘕𝘰! 𝘕𝘰...𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩." An echo in his mind, in his own voice. When had he said that?

'𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘮 𝘐?' The question clawed at his mind, relentless and horrifying.

He froze in place as he turned and took in the scene that awaited him there.

A man sat slumped in a chair near the window, his body lifeless and pale. Blood stained his shirt collar from the self-inflicted wound in his temple, his hand still loosely holding the gun as it lay limp at his side.

The room smelled of death, stronger here than anywhere else in the house.

Jonathan’s eyes drifted to a small table beside the chair. A leather-bound journal lay there, its cover worn and edges frayed. A needle lay next to it. Pocketing the needle, he hesitated before picking the journal up, his fingers trembling as he flipped through the pages. The man’s handwriting was frantic, his words a chaotic scrawl that hinted at desperation and fear.

The entries mentioned the woman downstairs—his wife. Her strange behavior. Her illness. The changes. Her death. His choice— and the suffocating guilt that followed.

Jonathan’s stomach churned as he read, a sense of dread creeping over him. He set the journal down, unable to stomach any more.

'𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭', He thought desperately. It can’t be.

His gaze fell to the revolver still in the man’s hand. The thought crept into his mind before he could stop it. He reached for the gun, its cold weight familiar yet foreign in his hand.

"𝘞𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘒𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨." The war had made the weight of a weapon all too familiar.

"No. It never got easier."

His breaths came in shallow gasps as he staggered back toward the bed, his mind a whirlwind of guilt, confusion, and despair. Resurfacing memories best left forgotten.

"This makes no sense. None of it." None, at all.

"It's a nightmare, that's it," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"It has to be." Science couldn't explain this. And when Science fails—what left is there?

"So be it."

He pressed the barrel against his chest, a point he knew would kill him fairly quick, closing his eyes.

"Rational thinking only."

His finger tightened on the trigger, and with a sharp, deafening crack, the gun fired.

The impact sent him sprawling onto the bed, but there was no pain. No darkness. No release. He opened his eyes, his hands clutching at his chest where the bullet should have torn through him. Instead, the wound began to heal almost instantly, the blood retreating as if it had a mind of its own, the only remnants being the blood that had already soaked into the fabric of his shirt.

Jonathan’s breathing quickened, his mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. He sat up slowly, staring at his unscathed chest, the realization hitting him like a tidal wave.

He didn't die.

"This is absolute madness. I've lost touch with reality."

'𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔! 𝑨𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒏! 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏?'

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?

A creak on the stairs jolted him back to reality, a reality he was really struggling to grasp.

The man’s voice echoed faintly as he ascended the stairs.

"What the bloody hell was that? You shootin' somethin' up here?"

Jonathan scrambled to his feet, his heart racing. The nightmare wasn’t over—it was only beginning.

=======

The layout of this one might be a bit weird since Tumblr wants to be awkward with me rn 🤦🏻‍♂️

This is also available on my Ao3 (under the same username).

Hope this wasn't too bad!

[hoodedboy79]

Part 2

Jonathan deserves more content (and better GIF's) 😤

-(Male Reader)-

========

"No!- Please!- I mean you no harm!"

What?

Head snapping up from the shilling that sat balanced between his forefingers that had preoccupied his attention for the last few still moments, the man peered towards the general direction of the distressed holler that echoed through the empty streets. Well what was thought to be empty streets at least.

Clearly they weren't.

The sound of gunshots followed, bullets ricocheting off of what sounded like metal and a few smashing some nearby windows, before there was silence.

The man couldn't help but wince, he knew exactly who fired the gun and what batshit excuse they would use to justify the murder of some innocent bloke they just put a bullet in, or several.

He briefly wonders what the other person did to be accused of being a so called vampire. Not that it took much for the paranoid members of the Priwen to point the finger at someone. Were their teeth a little too sharp? Did they walk strangely? Or was it simply because they were outside at such an hour? Questions that would remain unanswered.

There had been some hesitation in his steps, as he began walking towards the noise, he didn't really know why he was walking. Couldn't recall the moment he pocketed the shilling or the moment he decided he actually wanted to do something here that didn't involve just walking in the other direction, back to the docks.

Maybe it was simply because he knew what the Priwen would do with the corpse, couldn't let the fire take money that would do better in his pocket, could he?

Old bricks wept with dew, as the city's alleys decay and vermin brushed against him as his footsteps quickened, shouts laced with vitriol, '𝘈 𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘩 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦!', rang in the man's ears as he finally escaped the labyrinth of corridors, crouching behind a crumbled wall in one of the far corners of the street, he watched as the scene unfolded.

Across from him, a man in blood soaked garments staggered into view, his body language erratic but confused. His head seemed to be on a constant swivel as he looked around, presumably for somewhere to hide as the shouts got closer. He was near stumbling over his own feet, like a lamb finding it's footing.

Pitiful but intriguing.

His eyes naturally drew to a door in the distance, hard to miss—with it being bright red and all and the messily painted warnings over it caught attention too. Warnings of the infected, unsure of whether or not it was Influenza victims inside or the Priwen's, it was still this bloke's best bet.

The man smirked, the faintest trace of amusement playing across his lips. The poor sod staggering about in the open was either completely green or absolutely desperate. Maybe both. Either way, the Priwen weren’t far behind, and if they caught him, they’d fill him full of lead—or worse, torch him like kindling.

He weighed his options once more. He could slink away and let fate play its hand. It wasn’t his fight, after all. But the way the bloodied man swayed, his disoriented gaze darting from shadow to shadow, tugged at some long forgotten part of him. The way the blood gleamed under the moonlight spoke of desperation—a desperation to live.

"Bloody fool," he muttered under his breath as he stepped from the shadows. The soft clink of his boots on cobblestone was drowned out by the shouts growing louder in the distance. He drew closer, staying low, his presence blending into the filth and grime of the street.

“Oi!” he hissed sharply, his voice barely above a whisper but cutting through the stillness. “Over here, unless you fancy bein’ a bonfire!”

Jonathan Reid turned his head sharply toward the voice, his crimson-stained visage illuminated by the faint flicker of a streetlamp. His eyes, wide and filled with a mix of guilt and raw hunger, locked onto the figure crouching in the shadows.

Jonathan hesitated, unsure whether this stranger was friend or foe. But the thunderous stomp of boots and the guttural commands of the Priwen left him little choice. He staggered toward the other, clutching at his chest as if holding himself together.

"Easy now," the man muttered, grabbing Jonathan by the arm and pulling him into the shadows. "You look like hell warmed over, but I’ll wager you don’t fancy the lads comin' this way."

"Please- I have no idea what's going on! I-" Jonathan managed, his voice hoarse and trembling.

The man smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Alright, calm down, I'll help you. Let’s just say I don’t care much for the Priwen’s way of handlin’ things. And if you’re gonna drop dead, might as well owe me a favor first."

He jerked his head toward the red-painted door. "Through there. It’s been boarded up, but I know a way in. Move your feet, or you’ll be dragging 'em."

Jonathan, still dazed and slightly uncertain, nodded and followed the stranger. Behind them, the Priwen’s shouts grew louder, the crackle of torches lighting the street in an eerie orange glow.

He led him to the door, his practiced hands finding the loose panel in seconds. "After you" he said with a wry grin, gesturing for Jonathan to slip inside.

As Jonathan ducked into the darkened building, the graverobber turned back to glance at the approaching Priwen. “Twats.” he muttered to himself before vanishing into the building behind Jonathan.

=========

This is also available on my Ao3 (under the same username).

Hope this wasn't too bad!

[hoodedboy79]

Part 1

First attempt at a proper fic for a good while so bare with me if it's a bit crap lol.

-(Male Reader)-

=========

Ever since the beginning of the ongoing epidemic, the streets of London had become unnervingly quiet. With the forced quarantine blocking half of London off—or, more specifically, blocking the poor from the rich—a group called the Priwen prowled the streets, deterring any stragglers of the night from lingering too long. The nutters shouting about '𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘴!', the actual drinkers of the day finally emerging from the taverns and expelling the remnants of their earlier endeavors all over the cobblestones—this all but dulled any interest the general public had in wandering the streets at night.

Unsavory characters still haunted the back alleys, sticking to their preferred areas, doing God knows what, while the supposed law enforcers were nowhere to be found—disappearing at sundown. Not that they were of much help overall, especially around the docks.

The lack of presence from the bobbies—and just the general disorder the East End had fallen into due to this absence—led another type of enforcement to take the reins.

The Wet Boot Boys, a relatively small gang to begin with, quickly grew larger in both size and renown as more people became desperate. Soon, anything that happened around the docks happened under their watchful eye and iron fist—the iron fist mostly belonging to Edwina Cox, the wife of the official leader. Even now, most of the boys reported solely to Edwina, with Clay usually being one of the last to know what was happening due to his aggressive temperament and violent outbursts. These outbursts would regularly result in him disappearing—either to dispose of the poor sod on the other end of his fury or to try and calm himself down. Most of the gang stayed out of his way when possible.

One of the boys, in particular, was more than happy to make himself scarce, always the first to volunteer to loot the pockets of corpses thrown in ditches or mass graves around London for Edwina and Booth. Thankfully, this kept him out of Clay's way—most of the time, anyway.

Even now, as he sat there, taking in the repugnant smell of the recently deceased man whose pockets he was looting, he had to question whether it was truly worth it.

Compared to this, maybe Clay wasn’t that bad.

Sighing, the man retrieved a few shillings from the deceased’s pockets, disregarding the crumpled family photo he found in the cadaver’s breast pocket, before slinging the body back into the pit.

"Fuckin’ hell." Resisting the urge to grumble to himself, he quickly made his way around the mass grave and toward the iron-gated exit, briefly taking note of a woman lingering nearby. Clearly, she was looking for something—or, more likely, someone—too overwrought to see reason. If she could, she wouldn’t be outside this late at night, especially unchaperoned and in this part of town.

'𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥—𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘴.' The thought crossed his mind as the woman entered the 'graveyard,' disappearing from his line of sight. She was dressed rather primly and, in any other situation, would likely hold herself up well, he assumed. Clearly, a woman of high standing. Clearly from the West End too.

Brief thoughts of following and robbing her flickered in his mind. He was sure to find something of significant value on her. But in the end, he decided against it. Not only was it too risky, but he had already made the next few weeks’ wages with the possessions of the deceased currently sitting in his pocket. There was no need to draw unnecessary attention to himself.

And with that, he walked off.

========

This is also on my Ao3 (under the same username).

Hope this wasn't too bad!

[hoodedboy79]

Opium and Curtain Calls/'The Emcee'

I did another one about 'Emcee', since the last one did quite good.

A/N: Mentions of drug use.

-(Male Reader)-

=========

The room was dim, a single flickering candle casting elongated shadows across the peeling wallpaper. 'The Emcee' lounged on a worn chaise, a cigarette holder balanced delicately between two gloved fingers. His makeup remained untouched from the evening’s show—stark eyeliner framing sharp, mischievous eyes, red lips curved in a permanent suggestion of a smile. He could have washed it away, let the mask dissolve beneath soap and water, but he wondered if he would even recognize himself without it. And anyway, not in this company. Not now.

Across from him, sprawled on the floor, the man—quiet, introspective—shook slightly as he prepared another line on the scratched glass coffee table.

The air between them was thick, not just with opium and tobacco but with something less tangible, something restless and unspoken. This was how it always was—drawn together by a shared darkness, their nights edged with vice and blurred by indulgence. Lovers? No. Friends? Certainly not. They occupied a space that defied definition, where desire and need bled into something sharp-edged and irresistible.

"Darling," 'The Emcee' purred, tilting his head, amusement curling in his voice. "You're shaking like a leaf. Nervous, hmm? Or excited?"

The man didn’t answer, only ran a hand over his face and laughed—softly, bitterly. 'The Emcee’s' painted smile widened. With feline ease, he leaned forward, plucking the razor blade from the man's trembling fingers.

"Allow me," he murmured, tracing the powder into a perfect line. His voice was velvet dipped in acid, each word a performance. "You’re hopeless without me, you know that?"

The man didn’t argue. Just nodded. Bent forward. Inhaled.

'The Emcee' watched him, the corners of his mouth twitching, his expression unreadable. When the man leaned back, eyes glassy, 'the Emcee' laughed—a bright, hollow sound that danced off the walls.

"Better, ja?" He slid from the chaise to the floor, their faces mere inches apart.

The man’s gaze met his, and for a moment, the air crackled with something unspoken. They didn’t kiss—they rarely did. That was too intimate, too dangerous. Instead, 'the Emcee' rested his head on the man’s shoulder, draping himself there like a cat settling into warmth.

"You’re such a mess," the man muttered, voice rough, but without malice.

"Of course," 'the Emcee' replied, featherlight, teasing. "And you adore me for it, don’t you?"

The man didn’t answer. But his hand found its way to 'the Emcee’s' side, fingers absently tracing the seam of his corset. It wasn’t affection—at least, not entirely. It was something rawer, something they both recognized in each other.

The hours passed like that, the drugs dulling their sharper edges. They spoke in riddles, made jokes that meant nothing, let their hands wander when the silence grew too heavy. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they didn’t.

When dawn began to creep through the window, 'the Emcee' rose, adjusting his suspenders, smoothing his hair. The man had moved to the chaise, half-asleep, but still watching him, eyes laced with something unreadable.

"Well, my darling, this has been… delightful," 'the Emcee' drawled, voice laced with mockery, or perhaps something softer.

"You’re leaving?"

"Always do, don’t I?"

'The Emcee' bent down, pressing his painted lips to the man’s forehead in a gesture that was strangely tender. "But don’t worry. I always come back, too."

The man nodded, eyes fluttering closed. He didn’t ask why, and 'the Emcee' didn’t offer an explanation. They didn’t need to.

Whatever this was—whatever they were—existed only in the in-between, in that strange, liminal space where they could indulge in each other’s chaos without ever fully belonging to it.

He always left, and he always returned. It was the only promise he ever kept.

=========

Not sure how I feel about this one but I was half asleep when I wrote it so I'm sure we can forgive it being kind of eh 💀 And I'm running out of ideas tbh.

Hope it wasn't too bad anyway!

[hoodedboy79]

Of Rain and Confession/Jacob Frye

Jacob's actually present in this one 💀

-(Male Prostitute Reader)-

=========

Jacob Frye was a strange man.

A strange man indeed, a man that wanted so much from you yet so little, a man that wanted you close yet at arms distance all at the same time.

This 'push and pull' type relationship you two shared was exhausting. It was clear to both of you that neither one knew exactly what they wanted from the other but you both chose to ignore it in favour of the fleeting moments of closeness you could share with the other.

Jacob's eyes would linger, but only for a second, as if afraid of what might happen if he allowed himself to feel too much. And you...you tried to convince yourself it was just another transaction, another job, but the way his presence unsettled you went far beyond any payment. It was the silence between words, the tension in the air, that made you wonder—just for a moment—if there was something more, or if you were simply fooling yourself.

Sometimes Jacob would stay a while after he finished, laying down behind you, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist and keeping you close, head tucked into your nape, like a lovers embrace. Yet other times he would be snatching his discarded clothes off the floor and tugging them on before you even had a chance to fully realise it was over, and then he was out the door, leaving nothing but a few extra shillings behind on the dresser for you before getting lost in the crowd of patrons that littered the place.

It was almost an unspoken truce that existed between you. It was easier to avoid the questions that hovered in the air, the ones that neither of you were brave enough to ask. Why did he keep coming back? Why did you let him? What was this thing that tangled you together in a way that felt both intoxicating and unbearable?

Jacob's inconsistency frustrated you, but it also fascinated you. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what they wanted, yet every interaction with him told a different story. When he was near, there was a tension beneath the surface, a struggle he could never fully hide. And when he left, there was something in his eyes—guilt, perhaps, or fear, or something else entirely—that lingered long after the door closed behind him.

It was in those rare moments when he stayed, his breathing steady and warm against your skin, that you thought you understood him. He was a man at war with himself, torn between desire and denial. He wanted this—wanted you—but couldn't bring himself to accept what that meant. Not for a man like him, someone who wore his identity like armor, who moved through the world as though it owed him nothing and yet took what he wanted with reckless abandon.

But then he was gone again, and the reality that you didn't know him, didn't understand him—at least not fully— hit like a ton of bricks.

And then you were off with the next customer.

One night, after another of his abrupt departures, you found yourself staring at the coins he'd left behind. It wasn't the money that bothered you, any shame you might've once felt faded years ago—it was what it represented. A transaction, a barrier, a refusal to let this be anything more than what it appeared to be, a customer paying for your service.

But you knew better. You saw it in the way he lingered when he thought you weren't looking, in the way his hands trembled sometimes when he touched you, as though he couldn't quite believe he was allowed this closeness.

He wasn't the first man to question himself, wasn't the first to feel the crushing weight of shame but still allow his pockets to be emptied into your hand, wasn't the first to try and run— both from himself and the establishment— but with Jacob Frye you felt the need to give more than just some shallow reassurance but you weren't sure if he'd ever let you.

Jacob wasn't the first but he also wasn't like the others who came to you in a haze of desperation, seeking solace in your touch only to retreat into the shadows when the act was done, acting as if you'd poisoned them. There was something different about him, something raw and unformed, as if he were constantly wrestling with a truth he couldn't—or wouldn't—name.

It wasn't pity that made you feel this way; you'd long since hardened yourself against such emotions. No, what you felt for Jacob was something far more complex, an ache that wasn't entirely your own. You saw parts of yourself in his struggle, fragments of a person trying to both claw their way out of and retreat back into the shell society had forced them into.

And yet, every time you thought he might crack, that the armor he wore might finally give way, he pulled back. It was maddening, and it left you questioning why you cared so much in the first place.

A part of you always argued that you shouldn't care, it wasn't your job to care, that you should treat him just as any other customer, but you never do.

The next time he came to you, it was pouring rain outside. He looked different—soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes dark and wild. He didn't speak at first, just stood in the doorway like a man unsure of whether he'd made a mistake coming here. A doubt he always had when coming here.

"Jacob," you said softly, stepping aside to let him in. He hesitated, then crossed the threshold, shaking off the rain as though he could shake off whatever was tormenting him.

He didn't reach for you right away, as he usually did. Instead, he paced the small room, his boots leaving wet footprints on the worn floorboards. "I don't know what I'm doing here," he muttered, almost to himself.

"You say that every time," you replied, leaning against the bedframe. "Yet you always end up here." Always end up in bed, always end up regretting what had happened but still seeking solace in your arms.

Jacob stopped pacing, his shoulders hunched, his voice breaking when he finally spoke again. "I don't want to end up here. But I do. I don't know why..." He trailed off, his words dissipating into the silence between you.

You watched him, wondering how many layers of himself he had buried beneath that cocky exterior. Wondering if he'd ever allow himself to be honest with you.

"You never have to explain," you said, your voice low but firm. "But you're here because you want something—something I can't give you, not fully, not the way you need. And you know that."

Jacob stayed silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the floor, as if the weight of your words had struck him harder than any blow. He shifted uneasily, his hands fidgeting at his sides, and for a moment, the bravado he wore so effortlessly was completely gone.

In a moment of frustration, clearly with himself, Jacob snatched the hat that seemed to be almost always perched upon his head, his fingers repeatedly drumming against the brim as his other hand was pulled through his locks, gripping tightly—as if the feeling would ground him.

"You think...you think there's something more than this?" he asked, his voice strained with a vulnerability he usually kept hidden or had never felt before.

You didn't have an answer right away, because you weren't sure either. All you knew was that every moment spent with him felt like a tangled mess of emotions, but underneath it all, there was something real—something worth exploring, even if it was terrifying for both of you and almost undoubtedly would lead you both to ruin.

"Maybe," you said quietly. "But you have to let yourself feel it. I can’t do that for you."

Jacob's jaw clenched even tighter as he processed your words, and for a moment, he looked like he might turn and walk away, again. But he didn't. Instead, he took a step closer to you, closer than he'd ever allowed himself before, as if he was finally willing to confront whatever it was he’d been trying to run from.

The rain continued to fall outside, the sound like a soft drumbeat against the windows. It was a cold night, but there was warmth between you, a warmth that neither of you had fully acknowledged until now.

You didn't say anything else, not needing to. You both knew this was far from over, that there were still so many barriers to break down, so many fears to face.

But for the first time, the distance between you didn’t feel quite as insurmountable.

He was still a man struggling with himself, and you were still a man who had no guarantees—but there was something to hold onto, something that was just beginning to form, like the spark of a fire that might yet catch.

And for the first time in a long while, the uncertainty that usually clouded over you both—felt miniscule in comparison to the relief of being able to let go, ignore society's expectations and judgment even if only for a small, secretive moment—this was a step forward, however small, but a step nonetheless.

=========

Was originally going to give this a bad ending but decided not to at the last second and came up with this instead.

Hope this was decent!

[hoodedboy79]

When The Music Stops/'The Emcee'

Was unsure whether to post this or not due to the meaning of the musical but I'll leave it here for now.

A/N: Implications/Brief mentions of Nazi's.

-(Male Reader)-

========

The room was a haze of smoke, curling tendrils of opium and cigarette ash wrapping themselves lazily around the dim light of a single flickering bulb. A gramophone wheezed out a scratchy melody, something mournful and defiant, the kind of music that could only exist in Berlin—a city teetering between brilliance and destruction. On a stained mattress in the corner of the room, 'The Emcee' reclined, his makeup smeared, his shirt half-open, revealing a gaunt frame that seemed almost unreal in its sharpness.

Unhealthy—if nothing more.

He was laughing softly, his voice a raspy echo of the performer who owned the stage at the Kit Kat Klub. But the laughter wasn’t entirely joyful; it had a sharpness to it, a kind of edge that dared the world to cut him deeper, dared it to tip him off the teeter.

Beside him, a man—a figure whose silhouette shifted like a shadow under candlelight—lit another cigarette, his hands steady despite the quiet tremor of their shared indulgence a mere few hours prior.

“You’re beautiful when you’re broken,” the man said, his tone flat but not unkind. It wasn’t a compliment, not really but it was neither an insult.

'The Emcee' tilted his head, the corners of his mouth curling into a sly smile. “Darling, I am always broken. That’s the trick, you see.” He plucked the cigarette from the man’s lips without asking, inhaling deeply before letting the smoke billow out in a long, theatrical sigh.

“Tell me, do you think they’ll come for us? The little men in their stuffy, brown uniforms?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. He laid back, staring at the cracked ceiling as though it held the secrets of the universe, or he was merely buying time or ignoring, a usual response for him. He wasn’t the type to offer comfort, and Emcee wasn’t the type to expect it.

They had an unspoken agreement: no lies, no pretense, no promises. They weren’t lovers, not in the way poets wrote about, but they weren’t strangers, either.

They had slipped into a strange rhythm, an intimacy born not of love but of survival, of shared moments stolen from a world that wanted to erase them both.

“Does it matter?” He finally replied.

“They’ll come for everyone eventually.”

'The Emcee' laughed again, this time louder, the sound bouncing off the walls like a broken melody.

“Oh, darling, you have such a gift for the macabre! You could take my job if you ever decided to trade in your... stoicism for a little flair.” He stretched out his legs, his stockinged feet brushing against the man’s.

“But no, you’re right. It doesn’t matter. The show must go on, ja?”

The man glanced at him then, his eyes unreadable. “Doesn’t scare you?”

“Everything scares me,” 'The Emcee' said softly, almost to himself. His voice dropped its performative edge, becoming something raw and vulnerable.

“The Jews, the queers, the misfits—we’re all standing on the same gallows, waiting for the rope to tighten. But you don’t survive by crying, meine Süße. You survive by laughing, by dancing, by drinking and... this.” He gestured vaguely to the crumpled sheets, the empty bottles, the scattered remnants of their last high across the room.

“You survive by pretending none of it matters until it doesn’t anymore.”

The man reached out, his hand brushing against 'The Emcee’s'. God, they didn’t even know each other's actual names, The man was given nothing but 'Emcee' to go off of, 'Master Of Ceremonies', fitting he must admit. While 'Emcee' never bothered inquiring about the man's name, sticking to loose, meaningless endearments, both in English and German.

It worked for the two, kept a nice distance between them and this arrangement of their's.

For a moment, they didn’t speak. There was no need to. Their silences were as eloquent as their conversations, filled with everything they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say.

They didn’t talk about the future. 'The Emcee' wouldn’t let them. He lived in the moment, in the chaos, in the strange, fleeting comfort they found in each other’s arms. He didn’t ask where the man went when he left, and the man didn’t question why 'The Emcee’s' laughter sometimes turned into quiet sobs in the middle of the night.

“I should go,” the man murmured after what felt like hours.

“Yes, you should,” The Emcee replied, his voice light and teasing. But his fingers lingered on the man’s wrist, holding him in place for just a second longer. “Stay.”

It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t quite a command, either. The man hesitated, then lay back down. 'The Emcee' smiled, triumphant but not smug, not yet anyway.

“Good boy.”

In the quiet that inevitably followed, the gramophone clicked off, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the faint hum of the city outside. Berlin was restless, caught between its hedonistic past and its ominous future. But in this small, smoke-filled room, the world could wait.

For now, they had each other. They would focus only on each other, when within these four decaying, yellowed walls. Not as lovers, not as friends, but as something fragile and fleeting, like the last note of a cabaret song lingering in the air before the curtain falls.

And for now, that was enough.

========

Just something I threw together tonight because I've been obsessed with the 1993 version of Cabaret lately.

Also the tiny bit of German is from Google translate, so god knows what it says vs what I meant 💀

Hope this was somewhat decent!

[hoodedboy79]

Brought Dragon Age Inquisition the other day, for no specific reasons 👀

🧎🏻‍♂️🧎🏻‍♂️🧎🏻‍♂️

[hoodedboy79]

Hello, hope you're doing well today/tonight. Could you please write nsfw headcanon for Polina Petrova x Male Reader?

Polina Petrova NSFW hc's

I don't like these but I didn't want to take any longer to publish them, but please let me know if you want them rewritten or anything specific added :)

==========

• Polina remains the dominant one even in the bedroom, but if you're insistent on taking the lead then she isn't going to deny you the challenge.

• Sex is sporadic, naturally. War doesn't exactly leave you two a lot of time together in general, especially if you are also a soldier, nevermind the time and place to be intimate.

• Polina would remind you of the circumstances around you if you try and initiate something, whether by giving you one of her disapproving looks or telling you to keep your head in the game, but she's human and will allow indulgence if appropriate.

• Polina isn't experienced in sexual matters, seeing as she was never given the chance to marry before the war came, but she will not let her lack of experience stop her from approaching the 'task' with her usual confidence and focus.

• On the same note, she isn't completely adverse to being shown the ropes or given some pointers if you're experienced.

• She recovers quite quickly after coming, and might even go for another round if time allows it. In terms of how long it lasts, really depends on the situation, she might just stay sat on your cock and edge you for as long as she can, calling it 'training' and 'her duty' if you complain about her lack of movement. Might even drag it out longer if you attempt to thrust deeper, without her permission.

• Basically, she will overstimulate the fuck outta you. You come a few times almost every time you fuck. and she'll threaten to keep going, unless you do exactly as she says.

• Is the type to leave bruises and fingernail marks just from her grip alone, not even fully intentional. Her hands remain mostly on your hips or shoulders.

• She's a woman of few words both inside and outside the bedroom, unless she's barking orders then she's quite talkative. She'll let a few curses in Russian slip out next to your ear if you do a really good job.

• When it comes to positions, she's rather simple. She's likes the basic positions, it gets the job done, she doesn't see the need for crazy positions, and has enough body pains in general so doesn't have the desire to try any.

• Polina isn't fussed about oral, so if you don't enjoy it then it doesn't mind her. But if you are into it, then she prefers recieving than giving. Something about having you between her thighs, as she tightly grips your hair, does something to her.

• Polina's aftercare is pratical. She has cloths and the means of disposing them nearby at all times, and is quick at wiping you down, if you're too exhausted to do it yourself, of all the cum, sweat, tears and sometimes little specs of blood that decorate you.

========

I'm back at college so that's why posting is going to slow down again, I'll try not to disappear for months again.

Hope this was decent at least!