#Hidden Skeletons Series

[mrs-weasley-reid]

TEN'S A GOOD NUMBER

Aaron Hotchner x psychiatrist!reader

Sypnosis: After Aaron's traumatizing encounter with Peter Lewis, he's sent to you, but who knew a profiler is the worst patient you'll ever have? Warning: enemies to lovers— ish(?) angst. a dash of fluff. light mentions of death and trauma. a few curses. went ballistic— it's lengthy, so pace yourself. A/N: loosely follows Mr. Scratch timeline for three seasons.

Monday, May 4, 8:34 AM

Aaron Hotchner sits across from you.

He studies you in every detail like he's about to take an exam, and you're the topic.

The weight of your scribbles—light, almost featherlike. Ink leaves a soft trail of words, a map of your thoughts, your perception of him.

The speed of your hand. Swift and elegant. Each movement portrays a scene in a movie. As if they're telling a quiet story, your story he is yet to unravel.

The way you deprive him of eye contact.

What are you hiding?

Why can't you look him in the eye?

The occasional nod to remind him that you're listening—not like anything's coming out from his end.

In conclusion, just about everything you do, really.

To Aaron, you're a cheat sheet. His way back to the field, to work—the part of his life that cannot be halted despite the need for a break.

"Your hand is heavier," Aaron vaguely goads.

You silently stare at him, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to spill out of his mouth.

"Usually, you write like you're afraid to puncture the paper, but just right now, your strikes are deeper. Your grip on your pen is also tighter. Am I annoying you?"

Creative.

You think to yourself as he rakes his eyes down the canvas of your face, blank and land of nothing but mirroring eyes.

Although you prefer Aaron's comment about your new lipstick and how it makes your skin glow—something about your prospect of finding a lover—fifteen minutes into your session. You didn't peg him as a man who knows his lipstick shades, but you stand corrected as he says coral with the utmost confidence for a man who wears his tie like a choker.

Aaron does it all the time. Every five minutes, he says one thing he's noticed about you and then proceeds to zip his mouth, denying you details about him like you're some hired criminal paid to torture the King's hidden fortune out of him.

And as per your entertainment, you'd do something out of your character to throw him off. If you can laugh at his gullibility, you would.

His goal is to intimidate you. Pressure you. Make you tick like every other serial killer he's encountered. Because he'd really rather be across an unsub than you. Aaron would rather be the one to ask questions and not you. In his eyes, you're no better than a small-town detective ignorantly interrogating a serial killer for a cheap gas station robbery, unaware of the skeletons in his closet.

At this moment, Aaron ponders why he agreed to meet with you once a week only to sit in almost absolute silence for about an hour, then go about his day like he hadn't just wasted minutes of his—and your—life.

It's always the same.

He arrives, flaunts his profiling skills for an accumulated total of twelve minutes, and then sits across you like a rock for the remaining forty minutes.

Aaron could've talked more, but...

He despises you.

Well, not you, per se. He despises the profession, and you just happen to choose it as your career. Nonetheless, Aaron generalizes and includes you on his list.

He finds it unnecessary and a waste of one's valuable time. Presenting a series of well-thought-out facts that he's sure Spencer Reid will enjoy. A list of reasons why talking to a psychiatrist isn't as helpful as people perceive it to be.

Aaron spits the words 'family' and 'friends' for the sake of ease and comfort as if he doesn't flinch at the words 'your father' and his face hasn't been frozen into a permanent stern. Because why talk to someone who doesn't know you when there are people who know you best? He lies through his teeth. He lies to himself.

Then, there's you.

You don't know him enough to trust his lies.

"Profiling me won't get you cleared," you state out of the blue. "This is our seventh session, and you haven't said anything." You add, finally lifting your gaze.

Aaron feels taken aback. He'd never encountered a shrink with such pride at their job—they managed to infuriate him. You infuriate him.

Now that you've granted him the wish—your eyes meeting his—it's having an effect on him instead. One that he wishes he didn't feel creep under his skin, stimulating the anxiety he's worked hard to ignore.

Still, Aaron squares his shoulder, "Nothing is wrong with me," He claims like he's not feeling the pit of his stomach churn with every word. "I'm only here for the formalities." He says.

"Ahh," You deadpan, pulling your eyes down on your clipboard. Hushed scribbles echo in the room. "Is that what you told, Dr. Briar? Or Dr. McCormick? Stiles doesn't seem to remember you at all—"

"They deemed me fit to go back to work, which you don't seem to realize." Aaron cuts you off. He doesn't notice the slight lilt of his voice. How a vein peeked on his forehead as he furrows his brows.

You have an effect on him, and Aaron's in strong denial.

"How?" You lean a bit, propping against your lap. It's the first time he's ever let himself tear out of his 'I don't break' shell. You consider it a crumb of a breakthrough and a laughable stain on your pride.

Challenging his stability—you raise your brows—makes him tick.

A faux frown draws on your face—patronizing, "Did you play a staring contest, and they lost against you?" You notice the little twitch of his eye masked as a blink.

It's a little unprofessional to provoke your patient, but you do, anyway.

This one's been particularly adamant about manipulating you into permitting him back to work like you were born yesterday. You think it hilarious how smug he's been for the past six sessions. It is as if you didn't spend almost half of your life devoted to the study of behavior. Like you hadn't figured out his plans from the get-go.

Profilers. They catch a criminal out of idea of sorts, and they think they can read everyone. It makes you want to laugh while pointing at him.

Aaron stares at you with his usual stoic expression, intimidating eyes filled with unforeseen horrors, and a straight mouth that's no use in your four walls.

He decides then that he hates you with a passion.

You feel a vibration on your wrist, "Would you look at that? Your time's up, Hotchner." You withdraw, straightening your back as you scribble yet another word Aaron is curious to know.

If he only knew you're not really writing anything new about the nature of his mental state or anything legible at all, you imagine Aaron exploding like a stack of case files blown by harsh wind.

But can he blame you when he's given you nothing to write?

"Agent Hotchner," He corrects with gritted teeth. Aaron's jaw clenches as he pierces his gaze through you. His hands intertwined with each other as if he's preventing himself from clawing at you.

You smile at him, "In this room, you're just Aaron Hotchner. A patient. A case." You know the specific word will piss him off, much less the motherly tone you paired it with.

A tactic. Unlike him, you don't need a team of agents to get a rise out of a culprit. The bare idea of you, a stranger who has access to his life on a piece of paper, is enough a stimuli to get an individual aiming at your neck.

"So, between you and me, I think you should start talking if you ever want to fly to wherever city your team wanders in. The longer you take, the less progress we make, and the less progress you make, the more possible that the bureau will assign a new psychiatrist for you." You say nonchalantly, letting his anger lead him right into your trap.

The words float like small fire specks of dust, both dazzling and dangerous to the eyes. Getting assigned to a new psychiatrist is like getting an easy case directly handed to Aaron. However, it also means he'll have to restart his psych evaluation process, and he knows firsthand how time-consuming that is.

"But, then again, who knows? Maybe the next fella will let you slide like the others did. Or you'll have to attend a series of sessions again for a lengthy psych evaluation. I've got friends too, you know? They might do me a favor and make your life more… difficult." You're bluffing. In no way, shape, or form will you jeopardize his health, even if Aaron's the most stubborn patient you have ever met in your lifetime.

His nose flares as he stands up. You know that he's done and murdered you in his mind at the way he's glaring at you with invisible daggers, but you play it well and act blameless.

Aaron marches out of your office with blazing hatred. You watch as he dulls every vicinity he's stepped into like death taking a stroll. A part of you is apologetic to his colleagues. They'll be having one hell of a day.

Retreating back inside your office, you plop on your chair behind your desk as a heavy sigh escapes your lips.

You stare at Aaron Hotchner's patient chart.

"What am I going to do with you?" You ask rhetorically in the air.

Aaron Hotchner is—for you at least—a special case. A case so intricate you had to be careful how you'd tread the water, wary of its fragile ripples.

When Aaron's chart landed on your desk, you immediately knew that he'd be toilsome. He'd make it his goal to skip the talk and jump back onto another case. The same routine he did with his old therapists and psychologist, anyone that was able to write a note and say he's fine when he's really not—never have been for a long time.

You already had enough patients on your plate, but you just couldn't say no to your favorite Italian patient; you only had one. You're the best bureau-mandated psychiatrist. His words, not yours.

Then, again, you never fail to mentally brag about how easily you read Aaron just from his chart, his image, and the first step he took to get inside your office. You read him like an open toddler's book, a piece of cake.

During the first session, you learn how badly Aaron's last case had affected him. The intonation of his voice. The way he'd shake his hand, your hand. His scorn. His fiddling fingers.

It's amazing how he's managed to divert his anger towards you instead of the man who traumatized him.

Melodic ringing snaps you out of your trance.

Aaron Hotchner might just get what he wants.

Sunday, May 10, 11:51 PM

A sniffle tickles your nose as you lay flat on the carpet floor of your apartment.

Your face stings from tear stains, and you muse how horrid you must look after your makeup runs dry. Your chunky heels were still on. In a minute or two, you expect one of your feet to cramp.

The day has been hostile towards you.

The mind, which used to be an oasis of positive thoughts, has gone draught. Sleep begins to blur your vision, and you don't hesitate to let it take over.

Until a bombarding knock jolts you up.

"I'm here! I'm here! Calm down!" You shout as you swing the door open. A familiar man stands in front of you with a dour face. Your eyebrows narrow tightly, "Mr. Hotchner—"

"What did you write?!" Aaron badgers as he storms inside your apartment like he owns the place. He pivots on the balls of his feet once he's reached your living room, glowering at you with scalding fury. "I was relieved to know that you released me from your care and looked forward to my clearance. So, tell me why a random therapist called me this morning to confirm an appointment I didn't even know I had. What did you write on my report that I have to go through this again for the second time? Is dealing with your sick games not enough? I'm fine. I know I'm fine. I'm straight in the head to go back in the field. I aced the psych evaluation questions. Your sessions are the problem. You're the problem." His ears, face, and neck are burning red. If he's a cartoon character, you imagine he'd be steaming with smoke by now.

Quite surprised; you're standing speechless. You're watching Aaron like he's a crazy old hag yapping about the Revolutionary War and how she hates not having the power to shoot every redcoat for the sake of rage.

You head towards your sofa, taking a seat.

Aaron examines you in confusion, furrowing his brows.

After a moment, you look at him expectantly. "Don't be shy, Mr. Hotchner. By any means—" you nod towards the armchair across you, glancing back and forth between him and the empty space "—continue with your thoughts. You already started. Might as well let it all out."

He only clenches his hands inside his pockets as he bores holes into your head.

What a sad little man.

You scoff in your mind.

You lean against the back of the sofa, tilting your head to meet dagger-like brown eyes aiming at you. "No? Suit yourself, then." You shrug, feeling the soft cushions under your palms.

"Let me remind you that I'm a federal agent, and I can make your life a living hell if I want to." He threatens, glaring at you as if the twitch of his eye is enough to make you combust into thin air.

But all you see is a child on a tantrum, deprived of getting what he wants.

"Answer my question. What. Did. You. Write?" He growls.

Silence coats the two of you.

His heavy breathing fills the deafening air. Your nonchalance fuels his hatred more than ever and the sentiment is beginning to emit from both ends. It takes a lot out of you to think of multiple ways to sprinkle some salty sense onto him without stinging his wounds.

One thing you learned well enough in time is how good Aaron is when pushing someone's buttons. A perk of his prosecutor days and seasoned by his bureau career.

He's just troubled.

He's just in denial of his own pain.

You chant the words in your head—uncertain of its purpose. Detachment ironically detaches from your senses like old velcro.

"You're not the first agent in my office, Mr. Hotchner. And frankly, you should be thanking me for taking you in. Unlike your old therapists, I actually read through your chart and took the time to understand you to the best of my ability. I cared—" Shocked as he is, your eyes subtly widen.

Before you can continue Aaron speaks over you, "I do not care about your pity. What I wanted was for you to do your damn job and clear me back to work. But that's just little to no pay for a shrink, isn't it? You need messed up people to stay messed up so they can continue knocking on your door." A clear hint of a demeaning smirk flashes across his face.

The sheer irreverence makes you dizzy. The calm snaps, banishing kindness and composure out the window. And rage knocks on your door.

"That's the problem. You don't care. You don't care about yourself." Your tone is sharp—stern.

You knew. You knew from the moment his file thudded on your wooden desk. The moment SSA David Rossi charmed his way to get your favor. You know that Aaron Hotchner does what he believes is right. Not because the unit chief title has gotten in his head. No. Not the slightest. But because he only cares about his values and people.

And you're neither.

It's not you to hold grudges. So, you had it down and set before you accepted Rossi's request. You had it tattooed in your mind that no matter how sharp-tongued and insensitive the man before you might be, he's still just a man under the weight of the world's greatest horrors.

You cannot break. You're not allowed to break.

Pieces of you shatter at the realization that some patients under your care inevitably slip away from your fingers. How your promised oath to do no harm did nothing—not enough to stop the monsters that haunt the world. Not enough to stop you, Aaron's psychiatrist, from dumping your own frustration onto him the same way he's currently doing to you.

But you're not Aaron's psychiatrist today. You're not anything today. You're not on the clock. And no one except Aaron—to your demise—will ever witness such an ugly sight. If ever he shuts up about his dilemma, that is.

"I did my job exactly as I should." You declare, licking the bottom of your lips. Damned the Hippocratic Oath. You wonder if the healing gods will forgive you.

You really shouldn't say the words that are about to leave your mouth, but you've been taking whatever hostility he's got for the last two months; the capacity has reached its limit. A little bit of harshness wouldn't hurt, would it?

"When are you going to admit that the reason you can't sleep at night is not because of all the serial killers you claim I prevent you from catching?" You finally stand. You are a few inches shorter, yet you have never felt taller than you do right now.

You grit your teeth as you move closer to Aaron, almost a breath away, tiptoeing. "When will you admit that the mighty SSA Aaron Hotchner, unit chief, doesn't blink, not once, because he's afraid he'd become the very thing he promised to put away." You raise your brows, challenging him.

Aaron's face morphs into bewilderment and perturbation. His brows are sewn shut. His jawline pops out as he grinds his teeth.

Resentment. Fury. Vexation. Chagrin.

All Aaron felt was anger.

Antagonized.

A walking tower of pure acrimony, finger-pointing towards the innocent.

"Don't you dare compare me to those— I'm anything but." He towers over you, losing his words through the stream of lividity flooding all over his senses.

"Do you really believe that?"

Aaron studies your face. It's different. It's raw and maimed. A squeeze of guilt whispers, but he shoves it quickly.

"What did you write?" He asks once more, earning a scoff out of you.

You step back, staring straight into his glare. Crossed arms tight against your chest. Brows rest over your deadpan eyes.

"While SSA Aaron Hotchner is proficient at his skills and rather placid in physically and mentally challenging situations, I strongly recommend further evaluation in psychotherapy as his emotional capacity is at its limits. The stress accumulated from the job itself has given him little to no time to allow himself the indulgence to properly process certain impacts of the stimulus he encounters on the job. Will update after further observation. Is what I wrote… so far."

You pause.

"Aaron Hotchner is an insufferable, pompous idiot who's afraid of nothing but himself. He is incapable of stepping off his pedestal and refuses to cooperate while complaining about the consequences he himself caused. He has been through enormous trauma. It will be torture to try and help him cope properly. I do not want him in my care as he is a danger to his own progress, and I don't want any part of it. Is what I wanted to write."

Silence.

For him to reflect.

For you to breathe.

Aaron's frozen before you. A pale statue bleached under the moon's harsh reality. Words that used to be superficial insecurities float in the wind of truth, forming into a cage he's sentenced for life.

Your fuse still runs—a long time coming from two months of his deliberate disrespect. The silence annoys you, so you break it. "Excuse my hostility. No one's invaded my privacy and barged into my household at such an unreasonable hour before." The impassive smile on your lips can haunt anyone.

Maybe you've gone too far.

Maybe it's evil to say such blunt things to someone fragile.

But Aaron started the countdown. He lit the fuse. Now, you're exploding right before his eyes, reaping what he sowed. And he's forced to eat up all the debris.

His eyes twitch, scanning your face for any sign of bluff, any sign of fallacy. Any sign that he successfully pissed you off and your words were nothing but overwhelmed impulse.

"I—" he closes his mouth, then agape. Any sign. Aaron will take anything besides the forthright expression on your face. He inhales, "I'm sorry." The sound dies before it can roll off his tongue.

It's like watching a bully shrink into the tiniest man who's ever lived.

Okay, maybe you were a little bit brutal.

You gulp as guilt creeps along your veins, wishing that someone out there would just do you both a favor and snipe you out before the embarrassment settles.

Drawing in a gentle breath, you take another step back from Aaron with a delicate voice, "You're not starting a new evaluation, but you're not done either. I transferred you under someone else's care because of personal reasons. My life doesn't revolve around you, Mr. Hotchner. So, if you have nothing else to say, go home." Your eyes drift to the vast selection of objects in your living room to diffuse the growing pity you can't help but harbor.

Only then does Aaron discern his impulsivity. Internally arguing with himself as he allows himself to look at you. One thing he's never done since the moment he met you with screwed brows and unwavering bias. His gaze instantly softens like a thick fog around him finally dissipates. Like he's achieved a clearer vision.

The first thing he notices is the state of your face. The dry mascara that drew faded stripes down your cheeks. Your puffy eyes are now faint pink, but he recalls them being red when he arrived.

Then Aaron brings his attention to your black dress. It's a simple formal, mesh midi dress, but he admits how it elegantly fits you. But he doesn't say it aloud because there's only one reason why you'd wear such an article of depressing clothing.

As if your words and his own realizations aren't enough, he gets a glimpse of the clock on your wall that reads 12:03 AM.

His blood suddenly stops flowing—skin clammy and pale. Aaron's lightheaded from guilt and penitence.

Without another word, you lead him towards the door, swinging it open. The past 24 hours already drained you, and Aaron just about made it fifty times worse. All you wanted was to get a shuteye.

Aaron swallows the shame and makes his way out. Before he leaves, though, he turns to face you once more. Genuine curiosity pinches his brows.

"Why didn't you just clear me out like the others did if I was such a difficult case?" The word tastes bitter in his mouth. What used to be a desired flavor turned rotten on his palette.

He asks with utter softness, leaving you skeptical to respond.

"Same reason why you kept attending my sessions even though you clearly hated it." You slightly close the door, only leaving enough space for the two of you to see each other.

He looks at you like the answer's all over your face but written in some foreign language he's not familiar with. Aaron barely opens his mouth when you answer the question in his mind.

"You needed a place where you can just be."

The door shuts.

Friday, June 19, 11:02 PM

"I didn't know where to go."

You pore at Aaron Hotchner with nothing but a flimsy robe to prevent his imagination from going rampant—and dirty.

It's eleven in the evening. It's been one month since you last saw him. It's been a month since he barged into your apartment like an entitled brat. It's been a month since you let your emotions take over. It's been a month since the two of you revealed parts of yourselves either of you don't dare think of.

A month and no contact.

You didn't wonder; just hoped and prayed that Aaron finally finds it in him to let go of the emotional turmoil that's torturing the soul out of his body.

Sighing, you step aside and let him in, closing the door behind you like it's normal to stop by one's ex-psychiatrist's apartment in the middle of the night without prior notice and, most importantly, without meter to run the minutes he's inconveniencing you.

Aaron walks in, and the heavy humidity of arousal immediately hits him.

Oh.

Well...

If he had something to say, Aaron kept his mouth shut. He is at fault for driving straight to your place like he's your bestest friend. So, he doesn't mention it, ignoring the fact that you're barely clothed.

Besides, after your last interaction with him, Aaron's certain he didn't have any prerogative in how you'd like to spend your Friday evening.

"Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute." Your steps are light behind him—feet nimbly grazing the wooden floor.

He turns to face you but quickly averts his gaze to avoid the glistening sight of your thighs. "Thank you..." He does his best to sound normal, choking in between syllables.

Aaron begins to regret his decision. Though, not enough to leave your place.

You disappear in the corner of the hallway. Allowing Aaron to finally release the breath he didn't know he was holding.

With you out of sight, his mind deliberately wanders...

What were you doing?

Aaron shakes his head vigorously like a worm under a storm of salt. The thought is undiscovered—untouched territory, forbidden to be exact. Should he form such thoughts, he'll do it somewhere else or rather about someone else.

Just as he caters to the sudden dizziness caused by his action, a man, half-dressed, walks past him, cursing under his breath and buttoning his shirt. Aaron's eyes widen a little, keeping his stoic face.

Oh, that's what you were doing.

Ick—as Aaron would like to call your visitor—had brown and curly, unruly hair. He was tall and definitely had a face, which, Aaron assumes, is nothing like the one he envisioned you're attracted to.

Somehow not a pleasant discovery compared to what he attempted to imagine—you, alone.

Ick looks at Aaron with a scoff echoing out of his throat, "Oh, what a surprise! She's a slut." He states smugly.

"Or she just wants someone better." The words spill out without hesitation, fired on sight. Aaron doesn't know where the boldness came from as he leans against the seat with a cocky smirk on his face. Definitely no more perplexed than the uncertainty of anger boiling inside of him. He glares at the man either way.

The man scoffs again before leaving with a couple more insults that Aaron thinks he's lucky to whisper, or your visitor would've left your apartment in an ambulance.

Ick slams the door, shaking the vase on the accent chest by the entrance.

Where did that come from?

He's questionably not as big of a hater as he was before, but Aaron can't determine the motivation that made him act the way he just did with a person who has business with you, which he should have no interest in.

Moments later, you come back, fully clothed, in an oversized hoodie and a pair of wide-leg linen pants. Comfy and a 180 contrast on how you dress at work, plus the garments you had on minutes ago.

You make a beeline to your kitchen, "Water or scotch?" You holler out, opening cabinets with a creek on their hinges.

The question is rhetorical. You place a glass with brown liquid glinting under the warm ambient light on the coffee table in front of Aaron, then plop on the armchair across from him, catering your own glass.

He stares between you and the glass while you kiss yours, never breaking your gaze. You hum in delight, making a popping sound with your lips.

Aaron opens his mouth and then closes it, falling into a cycle like a fish underwater. How should he explain himself? How does one explain why they're bothering their ex-psychiatrist past working hours? After making a scene a month ago? He swallows the thick void in his throat.

"Don't talk, just drink. Sit here for an hour. Then, go home." You say, opening up a book that's been sitting on the table since he arrived.

Aaron feels a surge of relief. He reaches for the drink and lets the smoky taste trail down his throat without hesitation. He wouldn't have guessed you as a fan of scotch—or anything not clear or fruity. This is the first he's seen you without some sort of filter he can't read through, and the observation prints you under a new light.

The silence comforts him. The occasional scrape of paper against paper with each flip of a page provides him reassurance. The company he finds within your presence gives him solace.

You let him be. Asked no questions, reading in peace like he was just any other friend who needed company.

He does as you said. Indulging in the hour of tranquility and stillness. His nerves tame. And he forgets why he went to you in the first place.

Why did he go to you?

Of all people. Of all the friends he brags about. The family he cherishes. His feet dragged—drove him to you.

The onerous unit chief chose to wander to your front door, sipping scotch as he enjoyed the silence and absence of others' guilting worry and constant craving to make him feel better when all he wanted was peace and letting the ache pass in gradual acceptance.

By the end of the hour, you call him a cab with the instructions for him to pick up his car the next day.

Aaron slept effortlessly that night.

Saturday, October 24, 9:24 PM

Aaron expected some sort of rejection or for you to slam the door close, or worse, ignore him as soon as you see his face through the peephole.

One can only tolerate a couple of unannounced visits from an insufferable ex-patient, right? He's surprised you haven't called the cops on him.

He skims your face for any sign of irritation or annoyance as soon as you reveal yourself behind your door, standing next to it to give him way. Aaron saw nothing but impatience.

You knit your brows, slightly tilting your head at his frozen build outside the frame of your door. "Well? Are you stuck or something? Get in, Hotchner—" You turn before you can even finish talking, disappearing down the small entryway.

He turns deaf for a moment. Your voice rings in his ears as if a bomb had just popped the only working drum he had left.

Hotchner.

Agent.

Mister—

Just Hotchner.

One simple change, and the light above your head suddenly looks brighter.

Like he's found something good. Something he can say he knows. Something he can trust(?)

"Don't forget to take your shoes off and shut the door!" You holler from the living room—unfazed.

Aaron flinches, snapping out of his trance. He wonders where you'd gone to, furrowing his brows, and yet enters your apartment with the permission you'd given him. He closes the door, pivoting on the soles of his dress shoes as he tentatively takes them off per your instructions.

He emerges back in your peripheral while you stare at the screen on your laptop, blue-filtered glasses back on. Your fingers hammer on the keys, soft sighs slipping past your lips every once in a while.

You glance at Aaron when his figure stays at the corner of your eye, cupping a coffee mug between your hands. "There's fresh coffee if you'd like. Are you hungry? I don't usually eat dinner, so I have nothing ready to eat, but I can whip something up." You blow over the surface of caffeine, and steam wafts on the tip of your nose.

"No—" He shakes his head, scoffing in confusion, "I'm sorry—"

"Apology accepted," You muffle into the mug.

Aaron's brows connect tighter, and his forehead creases. He looks at you like he's under an illusion, a hypnotic dream he can't quite distinguish.

"Hold on," He hoists his hand up as if to pause a scene in the movie. "I'm very confused. What is going on? Why are you being… casual and nice?"

"You say it like I'm incapable of human decency." Your back makes contact with the cushion of your sofa, pulling your legs close to your chest while one hand holds the handle of your mug. You roll your eyes when Aaron only stares at you, "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want to leave?"

Aaron shakes his head.

"Problem solved, then?" Confusion is still fresh on his blank face. You mentally smack your forehead. "There are patients who lack temporal sense, but turning them away when they clearly need immediate tending to would be a form of negligence on my part. So, feel at home." You theatrically stretch your arms, offering every corner of your space as his own.

"But I'm not your patient anymore. I've been back on duty for weeks." Aaron informs. Although he finds a place for his go bag on your floor.

If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he's about to stay for a sleepover—coming to your apartment late at night.

You wrinkle your nose, "Okay?" You look around as if someone else is in the room with you two. "Is that why you went here? You wanted to brag?"

Three months.

Aaron's been back to his usual routine for the past three months. And it's been four since he drank scotch on the very couch you're comfortably in.

A chuckle.

The sound tickles your ears, filling you with unexpected pride.

"No," Aaron shakes his head as the chuckle resonates through his chest. "I… I don't really know why I came here, if I'm being honest." He swallows air.

You nod, setting your laptop back on your lap. "Like I said, you're free to feel at home. Scotch is in the third cupboard. Coffee's in the pot. I've got some stuff to take care of, so help yourself." Your eyes are already fixed on the screen, hands jumping from one key to the other.

With your permission, Aaron ventures into your kitchen. Neat. Clean. Cozy. He somehow imagines you cooking as a hobby.

He settles for coffee. Asking you from the kitchen island if you'd like a refill—which you took without a thought, hoisting your cup up—and taking out a couple of his files to get a head start on his paperwork. He wasn't allowed to bring them outside the bureau's building, but it didn't matter at the moment.

Your apartment becomes a haven.

Aaron, for the first time in years, feels comfortable to slouch. He had no collection of when and how, but turns out he'd changed into a quarter-zip and one of his pajamas tucked in his go bag through the hours.

The two of you silently took care of your own thing until 1 AM strikes, and a yawn pulls you back into the earth.

You turn your head towards the kitchen to find Aaron scribbling over your kitchen island. He's sipping coffee—a fresh batch he made not long ago.

Stretching, you make your way past him. After placing the mug into the sink, you lean against it, crossing your arms as you stare at him. "Ten."

"What's that?" Aaron halts on his seat, lifting his head to look at you.

"I'm granting you ten visits," You announce.

"And that means?.."

Your face deadpans, and he does well at stifling a smile. "You can come here whenever you want—need, but only for ten free visits. It doesn't matter if it's late, too early, or unreasonable. I'm allowing you to knock on my door whenever you need. Any more than that, you have to attend my sessions in my office, where I get paid."

"What's the catch?" Aaron entwines his eyebrows, straightening his back as he props on the edge of the counter.

"No catch. Just one condition," You shift your weight on your other leg, "Don't come empty-handed. Food, drink, things, a person, anything. Bring something." Your brows hang on your forehead, anticipating any type of response.

Aaron weighs his choices. Calculated every possible outcome and benefit. He meets your eyes again. Index and thumb rubbing the growing stubble on his chin.

"Ten's a good number," He says as he nods.

Wednesday, March 2, 7:31 PM

Eleven months pass by in the blink of an eye.

It's the seventh time Aaron showed up without warning, and by this point in whatever acquaintance you two had, you aren't fazed or surprised anymore.

The fourth time he knocked on your door, he was carrying a hefty price of whiskey. An odd reason for a psychiatrist and a former patient to bond with, but you had no qualms about sipping neat whiskey that night.

At first, he stayed for an hour. Then, an hour turned into three. One time, a case hit too deep, and three became seven, but that only happened once—all you remember was a Wednesday night.

"Are you okay?"

Gentle sighs escape shivering lips. Tears pooling deep inside sockets.

One sharp sniff breaks it all.

You sob under Aaron's worried eyes as your grip on the knob almost snaps it off the door.

His brows twists and he reflexively yanks you by the back of your head into his chest, bringing you out of your apartment and into the complex's hallway.

"What happened?" He carefully inquires while he rests his chin atop your head.

You're a mess in his arms. Uncontrollable whimpers muffled in his soaked chest.

Aaron suggested that you two step inside for more privacy and heat, but he didn't complain when you two stayed frozen in the end of winter evening.

When it stops. The suffocating ache. You lightly push yourself off him, wiping the leftover tears off your cheeks—half of it already dampened his shirt.

Fifty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.

You cried to the point of dehydration.

"Sorry," you mutter, eyes down. "We should go inside if we don't want to catch hypothermia." You sniffle.

"Oh, we don't want that," Aaron attempts to joke, closely observing whether you'd react to it.

You didn't.

He closes the door behind him, following your figure as you practically drag yourself to your unofficial designated spot on the sofa.

"I know I'm the last person you'd want to hear this from, but would you like to talk about it?" He bites his inner cheek.

Nothing.

You only mold yourself into a ball.

Aaron hesitates whether to stay or leave you alone. It's true that you said he's welcome anytime, but you're definitely in no condition to entertain his own problems when you can't even look him in the eye the way you would, no matter how insufferable he is.

But he can't just leave you by yourself either. Nothing is stopping him, but he's not cold-blooded enough.

"It's not easy," Aaron fractures out of his trance at the sound of your small voice. You look at him with a tight-lipped smile. "This job, I mean."

You inhale a sharp breath, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. "I can be hopeful, positive, supportive… Everything to prove that a better life is possible, but at the end of the day, it's not my choice." You wryly chuckle. "It's the patient's. It's your decision to want to feel better. To want to change. To want to live—" You choke, and the tears flow once more.

"It's not about me, but I can't help feeling like a failure." Sobs spill off your lips, gasping for air. "I was supposed to make everything better. I was supposed to heal everyone and save everyone from whatever monster was hurting them. She said she's never felt so much better. She said it's the first time she felt so peaceful for years, Hotchner. She said she was looking forward to our next session. But she just… I didn't—" You gulp—struggling. "I didn't catch it. I didn't catch her lie. And hours later, I get a call from her mother telling me she— she died." Your hands shakily clasp your mouth to push the sobs back, but you fail.

Aaron doesn't know what to say.

But he knows what to feel.

He knows it well.

The guilt. The shame of never living up to your own promise. The pain of losing someone you swore to keep safe.

Then, it hits him like a wrecking ball.

How difficult of a patient was he before?

Has he ever made you cry before?

It's a stretch that you'd ever shed a tear over his stubbornness, but Aaron hopes you never did.

Because he's never seen anyone care so much despite getting all the hate. Despite taking all the blame. You stood your ground and became other people's foundation. You became their comfort.

You became the only thing that gave him serenity.

With the little time he's known you—a total of 43 genuine friendly hours—Aaron can testify in heaven that they had mistakenly dropped you into the earth. And he's never felt blessed to have someone like you. Never felt lucky enough to find someone with who he could feel broken as much as he could but never needed to save face.

So, he's heartbroken for you. And guilty that more than half of the time you'd known him, he made your passion a miserable experience.

And also guilty of developing feelings for you.

Saturday, August 13, 4:16 PM

"I'm not playing favorites, but your tech analyst definitely deserves better than being cooped up in the bureau's building." You say, plopping on the sofa with a soft bounce and a squeak from the coil spring.

Aaron hands you a glass of bourbon while sipping his own. Eyes fixated on the board on your coffee table. "I have no other choice. It's the only way to keep her safe. Unless you're willing to adopt her, I don't want to hear it." He chuckles, connecting his brows at the sight of your winning streak.

You two are playing Scrabble. It was Monopoly twenty minutes ago, but along the lines, you learned how butt-hurt a six-foot and two-inch man can get. Not an enlightening experience. It would have been two stars if you had to rate it.

So, you switched to Scrabble.

And Aaron is losing again.

Boy, were you so entertained.

He just came back from a fairly short case from Los Angeles. The case is not heavy or mentally draining—according to Aaron, but Jack's at a two-day sleepover, and Aaron has no idea how to spend the rest of his day—turning down Derek Morgan's and David Rossi's invitation to grab a drink at O'Keefe's with you in mind.

Aaron leans on the back of his seat. You don't know when your reclining armchair became his designated seat, but you noticed how lax he is in it and didn't question it further.

Months and months of relaxing stillness in your home—only ever full of bizarre surprises and irresistible joy whenever Aaron knocks at your door. With no means of communication or ever seeing each other at either workplace, Aaron's visits are welcomed but never fully anticipated. Thrilling.

Spelling the word 'loser' on the board with triple points, you bite the tissue inside your lower lip. "Maybe you can play Scrabble with her. Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky and win." You grin smugly at him.

Aaron gapes at you with a mixture of disbelief and merriment. He looks down on the flat entertainment, then back to you as he blinks. "You're cheating." He declares, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

A hearty laugh Aaron's never heard before roars out of you, and it's melodic to his ears. The meringue light spills through the forgotten open blinds of your window, painting your face with a dreamy filter. Aaron feels dizzy at the sight.

Your smile is contagious, and out of nowhere, his heart starts to pick up as if he'd caught whatever illness your radiant lips had by only staring at it. The loose hair over your forehead frames your face differently—different good. Like you'd been glowing, and the watts in your core mysteriously increased, so you're as bright as the sun and as warm as its light.

"You're just a sore loser. Suck it up, Hotchner." You shake with mirth, casually running dainty fingers along the curve of your ear.

"Aaron," He blurts too fast, too soon—too late to take back.

With a nonchalant shrug, you rephrase, "Suck. It. Up. Aaron." Much more emphasis and friskiness.

You tease him more about his lack of greatness in board games compared to his undeniable talent in every case the BAU encountered. But Aaron's already dazed by your lips calling his name.

Without either of you realizing it, 4 PM became AM.

Talk about abusing one's privileges. Aaron's moderately good at that. You conclude he's simply a strutting opportunist.

After the longest winning streak you've ever had in your life, you and Aaron decided to take a much-needed break and fell into silent reading—or, in your case, grooming your schedule for the next five months.

Midnight strikes along the grumble of Aaron's stomach. You two were too quiet. It echoed all over your apartment. Both of you fell into an obstreperous fit of laughter for another hour, stopping for a minute in between only to laugh some more as soon as you met each other's eyes.

Now, it's four in the morning. You're busy munching on Chinese takeout from a 24-hour restaurant Aaron called in. He claims he has handsome privilege courtesy of the owner, which you mockingly laughed at, to his dismay.

"I'm still terrified." He blurts.

The case must've been very difficult, then. He lied yesterday. However, at this point in your friendship, you expect him to do so, even if it's obvious.

You'd long given up on coaxing Aaron to talk about the case that brought him to your office. Or any other cases that got him knocking on your door at the most unreasonable hour. You thought that the best you could offer him was the comfort that no matter how beaten up he looked, you'd ask no questions and let him sort his boggled mind until he was ready to talk about it.

Looks like tonight's the moment. It only took more than a year, so it is not a big deal—to either of you, at least.

He looks at you when you remain quiet, silently asking for your permission. You nod, and he continues, "What Peter Lewis did to me was terrorizing. I always wonder whether I'm making the right decision or sending my agents straight to their deaths. I second guess. I'm scared that a part of him is still in my head, driving me to make a fatal mistake." Aaron starts playing with his food, poking an orange chicken with his chopsticks.

The memory brings a tangy taste to his tongue, and Aaron can't help but cringe. It's the first time he's ever talked about Peter Lewis. Granted, Aaron spoke about the event numerous times but never about how it made him feel. Never how it broke him.

Is it weird to say you're a little proud of Aaron?

Of course, you don't tell him that. Not out loud. You know he knows you're proud of him. And that's enough said.

With a few audible chews—caused by a carrot bit stuck between your teeth—that somehow doesn't piss Aaron off, you swallow the food and draw your lips into a thin line. You place the chopsticks on the side, wiping the rim of your mouth.

You know he's watching you. Anticipatingly waiting for a response for anything other than the silence he's accustomed to.

"Breathe," You gently instruct, clear enough for him to hear but not too loud for Aaron to jump in shock.

And he does.

His shoulder blades rise and fall into a soft rhythm. Aaron was holding his breath, and you knew. Of course, you knew.

"Do you know the purpose of defense mechanisms?" You quiz him, earning a nod from Aaron, and yet no following answer. "You were already mad at me even before we met. And for what? Nothing concrete, I'm sure."

Aaron was about to object, but you raised your hand to stop him, "I'm not trying to attack you. All I'm saying is that rather than being in denial, you displaced your frustration on someone else less threatening—me."

Silence.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm not done, shush!" You close your fist to mute him, cutting him off.

Aaron subtly rolls his eyes. He started doing so on his fifth visit when Aaron brought Jack and a few video games.

He told you that Jack's heard about your interest in a couple of games and wanted to play with you, but you know damn well Aaron bought the game for himself. Nonetheless, you entertained them by teaming up with Jack and obliterating Aaron. He vowed never to play against you ever again, at least not to your face.

"I would never know the pain and suffering that you went through. And somehow, even with that fact, a part of your life was in the palm of my hand. You had no control, but I did. So, instead of understanding the why, you hated the wrong who. And it's okay."

You take a sip from your straw, and a bubbly sensation fills you. Your tongue glides over your lips as you lean against the counter. "In short, for a man who's been through a lot, you know how to cope." A shrug ends your sentence, grabbing another bite of chow mein on your plate.

"Yeah, right," Aaron scoffs. The sincerity in your voice sparks something in him. It's giddy and tempting. But he can't possibly show the smile that's itching to spread his lips.

But his nonchalance may have triggered something in you because Aaron doesn't expect your next move. His neck felt like a snapped glow stick after you manually turned his head to face you—grabbing him by the space between his neck and chin. Aaron widens his eyes in the process.

"Listen here, you stubborn poopy head." You start, forehead creasing.

Aaron badly wanted to poke fun at your poor, intimidating skills, but he realized you didn't need any pointers just by the glare in your eyes.

"Peter Lewis got to your head, but that doesn't mean you were weak to let him. Yes, you fought through the influence of the drug heroically. Yes, you saved your agents and, most importantly, yourself. But it's still okay to be scared. It's okay that you feel broken. Who says broken things aren't great?"

It might be the sleep deprivation that's hitting Aaron, but he's very much enjoying your little fuse. How your words meant nothing like how you sound.

"That silver watch of yours—" you glance at his wrist "—has been broken for years, but I bet if you pawn it, it'll be more valuable than me. Antiques are expensive because they have unique histories. They survived beaten up, scratched, damaged, but still as beautiful as ever."

You're rambling, explaining more than you need to. Felt obligated to drill in his mind that despite the bad things, Aaron remains good. You're uncertain—clueless—as to why you felt the need to prove his praiseworthy, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself rather than him.

"From my observation, you're a sharper profiler despite all the things you went through. A part of you suffered and died in that house and many houses before. Of course, you'll be broken. You're a human being, Aaron. Act like one for Pete's sake!"

"I don't know whether you're being nice or mean." He chuckles with a mischievous grin, marveling at the way your eyes narrow as you look at him.

"I liked you better when you didn't talk." You tut, rolling your eyes.

For a moment, your senses heighten, and the simple brush of his hand against the skin over your wrist, as he takes your hold off him, sends billions of electricity throughout your body.

Aaron smiles—genuinely. "Thank you," He says softly, clearing his throat. His hand is still tight around your wrist. "You simply could've slammed the door the first time I knocked, but you always let me in. I appreciate you tolerating me."

You laugh, retracting your hands off his skin before you melt in his grasp. "I did not let you in the first time. You barged in like I'm some fugitive." You fix your posture on the stool beneath you, looking away.

His chuckle wakes the butterflies in your stomach, and you shove them right back down by stuffing your mouth with food.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of the time, "Y-you better go home and change before your son wonders why his father smells like Chinese food for Sunday brunch. Jack's a big fan of good 'ole syrupy pancakes, there's a good one by the bureau's building. Better hurry up and pick him up." It's amazing how much you almost choked and stuttered as you spoke, hoping that Aaron wouldn't question the way your demeanor changed.

Aaron takes one last bite before towering next to you, "Let me clean up. It's the least I can do for imposing half of your weekend." He insists, swiping the styrofoam off your hands.

"Glad you got manners," You nod approvingly, earning another chuckle from him, making sure you gave him enough space to move around without brushing any part of your body, or you wouldn't know what the brewing feeling in your chest would make you do.

You mindlessly peer at Aaron's broad shoulders and dark hair that looks so soft you wonder if it'll melt with your touch. You blink, catching yourself mid-swoon.

After a few minutes, Aaron bids you goodbye and you wish him well, asking to relay a short message to Jack.

"I think you're only nice to me because of Jack," He jokes, pivoting on the heel of his shoes to get one last glimpse of you.

You give him a tight smile, raising your brows as you shrug.

One visit left.

Thursday, May 5, 12:51 PM

The news said Mr. Scratch escaped prison. Peter Lewis is out and about, no doubt, planning serious harm against Aaron. You turn the TV off. The image shrinks into a small diamond spark 'til it leaves a dark screen.

Ninety-eight beats per minute are your normal, but you surmise it's about a hundred and twelve at the moment as your mind anxiously ruminates your not-so-favorite-unofficial patient's well-being.

You glance at your phone, debating whether to give him a call, but even if you gain the guts to do so, you don't have his number. Who knew that refusing personal contacts would backfire? Aaron can knock anytime, you said. It doesn't matter whether he texts or calls before, you said.

Now, you have no means of contacting him, and you refuse to resort to his ways—going through his file like he went through yours.

It's a shitty feeling.

You keep your fingers as far away from your mouth as possible, afraid you'll bite your nails to its quick. If Aaron was with you, he'd say something annoyingly witty about how your anxiety's too easy to read, and you'd be bantering back a remark about his tells that not many notice but sure slightly pisses him off that you know him like the back of your hand.

Eyes dart in the direction of your entryway, waiting for any distinctive sound only Aaron makes whenever he closes the door like a teenager coming home past curfew.

"This is driving me crazy!" You ruffle your own hair, rubbing your face in frustration.

Tempted to wait outside your door for Aaron to arrive, in need of a company. A once-in-a-lifetime bone-crushing hug, given by yours truly. Or open up the 1997 Old Forester bourbon on top of your shelf that Aaron's been eyeing for a year.

You need to know if he's okay. You need to see that he's okay. Physically, mentally, and emotionally okay.

No one ever knocked.

Friday, November 18, 2:33 PM

"Aren't you curious?"

You look at Rossi, "About?" Your eyebrows pinch together. You backtrack the entire session in your mind, trying to remember if there is anything you are supposed to be curious about.

There's none.

Rossi turns to face you, a hand emerging out of his pocket. "You're not curious where he's been? I've known him for years, and I've never been more curious about his whereabouts 'til now." The hand waves around as each syllable flows, and slices the air every emphasis he makes like a conductor of his emotions.

He usually talks with his hand whenever he's emotionally troubled, attempting to make a point to himself, justifying that his feelings are reasonable.

David Rossi has been your patient for years; you can write any and everything about him into a best-selling book.

"You said it yourself, Dave," You shrugged with your arms. "You've known him for years. He and I saw each other a couple of times during our physician-patient interaction. Any interaction we had after is just the two of us drowning in silence."

Aaron never knocked that day.

He hasn't redeemed his last visit for the past five months. While it isn't the longest time he's never stopped by, you're bitter about it.

You couldn't sleep for a week after Peter Lewis escaped prison. You were afraid that Aaron's name would flash across any type of screen or mark a headline on every article and newspaper. You had to take anxiety medication to stop your body from trembling whenever the thought of him crossed your mind.

It was hell.

The utter hopelessness and lack of courage teared you apart. The strangeness. The nonexistence. You don't reckon a conversation with Aaron that involves you and him. Only you or him or whatever depressing topic comes up. You're not even sure if you had actual conversations. Always wallowing in silence while sipping either scotch or coffee.

But you two had a deal. No catch. Not even feelings. Developing one for Aaron did not cross your mind when you granted him the power to bother you at any running time.

All of it is to say you wish you had known Aaron's last visit was, in fact, the last.

Rossi squints, "You're telling me the quietness you shared didn't matter? That his company didn't benefit you the same way it did for him?" He stands tall, pleased with his words.

It did.

Of course, it did.

And you loved every second of it.

Even if you realize it too late.

But you won't say that to Rossi. Or to anyone ever.

A sigh drops your shoulders. You give him a blank stare, letting his question hover for a moment. "What do you want me to say?" You continue packing up your things on your desk, breaking eye contact.

If you knew David Rossi like the back of your hand, David Rossi knew you like every family of the victims he managed to save.

Worried.

Heartbroken.

Hurt.

Aaron never told Rossi about any interactions with you after he was released from your care. It's information Rossi's only ever heard a confirmation from you. But he knew it from the moment Aaron came to work after his first session with you and couldn't seem to get the specific idea of you out of his head.

"We're doing everything we can to catch Peter Lewis. Aaron will be back, I promise."

Pause.

You fight your every single sense to remain composed. Hearing Aaron's name instantly made you crumble. The sound of it hitting your chest with such force you had to bite the tissue behind your closed lip. You badly wanted—needed to cry and throw a tantrum.

The inner ends of your brows lift up as you nod, "Good for you... and for him. I'll see you in two weeks, Dave." You dismiss, walking around your desk to push him out of your office.

"Wait, wait! Just listen!" You retract your hands off his back and let him face you. "He's okay. He and Jack are safe somewhere I, unfortunately, don't know." He tries to meet your gaze—successful. "But! But that's a good thing. Not knowing where he is while in protective custody is good. Safe. I just thought you'd want to know."

You nod, "Certainly a good information, Dave. But not really necessary." Your tongue subtly swipes the bottom of your lips. "Aa—Agent Hotchner was a patient. Anything outside of that is not my business." Liar.

Rossi tucks his mouth into a thin line, nodding. "See you in two weeks, kid."

Tuesday, March 27, 6:12 PM

It's a nice Spring.

Your hair dances like the breeze is music as you trudge back to your apartment against the rush hour sidewalk traffic.

A year and a half.

You moved to a different place since then.

Moved on— from something that never existed, but really, your old complex just ran out of business.

You couldn't possibly move on, even if you wanted to.

"Good evening, Mrs. Willows," You smile at the old lady as she steps on the base of the stairs.

Mrs. Willows was old, close to ninety. And she's the best landlady you've ever met.

She smiles back, "Oh, just in time!" She waddles towards you, scraping the soles of her flats against the creaky floorboards.

"Did you need anything, Mrs—"

The old lady doesn't let you finish when she yanks you back up the stairs. Confusion fills you, but if you are being honest, you're more amazed by her speed. You didn't know it was possible for her to have that much energy.

"There's this handsome boy knocking at your door earlier. So, I let him in."

You dig your feet on one of the steps, halting her. "Mrs. Willows, you let a stranger in my house?" Your brows knit.

She looks at you, "Well, I figured it's one of your patients." She shrugs.

"I wasn't expecting any home visit today." You announce, peeking at the top of the stairs. "And I would've been home if there was…"

You excuse yourself, cautiously walking towards your door. The floor plan is different from your old apartment. But everything still felt the same.

The anxiety of a random stranger going through your place left you rushing to the living room. You don't exactly let any random patient inside your home. It's usually the profilers that seem to have a liking to you that lucked the privilege to visit your home at any given time.

"I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to set an appointment at the clinic—" you abruptly stop, blinking.

Aaron Hotchner.

He's sat on the armchair, only lifting his gaze after he'd closed the book you were reading before you decided to step out to run some errands.

He is wearing a navy blue quarter zip sweater and a white shirt, peeking from under. It's paired with loose-fitting gray casual pants. Like his closet had an upset stomach and threw up all over him.

The bags under his eyes are almost invisible. It used to be a tint of greenish purple. A proof of his late nights and stressful days. He's caught up with sleep for a while now.

His hair, a little longer than you're accustomed to, somehow made him look young and boyish. Probably why Mrs. Willows referred to him as a boy.

It's quite an image. Not one you'd expect to see upon opening your front door, but you mentally admit liking it.

He looks refreshing and well-rested.

"I heard you started your own practice?" He didn't mean to form it as a question, tongue-tied by nervousness. He flashes an awkward, subtle smile, dipping his hands into his pockets.

Your lashes flutter like butterflies gliding through the soft wind of Spring, except you're struggling to go against the breeze, winded by the city pollution.

"H-have you eaten?" You ask, snapping out of your trance as you head to the kitchen. Great. A question for a question. You're as nervous as he is, and you don't feel the need to hide it, though you aren't inclined to admit it.

He chuckles, and it still makes you melt after a year of trying to remember how it sounds, "That's your first question? Not 'What are you doing here?' or 'How did you find me?'" He follows you to the kitchen, it's a lot smaller than the one at your old place but you had a dinner table now, which still feels like an upgrade.

You turn and face him, leaning against the counter, "I'll just charge the entire team on their next visit. But I have a feeling David's the culprit." You blurt, earning raised brows from Aaron. "Oh? They didn't tell you? Your team unofficially designated me as their psychiatrist. I guess they also kept an important information from you." You twist on your feet to focus on the produce you carefully picked in hopes someone would join you for dinner.

But you didn't expect Aaron to be that person.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No!" You almost stumble as you spin back to face him. "I'm in no position to be mad. If a patient doesn't need my services, then I have no say." You lick the lower of your lip, biting it as soon as your tongue glides past. Heat pooling in the back of your eyes.

Aaron steps closer, "I didn't mean to—"

"I told you I'm not mad."

"You're really going to lie to an FBI profiler?"

"Former," You correct him, sniffing as you fight the tears from rolling down your cheeks. Your head's tilted up, almost facing the ceiling. Anger and frustration hammer into your chest.

He rolls his eyes, trying to catch yours. "Former, right." He parrots with a little more sarcasm. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you anything... I needed to make sure Jack's safe." He softly speaks, making sure you understand every syllable.

It's your turn to roll your eyes, blinking and letting a tear fall in the process. "You don't have to apologize for protecting your son. I'm not evil, Hotchner. I'll do the same thing for my family. I'm completely indifferent about your disappearance, and i-it's allergy season. I'm fine." You wipe the tear stain off your face.

"I missed hearing you say my name like it's a foul word." Aaron smiles so brightly you thought you were dead and some divine was just using his image to guide you across.

"Seriously? That's what you took from it?" You shake your head, turning your back to him once more. "I feel bad for Jack now that you're a full-time father."

Aaron laughs, and by definition. "Oh, he's had enough of me." His eyebrows jump on his forehead, drifting his eyes aside as if he's replaying every instance Jack's complained to him.

You laugh, too. A full hearty laugh that seems to source from the casualty between the two of you despite the irritation you felt.

It's still the same. The ease. The effortless flow and connection despite anxious nerves. It felt like talking to an old friend you've known longer than you are alive.

You nibble on your lips, "So? You're off protective custody, or do I have to call you Brad?" You quiz airily, back still facing him to hide any form of amusement that's forming on your facial features.

"Brad?" He scoffs, crossing his arms and knitting his brows. He sounds about offended as if you'd disrespected his entire bloodline.

"Yeah, you look like a Brad to me." You remember a story from the women in the BAU. One that they happily shared one evening at Rossi's before they all begged to be added to your list of patients once you start your private practice.

Aaron lets out another scoff. "No, I'm just Aaron. Aaron to everyone. Aaron to you." He grumbles something under his breath that you don't hear, but a clear indication of his disapproval regarding the name.

You stifle a giggle, "Well, just Aaron. Consider yourself lucky that I got a free slot. I would've been with a patient by now." You state.

"Am I really just a patient to you?" Aaron inquires from behind you. He attentively observes for any subtle movement or expression in your voice. There's a longing look in his eyes that you aren't aware of. A frown drops his lips as he adds, "I at least thought we were friends."

"Mm," You hum a chuckle, "More like my stalker. But sure, we'll go with yours... friends—"

He spins you by the waist, and you're not sure if your initial thought of dreaming is ending anytime soon as your body tenses under his hold.

A small yelp squeaks out of you, hands flying behind you on the counter as if to hold yourself up from your wobbly feet. And you're certain both of you can hear the loud pulse on your carotid.

"Hotchner, what the hell?!" You chastise, pulling back, but to no avail. Caged and pinned by his strength, and you're too baffled to react accordingly.

"I'd like to redeem my tenth visit." Aaron smiles from ear to ear. You never thought it possible for a stern-faced man to ever grin this wide. To ever be this bright and bubbly.

Aaron keeps the two of you that way for a few minutes. His face is a few inches from yours. You can hear him calculating in his head.

Only the busy street outside and one of your neighbor's loud TV fills the silence.

"Your pupils are dilated." Aaron grins mischievously. He further scans your face, the same way he did when he used to be your patient, reading you like it's his job to know every micro-movement and expression you make.

Your eyes widen, "Stop—" Your voice barely comes out, breath hitching halfway through your throat. "—profiling me." The space between you and his body feels suffocatingly good. It's making you dizzy.

"Usually, you're composed, but you can barely look me in the eyes." His hands remain on your hips, and every twitch of it makes you stiff like a statue. "Am I making you nervous?" He quips wittily.

Like a switch, your heart rate steadies, and his image becomes clear.

It's Aaron Hotchner.

Just Aaron, he said.

Warmth surges through your veins. You stare at the grin on his face.

Your head tilts, and you blink excruciatingly slow. "Are you trying to ask me out, Hotchner?" You mirror the trail of his eyes like a map.

Aaron beams like he'd won the lottery. Sending you impulsive thoughts such as kissing the smile off his face.

It's tempting and nauseating.

And if he doesn't stop, you just might.

"Ten."

Your eyebrows merge in confusion, "What?"

"Ten dates," He breathes as he looks you in the eye. "Let me take you out on ten dates. Then you can decide if I'm just one of your many stubborn patients or if I can be more. Let me make it up to you in ten dates. Please." He implores, hopeful, or rather knowing that you'd say yes.

And he'd be right.

All you want at that moment is to say yes.

But teasing him won't hurt, at least not you.

"And what's in it for me?" You try your best not to smile as you taunt him.

Aaron rolls his eyes, but his grin tugs the corner of his lips up. "You get unlimited access to me?"

"Wow, that's... very compelling." And you burst out laughing, folding on your stomach as you lean against his chest. You inhale, "Sorry, I expected better negotiation. Uh, any catch?" You say between chuckles.

He shakes his head, "Just one condition," He's chuckling now, too. Not immune from your contagious giggles. "I spend most of my days with you. Even if it's just sitting in silence. I want it to be with you." He lets go of one of your hips and tucks a strand behind your ear.

The giggles die down a bit, gazing at him with reverie. You nod after a few seconds, squeezing his arms. You lift yourself, tiptoeing, closing the gap.

You leave a quick, soft peck on his lips, smiling as you get back on your feet.

Aaron smiles, and you're as ecstatic as he is.

Another nod fills your chest with utter joy as you breathe in euphoria.

"Ten's a good number."

[silamander]

I simply adore Max Jägerman

He perfectly teeters the line between scary and goofy. One minute he's cowering in fear of a very obvious fake ghost and skeleton (sorry, skele'un) and dancing around like an idiot as he sings about how no one can stop him. The next he's a ghost, towering over Richie, and delivering some of the hardest verses in the whole series.

He's the cliche jock bully and the dumbest motherfucker, but he has a surprising amount of hidden depth, and absolutely steals the show in every scene he's in. Will Branner ate and left no crumbs, and Jeff Blim absolutely cooked with every song he's in.

[aurorawritestoescape]

Masterlist

All fics are explicit! minors dni!🔞

Series / Collections

BAD BLOOD - step uncle Joel Miller x f!reader x stepdad Tommy Miller

Summary: you want your stepdad and your step uncle offers to help

*****

KISS KISS BANG BANG - no outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader (bank robbers AU)

Summary: Joel and you live a life full of risk, thrill and danger. Every day can be your last, so you savour every kiss and enjoy each other to the fullest. Can you survive this journey to your dreams?

*****

PERFECT STRANGERS - no outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: What would you do if you met a perfect stranger? Someone who understands what you've hidden deep inside your soul. The attraction is instant. It's perfect. What if you don't want to be strangers anymore?

*****

HEATWAVE collection - Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: They are horny. They are filthy. They are in love.

It’s a collection of one-shots following the same couple. Every story can be read alone.

One Shots

Hot shower -pre-outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader pwp

Strawberries and cream- no outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader DDLG

Sweet remedy - no outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader DDLG

A Villain’s Monologue - serial killer!Joel Miller x f!reader dark fic

The Helping Hand - post-outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader somno

Keep On Your Mean Side - post-outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader (written with @milla-frenchy) dark fic

Birthday Surprise - no outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader x Tommy Miller mfm

Jacket -no outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader fluff

The Burglary - burglar!Joel Miller x f!reader x burglar!Tommy Miller (written with @milla-frenchy) dddne, non-con

Flasher - flasher!Joel Miller x f!reader exhibitionism

Flower - post outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader dead dove, dark fic

Bad Girl - Joel Miller x f!reader x Tommy Miller (written with @milla-frenchy) dubcon

Morning Bliss - post outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader smut, fluff

Cockwarming Joel - blurb

Feed Me - Joel x f!reader pwp

His - dark!Joel x f!reader x dark!Tommy x m!OCs DDDNE NON CON

Always and Forever - post outbreak Joel x f!reader angst

Ribbon - Joel x f!reader pwp

Good Girl - Professor Joel Miller x f!reader

American Beauty -best friend’s dad Joel x f!reader part 2 Please, Sir

Take Me smut, angst

Swallow blurb, smut

Joel Miller x f!reader x Dave York mfm

Pt 1 Table for three Pt 2 Who’s your daddy? drabble Get a Taste

I know better than to call you mine fluff, smut

Heatwave pwp

Sweet Cherry virginity loss

In His Arms QZ Joel

✨Hot for You - drabble

✨Fill Me Up

✨Going Down - Joel x reader, Frankie Morales x reader

The Party - dark!Lucien Flores x f!reader non con

The Beast Within- dark!Ezra x f!reader dark fic

One shots

The Visit semi-public

Surveillance voyeurism

Drabble based on a gif

Shaving Javi drabble

Steam

Series

The Hounds of Hell - Javi x f!reader x Steve written with @milla-frenchy

Summary: you meet two DEA agents in a bar. You drink too much and they offer to take you home.

Watching You - Dave York x f!reader voyeurism

After Watching you - drabble

Flat line - dark!Dave York x f!reader dark, noncon

Table for three - Dave x reader x Joel mfm

The Devil in Me - devil!Dieter Bravo x actress! reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

Other Pedro characters

Addicted - Max Phillips x f!reader smut, angst

Destinies Intertwined - General Marcus Acacius x f!reader x Lucilla mff

The Hoodie - Frankie Morales x reader blurb

Going Down - Frankie x f!reader, Joel x f!reader

Non Pedro characters

Sunset - boyfriend Billy (Skeleton Twins) x f!reader Boyd Holbrook character, smut

AO3 /not all fics are there

Fanart

Joel Miller pencil drawing

I saved her the last of us 2 edit

Pedro Pascal lockscreens 1 | 2 | 3

[sourvers]

PETRICHOR

series summary: at last, your former life- a skeleton of the past- was thoroughly buried between layers of sand and Earth. thus, the frigid valleys of the Yukon welcomed you with open arms; finding yourself a small home and the tender solace of civilian life.

alas, when Kate Laswell- a woman you owed an eternal debt- asked for your help, you began digging a new grave while unearthing another—a new crease to a fold of four.

a hidden criminal in a military task force.

contents & warnings: john price x fem reader enemies to lovers, angst, childhood trauma, canon-typical violence, romantic tension, suggestive (but not smut), fluff and humour, crime

cod main masterlist . ao3 link

⤷ hello! this was originally posted on ao3 buttt I decided to post it here too. I hope you enjoy my first series!!

CHAPTER INDEX

01: Don’t be a Stranger

02: Bad Shot

03: Cigar Burns

04: De Rein

more to come...

[porcelainseashore]

Into the Ether (11)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire! Toreador! Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader

Summary: At the all-night events cafe you run, you’ve become acquainted with an elusive patron, Leon, though you can never remember the last moments of your interactions together. After a harrowing encounter, a love-hate relationship develops between the two of you as you grapple with your newfound status in a world of darkness and investigate the reasons behind the untimely attacks.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Resident Evil x Vampire: The Masquerade crossover, horror, mystery, romance, slow burn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, swearing, smoking, alcohol, drug references, non consensual blood drinking, blood bond, vampire turning, violence, injury, mild gore, torture, religious themes, minor character death, RE ensemble, VtM concepts.

Author's Note: Brief mentions of homophobia, bullying, and attempted suicide, as well as suggestive themes ahead. Finally, I wanted to do a shout-out to these underrated RE characters appearing in my fic: let’s hear it for my boys, Patrick (Infinite Darkness) and Kevin Ryman (Outbreak)! 🥰

Taglist: @admirxation @angelstargel @miss-oranje-disco-dancer ❤️‍🔥

AO3 Link

Chapter 11: Hideous

Given how things had blown up between you and Leon in public, it was only natural that word of your outburst had gotten around. Within a few minutes, you had been accosted by an irate-looking man and his entourage kindly informing the both of you, “If you can’t control yourself on these grounds, then perhaps Elysium is not the place for you.”

Were you always meant to suffer in silence? Why was it so highly lauded? Would you win some sort of prize for not running around, kicking and screaming your lungs out? The one thing you knew, though, was that at least for tonight, you had been humiliated and ungraciously banished from Elysium.

Having to make the journey back home with Leon made your skin crawl, but you survived it, like you always do. It seemed as if every time you took a step forward, something would come around and set you two steps back. Like a Russian doll, opening the closet revealed not just a single skeleton, but countless piles hidden within layers upon layers of boxes. You were tired of this charade, tired of what else might lie beneath the earth, if you dug a little deeper.

You were so absorbed in your thoughts that you almost didn’t hear him say, “I gave the documents to the Tremere Primogen.” It was quiet and unassuming, without any fanfare. He didn’t expect it to absolve him of his sins, but he just wanted you to know that he hadn’t played God and condemned another this time.

Was it too late? You never liked things being so finite, but you were tempted to end it there and then. However, a question lingered on your mind. “Who is Sherry?”

You were back at his apartment and he had busied himself cleaning the glasses you had drunken out from earlier to avoid addressing the elephant in the room. One of them slipped out of his hands, landing with a thunk at the bottom of the sink as the water continued running from the tap. 

His time with you was up; judgment had finally come for him. He had made a promise to you a few nights ago to always be honest with you, and he was going to keep it, regardless of the consequences. Shutting off the tap, he gripped the sides of the metallic basin. A knot in his chest tightened and he felt like he was suffocating.

“She was one of the vessels,” he admitted, and without further prompting, he revealed the detail that would damn him the most, “I found her when she was eight years old.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he heard your loud gasp as fat tears streaked down his face. Everything he had was lost in a matter of seconds. If by some miracle you hadn’t already hated him before, you would hate him for the rest of his unlife now. Blood pooled in his mouth as he bit down hard on his tongue.

“You’re—”

He turned around, facing you for the first time since you’d gotten back. “A monster? Yes, that’s what I am.”

“Why?” You felt the air escape your lungs with a hiss, as if through a puncture wound.

He didn’t want to make any more excuses. You knew what was implying when he simply replied, “For Ada.”

There was nothing else left to hide. He had laid everything bare before you. You saw him as who he was now, in all his vulnerability. Just a man who had chipped away at his soul to be loved and, along the way, convinced himself that this was all there was to it.

The expression on your face hardened, eyeing him like he would never be redeemed. It was the final straw and whatever shred of empathy you had for him was gone. He would do anything to win you back, going down on his knees, begging and groveling, but you had already made up your mind. He just didn’t want to see you say it.

So, he was back at the sink again, holding the glass that had fallen in earlier with a shaky hand. He mouthed the words as you uttered them, as though he knew it by heart.

“When all of this is over, I’m leaving you for good.”

Minutes ticked away into hours. You had already gone to bed, while he stared down the basin, like a bottomless pit reflecting back into him. He didn’t even wince when the glass crushed in his hand, its shards piercing and embedding into his skins as thick, dark red blood ran in rivulets to his fingertips. He watched as it dripped like black tar heroin into the drain, at the same time, wondering, Is that all there is?

━━━━━━━━━━━

Your mind was all over the place at the cafe. It wasn’t like you to forget the program lineup, as well as the logistics of what needed to go where. You even ended up creating a mess when it came to sorting out the lighting and sound tech for the cabaret show that evening. Your colleagues shot you concerned looks as you walked around in a daze like a zombie.

“Do you think she’s burnt out?”

“Probably having an off night.”

“She’s always been a bit of a workaholic.”

Funny how Auspex just kicked in for you naturally now, and you could hear snippets of conversation from people who thought they were being so secretive.

Feeling a hand on the back of your shoulder and you spun around, coming face-to-face with Patrick. “Hey, why don’t you take it easy tonight?” he suggested. “I could cover for you. Besides, you’re the boss here.”

“One of them,” you corrected, as you stubbornly continued to unwind the equipment cords, plugging them in along the marked out areas on stage.

“Yeah, but er, the rest aren’t as active,” he reasoned.

“So?” You shrugged, heading off to the other end of the stage to check on the mic stands.

Like an obedient puppy, he continued tailing you, following closely behind. “Something’s off with you…” He wrinkled his nose. “Is it Leon?”

Upon hearing his name, you fumbled with the mic, nearly dropping it if not for your Celerity-induced reflexes. “Fuck, shit!” You held onto the stand, stabilizing yourself as you pressed your lips into a thin line.

“Alright, that’s it,” he stated sternly, prying the mic and stand away from your grip. “Head out back and I’ll join you — the usual spot.”

Before you could open your mouth to protest, he already signaled for another employee to take over. “I mean it,” he scolded. “You’re not lifting another finger.”

Sighing, you ran a hand through your hair which had begun to stick along the sides of your face in the humidity. Was the ventilation system broken again?

"I can still see you thinking about work," he said, narrowing his eyes and using both hands to shoo you away from the stage.

You made a fuss and grumbled, but did as you were told and went out into the cold alleyway. Sitting alongside a curb, you stretched out your legs and waited for Patrick to arrive.

“Hm, Gauloises,” you heard his voice coming from behind as you fiddled with the cigarette pack. “Fancy.” He plopped down beside you.

There were only two sticks left now, as you’d chain-smoked the rest in the last nights. In fact, you’d gone through a bunch of them on the way to work. You couldn’t get any nicotine high out of it, but the feel and taste of them against your lips comforted you.

“Wanna split the last two?” You extended the pack towards him.

“Sure.” He fished one out, lighting it straight away before helping you with yours. You tried to hold back your flinching. “Where’d ya get them from anyway?”

“Leon’s ex.”

“Oh,” he coughed out, choking on the smoke. “Well, that must’ve been awkward.” Cocking an eyebrow at you, he suggested, “Is this what it’s about then? He’s got his panties in a twist after seeing her?”

Sort of, but not really. “More like, skeletons in the closet, y’know?” You exhaled a long train of smoke, which coiled and entwined like tendrils in the air.

“Right.” He paused, growing unusually silent as if contemplating on something. “And you’re wondering if he’s a good guy.”

You locked eyes with him, probing for answers. How the fuck did you know? you wanted to ask.

“What if I told you that I wasn’t always like this,” he offered.

“You mean, this annoying?” you jested, snickering as he smacked your arm with the back of his hand.

“Hey, fuck you.” He wagged his finger in your face. “And I meant being comfortable with who I am, liking both men and women — that sort of thing.”

Patrick had moved to Raccoon City from a small town in the middle-of-nowhere, and you could only imagine how it must’ve been like living in a place where the community encroached upon everything that you did. Stifling, was the word.

“I’ve done some stuff in the past I’m not proud of,” he continued. “People can really make some fucked up decisions when put in a situation.”

“You don’t say…” you trailed off as your lips curled into a cynical half-smile.

He glanced over at you skeptically and huffed, “What if I told you that I outed a guy I was in love with, because I didn’t want to get caught?”

You frowned, considering his words as you stared at your smoldering cigarette which had disintegrated into a stub.

“That I bullied and ostracized him after we kissed, just so I could cover my tracks?” he added. “It got so bad that he had to move away. And the last I heard, he tried to—”

You saw him clench his jaw as he cleared his throat, wringing his hands uneasily. He didn’t need to complete his sentence for you to know what he was alluding to.

“Am I a good guy, then?” he forced out, his voice tense and paper-thin, like a razor blade slicing through flesh.

You mulled over what he had shared with you as the crisp, icy wind nipped at your cheeks and your breath came out in misty puffs. “You’re a good friend,” you finally determined.

He draped his arm around your shoulders, jostling you a little as you smiled at each other in understanding. “I can’t change what I did back then,” he conceded. “But what matters is what I do next. At least, that’s what I tell myself.”

Bumping his head playfully against yours, he posed a final question, “So, what’s Leon like now?”

━━━━━━━━━━━

“Feign to the right!”

“There you go.”

“Hold your guard up!”

A string of commands were barked out by the beefy brunette man in front of you, while you worked up a sweat, throwing quick jabs at him as he countered them with ease. You kept your feet light and springy, deftly ducking and sidestepping as he aimed a roundhouse kick at your ribs.

“Nice one!” his sister yelled through her cupped hands at the sidelines.

For a brief moment, you got distracted and found Chris’ fist landing squarely on your jaw in a brutal left hook which sent you sprawling to the ground. 

“Ow…” you groaned, rubbing the side of your face sorely as you scrambled to your feet.

Your mentor folded his arms, throwing you a harsh look as he admonished, “What did I say about blind spots?”

“Never have your back to the enemy,” you recited monotonously. “Always be aware of your surroundings.”

“Hey, Chris, lighten up will ya?” the redhead called out. “She’s doing just fine for a start.”

He sucked his teeth in response before spitting sharply at his side onto the dusty ground. “Fine, take five,” he relented. “We’ll work on some drills next.”

“Well, he wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t go easy,” you muttered as Claire jogged up towards you.

“Yeah, he’s a bit of a pusher,” she explained, shrugging apologetically. “Used to be in the military.”

“Not surprised.” 

You peered around the vast, minimalistic space you were in. It was an industrial warehouse at the west end of Euston Street that had been converted into a makeshift gym. The bare, unpainted walls and stripped back decor gave it an illicit vibe akin to an underground fight club. Aggressive, punk rock music blared from the stereos, accompanied by the rhythmic clunks of metal hitting the ground as the weightlifters in their muscle tanks did their reps. 

From what you could see, it appeared to be a popular Anarch hangout, with the majority of them likely coming from the Brujah clan. The other Kindred at the corners of the room eyed you suspiciously as they wrapped their hands in strips of cloth for sparring practice. There were talks of you being a Cammy spy, fears that the Redfields tried to allay.

“Don’t worry about her, she’s with us,” they said, pulling you along behind them as they got bombarded with questions, which they took in their stride.

“Yeah, Leon’s childe.”

“Yes, that Leon. The one and only, you idiot.”

“So? He got to her first. Sucks to be you.”

It seemed like Leon’s name carried a certain weight to it. He must’ve been relatively respected within their social circles. You still couldn’t imagine him hanging around areas like this. It seemed too ‘unrefined’ for someone of his standing.

“I showed Leon a few tricks back in the day,” Chris boasted, his eyes twinkling with a faraway look as he recalled fond memories. 

“The same tricks you’re gonna teach me, right?” you prompted, trying your luck.

He threw back his head and laughed. “Gotta say, I like your spunk, kid. But you don’t have any basic training,” he pointed out. “So, learn to walk before you run.”

And that’s how you ended up here, being pushed to your limits as Chris dumped exercise after exercise onto you, and gave you an ass whooping during one of the practice fights. You were exhausted by the end of it, collapsing in a heap on the dirt floor, as you wiped the sweat and grime off your brow.

In fact, you found out that you actually weren’t as strong as you thought you were. The time you ripped off Leon’s bedpost was an anomaly. You’d probably triggered a Blood Surge without knowing, which temporarily buffed your physical strength. Another way was to learn the Potence Discipline, which came naturally to Brujahs and some other clans, but not yours. However, in order to do that, you would need to find the right teacher who possessed those Disciplines and drink from them before your lessons could begin. That was not something you were prepared to do, though Chris had mentioned a third way, and that was by training with the blood to enhance your physical capabilities.

“Rough night, huh?” One of the Kindred who’d been watching you from the start approached, uncapping what looked like a plastic water bottle, but topped up with blood instead.

“Yeah, I’m kinda new to all of this actually,” you replied modestly.

“Well, you got a tough trainer.” She squatted next to you, gulping down the liquid in satisfaction. “But it’ll be good for you in the long run.”

You jerked your chin towards her bottle. “How’d you get one of those?” 

It was an innocent question, but the bewilderment on her face told you that you knew close to nothing about their world, having been sheltered all this while by Leon. Your cheeks grew warm.

“Is that a trick question, or—?” she snorted, only to realize you’d been genuine. “Oh, um, I hunted and drained the victim?”

She followed up with another query, “Didn’t you already have your first kill?”

“What?!” you blurted out, not quite sure if you misunderstood her words.

“Like, the first person you drank from when you turned.” She moved her hands around wildly, as though it would aid in her explanation. “’Cause there’s no way they didn’t end up dead with that kind of hunger frenzy.”

“No, no… it wasn’t like that,” you sputtered, still shocked at what she had divulged. “Le— My sire helped me.”

“Wow, you’re lucky,” she huffed, clearly astounded and simultaneously jealous by the revelation you’d shared. “Some of us didn’t even get anything left for us to eat.”

“You mean, your sires just abandoned you?” you quizzed, baffled by how cruel some Kindred could be. Then again, it shouldn’t have surprised you, seeing as how you’d been treated by the rest of the Camarilla.

She nodded solemnly in response. “Yeah, pretty common among our lot, actually.” 

Waving to another group that had entered into the building, she mentioned, “Caitiffs, over there.”

Caitiff was a catch-all term used for Kindred who didn’t belong to any clan, either because they didn’t know who their sire was, or they had been rejected by their clan as the blood didn’t take. The latter meant that they had no real lineage, including the clane bane and its noticeable features. They were considered to be at the bottom of the social hierarchy, just above the Thin-Bloods.

“Why do you think we’re part of the Anarchs?” she asked rhetorically. “’Cause there was nowhere else for us to go.”

The more you talked with the rest of the group, the more you realized that Leon had been shouldering most of the burdens that should’ve been yours to carry. While other fledglings scrounged around doing someone else’s dirty deeds to be able to survive the next night, you didn’t have to move a muscle. Simply because Leon had taken it upon himself to do it for you. 

What’s Leon like now? Patrick’s question from the previous night echoed in your ears.

Kind, caring, protective — were the words that came up spontaneously. It astonished you that insults like disgusting, vile, revolting didn’t. But he had also been incredibly dense and obtuse at times. You facepalmed and stifled a laugh at the recollection of him dressing you in Ada’s raunchy lingerie set after the night of your Embrace. You’d been outraged at everything then, and when you’d asked him why he had done that, he blushed furiously and stammered, “I-I thought you would feel more comfortable in, uh, um… women’s clothes?”

“What’s so funny?” one of the Anarchs asked, bringing you back to reality.

“Nothing,” you mumbled, shaking your head and shrugging off the residual thoughts that lingered. But like a parasite lodged deep within the crevices of your skull, you couldn’t scrub the image of him abducting a child from your mind. 

That was why you were here, you reminded yourself severely. Not to think about the small pockets of good times with Leon that brought you much-needed joy. Not to make excuses for how he could be redeemed. He wasn’t your little project to work on. You wanted to be free and rid of this man once and for all. You were here to learn how to be independent and self-sufficient, so you would never have to rely on him again.

“How do you usually feed, Claire?” you popped the question out of the blue, so much so that she thought you were joking, just like the younger Anarch.

“What has Leon been weaning you off? Blood bags?” she giggled until she saw the look on your face. “Wait, you’re actually serious?”

An exasperated groan escaped her throat. “He really needs to stop babying you.”

“Tell me about it.” You leaned back against your elbows as you idly watched the others train.

“Well, I shouldn’t be laughing ’cause I’m actually a Bagger myself,” she disclosed. “Working at the charity blood drive at the hospital gives me a couple of privileges when it comes to siphoning off some supplies.”

Raising a finger in front of your face, she preempted your next question, “And no, sorry, I got dibs on that first. You’ll have to find your own way.”

“What other ways are there?” you pondered out loud.

“I dunno, be creative,” she suggested unhelpfully. “My brother’s more the stalk and knock ’em out kind. The Anarch you spoke with earlier prefers sleeping victims…”

She shuffled from her stretched-out position back to sitting on her bum. “Whatever you choose, remember that we’re predators, so think like one. That said, these are just our feeding preferences. In a pinch, you’ll do anything it takes to survive.”

You hummed, contemplating her lengthy exposition on the topic. If there was one thing you’d been good at in life, it was talking with people, getting them excited about an idea, making them feel heard and leaving them wanting more. There were two ways to go about this: either you became a charismatic cult leader or you resorted to the cheesy but tried-and-tested method of picking people up at parties. Naturally, you opted for the latter.

When you told Claire about your plan, she grinned cheekily. “Never took you as the seductive Siren type.”

“I’m not having sex with anyone,” you protested. “Just gonna ask if they’d let me do some weird shit to them.”

“Ooh, like a blood kink sorta thing?” Placing her chin between her fingers, she rubbed her bottom lip in anticipation. “That’s pretty smart, but also on the borderline of a Masquerade breach. You should be careful.”

“It’s kinda what I thought Leon had at first to be honest,” you admitted.

Her hand flew up to her mouth, covering it as she erupted in a burst of raucous cackles. Tears fell from her eyes and her shoulders heaved up and down. Her whole body shook uncontrollably.

“Hah— oh god— jeez,” she wheezed, grabbing onto your shoulder for support. “You’re killin’ me!”

Apparently, it spread like wildfire, since the rest of the crowd reacted similarly, except Chris, whose cheeks were dusted in light pink as he looked away in embarrassment. You never thought you’d be gossiping behind your sire’s back, but it was too late to retract that statement now.

You tried to spend most of these nights away from Leon’s apartment, hoping to get back each time when he had already nodded off to sleep, but you had no such luck. He’d be sitting there either in front of his desk or at the TV waiting for you like a strict parent. Once you got in, he’d glance over at you briefly, his eyes laden with grief, before quietly switching off the lights for bed. 

The change in atmosphere was jarring; you much preferred the liveliness of the cafe and the Anarch hangout, compared to the oppressive heaviness you felt at the apartment. You tossed and turned in bed, unable to find sleep, only to hear the rustling of sheets coming from downstairs, confirming that your companion suffered from the same fate. It was only in the very last moments before sunrise that your body automatically switched off like a clock.

No matter how well you tried to hide the cuts and bruises you returned with from your training sessions with Chris, nothing could elude Leon’s hawk-like scrutiny. He didn’t call you out on it initially, merely giving you perturbed looks, a raised eyebrow here and there, accompanied by a frown. It wasn't until one night, when you returned home with broken knuckles after getting a little over-enthusiastic during a combat fighting session, that he spoke up.

“Are you thrill-seeking, or are you purposely picking fights I don’t know about?” his sharp voice rang out across the room.

You ignored him, heading straight into the bathroom as you loaded a pail with cold water and ice. Plunging your fist into it, you stuffed a towel into your mouth to muffle your whimpers. Then, you roused the blood, focusing your concentration on mending the wound. Within seconds, your mangled hand fixed itself like machine parts slotting into place, becoming brand new again. A pang of hunger arose deep within the bowels of your stomach and you growled reflexively. 

Shit, you needed blood. But you refused to touch the blood bags that Leon had been procuring for you night after night.

At that point, Leon stormed in. “Hey, answer me!” he demanded, his eyes flashing dangerously.

You stood up, facing him as you scoffed, “What’re you, my dad or something?”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With a brazen look on your face, you stripped off in front of him. He stared at you in shock before averting his gaze out of respect for your modesty.

Stepping into the shower, you ran the tap, allowing the spray of water to wash away the dirt and crustied blood from your body. “Feel free to enjoy the show,” you jeered. There was a long pause before you heard his footsteps exit the room in a hurry.

You took your time getting ready, ensuring that not a single strand of hair was out of place and that your makeup was on point. For good measure, you applied a flirty cat eyeliner and chose a brighter, more youthful cherry red for your lips, blotting and smudging it along the edges to create a softer look. 

Pulling out a strappy, ribbed cotton dress from the clothes you’d hung in Leon’s wardrobe, you threw it on. The material accentuated your curves but had a semi-relaxed fit, giving off a casual, sporty vibe — perfect for what you were about to get up to. You favored the warm, earthy tones of its burnt orange hue against your complexion in the mirror. It reminded you of saffron spice and the ember glow of charcoal as the floral taste of shisha filled your mouth in some distant land. Adorning yourself with gold dangle earrings, you completed the look by slipping on a pair of black heeled sandals before making your way out.

However, a hand grabbed your wrist, spinning you around as you landed with your back against the door. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Leon gave you a once over as his smoldering eyes swept over your outfit from head to toe. A multitude of conflicting emotions crossed his face, ranging from disapproval to admiration. He seemed to be leaning hard into the overprotective parent role and it was getting on your nerves.

“The night’s still young,” you argued, tempted to provoke his temper even further. Oh, well, YOLO. Giving him a devilish smirk, you added, “I’m heading out to have some fun. So, don’t bother waiting up for me.”

Wresting your wrist free from his grasp, you flipped your hair, turning towards the door as you strutted out of the apartment without looking back.

━━━━━━━━━━━

It was drizzling when you arrived at the front of the queue at one of the more commercial clubs popular with the younger crowd in downtown Raccoon City. The rain had moistened your skin, giving it wet, glistening sheen as the bouncer ushered you into the space.

Kaleidoscopic strobe lights flashed across the dance floor while a tired playlist of the current top chart hits reverberated through the state-of-the-art sound system. You wouldn’t call this place your usual haunt for a party, but it was your best bet at finding people who’d be willing to hook up and more. The latter part being the crucial factor here.

Scanning the room, you picked out a couple of potential targets — mostly singles who were either halfheartedly bobbing along to the music or restlessly standing at the sides, on the lookout for fresh meat, like yourself.

A buzz of eagerness and exhilaration coursed through your body. The Beast in you egged you on, smiling wickedly as you approached a lone man in the middle of the dancefloor. A well-loved banger came on just in time for you to conduct what you and your friends openly ridiculed and coined as the ‘mating call’.

Sashaying over, you made eye contact with the guy and winked, making sure he knew you had his full attention. He smirked, looking as though he had just hit the jackpot. Maybe he’d been here for a while with no luck. Taking a leisurely sip of his drink, he made no attempt to conceal his blatant ogling of your figure. He wasn’t bad looking himself, but something told you that he was a little rough around the edges and probably had a foul mouth.

As you drew closer, you noticed the way his medium-length, dark brown hair fell against his face in a tousled, layered style, complementing his rugged and laid-back appearance. His square jawline was clean-shaven and he had a broader, sturdier frame than Leon. Wait, why were you comparing him to your sire again?

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” He gulped down the rest of his drink for liquid courage before dumping the emptied bottle on the floor. Placing his hands on your hips, the corners of his mouth ticked up into a cocky grin.

Hm, forward, you thought. But at least you could get straight to it then.

You let him twirl you around as you gyrated your hips against his sensually, his chest hugging your back as you made small talk. “What’s your name, handsome?”

He chuckled, his breath tickling the shell of your ear as his gravelly voice dropped an octave lower. “For you, sweetheart, it’s Kevin.”

“Kevin,” you repeated coyly, allowing him to grind even harder against your ass.

“Mmm, that sounds so good on your lips,” he murmured, peppering the side of your neck with kisses. “I’d like to take this someplace else, if y’know what I mean?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” You emitted a breathy giggle, trying to play the part of a ‘seductive siren’ that Claire had mentioned. “Lead the way, Kevin.”

It turned out that his idea of ‘someplace else’ was rather uncreative, but you weren’t here to judge the man, you needed to satiate your hunger. He kissed you roughly against the door of a toilet stall you’d locked yourself into, ignoring the other patrons who were either drunk or high out of their minds. When you heard the metallic clink of his belt unbuckling, you knew it was time.

Pressing your index finger to his lips to stop him momentarily, you asked, “Would you let me do anything to you?” It wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough.

The confusion on his face shifted into a saucy smile, as his imagination began to run wild with interpreting what you wanted. “Didn’t realize I had such a dirty, naughty girl in my hands.”

Kneading your ass, he leered, “Come home with me, baby. I’ll show you a good time.” His hands continued to grope the sides of your body. “Got handcuffs, batons, you name it. Courtesy of the RPD.”

Huh, another police officer. Looks like you had a type apparently, you grimaced internally.

You ran your hands along his muscular chest, grazing your fingertips against his neck, causing him to shiver. “I will, but first, I wanna take a bite.”

“Fuck me, that’s hot,” he gritted. “You can do whatever you want, baby.”

Bingo. Pushing him back onto the toilet seat, you straddled his lap, feeling his hardened erection against your crotch. He let out a hiss at the friction building up between your clothes. Combing his hair away from his neck, you licked a thick stripe along the prominent vein you spotted at its side.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his eyes rolling back in pleasure and you took your chance, plunging your teeth into the vein as you drank from him.

Warm, sweet blood filled your mouth to the brim like a midnight dessert, and you could taste the alcohol and nicotine in it, giving you a double dose of wooziness. So, this was what it was like to get tipsy, you laughed to yourself. All at once, your Beast quietened down, the gnawing feeling at the bottom of your stomach numbed to a point where it was just a tepid throb.

This was where you should end it right? You hoped the man beneath you was still alive. Licking the wound close, you withdrew, quickly grabbing some toilet paper to wipe away the streaks of blood from his neck before chucking it into the bin. Messy drinker. You still needed to get used to feeding.

He was out cold, though his expression was one of pure bliss. I really should get paid for this, you thought, shaking your head as you checked his pulse. Yup, he’ll be fine.

Tugging down the hem of your dress, you smoothed out the creases and stumbled out of the stall. Whoops, you forgot you weren’t entirely sober now, especially in your heels. At the sinks, you peered at yourself in the mirror. Your lipstick was smudged and splotches of bright red decorated your mouth and chin. It was on the borderline — you could’ve just had a lot of makeup on that got ruined in the process.

A partially intoxicated woman at the next sink bumped shoulders with you merrily. “Had fun?”

Trailing a line across your bloodied chin with your finger, you sucked the remnants of Kevin into your mouth, before pulling it out with a ‘pop’. Smiling widely at your reflection, you declared, “Yes.”

Back at the main area of the club, a pair of vivid, crystal-clear blue eyes illuminated in the darkness, stalking your every move. His lips contorted into a vicious snarl, and his fingers wrapped around his sweating glass, gripping it in a chokehold. He looked hideous like this, but he didn’t care. It was only feeding, yet jealousy coiled and wound its way like a rose stem around his heart, its thorns lacerating through flesh and bone, nestling itself deep within its confines.

That guy? Keith— Kevin? Whatever. He was an acquaintance through his brief dalliances with the RPD. As far as Leon was concerned, that sleazeball didn’t deserve you. And neither did he, but he should’ve been the cop you went off with instead.

[werezolft]

Pt. 2 of my Dead Boy Detective covers inspired by teen detective novels. More info and reference photos under the cut

I’ve continued watching this series on repeat while creating the novel covers. I really didn’t think I would get through all the episodes, I often stop projects part way through. I might do another post of the covers in chronological series order, as opposed to the order I drew them in.

Style, colors, and very often the actual poses are pulled from covers featuring The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and The Three Investigators.

I don’t know if you can tell, but I struggle pulling the concentration to add details to make forests look realistic. Something about trees takes more energy than I normally have, haha.

I don’t really have a lot more to add, but thanks for all the love on the first collection, it’s been very fun.

Also, happy pride month 🌈🌈🌈

[ Alt Text

Image 1: An orange-red spiral staircase descends down into darkness. Charles Rowland is higher up, wearing his typical hero outfit; red shirt, black trousers and coat with pins. He’s holding a yellow lantern, and looking behind him anxiously. Edwin Payne follows behind, shrouded in shadow, wearing white nightclothes. At the top in yellow italics is “Dead Boy Detectives”, and in off-white bold caps “THE CASE IF THE VERY LONG STAIRWAY”.

Image 2: A blueish green forest at night, a full moon peaking over the trees in the top left corner. In the foreground to the right stands Crystal in her purple varsity jacket and floral turtleneck, hair half up in buns. Next to her Charles is wearing his hero outfit, polo shirt is fully black. They both look on hesitantly. In the mid ground Edwin, wearing his long brown coat is looking up at the furious glowing blue ghost of Shelby. At the top in yellow italics is “Dead Boy Detectives”, and in off-white bold caps “THE CASE OF THE TWO DEAD DRAGONS”.

Image 3: Crystal and Charles sit inside of a sigil circle on the blue floor of a green subway car. She’s wearing a red jacket, yellow shirt, and tan pants. He’s wearing his hero outfit. Charles is facing Crystal, while she’s angled away from the viewer, both are looking at sheet-ghost David the Demon, who is covered in the same sigils as the circle they sit on, running out the open subway door. At the top in yellow italics is “Dead Boy Detectives”, and in off-white bold lettering “The Case Of Crystal Palace”.

Image 4: A green forest, and brown earth, illuminated by the light of a magically summoned golden chandelier. Under it is The Cat King, brown hair angled into cat ears, wearing a white turtleneck sweater and sparkling black overcoat with red stripes. His arms are folded behind him, and his yellow cat eyes are gazing with feigned disinterest at Monty Finch and Edwin. Edwin is wearing his long brown coat, complete with brown vest and trousers, white shirt and blue bow tie. His cat bracelet is visible on his wrist. Edwin stands in an apprehensive crouch. Behind him Monty, long black hair, red scarf, and black coat, is glaring at The Cat King over his shoulder. At the top in yellow italics is “Dead Boy Detectives”, and in off-white bold caps “THE CASE OF THE CREEPING FOREST”.

Image 5: A series of covers on a white background. From left to right, "The Case Of The Dandelion Shrine", "The Case Of Devlin House", "The Case Of The Dandelion Shrine" (alt cover), "The Case Of The Hungry Snake", "The Case Of The Lighthouse Leapers", “The Case Of The Two Dead Dragons”, “The Case Of The Very Long Stairway”, “The Case Of Crystal Palace”, and “The Case Of The Creeping Forest”.

Image 6: A series of book covers on a white background: “Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators in The Secret of Skeleton Island”, “Nancy Drew Mystery Stories, The Ghost of Blackwood Hall”, “Nancy Drew, The Mystery at Lilac Inn”, “The Hardy Boys, While the Clock Ticked”, “The Three Investigators in The Mystery of the Coughing Dragon”, “The Hardy Boys, The Disappearing Floor”, “Nancy Drew, The Hidden Staircase”, “The Three Investigators in The Mystery of the Laughing Shadow”, “The Hardy Boys, The Secret Panel”, and “The Hardy Boys, The Haunted Fort”.

[narumi-gens]

From the Ashes | Part One

Mei Mei x f!Reader

summary: Mei Mei arrives at your uncle's estate as a con woman. She leaves it as your savior.

warnings: 18+ minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, angst with a happy ending, historical (1920s) au, gothic romance, total rip-off of park chan-wook's masterpiece the handmaiden, con woman!mei mei, sexually and emotionally repressed reader, reader seems to be losing it a little at times, mentioned suicide, minor references to early 20th century japanese politics and colonization (for the history nerds)

words: 3k

notes: after two years, we're finally here! go watch the handmaiden if you've never seen it. it's maybe one of the most romantic movies of all time.

series masterlist

Before deciding to take on a job, Mei Mei always makes sure that she knows everything she possibly can about a potential mark. She learns their history, their routines, their likes and dislikes, as well as what skeletons are hidden away in their closets.

She bribes maids and chauffeurs and everyone else working in service who are treated as if they’re invisible. She digs into every record she can access through any means necessary. Whatever it takes to uncover every dirty secret the mark in question is hiding, she does. 

It’s only when she’s sure that she’s left no stone unturned that she decides whether or not to go through with the job.

So, when word reaches her about the pretty little heiress sitting on top of a massive fortune, she finds herself intrigued and begins her discovery process. The picture that begins to form as she does so isn’t anything that she finds all that surprising or interesting. 

You were orphaned at a young age and put in the care of your aunt and uncle. Your aunt died only a few years later, leaving your uncle behind as your sole guardian. From what she can gather, your life has been a sheltered one, as is usual for a woman of your status. You don’t seem to have many — if any — friends. The only people you spend any significant amount of time with are the staff working on your uncle’s estate and the man himself. 

She’s almost certain that the remote location of the estate, which is nestled deep in the countryside, only contributes to the isolation. But it leaves her with a problem. With so few people who interact with you on a regular basis, she’s left with fewer sources of information than she would like. 

However, what she is able to do is intimately familiarize herself with the terms of your inheritance. To inherit, you must marry and until you do, your entire fortune is locked away in a trust. The only funds accessible are the generous annual allowance provided to your guardian — your uncle. 

Your inheritance is large enough that she decides to move forward with her con despite the gaps in her research on you. After all, big risks warrant big rewards.

So, she turns her time and energy into crafting her plan: under the guise of a lesser noblewoman, she’ll earn your uncle’s attention and an invitation to his lavish estate. Once she’s there, she’ll prey on your innocence and naivete, seducing you until she can sneak you away in the middle of the night and marry you, only to then cash out your inheritance and do away with you. 

And then she’ll laugh without looking back as she makes off with your entire fortune. 

When the time comes to put her plan into action, the first part goes as smoothly as she anticipated. Your uncle makes regular trips to Tokyo for business and Mei Mei ensures that when he does, they cross paths. Japan’s imperial ambitions in the region and colonization of Korea have only benefited the man’s financial status over the years, yet he’s still always looking for ways to grow his obscene amount of wealth. 

All it takes are a few vague allusions to her being interested in both a new investment opportunity and a new husband for him to take the bait and she’s secured herself an open invitation to his estate to stay for as long as she desires.

She arrives in the countryside and at your uncle’s manor a week later and finds herself thankful that the car that was sent for her has a small glass window that separates the backseat from the driver. The partition allows her a moment to herself to scoff at the sight of the large house, which consists of two massive wings — one in the traditional Japanese style of wood and paper, and the other a Western-style multistory building of brick and stone. 

The house reflects the country’s vast and hurried ambitions to Westernize over the past fifty years. Mei Mei has no fondness for tradition. But likewise, she looks equally down upon the uncritical admirers of the West. Everything she detests about the men who have led this country through the past two eras can be represented by this monstrosity of a house.

Of course, when the car comes to a stop in front of the entrance, she makes sure that it’s the awed noblewoman who greets your uncle and not the derisive criminal. The staff are lined up in two neat rows to welcome her, and standing right in front of them is you. And you’re everything that she’s pictured. 

You’re prim and proper, your posture perfectly straight and your head respectfully tilted down. Your outfit is fashionable and undoubtedly expensive, but also much more conservative than what’s being worn in Tokyo. Yet when your uncle introduces the two of you and you lift your chin, it’s all she can do to keep a delicate eyebrow from quirking. 

Because where she’s expecting to find a shy, innocent, and naive flower that's ripe for picking, she instead finds a cold, sharp ice princess looking back at her in return.

All you offer is a polite bow and a courteous, “It’s nice to meet you, Mei-san.” 

However, it’s more than enough to pique her interest, leaving her curious about what lies hidden beneath your thick, hardened exterior.

And just as she’s planned, Mei Mei has ample time to find out. While she does have to spend her evenings with your uncle, entertaining his pathetic flirtations and dreams of acquiring her fictional fortune, business occupies his days, meaning that she can fill hers with you. 

The two of you share tea in the sitting room and afternoon walks through the estate’s sprawling grounds. You sit alongside one another and read in the library. She watches as you sketch in a book beneath the towering sakura tree in the garden, although she hasn’t been able to catch a glimpse of what fills its pages.

As she spends more time with you, she begins to take notice of how your hands are always clothed in a pair of gloves that never extend past your wrists. The gloves are rarely ever the same set — sometimes they’re silk with a lace cuff, sometimes a rich leather that creaks with every absent movement of a finger, sometimes they’re the same shade as your skin tone and don’t stand out at all. 

There’s something about the way that she never sees you without them that makes her think they’re more than a mere fashion accessory, but she can’t say for certain what the reason could be. 

Your uncle encourages her to get to know you better, telling her that he hopes she can soften you with a woman’s touch. One night, with a glass of whiskey in his hand and a cigarette perched between two fingers, he mentions that it’s something that you’ve been without since you were young and your aunt tragically took her own life. 

“There’s a touch of madness that runs in that family. My late wife suffered from it and I’ve spent all these years wondering whether my niece escaped it,” he says with a sigh of pity. “At times, I find myself unsure if she has.”

The man demurs to provide any more details, insisting that doing so would be too ghastly for the sensitive ears of a woman, particularly a pair as fine as hers. 

His refusal to speak further on the matter to protect her propriety is one of the many things he gets wrong as she’s not only heard much worse, but she’s seen much worse. She’s done much worse. 

None of it matters though as she’s already aware through her research into the family that your aunt’s body was found one morning hanging in the garden from the same sakura tree where you spend so many of your afternoons. What your uncle does let slip is that you were the one to find the body. 

Finally, Mei Mei has at least one piece of the puzzle that is you. 

Another piece is quick to come as it doesn’t take long for her to realize that for all of her scheming and plotting, you’ll never fall prey to whatever trap she manages to set. You’re much too sharp and distrusting for that, keeping her at a distance no matter how much she tries to close it. For all of the hours that you’ve spent together, you’ve never offered her more than cool formalities. 

As she contemplates how to adjust her plan in light of this, the seeds of an idea are planted one day as she strolls around the house’s exterior, committing to memory every entrance and exit and window under the guise of appreciating the building’s unique architecture. Just as she rounds a corner of part of the Japanese-styled wing, she stops at the scene that she stumbles upon.

Three housemaids stand in a row facing her, although with their heads shamefully tilted down and gazes fixed firmly upon the gravel path, her sudden presence goes unnoticed. She takes a few steps back, peeking out from the side of the building to watch you as you go down the line, striking each of them harshly across the cheek one by one. 

Despite the distance, she can hear the crack of your gloved palm meeting each of their faces and the cries they let out in return. However, she misses whatever scathing words you spit that have the maids looking so fearful. Suddenly, your hand darts out to grab the braid of the girl standing on the right, yanking it so hard that Mei Mei can hear her pained yelp clearly as you force her to the ground. 

When you look down at the cowering girl at your feet, continuing to direct your vitriol at her, she’s finally able to catch a glimpse of your face. Across your pretty features, she finds the same coldness that she’s spent the last weeks becoming familiar with since she arrived. You then turn back to the other maids who flinch despite your hands remaining at your sides.

As much as she wants to stay and watch the rest of the situation unfold, Mei Mei decides to make her retreat. She can’t risk being discovered. This new piece of information is something to be tucked away for use when it serves her best.

Knowing that every set of eyes and ears on this estate belongs to your uncle, she wonders what the man’s reaction will be when word inevitably reaches him about your treatment of the staff. 

However, dinner passes as it always does without any incident. Your uncle discusses his business in an attempt to impress Mei Mei. Mei Mei acts coy in return. And you speak only when spoken to — which is rarely. 

The only proof that anything happened at all that afternoon is the red and slightly swollen cheek of the maid who fills your water glass and the line of tension in her frame as she does so. Mei Mei sees the way your uncle’s eyes barely pass over the maid’s face and realizes that the man already knows about this streak of cruelty in you, this hint of madness in you. He just doesn’t care.

As she watches you eat one grain of rice at a time, bringing your chopsticks back and forth to your plush lips in a delicate motion, she begins to recognize the darkness she sees in you. It’s similar to the darkness she sees in herself.

The next afternoon, she decides to confront you about the incident over tea, curious to see how you’ll respond.

“Why were you disciplining the maids yesterday?” she asks. She hopes to catch you off guard by both the knowledge that there was another party present for the maids’ punishment and by how suddenly she’s broached the subject.

However, you continue to defy her expectations. 

“They were gossiping,” you answer simply, your temperament calm and undisturbed as you continue to lightly stir your tea before setting down the small spoon.

“Is that enough of an offense to warrant a slap to the face?” There’s no judgment or criticism in her tone, only pure curiosity. But the question is enough to have you lifting your gaze to meet hers, a cold look in your eyes as you do.

“I want them to be miserable,” you tell her indifferently as you lift your teacup to take a small, ladylike sip. It’s Mei Mei who now finds herself slightly surprised by your blunt response. “It makes life just a bit more bearable.” 

She knows how to read people. And she can see what it is that you’re not saying. It’s not just that you want them to be miserable. It’s that you want them to be as miserable as you. 

It’s the final piece she needs to solve the puzzle and she hides her satisfaction behind the teacup she brings to her own red-painted lips. A con woman’s greatest asset is her ability to improvise and she has always prided herself on her ability to think quickly, so the solution to her problem comes quickly.

Despite the risks, she’ll include you in her plan and turn you from unknowing target to willing accomplice.

The next afternoon when you both are alone on a stroll deep in the gardens and away from any unwanted ears, she makes her move.

“The terms of your inheritance are rather strict,” she casually remarks and there’s a slightest pause in your step that betrays your surprise at the deviation in perfunctory small talk and she can’t help but feel satisfied with how she’s finally caught you unawares. “You need to marry in order to inherit.”

It’s not posed as a question but as the statement of fact that it is. You remain silent by her side, seemingly unsure of where this topic of conversation will lead.

“Would you like to marry me?” she asks, a coy smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. It’s a question that provokes an immediate reaction from you.

“I have no plans to marry. Ever,” you’re quick to tell her. There’s a forcefulness in your tone that leaves little room for doubt and Mei Mei can feel the urge to giggle threatening to bubble up. It reminds her of the way spoiled children refuse to eat what’s been put before them at dinner.

“Yes, for us, marriage is just another cage,” she muses, settling for a thoughtful hum instead of outright laughter. Any lingering humor dissipates as she poses her next question, knowing how important it is that you don’t misread her or her intentions. “But what if I said that this one would set you free?”

You come to a stop so suddenly that it takes her a few steps before she realizes that you’re no longer beside her. When she turns around, she finds you watching her with a guarded expression. Your posture is perfectly straight, but she can see that it’s due to the line of tension in your shoulders rather than the etiquette lessons she knows were drilled into you as a child.

“I arrived here with a plan: to seduce you, steal your fortune, and then get rid of you.” With each word, she takes a step towards you until only a few feet separate you. 

Your gaze remains locked on hers despite how you bristle with the visible urge to put a respectable distance between you once more. Mei Mei can’t help but smirk yet again, despite knowing that doing so will only feed into your distrust.

“But as soon as I met you, I knew that you would never fall for such a ploy.” She then takes on an air that’s only slightly more serious. “So, I’ll make a proposal of a different kind. I’ll spirit you away from your dull life in this country estate and give you your freedom. In return, we’ll split your inheritance right down the middle.”

While she doesn’t expect you to leap at her offer, she at least hoped for a hint of awe in your eyes at the idea of a life without the restrictions placed on you by both your status and society. Instead, you continue to give her nothing. 

As the silence stretches on, she prepares herself to mention that fifty percent is more than what she would normally offer an accomplice. But before the words can even form on her tongue, you turn your back to her and begin to walk back in the direction of the house. 

Part of Mei Mei expects to be hauled away by the police in the next few hours, but there’s something about your demeanor that keeps her from cutting her losses and running. For how unreceptive you seemed to be towards her proposal, it was your reaction to being offered your freedom that gives her pause.

The tension you carried didn’t stem from outrage, but from self-restraint.

That evening at dinner, you act as if nothing happened. You give your uncle the same perfunctory greeting, you bow lightly to her, and then you take your seat at the table. 

She wonders if you just haven’t had a chance to be alone with your uncle and reveal her treachery, but when breakfast proceeds the same way, she realizes that you don’t intend to do anything with this new information. You’ll keep her nefarious secret to yourself, which gives her time to adapt.

Since her plan requires you to be a willing accomplice, there’s a fine line that needs to be walked so as not to scare you off. So, she decides to default to part of her original plan – she'll seduce you.

[pomefioredove]

Noble Bell ; Book One, Part II ; The King of Truands

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: series characters: rollo, original characters (pierrot, bou, phoenix, clo!) additional info: reader is gender neutral, this is mostly my own vision, influenced by Disney's Hunchback, the 1939 movie, and the original novel word count: 3.4k

prologue | the king of truands, 1 | the king of truands, 2 |

Chapter Nine

The stairs are narrow and slippery, wet with what you can only hope is rainwater. The further you go, the less sure you are of that. 

You and Hugo, who has been eerily quiet so far, descend into a large, tall chamber, much wider than the halls you’d been wandering in earlier. The floor is hidden under a shallow covering of grimy water, and the walls are…

“What were you saying about cadavers, earlier?”

Thousands of eyeless sockets watch the two of you descend into the earth, not unlike themselves. If not for the delicate arches of the stonework, you would have thought the entire passage was made of bone. 

“Is this the Miracle Court?” you ask, looking from side to side as a thousand toothy grins smile back. 

Hugo bleats and shakes the murky water off his coat. “I’d say it’s more like the court of ankle-deep sewage,”

“Cheerful place,” you murmur. 

“I remember hearing about the ancient tunnels under the city, but…” Hugo pauses, side-eyeing an armor-clad skeleton, crumpled in a dark corner. 

“...This isn’t what I was picturing.”

Condensation on the arched ceiling drips into the ankle-deep waters below, conducting an orchestra of plops. You can’t help but feel grateful for the noise. 

You can’t imagine what it would be like if the only sound were your footsteps. 

“We must be under the river,” you say, looking overhead. “It’s so…”

“Disgusting?”

“I was going to say damp, but yes,” 

You can feel the stone floor dipping into the earth below your feet, and you give Hugo an anxious glance. You’re going deeper. 

Each slosh, each wet footstep, every drip of river water from the ceiling echoes off the stone walls, making a melody out of the tedious journey towards the center of the earth, or Hell, you’re still not quite sure yet. 

And, even with Hugo, even with the river, the water, the thousands of smiles surrounding you, this is, perhaps, the first time since you'd arrived that you felt truly alone. 

It’s scary how comforting the feeling is. 

In the absence of the looming dread that had been following you since this morning, you could have a moment to breathe, and to think. How long this day had felt…

Something, then, stops you in your tracks. 

Hugo takes a few more steps before turning. “Whatsit?”

Your eyes widen. “There’s…”

There’s a little sun, a breath of warmth, a faint, teasing orange glow, like the light at dawn, like the flames of a candle, just behind you and to your left. You had caught it as you passed it by, and, within that millisecond, it consumed your entire being. 

Hugo seems to notice it, too. Or maybe not. “...You think there’s people down there?”

You don't respond. It calls to you. It cuts through the sound of water, breathing, and Hugo’s voice, parting it like the sea, and beckoning you into its depths. The longer you stare, the warmer it becomes, its edges red, its light racing to you like fingers, and-

The illusion of loneliness is shattered into pieces, the sound of laughter filling the cracks. You and Hugo share a careful look, and then move towards the cheers, leaving the glow behind as you drag your feet through the murky water. 

Then, there's light. 

The floor rises from under your feet, the passage narrows, the water becomes lower and lower until you’re walking on dry stone, the smell of mildew becomes bread and fire, and, suddenly, there’s an opening in the wall, from which the sounds and smells and yellow light are coming. 

“We have good noose tonight, everybody!”

Your steps slow, and you hold a finger to your lips, shushing Hugo. 

Peering over the high threshold of the carved door, it’s as if you’re looking into an entirely different place. 

Over the threshold, the catacombs expand into a wide, vaulted hall, lined with fine furniture, cushions, pillows, tapestries and blankets of every color and pattern hanging from the walls and ceilings, garlands of flowers and vine, candles suspended in air and in alcoves in the walls showering the chamber in warm, inviting light. 

Unlike the mossy and mildewed stone of the passage, the walls, floor, and ceilings are impeccably well-kept and clean. The smell of something baking is enough for you to imagine more rooms, more passages, beyond. 

What concerns you is not the state of the hall, though, nor is it the dozen-or-so students, dressed in a variety of colors, from a variety of backgrounds, each speaking their own language…

On the contrary, it is the drably-dressed rather boring boy on a gallows at one end of the hall. He’s sickly pale, and seems to be in a heated argument with a man in an executioner’s outfit beside him. 

“Pierrot,” you whisper to Hugo. He coughs. 

“Again!” Pierrot says, eyes wide. “You know me! I am the author, Pierrot Gregoire!”

The boy beside him adjusts his black cap, checks himself in the reflection of a guillotine blade beside them, and then hums. 

“Hmhmhm… No, doesn’t ring a bell,”

“Clodio! We have drama club together! I saw you less than two hours ago!”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s what they all say,”

The crowd that had gathered beneath the gallows laughs and claps along. You and Hugo share a glance, and when you look back, the boy- Clodio- is dressed in a long robe, not unlike the Noble Bell uniform, is wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and holding a puppet…

You narrow your eyes. “How did he-” 

“Now that we have seen all the evidence- wait, I object!” says the puppet, “Overruled! But I object! Quiet!”

Hugo makes a face, and you share the look. When you look back, Clodio is dressed as an executioner… again. 

“Ahem. Now that we’ve seen all the evidence, we find you completely and utterly normal… which is the worst crime of all! Thou shalt be hanged!”

“Wait!” 

You gasp, stumbling out of the opening in the wall and into the warm, well-lit chamber. Pierrot sighs in relief, “There you are-”

Clodio shushes him, and turns to you. “Ah… how timely! We were wondering when you would come!”

You climb the ladder to the gallows, noting the good condition of it, and hurry to Pierrot’s side. 

“Your friend?” Clodio asks, grinning and leaning against the lever that would have sent Pierrot to his… is that plastic?

Pierrot’s eyes turn to you. 

“...Yes,” you finally say, throwing the noose off of him. He sighs, and his knees give out. 

“How unfortunate…” Clodio says, rubbing his chin. “But, I dare say, that was my best performance yet!”

The little group of bystanders hoots and hollers, and he gives a bow. When he stands upright, his outfit has, again, changed entirely. Now, he’s dressed in a dark blue, pinstripe shirt, with a lavender vest and a large, almost obnoxiously so, golden-hued bowtie. He snaps a pair of white gloves over his hands, and bows to you. 

“Welcome to our court. You are permitted, with the highest honor, to call me by the name of Clo, Clodio Lefou, or, should it agree with you, the King of Truands. Now, make yourself comfortable- have you eaten yet?”

You give him an odd look. “Um…”

Clo stands. His bowtie is now a white straight tie. Matching bows and magenta feathers in his hair, which is dark, and pulled into a short, messy ponytail, and a single golden earring have also accented his person. 

“No, of course not… Well, let’s eat. Can’t have you going hungry, now, can I? What sort of leader would I be, hm? Come along- you can bring your friend, too,” 

You glance towards Pierrot, who’s just now getting off the floor. A single bleat, muffled by the tapestries on the stone, comes from behind, and Hugo leaps over the opening and into the hall. 

“Ah, and your goat,” Clo says. “Don’t worry, I get along well with kids. Pets, too.”

Hugo nips at him. “Who’re you calling a pet?”

“Ah, my deepest apologies. Now, come along,”

---

You follow the self-proclaimed “King of Truands” into another hall of the Miracle Court, a smaller room with a single, long, scuffed table going down the belly of it. On it- bread, butter, meats and cheeses of every kind, grapes and apples…

The group of students sits around it, passing plates and chatting amongst themselves. Pierrot’s hands are still shaking as he accepts a platter of cured meats. 

“I’m afraid you caught us in the middle of a rehearsal,” Clo says, piling your plate with bread and cheese before you can refuse. 

“Awfully realistic…” Pierrot murmurs, wrapping his hand around his neck with a sickened expression.

“Thank you!”

You glance between the two. 

“...What is this place…?”

Clo spreads a thin layer of goat cheese over a slice of bread for you, and sets it on your plate.

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t know the story. You’re in our Miracle Court… well… something of it. Long ago, during the time of the Righteous Judge, there was a safe haven for all outcasts under the streets of Fleur City, a home where they could seek sanctuary, community…

…Its original place remains somewhat of a mystery. What you see is only an abandoned waterway under Noble Bell College. What we have made it…”

As he speaks, you’re drawn to the people sitting around the table. They’re all quite different, from their appearances to their accents to their mannerisms. Some boys, some girls, some are older, some younger, some you’re not even sure are students at all…

“Consider us a… fourth dorm, if you will,” Clo says. 

“Outcasted, rejected, by the upstanding man, the scholar of Noble Bell-” he says, puffing out his chest for emphasis, his outfit changing back to the uniform you’d become so accustomed to, and then back to his suit. 

“-We’ve become a family of our own.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Pierrot says, narrowing his eyes. “-I’m just as much of an outcast as any of you! I also lost my scholarship! I was also thrown from my dorm! I’ve been living in the old cemetery all year, and half of last!”

Clo wags his finger. “Nonsense. Just this morning, as I was method acting, I saw you in the dining hall, your plate stacked to the roof!”

Pierrot’s mouth gapes, and then he shuts it. 

You lean into the conversation, separating the two. “...That may have been my fault. I let him have my breakfast,”

“Ahh… now, that would make sense. I didn’t see you eat a thing,” Clo hums. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did say so!”

Now, another thought is occurring to you, one that sends a shiver of hope up your spine. You can't help but- “It was you who was following me all day,” 

Both Hugo and Pierrot give you a questioning look, but you don't have the mind to answer them now. Clo hums. 

“...I suppose I was. I had to be sure of you, of course- an invitation to our little court of miracles is special,”

It was only him.

You let go of yourself, exhaling, losing your tension, sedated with a powerful dose of relief. Of course, of course. You had worried yourself about nothing. 

The uneasy feeling lingers, though. You tell yourself it's only stress.

“...I appreciate it. But if anyone deserves a spot in your court, it’s Pierrot. He’s rather unlucky,”

Pierrot hangs his head, as if purposefully looking for sympathy. “It’s true…”

Clo glances between the pathetic sight, and yourself, his eyes narrowing.

“Don’t excuse yourself so soon. Scholarship or not, you are an outcast. You may not think so yet, but Noble Bell has a way of reminding you when you don’t belong…”

Pierrot glares at him, and then turns to you, his voice softening. “Don’t listen to him. He’s an actor,”

“Says the poet!”

“AND PROUD OF IT!”

Clo bursts into a fit of giggles, clearly enjoying the company. Someone passes him a bottle and he pours more grape juice into your glass. 

“If you would like to join my court, you ought to be nicer to me. I am the king, after all,”

You tilt your head. “What does that mean? The King of Truands?”

“Well,” he says, rubbing his gloved hands together. “It is my part. That is to say, my role, my muse, my character! I wrote the part myself, too-”

Pierrot rolls his eyes. 

“-Based on the legendary king of beggars himself, who ruled the Court of Miracles, just as the Righteous Judge watched over The City, the Knight of the Sun protected The Ville, and The Curious Scholar led L'Universite…”

You glance towards Hugo, sitting under the table at your feet, and he mouths "explain later."

“Yes, yes, we’ve all heard the story,” Pierrot grumbles, crossing his arms and pouting like a child. 

“You never play any of my characters with such enthusiasm.”

“Your heroes are lukewarm and your villains are predictable- and I do bore of playing villains…” Clo sighs. 

“...But, putting aside our artistic differences, I see it only right to invite you to join our dorm, in the spirit of the King himself. And you-” he smiles at you. “...Should you ever need it, our doors remain open to you.”

Pierrot sighs, but accepts the offer with a little nod. You follow suit.

“It beats having to sleep in a grave,” Hugo grumbles. “Where’d you get all this stuff, anyway?”

“Made, donated, shared…” Clo shrugs. “The food comes from the flour mill outside of town- the miller is a sympathetic man.”

“Most ‘a the people in this city are,” the goat says. “I cut it good here. All I have to do is walk around a market looking all cute and sad until someone feels bad and tosses me their scraps.”

“Funny, I do the same thing,” Pierrot says through a mouthful. 

Clo laughs, and even you smile. 

You know you can’t stay here.

You’ll just end up attracting more attention than you already have, and by the looks of this room- the rejected would-be-students, the eccentric theatre actor, the rebellious writer- standing out at Noble Bell is anything but good. 

You’ll go back to the bell tower. You have to. 

Before that…

“Oh, right,” you say, taking something out of your pocket and holding it up to the light. “This was on the back of the letter you sent. But I have no idea what it means.”

Clo blinks at the sparkly pendant, and then grins. 

“It’s a popular emblem of Fleur City. Consider it a symbol of our acceptance,” he says. 

“But what does it mean?”

He shrugs. “No one truly knows. Nothing, probably- but there is a saying that goes along with it, though. When you wear this woven band, you hold the city in your hand. Fun, no?”

An inexplicable sense of disappointment makes itself a home in you, and you hold the pendant closer to yourself, cradling it in your palm. 

The sounds of the conversation around you become distant. You run your fingers over the twine, the many colors of it, the small cross in the middle, and the smaller stone at its heart. Strange...

Against all reason, it’s caught your interest between its woven bands, and you can’t help but feel that it means something. 

“It’s getting late,” you say, excusing yourself from the table, and the conversation, which had turned to Pierrot and Clo bickering about the realism of the prop gallows.  

Pierrot looks up. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? At least for the night- it’s much cleaner here than it is in the bell tower,”

You shake your head, and Clo abruptly jumps from the seat beside you, pointing a finger directly at Pierrot. 

“Speaking of! Let’s hose him down- he smells!”

The students cheer, chanting "he smells! he smells!", and Pierrot goes pale as his chair is lifted and he’s carried off. You wave goodbye, and turn to leave from the way you came. 

Chapter Ten

Alone. 

Without Hugo, the passage back to the school feels thrice as dark, and much tighter. Besides the way from which you came, every door you pass, every opening, even the windows in the walls are guarded by thick iron bars. Yet, still, you can’t help but wonder what lies beyond…

At least it makes finding your way back easy enough. 

Noble Bell has a way of telling you that you don’t belong…

Clo’s words dance around your thoughts, haunting you, leading you deeper into the abyssal pits. 

The water is up to your knees now. The river must rise and fall like the tide… perhaps it’s raining. The thought offers little comfort. 

You turn a corner, and then hesitate. To your right, now, is the thin passage where the orange glow had come from. The sun, the flame, the dawn. How you wished you could have cupped it in your hands…

You peer through the wrought-iron bars of the opening. 

No light. No glow. The water is thinner here, though no less dark. There’s only a thin, black stem reaching out of the depths, though it appears as if its flower had been torn off. 

By what, you wonder.

it doesn't matter. The glow is gone. You are alone again. 

Then...

“Hey! What are you doing down here?” 

Again, the door to your prison of mind is thrown open, and you whirl around to see…

“You again?” you ask, taking a step back through the inky water. How strange. You didn’t even feel him coming. 

Phoenix puts his hands on his hips. “I thought I’d told you. It’s unsafe down here. You’re really not supposed to be…”

“Did you follow me?” 

He hesitates, his brow turning up, the stern expression on his face becoming confused. “I was going to ask if you had followed me. I’m on student council business,”

“Under the school,” you say. “...Again?”

“I was given orders. No one is to be in the waterways unattended,”

Your rational mind, the one that had, unfortunately, come with you when you woke up in this strange place, wants you to explain. Your gut resists. 

Some things are just better off as secrets, after all. 

“I got… lost again,”

For a moment, it seems as if Phoenix has something stuck in his throat. Then, he coughs, then, he laughs. 

“Oh, right. You’re pretty ditzy, aren’t you? Here, let me take you back,”

You grimace. You don’t appreciate his choice of words, but… he bought the excuse. Perhaps you’d picked up a thing or two about acting from Clodio Lefou. 

You still have much to learn.

Chapter Eleven

Phoenix blazes ahead, cutting a path through the sewer with the confidence of a man much wiser than him. 

You keep to yourself. It’s a long walk back to the surface, and you’re not in the mood to chat. You’re tired, wet, smell of sewage, and have been going in circles about what turned out to be a curious theater kid all day. 

Silly, silly… 

You scold yourself. This place will drive you mad if you’re not careful…

You’ve had enough of secrets and mysteries for a lifetime, and it’s only been a day. 

Phoenix is some ways ahead of you, talking to himself about some silly thing or another, answering his own echo. As if you’re not even there. 

People here seldom look at you. 

And yet, you can’t help but-

...

Your feet suddenly refuse to move. 

You stop in place, letting Phoenix’s voice get further and further from you, until you can’t hear him at all. Just the drip, drip, drip of the catacombs, the sound of your heart...

And the footsteps behind you. 

You want to believe it’s Clo, it's someone from the court, the one you’d left behind some time ago, but you know it isn’t. You always knew it wasn't.

It’s coming from one of the iron-guarded gates. You can feel eyes on your back. Behind you, to your left. 

It breathes. 

This time, you can’t even shout. 

“Hey,” the light returns to you, Phoenix and his flashlight.

“You okay?”

His tone is soft. Gentle, almost, which is strange for him, and must mean you look as scared as you feel. 

He comes over to you, loops your arm around his, and continues walking you out of the catacomb, practically dragging you behind him. The feeling of being watched, the lingering, sticky, suffocating fear, vanishes behind you. 

But you know it’ll be back. 

Phoenix brings you to the surface, lifting you from perdition with a strength you couldn’t have guessed from his height and soft features. 

“Alllmost there,” he keeps saying that, quietly, all the way up to the bell tower, as if reassuring you.

It works… a little. 

He says good night, and leaves you there.

There are very few things you understand about this world, its people, its history,

Its magic. 

But as the door to the bell tower closes, trapping you inside, just as much a prisoner as you were before, alone but safe, you understand this:

There is a monster inside Noble Bell College. 

And only you know it's there.

[melis-writes]

Moth to Flame (Part II) [Michael Corleone x Reader Series, 18+ Smut] Chapter 42 – Matrimony.

Read on AO3 / Read Chapter 41 / Chapter Masterlist. / Fic Playlist.

18+, explicit smut read.

“You’re a Corleone woman now, after all." / “You’re my bride. You deserve that and all the more, do you understand?”

You married Michael Corleone in the summer of 1949, binding the allyship of your two families together but sealing your matrimony with love, bliss and trust. Falling in love, compatibility, love languages and a change in your lifestyle met you in an instant, and being Mrs. Michael Corleone altered your life forever. You can still remember how you fell for him and every bit of affection and intimacy shared from the beginning. You remember; you remember it all, and as you look into the past to compare it to your present and expect for your future, you realize nothing remains changed.

[WARNINGS]: Mentions of virginity/loss of virginity, nudity, sexual themes & depictions, heavy touching & kissing, fingering, mentions of pregnancy & planning for children, sex.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: The first in-between chapter of Moth to Flame: Part II is finally here!! 😫🙏🏻 I'm sooo sorry for such a delay in posting this chapter, but life has been extremely hectic and busy. 😭 The Vichael girlies are going to adore this chapter is all I'm going to say! We delve into Victoria and Michael's marriage from the very beginning! 🤭❤️‍🔥 This is filled with romance, fluff and domestic wholesomeness. How Victoria and Michael fell in love to how their lives changed as husband and wife and more is all included. I wanted this to be very romantic and sensual before we dive back into the action of current day Moth to Flame! 😳

1956. Your name is Victoria Ferrari Corleone, and you’re the wife of the most powerful mobster in North America–Michael Corleone. A lifestyle of crime and secrecy is all you've known and ever wanted to know, complimenting the cruelty of Michael Corleone's influence in the United States. With your enemies fallen before you and all loose ends tied up, you continue your life and marriage with the Corleone family while refusing to look back on your past. Yet it's the skeletons in your closet that a shine a light on revealing you're a true mafiosa. Ensnared in the shadows just as much as Michael is, you find yourself betrayed by the unexpected with all of your secrets ready to spill–especially ones you've hidden from Michael. With more than one pair of eyes watching your every move, you find yourself trapped amidst potential scandals and a familiar, lovesick secret admirer adamant on removing Michael out of the picture to have you all to himself. Like a moth to a flame, you've reached the point of no return and the light that breaks down the darkness threatens to take you next.

Bouquets of pink and white roses, white silk, lilac adornments, angel food cake, the lace finishing over your wedding gown, and the taste of Michael’s lips over yours; you married Michael Corleone in the summer of 1949.

Planning for your wedding was one of the few and only times in your life when you felt you had a million things going through your mind at once. 

After weeks of careful planning, the hardest part—the wedding itself—came in bliss and resonated perfectly with everything you had in mind for your perfect wedding day. 

The colors you chose for your wedding ranged from an equal hint of décor in baby pink, lilac, and beige, whereas peonies, lilacs, and dahlias were your flowers of choice.

Silk tablecloth, handcrafted Italian furniture imported from Sicily, seven-tier angel food cake, seven varieties of cannoli from pistachio to limoncello, over a hundred bottles of wine—Grilo, Inzolia and Grecanico just to name a few—aged at least ten years, French champagne, little pastries of sorbets and mini cheesecakes served throughout and freshly squeezed juice from the fruit from the Corleone garden itself were just some of the highlights of your wedding day.

Even your wedding gown itself had been custom designed and tailored with the finest Italian silks and fabrics, following a lengthy session of perfecting your hair, makeup, and manicure with your mother, Mama Corleone, Connie, and Sandra down to rehearing how you would walk down the aisle to which sets of jewelry with diamonds and pearls suited you best. 

Everything was planned and executed to perfection—to say the least. Scarcely were there moments throughout the planning period where the wedding wasn’t mentioned in one way or another; it was the only topic on your mind for days to come.

Consummation of your marriage was expected next from all through tradition and customs, but it wasn’t a concept you and Michael personally believed in. 

Although you were a virgin before you met Michael, he most certainly was not. After his brief marriage with Apollonia, the concept of no intimacy until marriage let alone time spent together or some form of physical affection before marriage was seen and strictly enforced as heavily taboo in Sicily only reminded him of how backward he believed the concept to be, as did you.

Of course, you and Michael were both anticipating and thinking about the intimacy you’d share with one another after your wedding celebration, but not immediately after. That would be eagerly waiting for the both of you at the end of the night.

With the wedding cake having been cut, final drinks served and last dances shared, both of your families collected together all of the bridal gifts, thanked and said goodbyes to every guest they could get to while the wedding staff began to clean up.

Michael and you stood for more photographs by and with guests, thanking them for attending as well before you both made off with security to the vehicle that would take you to your first estate.

You’d both arrive at your new estate by the time security did a full sweep and search of the Corleone manor and all festivities had officially come to an end.

Before you and Michael would settle down for the remainder of the day after the wedding, you both went to meet with your families and new in-laws.

Tomorrow morning there’d be the wedding reception to look forward to after all, but there was more than enough for both you and Michael to think about and do before then.

~

Upon stepping out of your chauffeur’s vehicle at your new estate’s grounds, the first thing your eyes found were those of your bodyguards surrounding your new estate.

Noting the heavy yet inconspicuous security around, it was only a split second longer before you blinked and a warm smile crossed over your lips in reaction to Michael standing by your side; his hand laced with yours as you both began to make your way inside the estate.

Just a few feet from the front door you could already hear the cheerful voices and banter of your parents and in-laws in the foyer; you couldn’t help but feel your exhilarated mood amplify with excitement once more.

“Victoria! Michael! Sweetheart!” Your mother beamed, extending her arms out as she skipped over to the both of you.

Hugged, congratulated a dozen more times, and kissed by your parents and new-in-laws, happy tears are shed once again for you and Michael as a newlywed couple.

“Promettimi che mi chiamerai se ti serve qualcosa!” (Promise me you'll call if you need anything!) Carmela gently squeezed your shoulder after pulling away from a hug, smiling at you. 

“Home sweet home,” your mother cooed, bewildered by the grandiose luxury your new estate has to offer just by standing in the foyer alone. “How wonderful.”

“We’re looking forward to that wedding reception,” your father grinned, redirecting his gaze to Michael. “It’ll be an honor to dine in the newlyweds’ home.”

“It’s an honor to host,” Michael agreed, giving a small, quick smile. “I look forward to it, Don Ferrari.”

“Mm,” Vito nodded, approaching both you and Michael. “And the bridal gifts… I had them arranged to be placed in your guest room. Humble gifts as they may be from our family friends, but they’re close to overflowing.”

“A problem I’d actually like to deal with,” you giggled back. “Thank you, father.”

Naturally, the gifts you received from attending friends, family, and guests aren’t exclusive to gifts newlyweds would benefit from, but a wide variety of items ranging from cash bills to jewelry almost as if the givers were trying to appease you and Michael directly.

Without even having to look inside all of the bridal purses and open each individual gift, you already assumed to yourself there are thousands of dollars worth of gifts there alone waiting for you and Michael that may very well take days to completely open.

Your families deliberately didn’t stay for long to give you and Michael as much privacy as possible today, and you and Michael were more than happy to see them out with waves and smiles before settling down for the rest of the day.

“It’s not over for them,” Michael commented by the gates of the estate, loosening his tie.

“No, it isn’t,” you let out a light laugh, smoothening down your wedding gown. “Not until after the wedding reception, at least.”

Michael chuckled—a rare first time he’s in a somewhat lighthearted mood for the entirety of the day. “Do you need anything, darling?”

“No,” you blushed, gesturing down to your dress. “Only to get this lovely gown off of me in one piece and my makeup at last.”

Just a split second later, you both heard a sharp whistle come towards the gates of the estate which prompted you and Michael’s attention immediately. 

“Hey, Mikey!” Sonny hollered from the gates, leaning against his car and waving at both of you. “No invitations for Tom, Fredo, and I to see the new place, eh? Come on down!”

“I’ll be right with you,” Michael glanced back at you.

You nodded understandingly, relieved you’ll at least get the time to quickly undress and take off your makeup before finally getting to spend some time alone with Michael, and you’re more than happy to have Michael bond with his brothers before retiring for the rest of the day with you too.

The endless amounts of gifts and stuffed bridal purses crossed your mind once more as you entered the estate, imagining you and Michael would more than likely have to get Tom to secure any precious assets or cash bills while the other items remain secure.

You carefully slipped out of your wedding gown and let the lacy, tulle fabric pool at your feet as you grabbed a white, silk nightgown to step into; careful not to let any of your makeup smear against the fabric.

You’re not one to wear a full face of makeup on any regular day, but outings, special events, and evenings—especially your wedding—remain exceptions each time you enjoyed getting dolled up, but your daily beauty routine only consisted of your normal skincare steps, light eye makeup, a bit of eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick.

Upon Michael’s return inside the estate and to the bedroom to undress and unwind, it was his first time gazing upon your face without any makeup as you cautiously stored your nightgown away in an empty closet.

You hadn’t even noticed Michael’s eyes on you at first but picked up on his presence immediately; right then and there, Michael had found himself admiring your beauty and looks, stunned by your natural appearance.

“More congratulations?” You smiled shyly, turning around to face your new husband.

“Something like that,” Michael answered, tossing his tie onto the edge of the bed. “Nothing we both haven’t heard enough of.”

You held back your laughter, “then I hope you don’t mind I retired my glamor for the night already.”

“Not at all,” a ghost of a smile crossed Michael’s lips as he slowly began to approach you. “I’m sure the bridal gifts have nothing but your name on them, after all. I don’t think I need to go and see for myself.”

“Oh, please,” you felt a blush stinging your cheeks as you gazed up at Michael.

“You look beautiful,” Michael murmured, tilting your chin up to face him. “You know that?”

Your skin gave a healthy glow under the evening light as Michael admired every inch of you from the shape of your cheekbones to the color of your eyes, the curve of your lips, and your body language towards him filled with desire.

You expected then and there for Michael to lean in and kiss you, and he did, but gently upon your forehead as he let his warm lips linger over your skin.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment and embraced your husband, taking in the scent of his heavenly cologne as your heart began to race in your chest against his.

“You should expect all of this, you know,” Michael spoke to you in an ushered voice. “You’re a Corleone woman now, after all. Those gifts want nothing more than to appease and impress you, I’ll make sure of it myself.”

Michael’s intention is to spoil you to no avail and not only with material gifts but your every request; the luxurious lifestyle you can expect to live with him as Michael’s wife and the future mother of his children holds you on a separate pedestal next to being Don Ferarri’s wife, and Michael will continue to keep it that way.

The very gifts with your name engraved upon them awaiting you consisted of everything from cosmetics, luxurious perfumes, oils, and creams, full sets of dazzling jewelry set with diamonds and precious stones, congratulatory letters, towel sets followed by pacifiers, bibs, baby bottles, and cloth diapers that made you blush as you unwrapped them—knowing all would be expecting the news of your first pregnancy next.

An amused look crossed Michael’s eye as he wrapped his arms around you seeing you open the final present for today a set of two pacifiers, he saw a look of excitement over your own expression but also blush spreading over your cheeks as the two of you made eye contact once again, knowing the rest of the night began to the both of you. 

~

The first home you and Michael owned together and settled in was a grand estate in Long Island but outside of the Corleone mall unlike Connie and Carlo’s home and that of Sonny and Sandra’s that were inside the gated family community.

Still, your new home was not far from Michael’s family or yours, and you could make the commute in twenty minutes. 

The plot of land in which your new estate would be built was purchased immediately on the day of your engagement ceremony with construction where your father and Vito had given the green light for construction to begin the day of.

Normally for the size of your estate, it would have taken a good construction crew six months with daily work, but the home was completely finished in just one. Bringing in extra of the best workers and paying a premium always worked well in the end. 

Your grand estate stood at just slightly over five thousand square feet with state-of-the-art architecture, taking inspiration from Modern American design to Italian fixtures and marble imported from Rome. 

Your estate was two stories, finished with an attic consisting of a master bedroom with a walk-in closet designed to be almost the size of a small bedroom for you and Michael, a study that was half a private library, two guest rooms downstairs, a nursery upstairs, a wine room in the basement, full front and back yard, three other extra bedrooms, an office for Michael and four bathrooms.

A mid-sized swimming pool was built in the backyard where your home’s carefully curated and trimmed garden surrounded the sides and fences protected your family’s privacy so one could neither look into the estate grounds nor out of it.

Twenty-four-hour surveillance was always to be expected with varying bodyguards and a careful selection of specific windows—such as the ones in Michael’s office—were selected and built to be soundproof.

Your bathtub had 24k gold claw-finished, quartz countertops as well as in the kitchen, marble floors, a foyer in the front of the estate fit with a French handcrafted chandelier, a private exit to the gardens and plenty of storage with a full laundry room at the end of the hallway downstairs.

Crown fixtures adorned the kitchen and a wide spiral staircase decorated with a blood-red carpet led upstairs to where one of two hidden emergency exits only you and Michael knew how to activate could be found.

The price of your home came to a grand total of $250,000 and was exactly where you and Michael wanted to be; exactly where the two of you planned to start your family and raise your children.

Michael and you had both grown up in Long Island; meaning nothing short of symbolic with the feel of home settling into your first house in New York together.

You and Michael only had a brief discussion about where your first home could be since the two of you came to an agreement so quickly to choose Long Island to stay in.

At the time, thoughts of buying another home elsewhere or even moving in the future were not on your mind although Michael had begun to think of Nevada and a villa in Sicily almost immediately on; the latter being a familiar and mutually agreed upon idea to you.

Of course, both you and Michael’s family knew just as well as the both of you why you didn’t have a honeymoon after your wedding, and there were no questions asked or teasing to be made.

Going on a honeymoon with Michael after your wedding was in your mind just as much as your wedding was, but the same could not be said for Michael who was much too preoccupied with the danger and threat of another family war, especially with hostility coming from the Ricci family.

Going outside of New York—let alone going to Sicily—would paint a clear, red target over both your and Michael’s backs and especially create vulnerability within the Corleone family considering Vito was semi-retired at the time.

It didn’t matter if you and Michael decided to visit Rome, Venice, or anywhere else in Italy just for the sake of visiting home but staying away from Sicily; the mafia families including the Ricci’s still had power stretching there legitimately.

Naturally, both you and Michael yearned to take a true honeymoon trip to Sicily and Sicily only. Even with the rest of the world as a choice to visit, you would have rather continued to postpone your honeymoon until you could safely visit Sicily again without having to worry about anything but how to spend quality time with your husband.

You’d very well have your honeymoon with Michael a little after your first anniversary together, somewhat defeating the purpose of a true honeymoon but with the threat of your lives and your family on the line, it was all very worth it with a legitimate reason to delay.

In Michael’s second marriage now come hell or high water he would never risk a slight chance of you being anywhere where there’s a notion of danger, even if you begged him to.

“Well,” you bit your lip, shrugging your shoulders. “I’m a little disappointed, but I understand.”

“I know, darling,” Michael raised his water glass to his lips, taking a sip. “I feel no different than you do.”

You brushed your fingers against the fabric of the window’s curtains and glanced over to Michael again. “They’ll know, won’t they?”

Michael’s eyes met with yours almost instantly; his expression appeared grim knowing you referred to the Ricci family, but with the Barzinis and Tattaglias to worry about as well.

“As they do,” Michael replied and set his glass down. “Does it bother you?”

“Not exactly,” you shook your head and faced the window—blushing as you felt Michael’s presence approach you from behind. “But it’s been on my mind again and again these past few weeks. I can’t shake it off.”

“And on mine,” Michael lovingly embraced you from behind and lightly pressed his chest against your back. “As much as I would like to degrade them to such, they’re not animal enough to disgrace a wedding, even without an invite.”

“They should know better,” you murmured under your breath.

“And they more than likely do,” Michael nodded and moved his hands down to your hips to tenderly caress them. “None of those men deserve further justifications, but above all, they’re curious about you, and just who you are.”

You placed your hands over Michael’s and gave them a soft squeeze as you remained quiet.

“If it’s about safety—” Michael began.

“I feel safe with you,” you told him as you turned around.

Michael’s eyes locked onto yours as he gave you a small nod; you swore to yourself for a moment that you could see a glimmer of a brief smile over his plush lips. 

“I do,” you continued, “always. And as you can guess…” You blushed sheepishly, “I was thinking about our honeymoon too, and we can’t even go.”

“We will soon enough,” Michael rubbed up and down your arms gingerly. “When we are able to and when we can. You know it’s not something I want to put aside to forget or neglect.”

“I know, baby,” you smiled back shyly. “I believe you.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Michael lowered his tone of voice and pressed a warm kiss over your forehead. “I promise I will. None of what our family is going through now will last. I personally guarantee it,” as Michael moved back from the kiss, he tilted your chin up to gaze directly into his eyes. “You’re my bride. You deserve that and all the more, do you understand?”

Blushing furiously and feeling a wave of butterflies rush to the pit of your stomach, you nodded at Michael before leaning up to give his lips a sweet kiss.

“I’ll wait until you say we can go,” you whispered against his lips as you wrapped an arm around Michael’s shoulders.

“Until then,” Michael murmured and closed off the distance between both of your bodies, ensnaring you in a deep kiss once more.

~

Michael’s changed lifestyle to a mafioso and your continued one as a mafiosa would never change. You both married one another knowing what your lives are and would continue to be, but also remaining unaltered.

You’re a lawyer, after all, and a skilled prosecutor with a name made for herself—reputation and all—in New York. Your career is more than something you see to corrupt and use for your “family business”, but is also a passion; something you want to continue doing until you feel ready to retire.

Michael was always impressed as to how you were able to find a passionate career that also benefited both sides of the family business. 

Through being a lawyer, you also bonded well with Tom and had another fellow lawyer as a brother-in-law to bond with.

Regardless of whether you and Michael choose to have one child a fear down the line or four back to back, Michael has no intention of interfering in your career or keeping you from it; the same can be said for any of your other passions and hobbies.

You already know your maternity leave from work and raising an infant will take priority in your life which will result in a break from work, but you’ve accepted it and will make it happen. 

Perhaps if you weren’t a mafiosa yourself from a powerful crime family, you would have fit the bill as a mafioso’s housewife better but Michael recognizes your true talents and abilities just as well as you know yourself.

Now married, you attend trials and continue with your cases at most three times a week. After all, you’ve always been careful in choosing which cases to get involved in while maintaining a flexible schedule for yourself.

You built a reputation with your prowess this far without Michael and his family’s influence, which begs the question of what Michael’s lifestyle has become after marrying you.

Michael is always working, even when he’s not. More than ever, Michael spends time with his father and brothers. Even when Michael is alone in his own office, he’s talking over the phone to his men or family and constantly keeping himself preoccupied until he’s with you.

Michael’s unwavering dedication to the family business, his loyalty, and his work ethic don’t bother you. As a matter of fact, it’s everything you expected from Michael and saw coming before you married him.

What you love about Michael’s work with the family business is that he can separate it and he will separate it very well from his personal life. 

Michael does not mention anything related to his work when he’s with you regardless of how casual the circumstances or if your own curiosity arises since your family is also almost always involved. 

You know then and only in those scenarios would you ask Michael a question if you had one and your family could not answer; you know your boundaries and where the line remains when asking Michael about his work.

To Michael, any mention of what he does and what he is outside of work is nothing but severely unpleasant and he would rather avoid it altogether; something you respect and agree with.

At dinner one evening, you saw Michael’s tension settled within him as he ate—sitting across from you in silence. 

Michael sighed quietly and took a sip of his red wine before his eyes met yours; seeing curiosity spark in your expression.

“Ready to settle down, baby?” You asked with a soft smile.

“Something like that,” Michael nodded, continuing to eat his risotto. 

“Everything alright with your father?” You asked and rose up from your seat to begin cleaning up. 

“He’s fine,” Michael’s answers were dry and to the point on purpose. “We’re working on it.”

“Alright,” you gathered a pile of empty plates, brushing off crumbs upon the tablecloth next to Michael.

Only a split second later did you look back up at Michael and catch his eye—almost feeling embarrassed for asking but you neither see annoyance nor discomfort in Michael’s expression. 

You understood Michael didn’t want to talk about this with you and you didn’t push it. You also knew last night he didn’t come home from his father’s estate until 2 AM, and you had no intention of bothering him about it now. 

You’ve always had more than enough to do for yourself and for the home regardless of how long Michael worked in or out of the manor. 

You’d have your own day to worry about; cleaning up after breakfast, prepping for lunch, tidying up the house, laundry if required, getting any other daily errands done, focusing on a bit of your own work projects, then relaxing with a good book or in front of the television with a glass of wine. 

You could step out into the garden for some fresh air, pull weeds, water the lawn, go for a walk or a dip in the pool; you balance your work and life well and you’ve never felt neglected or lost without a sense of purpose.

The compatibility between you and Michael is like none other and the two of you have always recognized this; there is no lack of transparency or intimacy, and there is no elephant in the room blocking the two of you from bonding with one another.

You and Michael could and always will make it work. 

~

When it came down to planning to start a family with each other, having children was brought up immediately between Michael and you; a crucial concept and the second step into a married life with one another.

Of course, the brief conversation that only consisted of asking one another if you wanted children when you and Michael had first met did not count as a real and insightful conversation, it did strike you that Michael was a mature and serious man, ready for fatherhood and expecting to start a family in the very near future.

Michael would not have minded waiting a year or two before having children, but he would personally not wish to delay it any further past that.

To Michael, it was as if he had an urgency of some kind to start a family but there was no reasoning behind it or pressure coming from anyone. Still, you came to appreciate how much Michael anticipated entering parenthood with you, regardless of his reasons.

Perhaps you did sense Michael’s urgency when he first met you and asked if you wanted to have children in the future, but you simply had brushed it off for all that it was—a simple question.

You were twenty-five years old when you met Michael, and you were the second youngest sibling in your family and the only daughter.

With your little brother Dante being fifteen years younger than you, you practically raised him alongside your brothers and because you came from an equally large extended family, you loved children for as long as you could remember.

Just as you and your brothers had grown up, you knew the importance of proper parenting and how love would mold a child’s life forever.

Michael believed children were the products of their parents’ discipline, love, and behavior, saying, “If adults can bring out the worst in each other, they can do the same for children”.

Michael himself was twenty-nine when he met you and neither of you had objections of any kind to starting a family immediately after getting married.

Coming from the families and reputations you both grew up in and had, things such as time and money would simply not be an issue for you and Michael.

It was more of a matter of readiness and active parenting heavily required from both of you equally, not just yours as the mother. 

You also knew Michael would be a stricter parent than you, but this did not imply anything harsh or along the lines of cruelty whatsoever. 

Michael is not the type of man to ever raise a hand against a child or even raise his voice; calm, and collected, and with thorough explanation comes discipline and understanding. Michael knows how a child’s mind copes and works. 

You are most definitely not the kind of parent to yell, threaten, let alone glare at children to have them respect or tolerate your fear let alone beat a child.

Neither Michael nor you ever faced such things growing up, but you both saw your fair share growing up with other children at school and in the neighborhood who did not have the same childhood as you two did.

Any type of abuse or psychological manipulation was a severe hard line; it was something you and Michael would never subject any child to, ever.

From being the only big sister to your little brother Dante, you knew there were a million ways around teaching and disciplining children without being physically, psychologically, or verbally abusive—even to children who have behavior issues. 

You and Michael had been stressing to yourselves subconsciously the need to be nothing but good, loving parents teaching your future children manners and discipline early on without fear of repercussions or pain, but simply just to learn and understand.

~

Just a week ago you walked down the aisle and faced your lover—for the last time only as a lover before becoming Michael’s wife, wedded as Mrs. Corleone.

Now as you gazed at yourself in the mirror, the role of Michael Corleone’s wife had already truly embedded in you; seeing your husband clasping a new diamond necklace around your neck gently.

You blushed as you caught Michael’s eye in the mirror, placing a hand over your necklace carefully.

Michael admired the glistening diamonds over your neck; his eyes adoring the very shape of your collarbones before he leaned toward your shoulder and planted a soft kiss over it.

With a bit of arousal having flared up in you, you shivered from Michael’s warm touch as he let his hands linger around the back of your neck before he placed them on your hips.

“Mm,” your eyes fluttered shut as you took in the brief moment, feeling Michael’s breath over the side of your neck.

Michael’s hands slowly made their way over to your stomach where he rubbed tenderly, watching as your body language submitted to how good he was already making you feel.

“Are you late?” Michael murmured over your shoulder.

Butterflies churned in your stomach and blush stung your cheeks at the very question. “I think it’s still too soon to tell, baby.”

“Mm,” Michael nodded and began to massage your sides.

“Why do you ask?” You slowly opened your eyes and spoke to him in a soft, ushered tone. “Do you suspect I am?”

“Perhaps,” Michael answered, “I want to be the first to know.”

You cracked a shy smile, “and you will be without a doubt.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Michael took your hands in his, turning you around to face him directly before he pulled you into his embrace. “Although you never did tell me how many you wanted.”

“I can tell you now,” you rested your head over Michael’s chest and nodded. “Four little ones… That would be something.”

“Mhmm,” Michael kissed the top of your head. “A topic better suited for the future after we have our first.”

“Boy or girl?” You grinned and looked up at your husband.

“Doesn’t matter,” Michael told you. “But ultimately a son somewhere down the line to succeed our family.”

‘Of course.’ You knew it must have been the same with Michael’s father as it was with yours; one son at the very least to carry the family’s legacy under his name. ‘Understandable.’

“If you’re not…” Michael’s hands touched your hips again; his eyes beckoning to you. “Then we can try again.”

“And again?” You teased back, giggling. “Tonight.”

“Tonight,” Michael murmured and pulled your hips into his.

“As many times as we need to, hmm?” Your breath hitched as you bit down on your lip.

“As many times as you want to,” Michael corrected before he sealed a kiss over your lips.

~

The intimacy and love continuing to blossom between you and Michael unfolded in feverish desire and yearning. Like the beginning of an eternal and dangerous addiction, neither of you could get enough of the other.

Michael knew your love language was physical affection and words of affirmation just as you knew he was spending quality time with you and touching. 

Michael couldn’t care less for material gifts and preferred experiences above all, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t care, enjoy, or appreciate either.

“Ah…” A breathy moan escaped your lips as your hand clutched over Michael’s back; feeling his firm, flexing muscle as Michael remained leaning down and hovering over your naked body.

Between the sounds of Michael’s lips leaving a trail of hot kisses over your neck, you heard his breathing hitching as his throbbing erection pressed against your stomach.

Barely a week into your marriage and filled to the brim with insatiable love and desire, Michael was unable to get enough of his new bride and her beauty.

“Ohhh…”

Inhaling deeply, Michael took in your scent as he nuzzled your neck; now glowing pink with the love marks he left behind as you had let your free hand roam through Michael’s tousled hair.

“Look at me,” Michael whispered against your lips as he grazed his thumb over your mouth, parting your bottom lip. “Look at me when I make love to you.”

‘Oh God, yes…’

The first three months of marriage may as well have been a fever dream for both of you. 

Of course, none would be surprised at the sudden stamina the new bride and groom have for one another although some teasing and a dirty joke here and there would be in order, but if it wasn’t a night out or quality time spent with the family, Michael and you were doing nothing else but getting lost in one another again and again.

You’d lay in bed naked with the blankets barely covering yourself as you’d watch Michael strip down right in front of you before approaching you on the bed, and Michael enjoyed every second of undressing you himself with his own hands; the way the curves of your hips and fullness of your thighs felt against his hand as your skin was hot to the touch, brimming with passion and your body begging for pleasure was nothing short of ecstasy to Michael.

With your bodies intertwined with one another, you could practically feel Michael’s heart racing against yours; nothing but toe-curling, eye-rolling, intense orgasms, and memorizing every part of each other’s bodies filled your evenings for days to come.

You woke an urge tailored to your pleasure inside of Michael he could not ignore. Even after a night of ecstasy, if you approached him half-naked in the living room and begged Michael to fuck you again, he wouldn’t say no. 

You straddled Michael’s lap and let your lace panties slip off your ankles as you felt the smooth, Italian silk fabric of Michael’s suit brush against your bare skin.

On his lap, you let out a whimpering moan as you pressed your hips against his and ran your hands up Michael’s half-unbuttoned dress shirt; his chest hair brushing past your fingers as you clutched onto his shoulders.

Michael leaned his back against his seat comfortably; his hands ran from your calves to your upper thighs before he cupped your ass and gave it a greedy squeeze.

Michael’s eyes expectantly looked at you. “You play the innocent, sweet role well…” 

“Mm—” You whimpered as you pressed your lips against Michael’s neck from him giving your ass another harsh squeeze.

“But I see right through it,” Michael whispered to you—his tone low and husky. 

“I…” You breathed shakily against Michael’s skin before planting a deep kiss over it; your free hand roamed through his black, silky hair.

You heard a barely audible, soft moan escape Michael’s lips which only intensified the feverish arousal coursing through your veins as you continued to hungrily kiss up and around Michael’s neck.

Michael wrapped one arm around your waist and kept his hand over your ass; his eyes half remained half-opened as he let you get lost within him, taking and getting everything you want.

Your kisses grew wet, hot, and sloppy around Michael’s jawline as you moaned through them yourself; severely aroused to the point where you thought your wetness pooling over the fabric of your panties was soaking through Michael’s trousers.

“Mine…” You cupped Michael’s cheek and turned his face to look him in the eye directly. “All mine…”

“Yours,” Michael said back before his lips sealed over yours in a crushing, needy kiss.

Your pussy throbbed from arousal over Michael’s knee; it practically had a heartbeat of its own from how horny you were feeling towards your husband—so much so that it was almost criminal.

“Look at you,” As Michael pulled away from the kiss, he gripped your throat with his free hand and let his thumb trace the outline of your bottom lip. “Can’t get your hands off of me.”

“You’re mine,” you panted back and took Michael by pleasant surprise as you licked his thumb. “

“That’s right, baby,” Michael murmured before pulling you back to him by your throat to give you another wet, rough kiss over the mouth. 

As you fully straddled Michael’s lap and began to slowly grind your hips, gyrating them against Michael’s pulsating erection, Michael let his hands slip up through your skirt and play with the band of your panties.

Lost in insistent, passionate kisses, Michael pulled at your panties only to let it snap back against your skin as you were distracted between his lips.

Michael let his fingers go further, parting your dewy pussy lips to spread your wetness with one hand while squeezing your breast and massaging your nipple with his fingers on the other.

Aside from such fiery, mutual infatuation and lust, there was more; there was and always will be more. 

The love between you and Michael blossomed so naturally that it could never feel forced like it was some sort of obligation that had to be fulfilled.

In public, despite the two of you being not so fond of blatant displays of affection, held hands or had Michael wrap an arm over your waist in casual but adoring affection you craved and yearned for always.

Just one touch from Michael—let alone his presence—was more than enough for you. It did nothing but thrill you all the more knowing this man is yours and you’re his; you’ll have all of Michael whenever you want and however you want. 

Distance makes your heart grow fonder when Michael’s away on his business trips or doesn’t come home for a night. You’ve never felt insecurity, unsafe, or any sort of lingering sadness about Michael’s consistent absences to begin with.

Even at the end of a long night with little time to yourselves to follow another eventful one, you’d have just the same satisfaction in Michael’s embrace without the sexual intimacy. 

Some of your most loving, romantic nights with Michael were the two of you skin-to-skin on the rooftop, naked and exchanging soft kisses as Michael smoked a cigarette.

Saying, “Yes, I do” and signing your marriage papers, your legal name became Victoria Ferrari Corleone; a unique love and lover to Michael in the sense that Michael could never treat you the way he treated Apollonia or Kay, but exponentially more protective, loving, and open to you in all aspects.

Your compatibility with Michael only resulted in him being all the more open with you; not feeling obligated to because you’ll get upset or ask, but because Michael wishes to—because he wants to. 

There’s simply no entitlement; only love and caring. You could not describe your marriage to Michael Corleone in any other way.

[bowletta]

SRMTHFG Watch Guide

Hi everyone! I made a list for newcomers who are interested in watching SRMT but don't know where to start! : ]

'Super Robot Monkey Team Hyperforce Go!' (Yes, that's really the title, 'SRMTHFG' for short) was a cartoon that aired from 2004-2006 on Jetix/Disney Channel.

It's about a boy and his team of cybernetic monkeys saving the universe from the evil Skeleton King. It sounds ridiculous... but it is so unironically good. There is plot. There is trauma. There are wacky antics. You can watch the entire series on YouTube, in HD, for free lol.

There's two versions of the show:

1080p HD, widescreen, censored (YouTube Link)

480-720p, cropped, uncensored (YouTube Link)

Personally I would recommend the HD cut. I am working on compiling every censored scene, nearly all of which are under 3 seconds (graphic violence, blood, etc.).

Under the read more is a guide to what episodes to watch, avoid, etc.

Symbol Guide:

Regular Text: Fine episode, but not required

*: Plot relevant

Bold Text: Good episode

Red: REALLY good episode

Strikethrough: Bad. Skip.

Season 1:

Chiro's Girl*

Depths of Fear

Planetoid Q

Magnetic Menace

The Sun Riders

Secret of the Sixth Monkey*

Pit of Doom*

Thingy

Flytor

A Man Called Krinkle

Ape New World

Circus of Ooze

Hidden Fortress*

Season 2:

Skeleton King*

World of Giants

The Lords of Soturix 7

In the Grip of Evil*

Versus Chiro*

Shadow Over Shuggazoom

The Sun Riders Return

Hunt for the Citadel of Bone*

Snowbound*

Wonder Fun Meat World

The Skeleton King Threat

Antauri's Masters*

I, Chiro*

Season 3:

The Savage Lands: Part I*

The Savage Lands: Part II*

Season of the Skull

A Ghost in the Machinder*

The Stranded Seven

Girl Trouble

Brothers in Arms

Monster Battle Club Now!

Meet the Wigglenog

Big Lug

Prototype*

Wormhole*

Belly of the Beast*

Season 4:

Galactic Smash: Space Attack

Galactic Smash: Game Over

Incident on Ranger 7

Ghosts of Shuggazoom*

Invasion of the Vreen

Evil Ages

Night of Fear*

The Hills Have Five

Demon of the Deep

Secret Society*

Golden Age*

Object of Hate*

Soul of Evil*

TLDR; Here's a condensed list of good/plot episodes you should watch if you don't want to watch all 52 episodes VVV

Season 1:

EP 1 - Chiro's Girl*

EP 6 - Secret of the Sixth Monkey*

EP 7 - Pit of Doom*

EP 8 - Thingy

EP 13 - Hidden Fortress*

Season 2:

EP 1 - Skeleton King*

EP 4 - In the Grip of Evil*

EP 5 - Versus Chiro*

EP 8 - Hunt for the Citadel of Bone*

EP 9 - Snowbound*

EP 12 - Antauri's Masters*

EP 13 - I, Chiro* (Best EP of the series in my opinion)

Season 3:

EP 1 - The Savage Lands Part I*

EP 2 - The Savage Lands Part II*

EP 4 - A Ghost in the Machinder*

EP 5 - The Stranded Seven

EP 7 - Brothers in Arms

EP 10 - Big Lug (SO many good reaction faces)

EP 11 - Prototype*

EP 12 - Wormhole*

EP 13 - Belly of the Beast* (Tied with I, Chiro for best EP)

Season 4:

EP 4 - Ghosts of Shuggazoom*

EP 5 - Invasion of the Vreen

EP 7 - Night of Fear*

EP 9 - Demon of the Deep

EP 10 - Secret Society*

EP 11 - Golden Age*

EP 12 - Object of Hate*

EP 13 - Soul of Evil*

Thank you all for coming to my TED Talk on these silly monkeys lol, I hope you all have fun watching!

(Gif by @/sweetcircuits)

[yogurtkags]

❝ IF NOT FOR YOU ❞ — semi eita

— 02. sweet nothing

“they said the end is comin', everyone’s up to somethin', i find myself runnin' home to your sweet nothings. outside, they’re push and shovin', you're in the kitchen hummin', all that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothin'”

series masterlist | prev | next

“join us for a jam sesh later? we can show them the song, rest of the boys are going to be there.” the end of that sentence is laced with a tinge of bitterness, and eita likes to think that it’s hidden behind a forced cough and a minuscule amount of cellphone static.

he wants to show off what you’ve been working on because he’s proud, he always is, but as much as he refuses to admit it, he wants you all to himself just as it’s always been since the beginning. if inviting you over to band practice (“we’re not a band, we just play together sometimes and perform my songs at gigs”) with the guys is what it takes to see you, or hell, even just hear from you, he’ll make do.

the lyrics of the song are really sweet, he thinks it might be the first love song you’ve written fully. a part of him wonders what, or rather who, inspired you to write it, but perhaps it’s not his place to know. it won’t stop a part of him from wishing it was him though, and frankly he’s not sure what to make of that information just yet.

you had a rough skeleton of an idea for the instrumentals but pretty much gave him free reign with this one which he’s not going to say no to, making sure to sprinkle in a little bit of his own taste into it — heavier instruments are more of his forte, having countless alternative and rock musicians listed as his personal inspirations. the final product's a fine mix of you and him, perfectly balanced and no more of one or the other. he’s very proud of it, proud of you, as with everything that you do together.

his thumb hovers over the send button, the preview of his short voice message looping while he contemplates deleting it. it’s starting to get grating with how long it’s been going for, his pathetic voice doing nothing but making him overthink even more. he doesn’t know if he’s being presumptuous to imagine it but it seems like you’re... avoiding him?

it’s been more than a week with barely any texts or random voice memos, you're usually blowing up his phone with silly memes and song demos, or even as simple as asking how his day has been. nothing since the last time he came over and finished the song with you. he noticed something seemed up at the time but didn’t press, now the guilt eats at him for not at least trying to ask. you always did keep your troubles to yourself, preferring to handle them on your own and keeping him in the dark about it until it either got too much and eventually bubbled past the surface, or fizzled over and only coming out casually in conversation once it’s a thing of the past. but who's he to judge, he's not any better.

maybe he’s reading too much into it, you’ll tell him with time as you always do, right? maybe he’s blowing it out of proportion, maybe you just had a bad day before seeing him, or you’re just tired, or— enough, now i’m just overthinking again.

finally releasing his bottom lip from the onslaught of his teeth, he bites the bullet and hits send, tossing his phone on his nightstand. as he lays back down on the stiff mattress, the arm thrown over his face shields the glaring sunlight breaming down on his face. it’s way too bright in comparison for the thoughts swirling in his head and with a sigh, he uses the foot hanging off his bed to tug the curtains close.

give her time, she’ll come to you when she’s ready.

i just hope she’s okay.

well shit.

the realisation that there even a slight possibility that you're in love with eita hits you like a splash of ice cold water to the face. you won’t lie and say that you didn’t have your suspicions, but it’s been just so long, brushing it off as the closeness of childhood friends. he’s your best friend, the first one you contact with good news, the first name that comes to mind when asked to invite a plus one, the first person you think of when you see those tiktoks of lovesick poems captioned “who do you picture when you read this?”, the list goes on.

in some way or another, this is what you always wanted, someone who understands your ins and outs and to spend your years with. eita was always the only option you’ve considered, but god you’re scared.

you feel a little sick to your stomach, the thought of it all weighing too heavily on your mind. there’s just too much at stake here, and you’re hell bent on not letting whatever the hell these damned feelings are jeopardise years of what you’ve built together. unknowingly in a similar spot, you find yourself curled up in bed, head swimming with worst case scenarios and make-believe narratives that say this is doomed for disaster.

light knocks on your door gently pluck you from the stirring storm in your head and with an muffled “i’m coming in!”, hitoka shuffles into your room and audibly coos at your deposition.

“hey, you left your phone out on the counter and it went off a couple times. i think semi messaged you too, thought you might want to see it.”

speak of the devil.

with a small smile that doesn’t even come close to reaching your eyes, you take your phone from her hand with a mix of gratitude and dread, “thanks hitoka. i- can i ask you something?”

“yeah what’s up? everything okay?” she sits by your side, her pretty, youthful features plagued with concern.

the posters on your wall suddenly seem like the most interesting things in the room, your eyes meekly darting around and refusing to meet hers. a wave of embarrassment washes over you from head to toe as you mull over your thoughts, collecting and trying to put them into words without sounding like a total idiot. this is stupid, you open your mouth for a moment and close it in the next, the words stuck in your throat and you’re already regretting bringing it up. you’re not ready for this conversation as much as you want to and it festers and grows and feeds on the seeds of doubt sprouting.

her small, smooth uncalloused hand closes over the back of yours in assurance and comfort, the small action causing a surge of peace and calm to flow through you, “it’s about him, isn’t it?”

nodding in shame, you hesitantly speak up, quietly, “hypothetically if i did have feelings for him—what if he doesn’t feel the same way? i won’t be able to look at him again.”

hitoka sighs dramatically, “first off, it’s a hundred percent not hypothetical who are you even kidding, surely not me. second, have you seen the way he looks at you? i’m surprised you haven’t caught on sooner.”

when you remain silent, she takes it as a cue to continue, squeezing your hand, “listen, i don’t know him as well as you do by a long shot, but i know feelings when i see it, and that man is very into you. and don’t even come at me with that ‘but we’re best friends’ bullshit, you don’t act that way with kenma and vice versa.”

you stifle a laugh at that last part, feeling a little tension release from your muscles after listening to her perspective. she’s nothing but truthful and supportive especially when it comes to anything (especially serious) concerning you and your heart swirls with warmth that you have someone like her to talk to about these things, the boys aren’t much help but you still love them dearly.

“i’ve been running away from him for days, i haven’t spoken to him since the last time he came over.” you mumble, rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling, eyes fixed on the rotating fan and letting it blur in your vision as your hand still remains clasped in hitoka’s.

you feel the weight of guilt on your shoulders for shutting him out so abruptly, the sudden rush of feelings leaving you dumbfounded in its wake. your instinct was to hide and let it pass, hoping he wouldn’t catch on, but you never stopped to consider what it might look like to him. truthfully, the longest you’ve ever been apart was when your family went on holidays overseas, never if you could help it — you miss him.

remembering that he sent a message, you opened it up, letting the sound of his voice flit through the still air within your four walls. it sends a tingle down your spine and causes a soft involuntary smile to stretch across your lips, it’s like music to your ears.

“i swear to god, you two are disgusting.” hitoka lightheartedly complains as she rolls her eyes, getting up to leave you be. “go see your man before i throw up.”

“shut up, it’s not like we’ll be alone!” you retort, flipping her off as she’s shutting the door with a click, hearing a yeah yeah yeah echo down the hall.

taglist. open (send an ask / comment to be added!) @wyrcan @cheesypuffkins87 @peachyugoose @tetzoro

@twiishaa @samuel1004 @blueparadis

notes. hi it’s been a while since we've seen our two blindly lovesick pals :3 no fun facts this time, just a little filler chapter !! they’re so stupid and lovesick PLEASE— also band lineup in the next one ! big love to @mikiruie for beta reading < 3

© yogurtkags. please do not repost, plagiarise, or translate my work.

[nefarrilou]

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[diejager]

Chapter 4

Cw: blood, death, canon typical violence, guns, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 3.6k

Series masterlist

Previous

Finland was a beautiful country, with a wide expanse of snowy plains and forest that covered the frozen earth. Green pines were tipped in gleaming snow, shiny and holy in a way that brought out awe and astonishment instead of anxiety from the mission. For a pretty country, the land was bathed in blood, old and new, both Finnish and Russian. 

Standing on the border of Finland and Russia was a compound, one built by shady funds and shadier reasons that the CIA decided to send Task Force 141 to shut down. The images from drones showed that it tainted the snow black and grey, a mark on the land people wanted gone. It was your target. 

Price gathered you around the table for the mission's debriefing, standing at the head of it, he had pictures displayed on the table, and physical notes about the mission and Laswell dealt with the extra explanations, sliding files to the screen. A Russian compound from what Laswell's intel told you, hidden under the thick, forested area of the border with a skeleton crew of around twenty ultranationalists.

The CIA had mentioned that their initial assumptions of the ongoings were human trafficking or an information hub for terrorists and prisoners. Whether it was the first or the second, the secretive compound had to be detained.

"Our main objective is to gather information about the things happening behind those walls. It's an infiltration and intel gathering. We leave in 15.

With the dismissal, you all filed out of the room, boots sounding loudly as you made your way to your barrack and then armoury for the mission. Everyone would need to be ready, you'd have no air support or cover, and you'd all be on field.

Nikolai warned you about turbulence, the harsh wind of the Nordic countries was stronger than the British weather, but the ride was calming, interacting with your teammates on the three-hour flight. Jokes were passed around by Gaz and Soap, they were by far the goofiest of the bunch, though with a bit of insistence, Ghost shared a few of his dark humour. 

Humour wasn't something you'd relate Ghost to, the brooding mass of a man seemed so cold and distant to you, yet he cared about the team, and now you too. Price, however, had the worst dad jokes one could think of. Although his jokes were bad and as dark as Ghost's, you couldn't contain your cackle when you saw the disgusted expression on the three, younger men before you. 

"Approaching the landing site," Nikolai called out, his voice ringing out from the headset.

The carrier shook violently, and your stomach dropped along the plane, lowering to the cleared, paved ground near a village. It was a rocky landing, the landing wheels jerking upwards a few times before it stopped moving. You followed out behind Price and Roach once you were cleared by Nikolai, hearing the blades shutter and halt as your eyes adjusted to the white land. 

You were warned about snow blindness, staring at the beautiful sight through dark glasses, it made everything sombre, but you wouldn't risk it. By habit, your eyes scanned the area, watching for things that could bring to your team. When everything seemed fine, you faced the blurred figure that moved to your side. 

"First time 'ere?" Ghost asked, his voice gravelly from not using it much apart from the few jokes he told, they could be counted with both hands. 

"No, I've been here once, just nowhere this calm," you replied, watching Nik's back. 

He walked with long strides, casual and comfortable with the older-looking man standing farther from your group, weary with age. You lingered on the Russian, ready to act if the old man had dark intentions. They spoke, hands moving in small and wide gestures as they exchanged words. You were too far to catch a whisper of their discussion, but the smile that stretched on the man's lips told you it was going well. 

They shook hands and Nikolai called out, urging you to follow the Finnish. Edvard, the local that would host you during your stay, his cabin would act as your temporary safe house in the remote village. He was Nik's contact in the area, someone you couldn't trust to keep your location safe. Edvard had nothing to lose, an old man living alone on the outskirts of the village, and a family lost to Barkov’s tyranny.

The broken-down car burped and spewed exhaust with loud rumbles, it seemed as old - if not, older - than the driver itself. Your team of seven, four of which were burly men and three leaner but still cracked with layers of warm jackets, vests and gear, somehow fit. With little to no baggage, except a bag from each, four of you fit the car, it was tight but you made it work, Nikolai sat at the front and the two last - Soap and Gaz - were left out in the cold, in the pickup’s bed with the bags. It was a miracle the ford hadn’t dropped from the sheer, combined weight of its passengers. 

The hour-long ride was uncomfortable, being forced to lay over their laps to fit during a long and bumpy road promised a sore back, especially when you were staring up at your Lieutenant’s face. The warm brown hues that hazed back down through the tinted glasses made you flush, his gaze had always been intense, in and out of duty. None of your teammate’s stare compared to Ghost’s. The ride was silent, awkward to the point you’d hear a pin drop if Nikolai and Edvard weren’t talking - a rough mix of Finnish and Russian that none of you understood - and the boisterous chatter from the men outside. Talking helped get the mind off the cold air, gloves, hats and balaclava weren’t enough for the cold. Their chattering helped mince the uncomfortableness you felt, forced to stare continuously at the man who liked being unseen. 

You were out the second the engine was shut down, jumping from Ghost’s side as if their bodies burned you. You were grateful they hadn’t mentioned your little run, knowing it was unbearably confining. The cabin wasn’t much, but it had heat, food and warm water, it wasn’t decrepit looking nor was it run down. You shrugged your glasses once you stepped into the cabin, white light illuminated the open-concept place furnished with old things, the yellowed doors were mostly rooms and a bathroom. Two rooms to the left and two others to the right, one was Edvard’s and you’d have to share the rest and the available couch. 

“I’ll take the couch,” Ghost’s decision was quickly made. He preferred to sleep alone - if he even slept - and taking the couch let him have the whole view of the cabin. It never sat well with him to stay the night in new places, new was unknown, and unknown was dangerous. He might sleep an hour or two, but he’d be ready to move if anything happened. 

“Roach with Winter, Gaz with Soap, and Nikolai with me.”

Your team had foregone the pickup truck, it would’ve been easily seen and heard by the Russian’s guards and their surveillance around the forest. The trek through the forest was cold and quiet, you could see it a mile in, the compound stood out under the green pines with its white lights and the tall, grey walls. Your plan was to slip in through the back and take out the security system before Alpha and Bravo would go in. You and Gaz - team Echo - were tasked with taking down the two guards near the back entrance and from then, shut down the system and take out anyone on the way. 

“Team Echo in position, moving in, “ Gaz called, hand motioning you to take position and wait for his call to kill. One shot to the head, or a double tap to the chest. 

Your intel told you they had walked the same path every time, one man went left and the other, right, with a rotation every half hour. The last swap was five minutes ago, so you’d have around twenty-five minutes to complete your task. You followed the left man, watching through your night-vision goggle (NVG) his figure waddle between the trees. You moved quietly, approaching him with your handgun in both hands; you’d all agreed that it’d be a better option if you wanted to stay quiet, a muzzled handgun would echo less in an empty forest void of sound.

His steps were loud and careless, too used to being the only ones in the area, they covered yours and let you get closer to him. When you slid next to him, you shot out, side colliding with his back. He fell with a shout, eyes wide in shock as he reached for the rifle that fell a foot away from him. Before he could grasp it, you aimed for his head and fired, blood spraying from the wound as the exit hole oozed it. You searched his body, padding down his sides and hip until you found the keycard they used to leave and enter the facility.

You felt at ease, this was your field of work, killing was a better skill than healing in these moments, but being a field medic had its merit. Your hands were stable, your body moving by instinct - habits beaten in by your training - and your mind tuning the loud voices that swore at you. Everything felt colder, more numb when you were on duty, it was nearly calming to your mind, blocking out all noise when you were on the move - concentrate or you die.

“Gaz, what’s your status?” you called, standing from the body, sliding back into the dark.

“Good, meet me back,” he answered, and you could hear the snow crunch beneath his feet. 

You backtracked and flipped up your NVG, seeing him crouched behind a tree and nodded when you caught his eye. You showed him the keycard, both entering the clearing around the walls. The door clicked open when you scanned the keycard, it beeped before you pushed it open. You looked both sides, rifle aimed for anyone to turn the corner and walked in when you saw it was safe. The insides buzzed with a loud hum, booming enough to almost cover your shots, so you and Gaz would have to hastily make your way to the security room. 

You move in first, Gaz watching your back as you followed the instructions Laswell gave towards the security room, her plans were clear and simple: once inside, down the left hall and turn right at the corner, then turn right and up the stairs to the fourth floor, the target room was the last door on the floor with a bold Безопасность - security. You watched both ways before you turned right, and did again before turning and stalking to the stairs. The climb was quiet, no one had entered or walked the east wing and the stairs were vacant. It was a rapid climb to the fourth floor, where the only ultranationalist you saw was entering the security room. You turned to Gaz, nodding a silent message - one you’d conveyed many times before - and hastily made your way to the room’s door. 

You burst through the door, throwing a flash grenade into the room before you rushed in with Gaz behind you. You heard their screams - two distinct voices, both males - and shot them down when they blindly searched the tables, one for his gun and the other for his radio. You searched the whole room before radioing the others: “Security room clear. I’m watching the cams, Cap’n. The backdoor’s still open, you have less than ten minutes. “

“Copy, Alpha moving out,” Price answered. 

“Bravo out,” Ghost replied, he and Soap moved to meet up with Alpha Team. 

They would make their way up, clearing floor by floor while you and Gaz would search the fourth floor for mercenaries and information. It was quickly done, you swept the floor, going room to room with your rifles raised, watching Gaz’s back as he led. You assumed the floor was vacant since no one rushed in after the screams, giving you enough time to search the security room for stray files or anything Laswell would appreciate getting her hands on. 

“Floor one, clear.” They cleared the first floor, moving up to the second. 

There were four doors apart from the security room, two held bunks and were dirtied with stray clothes and other inconspicuous things. Disgusting, you’d be punished severely for having such messy barracks and rooms, laps around the base of extra training time, the Ultranationalists had no organization in this base - different from others you’ve seen. The third room was an archive of some sort, rows and rows of file boxes, all unlocked. They were old files, you swiped through each box and saw the dates marked on the manila folders. Some were dated from before the 21st century, the oldest from 1989 and the most recent from a month ago. There were too many to take, but Laswell told you to search for a computer and save whatever was on the drive.  

The last door led to a briefing room, albeit small, with a computer placed on the table. This was what you were tasked to find, you skimmed the side, searching for the disk or drive that held the information you needed. 

“Floor two, clear.” It had been quiet on their side, they met enemies on the way.

While you were preoccupied with the laptop, Gaz looked over the folders spread on the table, flipping pages and reading words he didn’t understand. Russian, they were written in Russian and none of you were able to read, nor speak it. Sure, you understood, but only enough to know the basics. Your finger nudged the small edge of a disk, the round corners of the plastic rectangle. You pushed it lightly and it slid out, grabbing the protruding cartridge and placing it in the pocket of your black jacket, under your vest. 

“Found the drive.”

“And I got the files, seems important enough.”

It was radio silence for a while, you waited for the other teams’ reply before moving down, watching the room’s door for gunmen. You locked eyes with Gaz, asking him whether you should move or wait for them. Although both sergeants, you trusted his experience in a field he was thrust into longer than you, he had the rank years before a greenie like you. If he told you to wait, you’d wait; if he wants to move out, you’d follow him out. 

“Floor three, clear-“ the radio cracked, Soap growled into his mic, a deep, throaty sound akin to Ghost’s roars. “We’re moving up.” The gravely tone told you all you had to know, he and Ghost met someone on their floor. 

From your position, you watched the door open and Price popped his head in, nodding his head towards Gaz - folder in his hand - and you - disc secured in your vest. With Price’s order for evac, you all followed him out, face snugly hidden under your black balaclava and thick clothes in the cold winter of Finland’s night. 

Price called Laswell once you confirmed you were safely back to Edvard’s cabin, jumping into a secure line and retelling your mission with the promise of giving her the disc and folder once you landed on British ground, back on familiar land with cloudy days and rainy evenings. While the colder air was refreshing, a sight you last saw years back, nothing felt better than familiar ground, the safety and comfort your barack brought or the thrill and amusement the pub you went to last week left you with, watching your team getting wasted on alcohol to a successful mission. 

You’d wait out the night, trading posts for night watch with the others, your team’s paranoia of being followed and never knowing if the enemy had called for backup after you reached the security room. So many times bad luck struck you, fate dealing you a bad hand in your endeavours. Ghost would go first, being the most paranoid out of everyone - for good reasons, he’d been betrayed too many times to count, and he knew the sharp edge of a knife better than anyone else - then you’d take his place, let him rest while he could, after you, Soap, Gaz, Roach and Price, the Captain would be able to wake everyone up in the early morning. 

You tried sleeping, rolling from one side to the other, one leg knocking the other while your mind stormed with wild thoughts and wandering words. Your eyes closed, ears muffled with the soft cover of your pillow, but sleep evaded you, chased away from stray thoughts. The voices, and the screaming pain from memories long gone haunted you when you weren’t on field, the drowned-out sounds of gunfire and grenades submerged the memories. Tonight, however, the cries were louder, more painful and desperate than they were yesterday or the day before, twisted and turning wouldn’t do you any good, nor would it do Roach any good, who slept a few feet away from you. 

So you left your bed, what harm would it bring if you took your post early, you couldn’t sleep and wouldn’t be able to either. Sound sleep had escaped your grasp the moment you touched Finland. Outside the door, you caught Ghost staring back at you, alerted by the sound and movement of your exit. You gazed back at him, silent as he was with his beautiful, brown eyes. 

“Mind if I join you?” you tentatively asked, voice low to not startle the others. You stopped on the other side of the couch, waiting for his reply. You were hyper-fixed on his eyes.

While your relationship with him had a bumpy start, you admired him, you looked up to the beast he was: solemn and strong-willed. He moved forward without looking back, seeing things until the end without an ounce of hesitation in his step, of fear or trepidation on his face - his warm eyes - and he never stooped low, head held high and powerful. His huge figure with broad shoulders and thick arms were distracting at times, when you saw him walk down the hall at the base, cloaked in black and a simple, skull-painted balaclava over his face than his masked one. 

He was your lieutenant, your second in command and you trusted him with your life as he did with you, months of working side by side had strengthened the link between you. From strangers to colleges to brothers in arms. You learned to read the smallest signs on him, from non-verbal, tensing shoulders to the dilated joy in his eyes when you watched the others stumble drunkenly. 

You moved when he nodded slightly, eyes watching you sit beside him before returning to gazing out the windows. Join him, you did, silently sharing this moment with Ghost, rare moments of calmness (even with the noise in your head). You sat in silence, a few calming minutes of respite, you traced the few visible stars from the inside of the dark cabin. The countryside had its perks, especially at night, where only darkness clouded the skies, this one was painted with stars, some bright, some dim. It was a sight for sore eyes for city dwellers like you, used to the grey skyline and bright skyscrapers that loomed over the houses and flats in the UK. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Ghost’s voice was mellow, having a slight rasp from the small use of his voice. It was deep and soothing to your ear, it captured your attention and kept it on him. His question wouldn’t be left unanswered. 

You hummed, bobbing your head as you peered at him from the corner of your eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the dark lashes fluttering when he blinked. His face was turned towards you, his pretty eyes looking at you with calmness in them. Perhaps he knew your answer wasn’t satisfactory for him, or perhaps he knew you hid something from him. Something weighed on his mind, you could tell by his continuous staring. You wouldn’t urge him to ask the question that lingered on his tongue, not unless he felt comfortable to ask it. You learned quickly that he was as mentally guarded as he was physically, building a thick and high wall around himself, it rarely cracked but it did.

You tethered on the limit of his comfort, the nearness between you was as close as you could get to him without having him tense, however, physical touch was a negative. You did once touch him and he flinched, muscle rippling and freezing at your cool gloves, you hadn’t touched him since then. You knew the fear of being touched, you’ve been once before, though you worked it off slightly. You still jumped, but you wouldn’t panic. 

“Somethin’ bothering you?” he finally asked, pushing out the words after a tense moment in his body.

“Not really,” you shook your head, returning his stare. “Just feeling excited about returning home. It feels safer, no?”

This time he hummed, a distracting sound that rumbled out of his throat. You loved the sound of his voice, albeit rare for him to speak more than a few lines here and there, you cherished the moments he did. You could sit here, with him, gazing into each other’s eyes, admiring him for everything he was. Respect and loyalty were given to him, for his experience and his trauma. You knew the way everyone looked at him, fear from outsiders and warmth from the Task Force, they were your family as you were theirs.

“You won’t mind if I stay here ‘till I take over, L.T.?”

Next

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[theamazingmaddyas]

Riordanverse characters who never interact in canon, yet I'm convinced they'd be best friends: A compiled list with explanations because I think about this way to often.

1) Georgina (Trials of Apollo) & Harley (Heroes of Olympus & Trials of Apollo)

There are four works in the Georgina & Harley tag on ao3, and all four have been written by me, that's how series I am about this friendship.

Firstly, I headcanon that the reason there's no year rounders during The Sun and The Star is because most of them decided to go to Waystation to attend school. Harley's eight in The Hidden Oracle and has already been at camp for at least a year and a half, minimum (as he's in the Hephaestus Cabin in The Lost Hero, and it's stated that no Hephaestus kid as come to camp in months before Leo), so why else would he all of a sudden not be a year rounder? He's certainly not staying to fight in the wars like some other demigods.

Now, back to Georgie and Harley. They're only a year apart, if that, and the other is probably the first person they've ever met close to their age, which would definitely spark friendship. Secondly, both of them have a sibling-like relationship with Leo (I almost started sobbing when Leo told Harley about how he was the one who helped him find his way back home in The Hidden Oracle, Leo and Harley are such an underrated sibling pair), which will bond them. And three, both are incredibly artistic and love building things. Just imagine Georgie and Harley drawing plans for the Waystation together? Adorable.

2) Kayla Knowles (Percy Jackson & Trials of Apollo) & Sadie Kane (Kane Chronicles)

They'd dye their hair together, chew bubblegum and eat lollypops, complain about their nerdy older brothers, and show off their skills to each other. They'd be an unstoppable duo.

3) Alex Fierro (Magnus Chase) & Lavinia Asimov (Trials of Apollo)

Queer kid with a designated color pallet, a non-common weapon, whom is incredibly artistic? You can't tell whether I'm talking about Alex or Lavinia (hint, it's both)

Match made in Elysium (or Valhalla in Alex's case). Lavinia would show Alex some simple tap steps, and Alex would show off her pottery skills, and teach some to Lavinia. Lavinia thinks Alex's garrote is the coolest thing ever, and Alex keeps petitioning for a manuballista fight in Valhalla. (Odin has not agreed yet, but Alex is not deterred in the slightest).

4) Kayla Knowles, Sadie Kane, Alex Fierro, & Lavinia Asimov

You're not surprised in the slightest, are you? These four make a deadly quartet of died hair, weapons, and bubblegum, and I adore them for it. As for why I did Kayla & Sadie and Lavinia & Alex seperately, it's because I think they'd be closest with their respectively friend pairing, but also they'd make a great friend group. I'm already in love.

5) Hazel Levesque (Heroes of Olympus & Trials of Apollo) & Butch Walker (Heroes of Olympus)

Intimidating son of a non-intimidating goddess and a non-intimidating daughter of an intimidating god. Also, they both adore horses, and I could totally see them hanging out in the Pegasus stables when Hazel's visiting Camp Half-Blood.

6) Nico di Angelo (Percy Jackson, Heroes of Olympus, Trials of Apollo, & The Sun and the Star) & Blanche (Chalice of the Gods)

The second Child of Hades/Pluto & Child of Iris friendship??? But seriously, these two would be besties. Both only ever dress in monochromatic clothing, and Blanche is literally known for her ghost stories at camp and Nico is the Ghost King? Blanche would beg Nico to help her out with her photography—the Hades Cabin is literally her aesthetic to the tee, and she loves photographing dead things. Nico would summon a skeleton so she could photograph it on dead grass Nico accidently killed.

And if they did joint ghost stories? All I'm saying is they could charge an admission fee and the amphitheatre would still be full. (The effects they can do with Blanche's, well blanching, power, and Nico's shadow manipulating would go insane)

7) Piper McLean (Heroes of Olympus & Trials of Apollo) and Silena Beauregard (Percy Jackson)

They would be that sibling pair at camp, and it's such a horror that we never got to experience it.

Silena would help Piper tap into her more feminine side, and show her that not all femininity is bad—which Piper has a lot of trauma revolving—and I think would help Piper come to terms with her feelings for Jason and her queerness a lot faster than it actually happened, because Silena would help her talk through it instead of bottling it up. (Besides, Silena knows all about crushing on boys and girls *cough* Beckendorf and Clarisse *cough*).

In turn, I think Piper would help Silena with her fighting skills and strength. Yes, Silena has Clarisse, but Clarisse is a hit hard and don't back down fighter, while Piper would be more patient, which is what Silena would need. Also, they both know what it's like to be manipulated and have to make choices about whether or not their friends and family will live or die, and that's a common ground for them both.

8) Nico di Angelo & Mitchell (Heroes of Olympus)

This is solely because of the fic, Gurrlfriend by Erikthonius on ao3. Honestly, if you've read that, you'd understand where I'm coming from. I don't have any other evidence besides that.

There will probably be more where this came from!

[selunesdreams]

Chapter 47: Unrepentant Vagabonds

Chapter from ongoing fic Forms of Imprisonment. Full story on AO3

Pairing: Spawn Astarion (post-tadpole) x OFC

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: 18+, mdni. See AO3 for other chapter-specific warnings.

a/n: The gang runs into an old friend, meets the Mad Mage, acquires a new pet, and plays a game of poker. This chapter was me trying my hand at some more campy/fun interactions. ALSO I got sidetracked and started a Gale fic, because the pipeline is real. You can read it here.

———————————————————————

The Undermountain is just as unsettling as Celeste remembers. 

Halaster’s lair, according to Gale, was nestled far within a network of hidden passageways and tunnels. To Celeste’s dismay, they entered through the alley of the Yawning Portal again, Astarion reaching for her hand tentatively as they descended through the hatch. Thankfully, they took a left before continuing down the same path Astarion had brought her down weeks ago, and soon were deep enough underground that Celeste was confident Vanrakdoom was too far to be of concern anymore.

For most of the trek, Celeste kept her eyes to the gray granite floor, taking extra care when they’d descend the railless staircases, Astarion’s palm on the small of her back to reassure her. The lower they went, the colder the atmosphere became, and the familiar scent of damp earth filled her nostrils. Throughout their journey, their companions stayed silent, aware that one misplaced step or a too-loud word could result in certain death. 

Finally, Gale presses a hand to a wall in a dark corridor and disappears through, the rest of them following through the illusion apprehensively. Illuminated by a series of acid green torches, the hall glows faintly as Gale approaches a bolted shut door, and raps his knuckles against the wood three times. 

“Master Blackcloak is not accepting solicitors!” A small voice snarls as the door cracks open. A quasit stands in the frame, looking up, assessing. 

“Hello, Shovel.” Gale’s arms are folded as he looks down at the creature. 

“Is that really you, Meaty? You fleshbags all look the same to Shovel!” 

“Shovel?” Celeste whispers to Astarion, raising an eyebrow. 

“A quasit.” Astarion answers in a low voice. “Demons trapped in service to whoever summons them. This one’s called Shovel.” 

“Yes, but why Shovel?”

“She came with the name. Felt wrong to change it.” He responds with a shrug. 

The demon continues on in a shrill tone. “And you brought Fangy!” She springs forward, wrapping her claws around Astarion’s calf.

“Oh, for the love of-get off!”

“Seems quite taken with you.” Celeste observes. 

“Astarion let her eat his camp portions.” Karlach reveals, “he’s more softhearted than he lets on.” 

“Let’s not get carried away, my fiery friend. After all, stale bread was wasted on me,” Astarion says as he struggles with Shovel, who appears to be having fun biting at his leg, hanging from his pant leg as he shakes his ankle wildly.

“He made a mess, lying on his cot and tossing food about like he was feeding the pigeons.” Minthara says disapprovingly.

“Can you all shut up?” Astarion snaps, finally dislodging the quasit. 

“Gale, why does Halaster have Shovel?” Shadowheart asks. 

“Well, we…arranged a trade. Halaster is a collector of creatures, Shovel needed a home, and I…” he pauses, bringing a fist to his mouth as he clears his throat, “was in need of night orchids.”

“Cuuuuttteee.” Karlach elbows Gale in the ribs as his cheeks begin to turn pink.

Shovel guides them through the door, scurrying down the hall.

“Come, Meaty, master Halaster is eager to see you.”

They follow the quasit inside and Celeste’s gaze drifts to the walls, lined with displays of various oddities, skeletons, and jars of mysterious substances. 

“A little unnerving…you don’t think he’ll add us to the display?” Astarion murmurs, taking in the surroundings. “Gale, how did you get tied up with an archmage of such an ominous reputation?” 

“Believe it or not, Elminster introduced us.” 

“Elminster?” Astarion asks, surprised. “I would have thought the wizard too much of a do-gooder to associate with someone in the Undermountain.”

“Only proves how little you know about Elminster, then.” Gale says as they reach a vast, circular room, filled with mechanical contraptions, piles of books, and large aquariums of strange-looking fish. At the far end, a man with long white hair and a frumpy wizard’s hat bends over a terrarium, dropping in a beetle for a fat, purple toad waiting with an open mouth at the bottom. When he notices them, he leaps forward, rushing toward Gale and engaging him in a vigorous handshake. The mage’s wrinkled face contorts into a pleasant expression, his gray eyes gleaming.

“Mystra’s Chosen returns!” He exclaims. “Your tressym has made herself quite at home here, once again, in your absence.”

“I appreciate the favor, Halaster, but we’ve discussed this. I’m not Mystra’s Chosen anymore.” 

“Right, well. You’re still my chosen insurance policy.” Halaster waves dismissively.

Shadowheart’s head jerks up. “What is he talking about, Gale?” 

“In the case of Halaster’s untimely death, the magic of the Undermountain would destabilize. That alone should deter anyone from challenging him, but just in case…Mystra’s Chosen has the power and knowledge to set the…security system back into place.”

“But you’re not her chosen.” 

“Tell that to him.” Gale points a thumb at the mad mage. 

“What makes you so confident the wizard wouldn’t kill you and take the Undermountain for himself?” Minthara asks Halaster curiously. 

Halaster’s attention settles on Gale with a chilling expression. 

“He won’t.”

The two exchange a warning look, silently communicating thousands of words, and Celeste looks away uncomfortably.

“Sounds like a nasty contingency plan…for both of you.” Wyll says. 

“Who have you brought for me, boy?” Halaster asks, tiring of the conversation as he peeks around Gale, gaze lingering on Celeste and Astarion. 

“These are my friends. We need your help to gain access to Vanrakdoom so we can permanently put an end to Shar’s operations here.” 

“I would like nothing more than to evict the Lady of Sorrows’ followers from my dwelling.” Halaster strides over, hands clasped behind his back as he circles the group like a carrion bird. “Did you know Shar enthralled me and tried to convince me to steal Mystra’s silver fire a century ago? Things got very messy. Had to go to the Hells to rescue Elminster to make up for the ordeal.” He says to Gale. 

“I’m well aware of your history, Halistar-”

“I’m not.” Nocturne cuts him off. “You rescued Elminster from Avernus?”

The more Celeste came to know the tiefling, the more she admired her thirst for lore, collecting stories like one would collect precious gems.  

“I tried, but Alassra Silverhand beat me to it, bastard. Still, Mystra forgave me and cured me.”

“Cured you? Of what?” 

“Of my insanity, of course.” 

“Right...” Wyll says under his breath, pulling Nocturne closer with a subtle touch on her belt. 

The Mad Mage pauses in front of Celeste and Astarion, his eyes narrowing. 

“You two reek of the heavens.” He lifts a wrinkled hand to lift up Celeste’s chin, and she stiffens, trying to remain composed as his gnarled fingernails come dangerously close to grazing her skin. He releases his hold on her and turns to Astarion. “And a fresh blood oath. Intriguing.”

“He can smell magic?” Celeste hears Karlach whisper to Gale behind her. 

“Our lives are bound.” Celeste explains before more intrusive questions might be asked, “In order to free me from an oath my father made to Shar before my birth.” 

“Broke Fangy, she did!” Shovel squeals, pointing an accusatory claw in Celeste’s direction. “Used to stink of blood and sweet undeath, now just rotting fleshbag like the rest!” 

“A free vampire spawn?” Halaster muses, somehow gleaming the information from the quasit’s lamenting. Perhaps in their madness, he and Shovel had formed their own language. “And cured, at that. Rare, indeed.”

“More or less.” Astarion mutters, avoiding eye contact.

“How?”

“I’m Selûne’s granddaughter, in a sense, I’m Moonborn. It was the moonmaiden’s promise, in exchange for freeing me from Shar’s claim.” 

“I doubt he needed much convincing to be bound to such an alluring anomaly of magic...” He muses, before addressing Gale. “I’d love to add them to my collection.” 

“Excuse me, we’re not cattle to be bought and sold!” Astarion snarls. 

“He’s right, Halaster. I brought them as a courtesy, so you might witness the way the weave has affected them, but I believe you’ve misunderstood my intentions…”

“Fine, fine.” The archmage grumbles, “Though the last of her kind and the first vampire spawn to walk in the sun in millennia, you’ll have to excuse my enthusiasm.”

“As long as my head doesn’t end up stuffed on your wall of horrors.” Astarion says in disgust. 

“Come,” Halaster ushers them into an adjoining room, “I have maps.”

On a spacious table, a replica of the Undermountain is on display, hidden tunnels and passageways carved into its surface. Dependent on the angle of viewing, fragments disappear to reveal more detail. Beside lies a hand-drawn map, notes scrawled in the margins. Underneath the table, Tara naps in a wicker basket, her wings wrapped around a small, black mass of fur naps, its back rising and falling with its breath. The creature’s three tails hang over the side of the basket, appearing almost like tentacles.

“Is that a…displacer beast?” Wyll inquires with some disbelief. 

“What? Oh, yes.” Halaster says, disinterested. “An orphaned cub. I traded a Wish spell to a Warlock for it. Seems to have taken to the tressym quite nicely, but despises me.”

“Her mothering nature does usually get the best of her…” Gale muses. Tara yawns and stretches before blinking at him expectantly, and he stoops and scratches behind her ears. 

As if summoned, the kitten - roughly the same size as Tara herself - jumps out of its bed and sniffs at the air before weaving between Celeste’s ankles. 

“Seems to prefer the company of women.” Halaster grumbles. 

“Nasty kitty.” Shovel growls with displeasure. The displacer beast turns on her, tackling her to the ground and chewing on her leg.

“Master!” the quasit shrieks in dismay, before Halaster plucks the small creature off by the scruff and shoves it towards Celeste. 

“Take it.” The archmage says, “They’re expensive to feed.”

“I-” Celeste is interrupted by the creature being forced into her open arms. She squeaks in surprise, adjusting her grip as the cub squirms. 

“A fine gift.” Minthara says, “A formidable ally, given the right training.”

“Absolutely not!” Astarion cries, taking a step back when it swats at his curls from Celeste’s arms. 

“Astarion, it’s just a baby.” Karlach says, suppressing a smile as he struggles to keep himself out of its reach.

“That will grow into a full sized, uncontrollable beast!” He seethes, ducking as the cub gives his hair a pull. “A bloody abomination is what it is.”

“Oh come now, it’s the size of your head. What’s it going to do, nibble your ankles to death?” Wyll mocks him, assessing the small creature. 

“I will not be hunted in my own home.” 

“Well, it’s my home, so I suppose that settles it.” Gale announces, giving Shadowheart a wink. She beams in response and holds out her hands towards Celeste, requesting a turn with the cub. 

“Fine. Can we be done with the godsdamned petting zoo? I thought we came here for information.” Astarion mutters, eyeing the animal with a scowl.

“Yes, quite right. Down to business.” Gale agrees, joining Halaster at the table. He leans over the map as the archmage traces a route with his finger. 

“If you take this passageway, you’ll gain covert entry to Vanrakdoom. I’ve installed several traps planted along the passage, but you should have no trouble…”

———————————————————————

After their meeting with Halaster, he granted them a quick portal back to Gale’s Tower. Although the amenities of the attic paled - and paled was hardly a strong enough word - compared to the lavish offerings of the House of the Moon. When Celeste dropped her bag on the bed, she somehow felt at home.

With a frown, Astarion walks over to the boarded windows, splintering planks of wood as he pries them backwards. The nails that held them in place separate from the frame, with sharp cracks, leaving behind tattered and peeled wallpaper in their wake. He discards the wreckage in the corner and continues his demolition, lip jutting out in determination. The moon filters through what could only classify as a gaping, square hole in the wall, and Astarion smiles at his work. 

Celeste pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“We’re going to get all sorts of pests in here.” 

———————————————————————

Upon discovering Astarion missing following a much-needed nap, Celeste makes her way downstairs to find him sitting at the kitchen table with their companions, engaged in an unfamiliar game of cards. Tara and the displacer cub are tucked away beneath the table, dozing atop Gale’s feet as he appraises Astarion with a disgruntled expression.

“Darling, come, join us. You can watch me decimate our friends at Azoun’s Hold ‘Em.” 

Astarion fans his cards in one hand and holds out the other to invite her into his lap. She takes a seat, crossing her legs, and he secures her to him with an arm wrapped around her middle, showing her his draw. 

She examines the game laid out before her. “I’ve never played.”

“Funny, Astarion said the same thing when we started an hour ago, and somehow he’s won every hand.” Gale says irritably, not looking up from his cards. 

“You were a fool to believe a vampire who spent nearly two centuries haunting the taverns of Baldur’s Gate would not know how to gamble.” Minthara’s glare shifts towards Astarion as she speaks. 

“Ah, ah! Former vampire.” Astarion drawls, sipping at his wine and returning his attention to Celeste. “Lucky for you, it’s a simple game.” He hands his cards over to her so she can see what he’s holding, then drops the arm at her waist a bit lower to rest his hand on her hip. “All you have to know is that I’m going to win.” 

Wyll snorts, drawing a card from the top of the deck and laying it face up on the table. “Alright, show ‘em.” 

“Watch this.” Astarion purrs in Celeste’s ear, before tossing three nines out. He grins as Gale drags a palm across his face and slams his head against the table, slapping down a pair of twos and a seven. 

“Bullshit!“ Karlach roars, rising from her chair. “That’s your third time with pocket triples.” 

“Easy, Karlach.” Shadowheart says with an amused smirk, leaning behind Gale with her arms encircling his neck as she observes the game. “You’ll get him next round.” 

“Dishonest wretch.” Wyll mumbles. 

“Is it so hard to believe I’m just lucky?” Astarion asks with feigned offense, gold scraping against the surface of the table as he rakes in his winnings. “Honestly, you all take this so seriously. It’s like you hate fun.” 

“Easy to say when you’re winning.” Karlach grumbles. “Sleep with one eye open tonight.” 

“Oh darling, I don’t sleep at all.” Astarion chuckles. Under the table, he parts the slit of Celeste’s dress and slips a card into the waistband of her underwear, snagging its corners on the lace. The edges scrape against her skin and his fingertips trace circles on her thigh, a quiet request for her discretion before he draws his next hand. 

“I never agreed to helping you cheat,” Celeste hisses in his ear. 

“But you agreed to be bound to me for a lifetime. Surely you considered the consequences.” He counters in a hushed tone, nipping at her earlobe. “Be a good girl and I’ll split the pot with you, hmm?”

She scowls as he deftly exchanges a ten from his hand with the queen at her hip to complete his royal straight.

“Oi, lovebirds! No private conversations. Let’s keep things moving.” Karlach gripes, pulling a cigar from her pocket and trimming it. “Someone get me a light, please. I can’t do these myself anymore.” She says, holding it out. Before Gale can utter a spell, Celeste reaches forward, ignoring Astarion’s grunt of surprise as she shifts in his lap, and takes it from the tiefling. As she flicks her wrist, it ignites with a pop, and a cherry burns at the end. A trail of smoke drifts trails behind as she hands it back.

“Impressive.” Karlach examines it before puffing at it satisfactorily. “New trick?” 

“What else have you learned?” Gale interjects, leaning forward, eager to abandon the game in favor of discussion.

“I haven’t done a lot of experimenting.”

“Fascinating, nonetheless. I would surmise that after the ritual, your abilities may rival Aylin’s. If you were limited to enhanced skill with a blade and illusionary magic before, the expanse into even the simplest of evocation magic could indicate much further reaching-”

“Can’t this all wait?” Astarion whines.

“Jealous, all that power used to bring you back from the dead burned out before you could perform a few spells, too?” Shadowheart sneers. 

Astarion scowls, and his grip on Celeste’s waist tightens. 

“On second thought, perhaps I’ll collect my winnings and turn in for the night.” He says, snatching his bag of gold and hoisting Celeste over his shoulder. “After all, we have a day full of Sharran slaying ahead of us tomorrow. Best get some rest where we can.”

“What in the hells!” Celeste pounds at his back with her fist as she hangs upside down, the card in her waistband slipping loose and fluttering to the floor. Karlach stands, chair flying back against the stove, and points.

“I knew it!” She calls out, “You owe me fifty coppers, fucker!”

Astarion smirks and continues up the stairs.———————————————————————

a/n: I just finished my honor mode run and earned my golden dice and somehow, Shovel did not die during my playthrough? Our little quasit friend had so few lines (presumably because their health was so low, it probably isn't intended for them to withstand so much of the game?) that I found myself making up headcannon about her.

August was a long month, and I think we could all use a little levity (particularly since the next chapter may or may not be heavy. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

[sirfrancisvarney]

So as the show is halfway through, and before episode four drops, I've tried to put together and organize all the information I've gathered so far.

In 2005 (18 years ago), Anders Lund found Tsalal station. Raymond Clark joins. The shots of the website don't show when everyone else joins, but some of them join within the next few years. The source of Tsalal's funding is hidden by several shell companies that link back to Tuttle United.

Seven years ago (or possibly earlier), in 2016, Annie Kowtok insists on joining her friend on her visit to Tsalal station, and immediately starts a relationship with Clark. This behavior is apparently unusual for her. Did she go to Tsalal specifically to meet Clark? Why keep it a secret? Also in 2016, Clark bought a trailer. It's assumed this was used to meet Annie K in secret.

Next year, sometime in spring 2017, Oliver Tagaq left Tsalal for reasons unknown. In April, Annie is killed. She records herself, clearly frightened and afraid of getting caught, on her smartphone in what appears to be an ice cave, saying, "I found it. It's here. I found it, I found it. My name is Annie Kowtok. If anything happens to me please--" she's pulled away from the camera and she is heard screaming. The camera view at the end is on the skeleton of some marine animal encased in ice.

On April 18, Annie's body is found. She was stabbed 32 times with a star-shaped instrument, ribs and teeth broken. She was kicked after her death and her tongue was cut out. Four days later, on April 22, Clark gets a spiral tattoo that match's Annie's. I don't know how long it takes to arrange getting a tattoo, so I don't know if he already had plans to get it, or if he got it because of Annie's murder.

Time passes. At some point, Clark turns the trailer into a shrine of some sort for Annie. The mannequin in the bed is wearing her cardigan, and there are baby dolls and children's toys placed around it, possibly a reference to her role as a midwife.

Clark covers his research notes with writing, including repeated phrases and words such as "her eyes her face," "I can hear her coming/moving outside," "cold," "dark," and "her fingers." It's unknown when this behavior started.

Fast forward to the end of 2023. A few weeks before the show starts, Clark's behavior becomes noticeably stranger. At some point before December 17, he obtains Annie's smartphone, which appears to have video of her last moments, and he is assumed to have acquired her tongue. He could have gotten these at the time of Annie's death, or at any point since. If he didn't take Annie's tongue himself, maybe getting them caused his mental instability to get worse?

On December 17, the last sunset of the year, a hunter watches as a herd of caribou get spooked from an unknown stimulus, and flee. It's unknown if this is connected to the events of the series, or merely meant to be symbolic. On the same day, the water in the villages goes bad, for reasons unknown. The mine is blamed. Also on December 17, the scientists at Tsalal are living their lives, relaxing in the evening, doing chores. Anders Lund is going over old data on a whiteboard (no spiral is visible on his forehead). Molina is filming himself making a sandwich, when he sees Clark, shaking or shivering. Part of Clark's hair is dyed blue, and where his hair touched the parka, the dye has transferred. He has clearly been outside in the snow. When Molina asks if he's ok, Clark turns and says "she's awake," which is immediately followed by a power outage that also affects Molina's smartphone.

On December 22, the delivery guy arrives and finds the place empty. A figure moves inhumanly fast through one corridor, but no other sign of life is present. The TV is playing "Twist and Shout" in repeat. He finds Annie's tongue on the floor underneath a table (several feet away from where Clark had been standing) and calls the police.

The next day, Rose finds the bodies of the scientists. They are frozen together, almost completely buried in the ice, bodies twisted in agony. They are naked, with burnt corneas and blood from their ears. Some have scratched their eyes out or bit themselves. Lund has Annie's spiral drawn on his forehead. Somehow, he is also still alive. (I don't know if this is important, but Danvers had to brush snow away to see the spiral, but Rose knew about it and told Navarro. Maybe it was more visible when she found the bodies and snow covered it before the police arrived, maybe Travis told her.) The scientists's clothes were found folded neatly near the corpsicle. The shoes look like indoor slippers, and it's likely that the clothes match what they were all wearing the night of December 17. A single handprint was taken from one shoe. It appears to be missing part of the ring and pinky fingers on the right hand (or they just couldn't get the print of those fingers).

Lund wakes briefly. He tells Danvers and Navarro, and I quote, "we woke her. She's awake. And now she's out. She's out there in the ice. She came for us in the dark."

Those are all the relevant facts concerning the main murder case (to my knowledge) as of episode three. I suppose I could have included a picture of Annie's stab wounds, but I couldn't make any kind of pattern out of them, or take a guess at what the weapon was. There's also the snow Navarro hit in the first episode, but I couldn't tell what it is, or if it's anything more than dirt and snow piled on the road. Personally, they do not suggest a microbial origin or cause. Diseases take time to infect, and they don't progress in everyone at exactly the same rate. The scientists were found together, practically climbing over each other. They died at almost exactly the same time, apparently in abject panic. I don't think a disease can kill that precisely. How did Clark avoid getting infected, since he lived with them all? Plus, whatever happened to them happened shortly after the power outage, since Molina' left his sandwich behind. One would assume he meant to eat it, since he went through the trouble to make it. The death of the scientists, the power outage, and the water going bad are all too closely linked in time to be unrelated. I wish I had a map of Ennis. I'd like to see how close these are in physical distance.

I also don't think there are any real clues to be found in the website. Their bios look about like what you'd get if you asked someone to come up with backgrounds for people studying ancient microorganisms in glacial ice. Plus, I think most of the scientists are ultimately going to be unimportant as individuals. Out of all eight men, Lund and Clark are the only ones focused on by the narrative. When interviewed, the cleaning ladies only mentioned Lund (yelled at them for touching his stuff) and Clark (his crying, probably over the brutal unsolved murder of his girlfriend kept them from being able to clean his room) by name. Lund survived (for a while, at least). Clark is missing and is closely connected with Annie's case. Oliver Tagaq mentioned Lund by name when he learned the scientists were dead. (On a side note, I really wish Danvers and Navarro (mostly Danvers) hadn't been so hostile when questioning him. They might have gotten more information from him if they hadn't gone at it like assholes. Granted, that's practically an impossible task for Danvers.) The rest, sadly, don't seem to be important. They are effectively ignored and dismissed, much like how they ignored the cleaning ladies.

So what could have happened on December 17, and how is it tied to Annie's murder? Honestly, I don't know yet. I'm not sure there's enough information given to answer those questions. Lund's speech and the way the scientists died suggest a supernatural explanation, but other details surrounding their murder seem to suggest more prosaic, human causes. There's no sign of a struggle at the station, but maybe someone cleaned up after themselves. The way part of the note at the bottom of the whiteboard is erased looks unusual, like it could have happened accidentally. Maybe someone got knocked against it, or their coat brushed against the board when they were writing the message. It's also possible the murderer was able to make them all leave without a fight. The power had just gone out, so maybe they all gathered together to put it back on? Where's the circuit breaker or generator for the station? Maybe that's where the actual crime scene is. The folded clothes feel like something you'd make a person do right before you execute them, sort of like making your victim dig their own grave. It could also have the opposite motivation: I could see a person not in full possession of their faculties (like Clark, or maybe one of the cleaning ladies in a fugue state) instinctively trying to straighten things up. Both feel like very human actions.

Finally, who is "she"? Is that even the right question? When did "she" wake up? The scientists didn't seem to be doing anything that would trigger her awakening on the 17th, so it must have happened before. I wish I knew more about what made Clark's mental illness ramp up in the weeks before sunset. It feels like there could be an important clue there. Too bad Clark is missing and anyone else who could answer the question is dead.