#Small Paper Coating Machine

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: I hope you all enjoy this random idea.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

One hand guides the fabric as the other turns the wheel. Your work is slow but steady, every stitch perfect, every seam precise. Your fare may be modest and your product simple, but its quality cannot be contested. Your labour as yourself is honest and plain.

The noise of the machine is your only company. The one-room shop nestled behind the butcher’s rarely sees a customer through its door. Instead, the orders are sent from the factories, returned with the printed adverts you disperse outside their doors. The writs are sent along with an envelope of pence and shilling and you complete each with equal diligence before sending them back bundled in paper and twine.

The operation isn’t especially fruitful but the profit is enough to subsist. Enough to guarantee your independence; a small apartment just above and a pot of stew to last you through each week. This humble existence is preferable to any marriage you’ve witnessed. 

The letters from your sisters reaffirm your spinster’s fate. You’d rather a hand wheel and a needle than a brood and broken back. A husband seems to provide several jobs at once, you’ll happily settle for one.

As your hands work from memory and your head wanders from tedium, the bell above the door gives a single sharp toll. You ease the wheel to a halt and leave the seam unfinished. You peer up above the black iron machine, reminding yourself to fix your hunch as a client enters. You can’t but wonder if he may have come to the wrong shop.

By his attire, he is a class above the factory women who require gray skirts and simple stays. His waistcoat is embroidered and his jacket is pressed and clean. He is tall, locks part tidily so his curls lay gracefully. His face is fresh-shaven, square jaw with a cleft, and shoulders broad and strong. He does not share the same sinewy gauntness as the labourers with the coal-dusted noses.

He carries a fine leather bag. Another clue to his status. His shoes, another. Polished and without creases.

You stand to greet him, “good afternoon, sir. Might I help you with something?”

His answer is not prompt. He takes in the finished dresses hung by the east wall and turns to examine the rolls of wool and cotton. At last, he returns his attention to you.

“Afternoon,” his deep timbre fills the small space, “you are the dressmaker.”

It isn’t a question, but you answer, “I am.”

He narrows his eyes as he approaches your desk, the sole fixture in the space. From without, the shop is just as bare. The blackened windows offer not insight into the business, its only suggestion the sign hung above the door, though the paint requires a fresh coat.

“And the shop owner?”

“That is me as well, sir,” you assert. The presumption is not uncommon.

“Ah,” he accepts your explanation without comment, “so, you will have sewn this.”

He puts his bag on the desk, nearly knocking your shears from the corner. You try not to flinch as they teeter near the edge and he pulls open the top of the leather bag. He pulls out a swath of grey. You recognise it and he rolls the cuff to show your initials sewn within.

“Sir,” you say precariously, “is there some issue with it? Is it your wife’s dress?”

“Wife? No, no,” he dismisses, feeling the fabric between his fingers, “rather I am in search of the dress’s owner. The initial must belong to them, yes? So you would have a name for the buyer.”

“Mm, no, those are mine,” you point at the letters, “as it is my handiwork.”

“That makes sense,” he frowns in disappointment. “So you wouldn’t know who would wear it?”

You rub your chapped lips together. You find your tongue sliding over them often when you work, turning them raw with the habit. The man’s lips are rosy and smooth, as well-kempt as the rest of him. He is no factory worker’s husband.

“I might… would you take it out?” You ask.

He obliges as you pluck up the metal cylinder from your desk and unfurl the tape measure from within. He shakes out the dress, holding it by the shoulders to reveal salt stains along the skirts and unleashing a dingy smell in the shop. You wiggle your nose at the stench but worse roils in from the butcher’s on hot days.

You take the measure of the sleeves and the waist, then to the hem. You scribble the numbers on a scrap and take that to compare with your ledger. The measurements are in now way defining but might narrow it down. He keeps the dress aloft and you return to him to check the thread along the seams. A few months ago, you changed the thickness as the factory workers complained of splits under the arms.

“Hm, it is a recent purchase,” you assure him and return to the ledge. 

He lowers the dress and approaches. You snap the book closed and turn your face up to consider him once more, “why do you need to know, if it is not your wife?”

“You are very discerning,” he remarks as he folds the dress and drapes it over his bag, “I’m certain then you can surmise the woman who wore this dress did not meet a kind fate.” He tugs up the hem and shows a tear trimmed in scarlet, the colour not obvious from a distance. “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective and I’m trying to identify a poor woman found not far from here. I believe it is in your own interest that I discover her assailant.”

“I cannot say for certain which she is,” you turn over the scrap and re-open the ledger. You write down three names which match the measurements and hold the paper out to him. He takes it, his thick fingertips brushing yours. “Those are the ones which align with the dress.”

“Mm,” he hums as he tucks the paper into his chest pocket, “and your name? I couldn’t make it out on the sign.”

You recite your name flatly, “it isn’t on the sign.”

“It requires new paint,” he admonishes, “I could hardly find you.”

“I am aware,” you reply. “Thank you for noting.”

He’s quiet, “being a detective, however, I did indeed put together the clues.”

Is he making a joke? You cannot tell. He folds up the dress completely and puts it back in the leather bag. The smell persists.

“What are you prices?” He asks abruptly.

“Sir, I sew dresses for factory women, sometimes a few communion pieces, but I’m afraid I don’t do much suit work.”

“My sister requires a dress,” he sniffs, “as simple as it is, I can see your work is fine.”

“I have only wools and cottons,” you counter.

“Do you always turn away business?” He challenges.

“I wasn’t, sir, I’m only clarifying what I currently do. My prices are set for those fabrics,” you explain.

“I will pay for the muslin and velvet,” he waves his hand staunchly, “you will be paid for your labour. Can you sew with more than wool and cotton?”

“I can, sir, but you could find a ready-made dress in a market boutique if the dress is required promptly.”

“I can afford the time and coin,” he insists. “You are not a talented advertiser, are you?”

You’re taken aback by his bluntness. Often, his ilk have that demeanour. It’s why you’d rather the factory workers and the fish sellers’ wives.

“I suppose not,” you agree, “I would need measurements before I begin. You may send the numbers along with the fabric, then. And I would require a style. Perhaps your sister is a purveyor of fashion magazines?”

“I will send a messenger,” he shrugs. “Thank you for your time. I shan't get in your way any longer.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you,” he takes the bag from your desk and the shears fall to the floor with a clatter.

You skirt around to grab them as he bends and swipes them up first. You recoil as he closes the blades with a snap. He examines them before placing them back on the desk.

“Apologies,” he says, “and miss,” he looks at you, “take to heart what I’ve told you today. Keep away from the allies and perhaps you may consider locking your door.”

“Thank you, sir, your concern is appreciated.”

“Rather you might just keep those close, eh,” he points to the shears and his cheek dimples.

Again, you can’t be certain of his humour. You keep a placid expression, neither smiling nor scowling. He clears his throat and runs his hand down his jacket, gripping the lapel.

“Very well then, I’ll be off.”

He turns on his heel and marches to the door. You stay by the desk as the bell rings with his departure. Once the door closes, you cross the shop. You turn the lock into place, his foreboding lingering with the stale scent of dirty water.

🪡

Despite the unusual visit, your days roll on like a hand on a clock. The thought of the woman’s tragic fate looms like a shadow but fades. You have too much stitching to do to fret over that man and his ominous words. You assume his interest in your work thereafter was wholly feigned as he does not return.

That day, you pass off six parcels to Eustace, the driver who takes them down to the stacks to hand off to the floor bosses who will parse them out to the women they’ve been cut for. You pay him his toll before he climbs back into the seat of his cart, his horse kicking impatiently.

“Excuse me, sir,” another driver clops up along the other side of the street, a narrow squeeze between the slanting buildings. “I’m in search of a dressmaker. I believe the store is tucked behind the butcher’s and…” the man’s voice drifts off as his eyes flit to the meat sellers marquee.

“Right here, good sir,” Eustace responds, “wouldn’t ya know, she’s right here.”

You lift your chin to see past the cart and spy the driver. He removes his cap as his gaze meets yours. Eustache dips his chin as he adjusts his own hat and snaps his old mare into a canter. As you're left alone with the carriage driver, a vehicle rather lofty for a block like this, you fold your hands behind you.

“Sir, you hardly look in need of a work woman’s dress,” you say.

“Miss,” he ties the reins off and jumps down from his seat, “I am sent for you, not a dress.”

“For me?” You echo.

“Mr. Holmes has sent,” he crosses the muck and nearly slips. “He said he made an appointment for a seamstress.”

“An appointment? I wasn’t informed of the time,” you rebuff. “I’ve a shop to run, orders paid for. I can’t simply leave.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes made mention of a fee,” the man feels around his striped coat, “he said a deposit would be needed.”

He takes out a brown envelope and hands it over. You take it, a small weight within. You look at the driver before you pull back the flap and peek inside. A large gold sovereign sits in the corner of the paper; a whole pound. That’s at least three days work.

You hold your breath, trying to maintain some composure. If that’s the deposit, what is he offering for the rest? You slip out the folded paper within, a page torn from a fashion journal. The dress is elegant if not extravagant. You don’t often do off-the-shoulder or ruffles like that but it isn’t beyond your skill.

You fold the flap closed again and lift your chin to face the driver, “I must lock up, you see?”

“Take your time, miss,” he says kindly. “Mr. Holmes isn’t expecting you to hurry.”

“Thank you, sir,” you bow your head and turn away.

You measure your steps along the facade of the butcher’s shop and curl around to the alleyway. You let yourself into your shop and tuck the envelope into your apron pocket. You take your sewing bag from under the desk and shake off the dust. You don’t often have reason to use it.

You open it up and pack away your shears, a measuring tape, pins with a cushion, your notebook, and a few other bits and bobs. Just in case. You grab a role of linen from against the wall. It’s heavy but you can manage.

You take the key from your desk drawer and switch off the overhead light. You lock the door and continue back out to the street. The driver puffs smoke from a pipe as he waits.

“Miss, allow me,” he snuffs out the pipe and puts it in his pocket. He nears and reaches for the roll of linen.

“It’s quite alright, sir,” you say.

“I insist, miss, can’t have a lady doing all that,” he takes it, not forcefully, and you let him.

As he goes to the carriage and opens the door, you give pause. You don’t know if you should be so easily swayed on a gold coin. Mr. Holmes hadn’t been entirely pleasant and you do prefer your simple work. Still, you can hardly turn your nose up at a pound. Not with the summer fizzling to a finale.

You lift your skirts and cross the street to the open carriage, “sir, might I have a name?”

“Gavin,” he answers, “and I have yours. Mr. Holmes made sure of it.”

“Yes, very good,” you say as you approach, another sliver of doubt trickling through. Mr. Holmes claimed to be a detective but is that really the reason he was strolling around with a dead woman’s dress? You gulp and look at Gavin then the carriage, “might I keep the window open?”

“Surely you can,” he agrees amiably. “Mr. Holmes lives quite a ways, shouldn’t mind the air. I’ll be certain to stay away from the stacks.”

“Thank you, sir,” you accept his proffered hand and he helps you up into the carriage. 

You settle on the bench as the door shuts and you open the window from within. You lean back, your hand grasping the top of your bag. You unclasp it as you feel Gavin climb up on the driver’s seat. You dip your hand inside and clutch your long shears.

You don’t forget all of what Mr. Holmes said.

[lovedazai]

01. ACROSS THE UNIVERSE . . . while reminiscing, dazai finds you again.

ft. beast!dazai + f!reader, pm boss!dazai, civilian!reader, dazai is a little bit manipulative, spoilers for beast light novel & manga, 1.7k w.c.

SERIES MASTERLIST

dazai knows this coffee shop.

it didn’t matter that he’d never set foot inside the building. it was all burned into his mind: the counters lined with expensive equipment and machines, perfectly washed white mugs next to paper ones with lids, the small tulip dining tables peppered around the floor and circled by wooden chairs, the scent of ground beans and homemade dough, freshly baked cookies and croissants enclosed by glass; most importantly, he remembered the ghost of your face, smiling at him from across the table.

he makes a point for his driver to go past it every day, even if it makes the route to headquarters take a few minutes longer, just to catch a glimpse of the white exterior and the fabric awning ruffling in the wind.

he never dared to go inside, until today.

he feels like an imposter as soon as he steps through the door, even more so when he takes his seat at the same table you would sit at together. the smooth bottom of the chair beneath him felt sacred. it’s the one by the window, and he can recall the soft expression on your face as you watched the people walking past in the afternoon, your knowing smile as you teased him about any dogs that trotted by. in the evening, you sought it out after a hard day’s work, tugging him with you so you could admire the way the sun’s dying rays coated his features in dripping gold.

he could see why you found such a place so comforting, the atmosphere nothing but warm and inviting. he didn’t feel like he belonged, destined to dwell in the shadows of the city.

the coffee tastes the same as he remembered, pleasantly fragrant as he brings the mug up to his lips and smooth against his throat as he swallows it down. the pastry he can still recall wiping off your cheek is plated in front of him, barely touched. it isn’t nearly as sweet without you smiling across from him, intertwined ankles swinging beneath the table, the flavor of vanilla glaze on his tongue as he kisses away the crumbs on the corner of your mouth.

he takes another sip, licking the remnants of frothed milk off his lips. his one visible eye glances to the door when he hears the tinny jingle of a bell as it opens. his mug nearly slips from his hand, tiny curved handle squeezed between his fingers desperately when he realizes who’s arrived.

it’s you.

his fantasy of you was nothing compared to how you truly looked. you’re the kind of gorgeous that steals the air from his lungs and makes it impossible not to stare. it’s in the way your hair falls down your back, his nails digging into his palm as he imagines how the strands would feel between his fingers. the smooth curve of your neck, his mouth watering as he imagines the feeling of your fluttering pulse against his lips. the cute puff of your cheeks as you politely smile at the barista welcoming you inside.

he’d only seen you in haunting memories, the lingering image of your face in his mind when he wakes up and feels for a body that isn’t actually there. he spends his time yearning for someone who he’d never had, or even known, yet here you are, within his reach.

this wasn’t manifestation; he knew that you’d be here, that’s why he came inside, after all. seeing you with his own eyes should’ve been enough to satisfy him, as if he didn’t already know everything about you, inside and out.

his gaze follows your figure as you walk to the counter when a dark something catches in the corner of his eye. it feels almost painful to look away from you, but he’s so grateful he does because that’s when he sees it: your wallet, lying pitifully on the tiled floor, right next to him. he thinks this must be some kind of a glitch, an error. 

his eyes flicker back to you. seeing you may have been enough for anyone else, but he’s always been a greedy man.

the trap practically sets itself. he extends his leg, discreetly sliding your wallet over to his side with the sole of his shoe. he bends down and picks it up, safely placing it in his coat pocket, eyes never leaving you.

“oh no,” your lips curl into the prettiest pout, hand deep in your bag as you rustle through it. his legs are already carrying him towards you. “i must’ve left my wallet at home. i swore i had it. i’m so sorry, i’ll just come back later andー”

“excuse me,” when you turn to look at him, it’s like everything has fallen into place. your eyes are even prettier than he remembered, wide and blinking, eyeing his bandages curiously. he smiles, a big, genuine one that curls without his permission. “if it’s alright, i’ll cover it.”

he pulls a sleek, black credit card out, holding it between two fingers as the barista takes it silently. he doesn’t even spare her a glance, completely enamored by the girl in front of him.

it’s like the walls of the cafe are made of paper, crumbling and peeling away, the mindless chatter of the other customers fading into static. it’s just you and him, nothing else exists. how long has he waited for this moment? gathering bits and pieces of your life into a mosaic of knowledge to ensure your safety, all while he spent his days existing within the black void of loneliness that covered him like a sheet he’d pulled over his head, it was all to find his way back to you. it isn’t until the barista clears her throat, holding the card back out for him to take, that he comes back down to earth.

“thank you,” you smile at him, and his heart stalls in his chest. “i don’t know how i would’ve gotten through my day without my coffee.”

he hums. “i feel the same about something a little stronger.”

you giggle, and his face lights up in pride. he steps the slightest bit closer, smiling hopefully.

“it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“it has?” you tilt your head, eyes scanning over his face. “i don’t remember meeting you before. i’m sorry.”

“my mistake, you’re right,” he presses his lips together, smile turning bitter. “of course you’re right. we haven’t met before. my name is dazai.”

he frowns as you’re interrupted by the barista calling your name. he watches the way your fingers curl around your cup delicately, trying not to burn your hand. the realization that your conversation is already about to end makes panic settle in his stomach, unfamiliar and heavy beneath his ribs.

you’re searching around the café aimlessly now; nearly every table is occupied by another patron. he pulls the seat from his own table out, offering you the one across from him, just like he remembered. he looks at you expectantly, tilting his head.

“are you sure?” you run your finger around the rim of your mug, looking down at your drink shyly. “i don’t want to bother you.”

“i insist,” he tries to smile genuinely, but he feels the way his lips quiver at the thought of losing you when you’re so close to him. “i’d love to have the company of a pretty lady.”

he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when you sit down. his knuckles brush against your back as he pushes you in until your waist is level with the edge of the table. this close, he can smell the warm undertones of your perfume, and suddenly, he recalls the ghost of your fingers brushing his hair away, kissing his skin. it stirs something in his stomach akin to homesickness.

“that’s my favorite, too,” you nod to the pastry, still abandoned on the table.

“you can have some if you’d like,” he slides the plate towards you. he sits back in his seat, crossing his legs. he’s careful not to bump his knees on the underside of the table.

you take a small bite, out of politeness, he assumes. he regrets that he can’t feed it to you himself.

“do you come here often?” you ask, mug halfway to your lips. he watches as your lip gloss leaves a stain on the edge, and feels envy curl like thorned vines in his stomach.

“no,” he folds his hands together beneath his chin. “this is my first time.”

“it’s my favorite café,” you sigh dreamily, turning your head and looking out the window. “it’s nice, right? i love the view.”

you look ethereal with the morning sun peeking through panes, emitting an angelic glow around your profile. spots of light project onto your skin, and it catches on your eyes, saturating the color of your pupils. “me too.”

it’s quiet, the kind of natural lull in a conversation that would happen between two strangers, and you’re nearly done with your coffee. he reaches into his coat, fingers wrapping around the smooth fabric of your wallet as he extracts it from his pocket. “i have something for you.”

“my wallet!” he waits for you to grow angry, but all you do is smile, eyes glistening with gratitude. “buying my coffee for me and finding this…you must be my guardian angel today.”

he blinks. his mouth goes dry, but he forces his words out anyway. “do i really look like such a nice person?”

“yes,” you answer it like it’s obvious, and for the second time that day, he feels his heart stall in his chest. “i can’t thank you enough. is there anything i can do? without you, i would’ve been miserable all day.”

“that’s…” exactly what he wanted. “not necessary.”

“please?” you pout. “at least let me repay you for the coffee.”

he has the memory of big bouquets, sugarcoated words, and flustered giggles, but looking at you face to face, all of the apparent suaveness he’d once possessed is gone.

“if you insist,” his smile wobbles. “would it be too forward of me to ask such a pretty girl out to dinner?”

BSD MASTERLIST

taglist . . . @avocate-assia-dazai @annoyingpainterprincess @kentopedia @walking-simp @anqelically @seimpathyopera @pinky-99 @s1eepybunny @little-miss-chaoss @h4wkz @auraxins @chososbbg @pussydrunkfyodor @getoso @ruanais @osaemu @liliavalentine @cyndaquels @doonifox @its-vante @amnda-ft-fyodor @x-whyareyoureadingthis-x

[hazelnelliesgf]

☆STARS AND TEENAGE GIRLS☆

Chapter 1 : Observing you from afar

Hazel Callahan x Fem!Reader

Summary: PJ and Josie drag Hazel to their local coffee shop, not knowing you work there part time.

Warnings: loser!hazel cuz shes so cute bro, i dont refer to reader as Y/n cuz its easier but apart from that, thats it.

Proof-read!!

Words: 0.9k

It was a regular fall day, the wind bitter and cold against Hazel's face. Her brunette locks swept back and forth against her forehead, sometimes making her bring her hand up to move it out the way just so she could see. PJ and Josie walked beside her, chatting about something that Hazel wasn't very focused on. She occasionally sniffed as the cold got to her nose. She rubbed it and placed her hands back into her coat pockets. PJ had stopped infront of a small shop. The smell of coffee and fresh pastries intoxicated Hazel's cold nose and made it feel all warm.

"Okay we gotta go in here bro." PJ says, her face lighting up as she speaks. She looks back towards Josie and Hazel with the same smile. She then steps forward and opens the shop door, setting off the small bell at the top to alert the baristas that someone has come in. Hazel and Josie walk in behind PJ and sit down at a small table. The shop is decorated head to toe in fake vines (at least that's what Hazel thinks) and posters with astrology facts and constellations on them. Josie picks up the menu in the middle of the table and scans through before handing it to PJ. She looks up and down the sheet of paper and passes it to Hazel. Hazel grimaces as she looks at the paper. She doesn't particularly drink coffee and the teas sound weird. But PJ and Josie don't know that. She finds what she wants and keeps it in mind.

"Who's gonna order it then?" Josie perks up after a while. PJ looks at Hazel and so does Josie. Hazel stutters and raises her hands in the air in defence.

"W-What?? No. I'm not doing it." PJ and Josie look at her before pushing her towards the counter. She fiddles with her rings and looks up to meet your eyes. She swears she's never seen eyes like yours. The way they twinkle in the fairy lights makes her stomach flip.

"Hey, Welcome! What can I get you?" You smile. Hazel can feel a lump forming in her throat. You've somehow stumped her. You frown and look at her with a look of concern.

"Hey, take your time. No rush." You reassure her, even though she knows exactly what to order, she just can't seem to get her words out. She looks around before sighing and looking down at her beat-up converse.

"C-Can I get a medium iced latte with normal milk and uh-" Hazel shallows before continuing.

"A-And a pumpkin cream cold brew... and uh a normal iced coffee please." Hazel finishes, swallowing hard when you smile and nod at her. You type something into your machine before turning back to her. You can't help but notice her nervous state and slightly frown before she looks up at you.

"That'll be $14.99! Will you paying cash or card today?" You smile again, tapping your hands against the counter happily. Hazel quickly gets out her card, before tapping it against the card reader. You nod as it beeps to let you know its gone through. She's about to walk away as you pipe up,

"And I'll need a name for the drinks please." You say, beaming a grin at her. She stands at the counter, frozen to her spot. How could she forget her name? Just say it!

"H-Hazel. Just Hazel." She clarifies, nodding as she watches you write on cups before walking away to make the drinks. Hazel sits backs down next to PJ and Josie, her shoulders still tensed up.

"Ooohhh! Someone likes the barista!!" PJ speaks up, wiggling her eyebrows at Hazel and a grin spreads across her face. Josie chuckles at PJ and looks back at Hazel. She seems to be staring at you, working your magic on the drinks. You're chatting to your co-worker, laughing at what she just said and smiling widely. You place all drinks at the end of the counter and place straws into them.

"Drinks for Hazel?" You stand on your tip-toes to see if you can spot Hazel's face. When your eyes land on her, you wave and usher her on up to the counter.

"Dude go!" Josie pushes her towards you and you meet her by the counter once again. You smile and hand her the drinks. Hazel picks up all the drinks and struggles to hold all of them in her own two hands, making you wince when she almost drops one of them.

"Here, take a tray love." You say, grabbing her a tray and taking the drinks from her hand and placing the drinks on it. Your hands graze hers and she can swear the her heart is about to beat out of her chest. She again stares at your face, analysing your freckles and skin. It's almost like she's mesmerised by you. You snap her out of her trance by talking.

"Enjoy your drinks!" You smile at her before walking off to your co-worker. Hazel picks up the tray and walks stiffly back to the table. She sits down, grabs her drink and looks down at the receipt. Something is scribbled in black pen.

"See you soon, Just Hazel??" And its signed off by your name and number. Hazel can feel your eyes in the back of her skull and she smiles down at the receipt before shoving it in her pocket.

Maybe she doesn't hate coffee that much.

A.N: Hiya!! Sorry if it so bad, I tried making it the best I could:) enjoy!!

TAGLIST!!

@greenbeenjade , @fictionalcharacterspecialistalist , @maggiecc , @evangelinexo , @overtrred28 , @almondmilksposts

©️ copyright to @hazelnelliesgf 2023.

[carolmunson]

carol’s at the laundromat.

—

You appreciated the quiet, frowning when a few people showed up, interrupting your lonely errand. Perks of laundry on Sunday in your neighborhood is that most people were at church in the morning. You had all the machines at your mercy; but you only used two. Your boyfriend another two.

Another jingle of the door and your head tics up, Eddie’s shaggy hair pulled up in a messy bun at the back of his head; some of it still falling over his face. In his hands two small coffees, a little brown paper bag, sugar and dark oil spots hinting at what’s inside.

“Got a little busy,” he says, sitting beside you on the creaking broken plastic chair next to you. Your knees meet while he passes you your coffee, your leggings running against his jeans. He loves errands you; cozied up in your puffy coat and scrunchy socks.

“Yeah,” you yawn.

“They had the cider donuts today,” he smirks, “Last batch before they switch over to the holiday menu.”

He opens the bag on his lap with one hand, breaking one in half and passing it to you, “Here, baby,”

“Thank you,” you smile, the 9:30 AM cool light gliding over him from the windowed walls.

“Of course,” he says, turning to you while you munch, taking you in, “You look so pretty.”

“Shud-up,” you grumble through a full mouth.

“Nah,” he shakes his head, “You do, you look pretty.”

“I look tired,” you sip your coffee, hoping it’ll change that about you.

“Tired and pretty. You can be both,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press a sugary kiss to your cheek, “How many minutes on the washer?”

“Mmm,” you wonder, leaning forward and squinting ahead of you, “16 minutes?”

He sighs, getting up and checking himself, “Six minutes, sweetheart. You need to stop forgetting your glasses.”

[writing-havoc]

HEY! HOW ARE YOU? would you be willing to make a kaz brekker x reader? if possible a soulmate au? I'm obsessed with this trope! maybe name on the wrist or the one where with just a touch of skin you see the colors? I imagine one where r is not part of the dregs but is quite indifferent/receptive to the fact that kaz is the leader of a gang. r is a seamstress, using her skills to hide that she is a fabrikator, and she (can be gn if you want!) and kaz know they are soulmates, though they never talk about it. they can even be a 'thing' secretly, and it would be adorable if they were both childhood friends. maybe before the events of SoC kaz decided to make their relationship official (with a request for courtship alá brekker or even a marriage on paper) and after CK he is even more desperate for this, wanting to protect r at all costs. oh, it would be very interesting if r had a younger sister aged 8/9 who loves kaz and vice versa since she is very quiet and obedient and loves to listen to kaz's stories. even better if he secretly called her little crow. bonus if the girl's name is astra and she is also a hidden grisha, an inferni or another etherealki i would love to see this from your point of view and with her writing it would be amazing but feel free to decline if you don't want to. Did I already say that you write very well? well then know. YOU ARE INCREDIBLY TALENTED!!!!!!

Silent tears

♡ Summary: Before the events of the ice court, Kaz feels relatively content with his feelings and relationship with you. After? Not so much.

♡ Pairing: Kaz Brekker x fem!reader

♡ Fandom: Six of Crows, Grishaverse

♡ Warning(s): Mentions vomit a few times, Gun, Death, uses yn twice

♡ WC: 5.4k

Aaaa thank you sm for this request!! Loved all the little details I had to include. It was interesting writing for a reader that wasn't part of the dregs.

Thank you for your kind words <3

I made Astra a Squallor here. And it's up to your interpretation if the reader and Kaz are dating or otherwise before the ending.

As always, please excuse any grammar and spelling mistakes

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The sound of a sewing machine filled the small shop. It was loud, punching the table he knows it's rested on and creating a rumbling in the floor.

Gowns and suits and vests filled the racks around the store, some on display on fake bodices. They wore outfits, tantalizing window shoppers to enter and run their fingers along the fabrics.

The velveteen looked high quality, mixed with some sort of spandex fabric around the waist to hug its wearer. Pearls and lace flow across shoulders and down the side of gowns, some even including embroidery.

As he moved along, suits and gowns turns into vests and petticoats. The walls were decorated with hats of various function, most made for looks and flare rather than functionality. Behind the desk even existed a rack of long coats and various sweaters, more than likely just to fill up space than to be sold.

The sound ceased, and he rung the bell at the desk.

"Coming!" Called a voice. He stopped himself from smoothing out his own coat, in turn adjusting his gloves.

Heavy footsteps presented him with your kind figure, heels unconsciously stomping against the wood floor compared to the concrete of the backroom.

You smiled at him, picking off little strings of thread the fell into your lap and stuffing them into a pouch at your side.

"I've just finished your order." He felt just as much as he seen you change from business to something more lax, shoulders drooping and the lines between your brows disappearing. "Gimme one moment to put everything in the box- oh, would you turn the sign around, please?"

"A bit all over the place, are we?" He turned around, hearing you release a big sigh.

"Just about, it seems."

The people walking outside turned to look at the store, smiles on their faces. It was mildly amusing to watch them fall as he turned the sign, giving him a glare as he continued to stare them down. He didn't turn until they left, everyone else's eyes only flashing to the window for a moment before diverting elsewhere the second the closed sign came into view.

Window shopping is pointless when the building is closed.

"You wanted... two suits, one the shade of coal and the other a light purple, a wine red gown, a mask, and a pair of gloves?"

He turned his attention back to you, holding a rather large, yet flat, wooden crate. The inside was filled with the colors you just mentioned, a pair of leather gloves on top acting as paperweights for his order.

You set the crate down for him to look through. He removes the paper, taking the gloves into his hands and holding them out to examine.

And admire.

You aren't a leatherworker. You're a seamstress. And yet, you make the finest pair of leather gloves he has ever seen. Sometimes he'll even catch little designs marked into the gloves, the integrity of the material somehow unfazed.

"Make the slits bigger. Just two millimeters." He hands them to you.

You raise a brow, knowing that you made everything to his usual specifications.

But you take them back, entertaining him. You look at the locked door, and then raise your hand over the gloves.

Grisha power isnt super fascinating to him anymore. When he was little he would beg you to demonstrate your power, handing you pieces of worn fabric to do as you pleased with.

He would watch the thin threads thickened and the material became warped around the edges. Jordie would stand next to him, watching you solely because Kaz dragged him over every single time. You would hold out the newly mended piece of cloth, and he and his brother would clap ans rejoice.

But he still likes to watch you work. To see as your mouth opens and your tongue folds over your canines as you focused.

You give them back to him, and he inspects them once more.

"These will do." He ends up saying, appreciation left for the darker hours in the night.

You roll your eyes and rustle around with the paper held underneath your arm, fingers quickly calculating the math of the order.

Usually he doesn't do a batch of this size while he's still figuring out a job, but the way he sees it there's no way he can't have just about everybody present. Which these days is incredibly rare.

A pin is taken from the cushion on your wrist, planting itself into the red gown. But as you take out two pieces of paper, writing probably a total and your name, he can't help but stare at the ink peeking out from beneath it.

He knows what it says, just as well as he knows the name on his own.

He's seen it once as you pulled up your sleeve during the summer, the fine etching displaying his name, his old name, clear as day before you hurriedly slipped the pin cushion back onto it. He looked away that day, pretending he didn't see.

It feels so much harder to pretend now.

"This is your total. And I will need your signature on both of them, Mr. Brekker."

Your smile is playful, then. As he takes the pen from your outstretched hand.

"As I've told you before, yn, Kaz is fine."

"Oh, but how could I be so informal, Mr. Brekker?" You put your hand on your chest, face twisted into a poor impression of someone who has just been scandalized. "We are business partners, after all."

And just like in those books you always read, he feels his eyes soften, if only a bit as his brows and jaw relax. "Business partners doesn't cover the surface."

You take the confession and relax with it, rubbing the center of your chest. "You're right."

He thinks back to a time when you were both little, each staring at your blank wrist with solemn eyes. He would look at you as you rubbed the soft skin, fingertips and dirty nails gently tracing lines into it.

He would sit next to you, shoulders knocking together, and you would look up at him, expression changing as you grabbed his wrist and squeezed it.

At the time, he would never say it, the thought turning his ears pink and quickening his adolescent heart, but he would hope that your wrists would match, displaying the others name. He would hope that one day that sad and far off face would cease to exist, and instead would be full of complete and utter joy as you looked at him and exclaim that you knew it. Because you wanted him, too.

But now that he knows, he still wouldn't say anything. You never said anything, and he wasn't in any position or state of mind to say anything to you when he eventually saw his, ash sticky and cold flesh tainting the memory, your scream as you watched him swim to the harbor on Jordie's corpse, and his own as you went to grab him.

It stays locked away, with the rest of the things that feel too hard to touch.

He signs a fake name on both of them, taking one and handing the other to you for your personal records, and then takes out the kruge and hands it to you.

"Is Dirix out back to handle these or do you want a bag for them?"

He sighs. "Dirix is down at the Harbour. A bag will have to do."

"Can I pick the bag?" A new voice calls from the backroom.

He holds back a smile, but fails to stop the corner of his lips from turning up temporarily. He averts his eyes to the doorway where a little girl peeks around the corner, a wide smile on her face as she looks right at him.

"Of course, Astra." You say, and immediately she scurried up to the counter to take a look at the load she has to find a bag for.

Your younger sister, Astra, was moved up here a few years after you were, your parents having passed from the flu and grandparents too old to take on the task of raising a six year old. Much less a six year old who could summon the wind at any time she wants.

Thankfully, you had started your seamstress business a year before that, and had this store with your living space up above to take her in with.

Business was always booming here, your talent for fabrics and all things fashion put on display and loved by the masses. You spent pretty much your entire life studying the trends that wormed their way here, even getting ahead of the train numerous times and working into the darkest hours to make your profit.

Now you can afford the more pricey fabrics, and get the attention of the richer folk over in the Geldstraat.

He helps, of course, with his dirty work.

"I know the perfect one." Astra scurries away.

You chuckle, hearing a small "wow!" and a flurry of footsteps. "She's going to pick the most obnoxious bag, I hope you know."

He takes a breath then, and looks down at the gloves still in his hand. "I wouldn't expect anything less from her."

There's a moment of silence, watching you from his peripheral as you stare at the gloves too.

"I didnt like the last pair." You admit. "So I made the design more low-key. The last one was too flashy for your aesthetic."

He's wearing those gloves now, and they aren't even flashy. The design is just slightly more pronounced.

The way you measure how flashy something is has a much smaller threshold than most. Even by his standards, it's very small, and he's far from the most colorful being in Ketterdam.

Astra comes back with, of course, a large bright pink fabric bag, twine tied in the shape of a flower tied around the handles.

"Good choice!" You praise, taking the clothes out of the crate and laying them neatly in the bag while she beams at him.

"Do you like the bag?"

And normally, he'd say something incredibly passive aggressive.

But he actually likes Astra, and knows how easy it is to stamp out a child's heart, that level of emotional regulation and individuality not yet found in them.

"Its wonderful, little crow."

"Alright, give this to him, like I showed you." You pushed her along, and she rounded the counter, holding the sides of the bag, leaving the handles free for him to grab.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't just a little moved by that.

Astra wasn't allowed to help you until a few months ago, when she basically got on her hands and knees and begged to be of some help. You claim that you didn't give in right away, but he knows you better than that.

You have told her that he doesn't like to be touched, and it was a little hard for such a touch reliant girl to wrap her mind around that. After a few close calls, she got the general idea down.

"Pleasure doing business with you." He tips his hat, and watches as her little cheeks become pink as she curtsies.

"Ill be making stew like my mom made if you want to stop by later." You suggest.

Astra grins from ear to ear. "But not too later, if you can help it. I want to hear another story."

"At this rate I won't have any stories left to tell you."

She thinks about that for a moment, lips pursing and looking around the room. "Oh!" She shouts, face lighting up. "Can you tell me that one story again? About you and my sister getting lost in the woods down south?"

He pretends to think about it, looking around the room as if in search for the memory. "I think I can do that. You and your sister might have to fill in on some of the details, though."

She grins, pride welling up in her chest that she puffs out, holding out her hand. "The deal is the deal."

He takes her hand into his, giving it a firm shake. "The deal is the deal."

Kaz takes a moment to look back up at you, and his heart nearly leaps out his chest when he sees the way you're looking at him, a small smile he doesn't think he's seen before and eyes filled with so /much/ that he's surprised your whole eye isn't black. Your head rests into your fingers, arm wrapped around your waist. It's an expression he's seen rarely, but it always seems to catch him off guard.

It looks a lot like yearning, he thinks.

But he puts it away for later.

When you catch that he's looking, you take a deep breath, schooling your expression and wiping off imaginary dust from your clothes.

"Alright Astra, Kaz has important business to attend to."

Astra pouts from beside him, but gives him her goodbyes and walks into the backroom again.

He straightens. It's oddly difficult to keep eye contact with you, but he does anyway, flicking between the both of them.

"If I have time, I'll stop by." He gives in.

You're happy with that. "Ill even add extra broth for you."

"Sweetening the offer I see."

You put your hands on your hips, shrugging. "A girl's got to do what she's got to do."

The implications of that are hefty, too hefty with a cane in one hand and a bright pink bag of clothes in the other.

So he ignores it, and nods, taking his leave out the front door and back to the Slat.

-----

He stares at the plan before him in his mind, going over each and every way this can and probably will go sideways.

Breaking into the most secure prison in probably the whole world with nothing more than the scrapings of a plan, one of the essential persons in a different prison, and your presense completely plaguing his mind.

The third one isn't exactly new, but he can't help but think about you when his survival rate went from low on the daily average to basically zero with one handshake.

But thirty million kruge...

Thirty million kruge could go a long way. That's four million for him, most of which he could put towards the crow club and expanding his empire, taking down Pekka, and securing his place as one of the top bosses in Ketterdam.

He could secure his place in the food chain, and maybe, maybe then he...

Maybe.

He entertains the thought of a marriage certificate. Having something that ties you and him together both eternally and in the eyes of everyone else. Being able to hold that slip of paper when he can't hold your hand and feeling like it matters.

It's hard to keep the thought away, now that he's alone with a glass of kvas and death staring him in the eyes.

He doesn't plan on dying soon. Not for a long time. He has vengeance to exact and many more dinners to join you for.

But it's a very real possibility, and he must debate with himself going to you and telling you all this before he leaves.

If it was any other job, Kaz would send Inej to tell you that he would be gone for a few days and to not expect him. If it was literally any other job, he wouldn't even consider getting up from his chair, marching down those stairs and up yours, and discussing the undiscussable to at least satisfy the gnawing in his stomach.

Because he knows that if you find out he died and he knew that he was basically guaranteed to do so and he didn't bother to tell you himself, you would never forgive him.

Granted, he would be dead, so in theory it doesn't matter.

He picks up his cane and gloves, shoving them over his hands and throwing on his long coat. He doesn't even have to look at the coat rack to find his hat, putting it on and making his way out of the Slat and to your address without a word to anyone else.

The theories mean nothing, in the face of reality.

You're making stew with extra broth, he might die in a few days, and he doesn't want you to think ill of him when he can't look you in the eye and try to convince you to feel otherwise.

As the cold bites his nose, he thinks back to that look you were giving him when he made that deal with your sister.

It's nearly enough to make him turn around, muscles tingling and a shiver rolling down his back that's unrelated to the cold. He feels sick. Warm and a feeling in his stomach he only feels late in the night in the comfort of his own bed.

He can't do this.

He picks the lock on your door.

He can't tell you.

He opens the door, locking it behind him.

He can't think of you like that.

He walks up the stairs, the smell of stew just barely reaching his senses as he enters the kitchen.

He can't.

You're sitting at the table, two empty bowls on the table and fabric thrown over your legs, threading them together. Your finger is bleeding, and he wants to wipe it away.

"You're late." You smile, eyelids heavy.

He takes off his hat, putting it on the hook you installed when he started coming over. "Or I'm just in time."

You laugh quietly, sticking the needle in the fabric and pulling it off your lap. "Just in time about sums it up."

He's a monster.

You turn your back to him and enter your room, draping the project on your desk.

The pot is still steaming, and his throat feels clogged.

"Ill be gone for a while."

You turn around, and he can't watch you anymore. He takes off his coat and drapes it over the chair.

"How long?" Your voice is soft, approaching him.

"Few weeks."

He's a coward.

You hum, setting down a bowl of stew with extra broth in front of him. "Thats a long time, even for you."

He clenched his jaw, heart pounding in his ears. The light catches the stew, making rainbows in the broth. Chunks of lamb, potatoes, pieces of ham, carrots, and greens he can't see dance in the soup as he stirs it.

"Bigger reward for the troubles." Is all he says.

The troubles, he thinks, that he can't get past the lump in his throat. The trouble that you of all people deserve to know.

He glances up at you, and he recognizes the look on your face all too well.

You're very aware of his gang affiliation.

He actually attempted to cut ties with you after he got associated with the Dregs. You threw a crate at him and called him mad for suggesting as such. He only risked to bring it up one other time, and you had yelled at him and about cried when he turned to leave, throwing a rock at his freshly poorly healed leg.

He swiveled around at glared at you, but you didn't flinch in the face of Dirtyhands. Just glared at him, told him you're not going anywhere, and then left /him/ before he could protest.

It took him a week to figure out that, despite you not wanting to cut ties with him, you didn't completely agree either. You didn't bother trying to convince him to leave, but you have on numerous occasions begged him to be careful, adorning this exhausted look.

You don't say a lot anymore, but the expression has stayed relatively the same, if a bit rounder on the edges.

"How bad?" You asked.

He abhors the way his heart squeezes, like it has a mind of its own while his brain yells at him to keep you out of it.

He wants to throw up.

How does he tell you there's a greater chance than not he'll die, now matter how much he wants to make it back to you?

How does he tell you you might never get to see him again? Or see Jesper or Inej?

He swallowed some broth, licking his lips.

"Pretty bad."

He's such a fucking coward.

"Ynnn." He hears a hoarse voice call. He looks up, seeing Astra stroll in and rest her chin on the kitchen table. "You didnt tell me Kaz finally came."

When he looks at you to see your response, its to his absolute horror that he catches you wiping your eyes, then pull your little sister to your side.

"You were sleeping. I didn't want to wake you."

"M'you should've."

You glance up at him, and smile against Astra's hair.

"You're right. I should've."

-----

'Damn it all,' he thought in a panic. 'Damn everything. Go find them.'

It was a dangerous, recurring thought that he had when he went anywhere near the Zelver District, whenever he had to go through the canals that run along its edge and connect to nearly every other canal.

Even now as he puts everything in place to send Kuwei off on a fake bodyboat. It only half surprises him that the sight doesn't make him all that uncomfortable. He's exhausted, lovesick, and has had the experience of several lifetimes within just a few weeks.

He wanted to send word to you to stay put during the alarms. But Pekka's crew strolled through your storefront not a few days ago, asking about your wares and probing for information. Inej had seen as such when she finally had the opportunity to check on you.

There was no guarantee that this plan would work. Pekka would have been dealt with regardless but the auction with Kuwei could have gone differently. No matter the confidence with which he laid out facts or with Wylan's newfound acting skills, there were too many variables that relied heavily on the actions of people outside his control.

It worked out, though. But now he has to worry about being unable to find you. It makes him nauseous. He actually feels his mouth begin to fill with saliva, but he keeps it down. Right now, he just has to get rid of Kuwei, and send off Colm, Nina, and Matthias to the boats that will take them to their respective countries.

A small part of his conscious nags at him. Of course he feels grief for his fallen Crow, incomparable to the grief Nina will have to face for the rest of her life.

But there's that much larger part of him that can't feel anything except the itching for your eyes on him.

Kaz makes a snarky comment about Kuwei's dead position, and leaves everyone to fill in the silence around him. There isn't much talking, aside from Jesper and his father, and then they're hugging and parting.

He hardly has it in him to stay while they leave, and eventually, before they even disappear from his eyesight, he's turning and marching up the Van Eck lawn towards the Zelver District.

He feels like he's going insane. Energy is surging through him like there's a heartrender pumping his system. When everything becomes familiar, that coffee shop you like with the Stroopwafel's coming into view, he can't help but break out into a run.

His leg feels like it may splinter.

But he's 4 million kruge richer, and he has something to ask you.

He's learned a lot, quite a bit of it against his will, since he left for Fjerda.

He will not let you become another life lesson.

Your door comes into view, and he nearly slams into it when his legs can't seem to stop and one of them is straining against his own body weight.

The lock picks nearly fell to the floor before he manages to unlock the store. He didn't even let the door close behind him before he rocketed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

You were at the top, rifle in hand, pointing it at him with a fierceness in your eyes.

It all but crumbled when you seen who he was.

"Kaz?" You called, disbelief choking your words.

It takes a moment for him to catch his breath, most of his gasping done before he unlocked the door. But again, hes exhausted and lovesick, so air isnt really a luxury he seems to be able to afford. "The bruises don't make me that unrecognizable." He stands straighter, favoring his left leg.

You had half the mind to put the rifle on your kitchen table before you completely broke down in tears. Your arms hug your sides while your eyes boil over with tears and hot rage.

"You're such an asshole!" You yelled. "Getting put on the Stadwatch and the entire barrels shitlist? What the fuck kind of job did you take?"

He stepped forward, setting his cane next to your rifle and dropping into the chair next to you.

It still made his skin crawl. It still made his lungs burn with freezing cold water. It still made deadly blue hands grip at his legs and pull him under.

But he reached out, pulled you between his legs, and hugged your body to his, his cheek resting against your stomach.

You were warm. So very warm from working yourself up. And stiff. He could feel it under his arms as your thighs stuck together and the muscles surrounding your spine tightened into stone.

"Ka-Kaz?"

He ignored you in favor of ignoring his own body, tightening you into him as the waters punched his stomach and licked up his back.

You were warm, and as you relaxed, his face further sinking into your stomach, the water began to still. Still crushing against his organs, but not going any further.

Tears pushed on the back of his eyes. He squeezed them shut, taking in a shakey breath.

He was doing it. He was holding you, touching you, and it only made half his mind scream to be yanked away.

"I fought." He whispered. "I fought to come back." He swallows. "To you."

Tears thumped against the crown of his skull. He could hear your heart pounding despite its location.

"You left-" Your voice cut off in a squeak. Clearing your throat, he could feel, felt like a chore. "You left. And then you didn't come back. Your face was all over Ketterdam, and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't eat I couldn't sleep- I couldn't answer Astra's questions because I didn't know anything-"

"I was tricked." He gritted his teeth, loosening his grip on you just as you reached down and dragged your fingers over his shoulder, fixing a loose thread. "Deceived, and made a complete fool out of. I couldn't come back because they would have got you too."

Your fingers stopped. "Who did they get?"

A few tears leaked out the side of his eyes. The only tears, he decided, he was going to allow through. He was not a crier. And he had no intention of becoming one.

"Inej." You gasped, hand flying away from his head to cover your mouth, he would presume. "Which is why I couldn't get word to you. Why you had to remain in the dark."

He pulled back, looking up at your tear stained face. You wiped them away, sniffing up any snot that remained in your nose and cleared your throat.

For a while you didn't speak. You just stared at him. His hands had fallen to his knees, fingers barely touching your leg while your own held your elbows.

You were deep in thought. Occasionally a silent tear would work it's way down your cheek and tick against the floor. He remained still, watching as you worked your way through your thoughts.

Whatever you had to say, you were fighting for a better way to word it.

Eventually you reached out, swallowing as you searched for any indication he would retreat.

Instead he stared you head on, sweat building on brow. He was all touched out at the moment, but you wanted this. And he thinks it's the least you deserved after the complete emotional shipwreck he just put you through.

Your thumb brushed over his bruises, watching him wince when you accidentally pushed on them.

Scabs had begun to form over some of the wounds he refused to be healed. Two thin lines on his lips, one on his cheek, and one to his brow. You went over all of them, touching his lips last.

He thinks you meant to do that.

"If I had known this would be my fate when I saw my name on your wrist when we were children," you whispered, "I'd have slapped you stupid."

That makes his lips twitch. "And now?"

You swallow again, carefully brushing his hair away from his forehead so that your nails barely scratched the surface. "Now, I just want to look at you." You smiled, taking your hand back. "Somebody's already slapped you stupid for me."

"Believe me, there was no slapping."

The words make your smile disappear. He regrets saying them.

Somethings missing though, and he realizes it a lot later than he likes.

"Where's Astra?"

You smile, an airy breath escaping your nose. "She went down about half an hour before you stormed in here."

"You didn't send her off to your grandparents when the sirens went off?"

You scoffed. "And go where you couldn't find us?" You looked down, scuffing the floor with your sock covered feet. "You'd have lost your mind."

And that, you knowing him so intrinsically, is what he's going to use as an excuse for what he says next.

"Marry me."

It's so unlike him. He should have been less forward about it. Presented it to you like a business offer instead of demanding it of you.

Your head snaps up. Eyes wide as they stare at him.

"What?"

He scoots back, chair scraping across the floor as he stands.

"I do not present this to you lightly. After the events that have taken place, there will only be more people willing to tear me down. People who will want to use you to get to me."

The thought almost makes him want to back out. But if Kaz Brekker is anything, he is not someone who back tracks.

"It would be done in private. No one would know but the Dregs, or only the Crows, and your family. But if anybody does any digging and finds that certificate, you and Astra would be in danger."

You continue to stare, eyes still wide and mouth agape.

Sweat beads down his back, not helped by the long coat he neglected to take off. He also realizes that he's lost his hat somewhere on the way here, probably flown off in his rush to get here.

You close your mouth, clearing your throat. "I will marry you, Kaz, on one condition."

He shifts on his feet, leg still horribly sore. "That is?"

You cant help but smile. "I won't have to wear white."

And a giddy, childish sort of glee bubbles in his chest. There isn't anything, he thinks, that could have stopped the smile forming in his face, growing so wide as to show teeth. "You could wear the muckiest yellow the nation as to offer if you so wished."

Your nose scrunches, and one day he thinks he could kiss it.

"Astra will want to hear about your adventure." He could see your exhaustion from just thinking about that, your gaze averting once again to her door. "She'll be so excited to hear about your proposal too."

He follows your gaze, seeing the little drawing nailed to surface of her door.

One of them shows you and him with smiling faces, a little heart above your heads. You're holding hands, Kaz's gloves a distinct part of the portrait, with Astra above, clouds and a sun at the top of the page.

"Little crow will blow the entire building apart." He grimaces, thinking of a way to cover that up if the neighboring businesses hear it.

You sigh. "I have no idea what to do with her."

He turns back to you and leans forward, arms clasped behind his back as he presses his lips to your temple.

It didn't feel real, the way he could initiate touch despite his body screaming at him to stop. Your hair stuck to his lips as he pulled away, but it was worth it to see the way your face fell open, eyes boaring into his.

Silently, he tells you he'll get better. With time, a long time, he'll be able to hold your hand, kiss your lips, stand shoulder to shoulder and lay with you. He tells you that fleeting kisses and barriers will be a thing reserved for bad days only, and even on those bad days he'll still love you in other ways.

He thinks you understand.

∘��✧──────────────────✧₊∘

Tags:

@b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r @a-candle-maker

[kichiyosh1]

A little sneak peek at what it's like being with cross-dresser!scara

Main story: Deceitful youth

(keep in mind you think he's a girl)

Cross-dresser!scara that once he's well acquainted with you, enjoys going out with you whether it'd be for shopping, arcade, salon, you name it!

He enjoys running around with you, carrying around paper bags filled with the stuff you bought, and when you question how she can carry that much amount of weight despite her size, he just laughs it off, saying how she's used to carrying heavy things because she shops a lot too. Even if his arms grow sore and his fingers grow numb, he's still following you around the mall with a skimpish look on his face.

Flaunts his unparalleled high level gaming skills when it comes to arcade. Finishing all the games with a high score, eradicating whoever it was that used to be in first place, but goes easy on you when playing multiplayer games. It really surprised you when she was able to hit the bell on that boxing game. The way there was so much force put into that one swing and how the score meter went straight up. She said that you just needed a proper calculated approach and the right amount of momentum, of course she was able to do it because she understands how the game works. What he's not telling you is that he may have used a little too much force and may have broken a few of his fingers, not to mention how he thinks he might have dislocated his shoulder.

He was holding onto his arm when he led you to another part of the arcade. "Hey, we don't have to play another game if it's too much for you, you're hand-"

"I'm fine, really! and what else am i gonna do with these coins?" and yes, it was a claw machine.

It was down right adorable seeing you in your pajamas, your favorite salon was closed so he had the great idea of suggesting to do everything at your apartment instead (He couldn't bring you into his, oh no no no, he couldn't risk being exposed). His left hand resting at his side as you held his right one in the palm of your hand, applying a glossy coat of black nail polish. Your hands were so soft, he can barely contain himself, hoping you couldn't feel how much he was trembling all over. What really knocked him out was when you left a small peck over his hand, saying it was a protection seal so the nail polish would last longer.

yeah, he could get used to this treatment.

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(Please tell me if you only want to be tagged for part 2 of the main plot and I'll remove you from here <3)

Taglist: @r0ttenhearts @kazuuhhaaaa @ahseya @reirea-002 @silaswritesthings @scaraapologist @magica-ren @sketcheeee @dan9a-00 @bdf2 @tearsin @randomnl @xinhar @after-determination-tale @valeriele3

[dfortrafalgar]

I'm Losing You... (But We're Filling the Cracks)

Having a family isn't always as easy as fairy tales make it seem. But sometimes, you just need a little bit of love... and a little bit of science.

Warnings: read chapter 1 for warnings

(also it's far too late in the game for me to be asking this but can someone help me figure out why everyone's blogs outside of the first five people in the tag list dont show up. ive been on tumblr since like 2014 and still cannot figure this stuff out im sobbing)

Taglist: @phsycochan | @mirillua | @augustanna | @chaixsherlock | @whore-of-many-hot-men | @nerdisthenewcool | @lilypadmomentum | @1dkneo | @kitsunechan707

Chapter 28

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Your maternity leave had started early, not helped by how active one of your babies was at the crack of dawn.  Every morning when you woke up to the sound of your alarm and rolled over to hoist yourself out of bed, you felt a kick against your abdomen.  When you stood up, you felt that familiar fluttering sensation.  One morning, you slept in only a few minutes longer than you normally did, and were punished with a small shove against your bladder that had you involuntarily unloading your urine into your pajama bottoms.

That one made you cry, Law keeping his chuckles to himself as he helped you clean up in the bathroom.

“Stop berating them through my stomach,” you sobbed.  “I just pissed my pants.”

Your husband had answered you with a soft kiss to your swollen skin as he bent down to pick up your soiled clothing and bring them to your washing machine.  “It happens, darling.  It wasn’t your fault.”

Needless to say, it had been an emotional third trimester thus far.

On a Friday evening, you were sitting reclined against the arm of your couch, a book resting on your belly as you munched on some apple slices when Law came bursting through the door.  He was frantic to kick off his shoes and shrug off his lab coat, hanging it on the hooks in the entryway before scrambling into the living room and plopping himself down next to you.  He was holding a notebook in his hand.

“Hello to you, too,” you stated sarcastically, placing a paper bookmark in your novel to mark your spot and adjusting yourself on the couch to sit with your legs crossed under you.

“I was busy on my break today,” Law stated matter-of-factly, flipping through the wrinkled notebook with a fervor.  When he found the page he was looking for, he folded the journal in half and held out the exposed page to face you.

A bunch of squares and barely legible writing covered the lined paper.  You squinted.  “I have no idea what I’m looking at, babe.”

Law rarely had moments where he got so excited that he couldn’t speak, but this was clearly one of those moments.  He would forget that other people didn’t have over 20 years of medical training going back to the age of five.  “Sorry, sorry.”  He turned the notebook back toward him, using his finger to point out what he had scribbled down.  “These are genetic predictions.  It’s estimated that about 50% of fraternal twins will be opposite genders, so a boy and a girl.  Which means about 25% will be both boys, and about 25% will be both girls.”  He moved his finger from one scribble to another.  “I have black hair, which I’m assuming to be the dominant gene among the two of us.  However, I’m also a carrier for brown hair, because my mother and sister both were brunettes.  Accounting for your hair color, I’m estimating that it’s a 75% chance that both of our babies will have black hair.  At least one of our babies will have my eye color, but I believe your eyes are the dominant trait.  I remember you saying at one point that someone in your family had curly hair, right?  I’m estimating a 25% chance that at least one of our kids will have curly hair.  If both of our babies are boys, the chances are 75% that they’ll be colorblind, and 25% that only one of them will be colorblind.  If both are girls, it’s a 75% chance that both of them will be carriers for the colorblind gene, 25% that only one of them will be.  But again, this is all approximations.  So then I started thinking about more technical stuff.  I have B+ blood, but I couldn’t remember what your blood type was, so we have to go off of the Rh factor, which is dominant with positive Rh, which means that at least one of our babies will have Rh positive blood, likely both.  Male pattern baldness is also a dominant trait in most families, but I’m 26 and still have a full head of hair, so hopefully if we have a boy, he won’t have to worry about hair loss.  Funnily enough, I learned today that having six fingers on one or both hands can actually be a dominant allele in some genetic lines, but neither of our family members have had any form of polydactyly that I can recall.  Just an interesting thought.  Anyway–”

Your shoulders were shaking with your laughter.  “Law, slow down!  Breathe!”  Your hands reached forward to grab his shoulders to settle his excited rambling, his face slowly losing color as he was speaking more than he was absorbing oxygen.

You watched as your husband took a long gulp of hair in before blowing it out slowly.  “Sorry.  I got excited.”

“Don’t apologize, you’re adorable,” you replied, stroking your hand along his cheek.  “How long did it take you to write all that down?”

Law glanced one more time at his notebook before closing it and discarding it on the coffee table.  “About 15 minutes.”

You snorted.  “I hope intelligence is a dominant trait so that both of our kids will be as smart as you.”

“You’re smart too,” he argued back, his voice light and content.

“Not ‘scribble down multiple punnett squares in 15 minutes’ smart,” you countered.  “Have you eaten anything yet?”

He shook his head, stretching his arms behind his back.  “Nope, I came straight home.  I was too excited to show you that.”

You grinned, struggling to lean forward to kiss the tip of his nose.  He assisted you by leaning forward on his own legs, pressing his forehead to yours.

“How have you been feeling?” he asked suddenly, diverting the topic.  One of his hands came to rest on the crest of your belly, petting the taught skin through your shirt.

“Tired,” you replied.  “It’s hard to stand up.  Robin said both babies are probably around 2 or 3 pounds by now, but honestly it feels like I’m carrying lead weights when I stand.  I feel like a turtle.”

“Any more movement?” he asked, scooting over the cushions to be closer to you, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders to pull you into him.  You gladly followed his gesture, dropping your head into his neck.

“One of them moves in the morning still, the other likes to kick when I go to bed.  The only reason I’ve been able to tell is because I feel them on different sides,” you groaned.  “I don’t know what it looks like with them folded up in there, but they haven’t made it easy on me.”

Law hummed in response, his free hand stroking your belly.  The feeling of his palm against your bump felt more soothing than the finest lotion.  “I’m just glad that they’re both okay… not like I’m thrilled that you’re in pain, obviously, but…”

“No, trust me, I am too,” you sighed, closing your eyes.  “I’ve made it this long now, and both of them are still alive.  And pretty soon…”

Your husband knew exactly what you were going to say when your voice trailed off.  It was a subject the two of you had been tip-toeing around for quite some time.

The birth.

“That’s the one thing that’s still scaring me,” you admitted.  “I’m already high risk, and anything could go wrong.  I might have to be ripped open while awake to get them out.  I might die, even.”

Law felt his chest clench.  “Don’t say that, you won’t die.”

“But we don’t know that,” you sighed, your voice growing more nervous by the second.

“No, you won’t die,” he replied firmly.

You felt mildly guilty for broaching the subject.  You knew how difficult it was for him to even think about the slim chance of losing his family again, not when he had come so far and achieved so much with you.  You leaned your head upward to kiss the soft skin of his neck, his sideburns tickling your forehead.  You felt his arm around your shoulder pull you even closer to him, his breaths shallow.

“I’m sorry…” you muttered.

“Don’t be,” he responded quickly.  “I mean it.  You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His hand dropped from your belly to grasp your own, tilting his head down to meet your own as his lips gently pressed against yours.  Your eyes slipped closed, leaning into his tender kiss and wrapping your free arm around his torso.  The size of your belly made it hard to be flush against him, but you made do.  After all, you would have to get used to cuddling with two babies soon enough.

You pulled away from his lips.  “Hey, so how’s the studying been?  For that surgery?”

Law groaned, not at you, but at the mere thought of the looming procedure that had been bearing on his mind for the past eight weeks.  “I feel like I’m back in med school, that’s for sure.  I feel ready for it, but at the same time I can never be too prepared.  It’s going to be… a lot.”

Dual heart-lung transplants were very, very rare, and used for the most severe of cases.  The procedure had never been performed at Law’s hospital before.  Single heart transplants had been done, and a few lung transplants, but never at the same time.  Law’s cardiac ward was specifically chosen for the operation because of the young doctor’s expertise in the field.  The patient’s life was quite literally in Law’s hands.

A small smirk flashed on his face.  “I started wearing gloves in that patient’s room with his family.  I don’t want them to see the tattoos on my fingers.”

“Do you not wear gloves for any other patients?” you asked with a small giggle.  

“No, I do, when performing treatments.  When I’m on rounds, I just stick my hands in my pockets,” he explained.  He had one dimple on his cheek that showed up when he smiled.  You couldn’t help but peck a quick kiss to it.  His stomach suddenly grumbled, startling the two of you.

“You stay right here, I’ll make us some dinner,” he said, making a move to stand up.

“Pancakes,” you demanded with your own mischievous smirk.

“We had pancakes a week ago,” he replied with a smile.

“And?”

Law leaned down for one last kiss on the crown of your head.  “Alright.  Pancakes it is.”

—

Your pregnancy journal had gone from an anxious possession that you worried would jynx your good luck to a vice that you crawled back to whenever you were bored.  The pages were filled with the ink from your pen as you used the prompts to delve into some of the thoughts you kept to yourself, your feelings about your body, your babies, your relationships, the hopes and dreams and the worries and troubles you tried not to stress about.  You kept track of the gifts you had received, the words of advice from your doctor, and the unprovoked comments from elderly ladies at the supermarket who liked to comment about how cute of a couple you were when you shopped for food with your husband.

The grouchy, black-haired surgeon with bags under his eyes and a resting bitch face, and you, his slightly shorter, glowing wife with a very large pregnant belly and a polite, shining smile on her face.  You were truly a match made in heaven, one might say.

Law had been busier and busier in the weeks getting closer to your due date.  As the weather got colder, the holidays came and went, and the new year began, he was diving more and more into his studies preparing for what was easily the largest, most intense, and most serious surgery of his professional career.  Some might assume that you would get tired of the neglect, growing frustrated that he wasn’t around to spend time with you in your third trimester, but in reality, you couldn’t be more proud.

The sight of him hunched over your kitchen table surrounded by old textbooks and papers was an image straight out of your college days, where you’d let yourself into his single dorm room close to midnight and find him on his floor in the dim lighting surrounded on all sides by professional journals, research papers, and textbooks from every esteemed surgeon in his field.  You’d sit down next to him and diligently push french fries against his lips as his eyes stayed glued to his studies, rewarding you during his sparse downtime with awkward kisses that tasted like salt and firm yet shaky hands that were obsessed with traveling up and down your body.  

The only difference now was that Law was that professional in his field, that he was in an apartment, and that you both had rings on your fingers.  The french fries stayed the same, but he at least had a piece of mind to feed himself while you watched from the couch and giggled.  Every once in a while, he would lean back against his seat and pop his spine with a satisfied groan, toss you a fond look across the room, and go back to reading.  Sometimes, you would stand behind him and rub his stiff shoulders, encouraging him to stand up and stretch his legs just as he would do to you to ensure you remained strong during the final weeks of your pregnancy.

The only thing weighing on your mind was the panging worry that he would be in the middle of this massive procedure when you went into labor.  You were both informed by your doctor that most twins would be delivered either naturally or induced at around 36 weeks, almost a month before single babies were usually born, and with your due date at 38 weeks being in the middle of May, you had a nagging feeling in your head that he would miss it.

You both tried to hold onto hope that your babies would be delivered any other day that month.  He would be gone for only a day, a full 24 hours, in total the day of the surgery.  What were the odds that your babies would be born on that specific day?  Slim, to say the least.

At around 32 weeks, it was getting hard for you to stand up.  Your movements were slow and labored, and you were spending most of your days in your apartment either on your couch or in your bed, standing up when instructed by Law, or Shachi and Penguin when he was at work, to walk laps around your home.  The fear of blood clots forming in your legs and traveling to your lungs, as described by your lovely husband in far too much detail, was enough to make you more determined to keep the blood pumping in your body.

“Alright, ready?” Law stated, standing behind you in the kitchen as you slowly made your way through a pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

“Ready,” you stated back, your eyes focused on washing the silverware in your hands.

His inked hands traveled around your torso and under your belly, lifting up against the bottom of your bump.  The sudden relief of having the weight lifted off of your back made an almost erotic moan leave your lips, your grip on the silverware releasing slightly as the tension in your entire body flooded from your veins like a broken dam.

“Feel good?” he asked from behind you with a smirk, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

“Oh my god,” you groaned.  “I saw a lot of posts that said that it feels good, but I didn’t think it would feel this good.  I wish you could do that constantly.”

Sparse kisses were placed to the back of your head as his hands slowly released their pressure against the bottom of your bump, leaving your back aching once more as your body was forced to bear the brunt of the weight in your abdomen.  You stifled a whimper as you were forced to hold what felt like 50 extra pounds on your own again, but Law’s lingering presence behind you with his hands resting idly on your belly soothed your aches subconsciously.

“Busy spring, huh?” he asked, filling the room where the only other sound was the sloshing from your dish washing.

You hummed in response, rinsing your hands and turning off the tap, drying your hands on a towel that lay on the counter beside you.  “You could say that.”  You turned around to lean against the counter, Law’s hands remaining on your body as you rotated.  He leaned forward to capture your lips in his, you rewarding him with a smile.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be more physical with you…” you sighed.

Law pulled away.  “Why are you sorry for that?”

You shrugged.  “You seem like you’ve been a lot more handsy with me lately, and I can’t reciprocate.  And I’m probably not going to be able to reciprocate for a while after I give birth.”

Your husband chuckled, planting chaste kisses across your cheeks.  “I’m not ‘being handsy with you’ because I want anything.  I’m ‘being handsy’ because I want you to be happy and comfortable.  I’m not expecting anything in return.  And by the way,” he pulled away to stare into your worried eyes.  “I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking about your post-birth body being somehow inferior to how you were before pregnancy, I know it.”

You averted your gaze, your lips pinching together.

“And I know you don’t like the stretch marks on your belly,” he added.

“Where are you going with this?” you asked, your voice quiet.

“Because I’m going to remind you every day how beautiful you are.  Always.  Even the changes that come with having a child.  You’re always going to be beautiful to me.  I’ll never be repulsed by your stretch marks or wrinkled skin or cellulite like you think I’m going to be.  The person standing in front of me is a beautiful woman who has given me a life worth living, and I’m going to cherish her and support her through everything.”

Your eyes darted toward his neck, where his glass necklace still sat between his collarbones.  He religiously wore it every single day, only taking it off to shower, sleep, and perform surgeries.  Likewise, you never removed your glass ring.  Hot tears began to form in your eyes, but your lips curled into a smile.  Your expression fought for dominance over being happy or sad, and what resulted was a shaky grin, furrowed eyebrows, and watery eyes.

“What did I do to deserve you?” you asked, letting a few lose tears escape the corners of your eyes.

Your husband kissed the damp streaks that your tears left behind on your cheeks.  “You fed me french fries on the floor of my dorm room in college.  I think that’s when I knew you were going to be my wife one day.”

A bubbly laugh left your throat as your hands gripped his shoulders for stability.  “I think I knew when you found me out behind my dorm building that night.”

Law leaned in to kiss you one more time, but a sudden gasp left your lips as your entire body tensed up.  A stinging cramping sensation rippled across your abdomen, lingering in your muscles.  It lasted about 30 seconds, where your shaking hands clenched the cotton of Law’s shirt, his eyes wide and frenzied as his hands supported your upright posture, before the pain finally dissipated into a mild buzz, then nothing at all.

You stared into Law’s eyes.  “Can you help me sit down?”

[rosyjn]

HUMAN!JAKE X READER SMUT!!! 18+ CONTENT

It’s already 1 in the morning and you’re still finishing lab work. Grace left about 2 hours ago.

“Y/N, we should just finish it tomorrow afternoon. Don’t work too hard,” Grace told you as she walked out of the lab, Norm following her.

“Y/N, come on, let’s call it a night,” Norm stopped in the doorway and turned around. His facial hair was grown out, and he had huge bags under his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, it’ll be done by tomorrow morning. I promise,” you squinted as you picked up a test tube and looked through it. Norm sighed and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

And now you’re here, at 1:30 AM, wrapping up work. All you can think about is how relieved your lab colleagues will be, since you’ve finished everything.

You stack up all your papers, leaving a rock on top as a weight, to keep them from possibly moving or shuffling. You wouldn’t want to waste all that time and energy. You reach over and place your pen in a cup on a lab table. You put back all the tubes and samples that you used, and then head for the exit.

The cold air of the lab hits you hard when you take off your coat and leave it by the door. You shiver. You quickly run out and lock the door behind you, barely remembering the code.

“7797182, enter,” you whisper under your breath. You sigh in relief as the door flashes red and the word “LOCKED” comes on the screen. Nobody can mess with anything now. Unless there is an emergency, it won’t open again until 4AM, which is when the the day starts for humans on Pandora.

Your eyelids grow heavy as you turn away and begin your walk back to your bed. It’s a long one. You watch all the doors, all looking the same. You see the signs for different departments. You have to sing to yourself to avoid falling asleep.

At some point, you’re afraid you won’t make it to bed, and that you’ll just snooze on the floor in some cold hallway.

When you turn another corner, you see a folded silhouette in the distance. You have to really squint to make out who it is.

“Hey, Y/N!” it’s Jake. He’s sitting in his wheelchair, filling up a small container at the ice machine. You’re so close to your room anyways, you think you should just say hi, it won’t make you any sleepier.

“Hi, what are you doing?” you walk towards him.

“I’m gonna have a drink, want some?” his voice is as charming as ever. And it’s evident that he’s wide awake, unlike you. You rub your eyes and let out a tired chuckle.

“I couldn’t, I’ve gotta- gotta sleep” you reach for your room key. Jake watches as your hands grip as your sides, looking for pockets. “Where, where- oh!!” you facepalm and shake your head.

“What’s wrong?” Jake turns himself to face you completely. A worried expression comes onto your face and your brows furrow.

“My key… is in my lab coat… which is in the lab… which is far away… and locked right now…” you look down at the ground.

Jake’s face lights up, but he tries to conceal it. He swallows, breathes in, and looks up at you.

“C’mere, come sleep in my room tonight. We’ll drink, we’ll have a good time,” he reaches up and grabs your arm, trying to convince you.

“I don’t wanna drink, I’ll just sleep,” you push his arm off of you.

“That’s okay, don’t wanna… pressure you,” he tilts his head and his eyes meet yours. “C’mon,” he turns himself around and makes his way back to his room, ice container in hand. You lazily follow him.

When he gets to the door, he opens it and scoots himself back to let you in first. You walk in a few steps and turn, keeping an eye on Jake as he comes in.

“What? What do you think I’m gonna do? Relax, I don’t bite” he chuckles and shuts the door behind him. When you turn back around and bend over to take off your shoes, he stares at your ass. Then, he takes his ice bucket to the table with liquor.

As you walk towards his bed and sit down on it, he stares at you through the corner of his eye. You lean back onto his bed. Your legs dangle off the foot of it.

“Thanks so much for this, I really don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t help me,” your legs are spread slightly apart, giving Jake a peek up your dress and at your light pink, lace panties.

You tilt your head and look at Jake’s bed. It’s messily made and has 2 pillows, stacked on top of each other. You look around his room, it’s surprisingly clean. You close your eyes as you listen to the clinking of glass and a pouring noise.

“You know, you can come to me anytime…” Jake’s eyes leave your panties for a second and watch his drink go into the cup.

“You’re funny,” you close your eyes and put a leg up on the bed, unknowingly giving him a better view of your underwear.

“Are you really thankful for this though?” he puts his cup down and wheels towards you, stopping at the foot of the bed. He gazes at your face, fighting the urge to take a closer look at your panties.

“Yeah, of course I am. Why? What are you thinking?” you put your leg back down and rest your foot in Jake’s lap.

“Do you wanna really thank me? For letting you stay with me?” he strokes up your leg. You shake your head and sit back up, pulling away from him. You sit on your calves and sigh.

“Don’t. I’m not gonna give you a blowjob to return the favor. I should go, I’m sorry,” you start to get up off the bed. Jake grabs you and holds you in place. Your eyes widen.

“I know all your friends would be disappointed. I know Grace and Norm would never see you the same way. I know Trudy would make fun of you for a lifetime-“ he begins, desperately. You cut him off by giggling.

“You’re right,” you hold his arm and relax, curious to see what he’s gonna come up with next.

“I’m not asking for sex. I think you’re so perfect and smart and beautiful… don’t leave. Just stay. Just for tonight,” he pleads. His grip stays tight on you. His gaze is intense and you’ve never seen him vulnerable like this.

“You’re… NOT asking for sex?” you tilt your head in confusion. Jake lets out a strained laugh.

“No, Y/N. I just think you’re really, um, great- and I really enjoy your company. I want you to stay the night. I- I can just sleep on the floor if you’re uncomfortable. Is that okay?” his grip on you loosens.

He’s so adorable you could cry. You grab his face and kiss him. When your lips meet his, he hesitates in shock before he kisses back. When he reciprocates, you climb onto his lap. He accepts your embrace and holds you tight for a second. You pull away to talk to him.

“Jake, will you accept the blowjob now?” Your hands travel away from his face and down to his pants.

A euphoric smile wipes onto his face and he tilts his head as you feel his boner.

“Let’s get on the bed,” he lifts you back onto it. You crawl back on all fours as he lifts himself up and scoots back until his head is on a pillow.

“Can I take these off?” you pull at his pants and smile. Jake just leans back and laughs in pure joy. You undo his pants, pull them off, and throw them on the floor. You arch your back and bite at his underwear.

“I’m so fucking hard right now,” he clenches his eyes closed. You listen to his words and get his Calvin Kleins off of him, which allows his boner to spring at your face. You gasped at the sight of it. He told you the truth. He was SUPER hard. You licked up the shaft which made him shudder.

“How long have you wanted me to do this, hmm?” You asked before taking his cock down your throat, slobbering on his balls. He moaned and his breath hitched.

“Ever since I met you, Y/N-“ he whimpers as you come back up and lick his tip.

“That’s surprising,” you look up and make contact while kissing his tip. That made Jake crazy and sent him over the edge.

His cum squirted onto your lips and nose, and you stuck your tongue out to catch it. He whimpered as you wiped and licked up every last drop of cum. You never break eye contact, neither does he. He grabs your hair and pulls you up to him, kissing you again. This time, his tongue intrudes into your mouth, and you whine. He pulls away and reaches up your skirt for your panties.

“Still sleepy?” he works circles on your clit.

“No,” you hide your face into the crook of his neck and mewl.

“Didn’t think so, I’m taking this off of you,” he works to take your dress off and you comply, leaning back and putting your arms up as he lifts it off and throws it.

You realize you’re bare with him. You realize you’re sitting in a colleague’s embrace, with the taste of his semen in your mouth, in only your bra and panties. Your hands go back to his face. You give him a peck and then pull away. He stares in your eyes.

“What- what now?” you ask while you trace hearts on his shirt.

“Now, I’m gonna take your bra and panties off and you’re gonna ride me,” he says.

Your eyes widen and you smile. He smiles back as he reaches and unclasps your bra. You eagerly reach to take off his shirt but he stops you.

“Hmph,” you pout.

“Don’t worry honey, I just wanted to admire these tits for a second.” he fondles your breasts. “I’ll leave so many hickeys,”

You laugh as you continue to take his shirt off of him. Last article of clothing left is your underwear. But he takes that slow. His hand travels down your torso and he hooks a finger around the side of the panty. Then, he slowly pulls it off of you while kissing.

Out of nowhere, he grabs your hips and pushes your torso back, while bringing your hips towards his face. You yelp.

“My god, I’m the luckiest man on earth.” he holds your legs open and stares at your wet, dripping cunt.

“Please, Jake,” you arch your back and close your eyes.

“Come here and ride this dick first, then I’ll see if you deserve to be eaten out,” he manhandles you back up and kisses you again.

“Okay, deal,” you say, positioning him around your entrance.

“I’m gonna hold these hips though,” his hands dig into your hips. “You can still handle it, you’re a big girl,” he teases.

As you lower yourself, you feel it tickling your slit and you shudder.

“Jake-“ you whimper.

“You need help? Don’t worry, I got you. I got you,” Jake reassures you. You nod. “Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” you reply.

He pushes your hips down onto his cock. When it first enters, you gasp and he lets out a guttural groan. When the tip was inside, you arched your back and whined.

“It’s okay,” he whispers as he pushes your hips down further. Your eyes well up with tears as he inches into bottoming out, letting you sit down. You moan and your mouth is ajar as you let your walls adjust. Jake pays close attention to your face, making sure not to hurt you.

“Ah…” your breathing is uneven and you just sit there, absorbing the feeling of his cock. Jake is whimpering out of control and his hands dig into your hips, sure to leave marks.

“You okay? Relax, it’ll make it easier,” Jake strokes your hair. “You’re doing such a good job for me,”

You take Jake’s advice and slowly bounce up and down.

“I wanna see your tits bounce, can you go that fast?” he looks down at your pussy and then back up into your eyes. You mewl and try to pick up the pace.

“Is- that good?” your eyes clench shut as you chase an orgasm on his dick. Jake lets out a smug grin while he watches your titties.

“Yeah, yeah that’s good,”

You yelp and your pussy clenches while a knot of pleasure forms in your stomach.

“I’m so- Jake!”

“Mmm hmm, yeah, I bet you are,” Jake smacks your breast.

You yell out as you clench and pulsate around him, while your arousal coats his balls. He groans and throws his head back, catching his breath.

You hop off his dick and fall down next to him. He immediately takes you in his arms and kisses you all over.

“That was- ah,” you say into his chest.

“Yeah it was, you did so good.” he rubs your back. “Let’s go to sleep now, hmm baby? Let me cuddle you to sleep, sweetheart,”

“Nuh uh!” you giggle. “You promised you’d eat me out!” you playfully bite his shoulder.

“Nah, you’re gonna have to practice riding first,” he says.

[softwiingz]

𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑭𝑰𝑽𝑬 ♥︎

𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲… mr. o’hara is always ready to help you when stuff gets too hard around the office, he’s just waiting for his sweet pup to return the favor…

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠!: o’hara. m, chubby! fem! reader ♡

𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝!: my first post >< very excited, might be a bit rusty but i hope you enjoy! please heed the content warnings -3- (power dynamics and abuse of power, groping, reader is a bit ditzy and clueless n is also wearing make up n a skirt!, spanking, sex in the work place, miguel calls reader puppy and other names such as sweetheart and princess, fingering, clothes ripping, minors this is not for you dni <3) i might make a part 2 we shall see :3 wc is a lil over 2k!!

the copier isn’t working again, your freshly manicured nail taps at the screen frantically as if that would make the gears start turning as they should within the machine, at least that’s how you think it should be. you have things to do, emails to write back to. but you’re stuck at the copier machine, the error button flashing a fluorescent red that just plucks your nerves. “come on, stupid thing!” you pout, ready to just give up and ask for help until you feel a presence approaching from behind, the familiar scent of musk with notes of blueberry becoming stronger and helping you pin point exactly who’s coming from behind.

“is everything alright here?” the man questions. miguel o’hara, business operations supervisor, your supervisor. his voice is a low, deep timbre that you could feel, startling the butterflies that rested within you, causing you to forget your initial problem. “um it’s the copier again… it’s never really liked me, always jamming up when i need to copy a few things it’s so-“ you take a minute to remember where you are “so very frustrating… mr. o’hara. i know you helped me before, do you think you could help me again? i promise i’ll remember next time.” your mascara coated lashes flutter as you peer up at him, waiting eagerly as always for him to save you.

he can’t help but chuckle to himself, a glimpse of his canine peeks through his smile as he starts to speak. “you’ll have to write this down, what if there’s a day where i can’t help you, hm?” he teases, there being a slight condescending tone that’s smothered in a sweetness you aren’t able to catch. you hang on to every word that leaves his lips, and he knows that. he revels in it actually, the way you nod and “uh huh” with every step or instruction he gives you, the way those sugary, plump lips part when the gears in your brain start to turn. the lost puppy trope suits you, he thinks to himself, it's rather amusing observing you try to navigate things just to turn around and ask for him to rescue you. mr. o’hara, what does this email mean? mr. o’hara, this report isn’t pulling up! could you take a look, please? it's the whine in your voice, the small whimper when you don’t get your way initially that sets him off in the best way possible.

after a few trial runs, the light of the copier flashes, indicating that it’s now back to it's normal functionings. it spits out your needed papers and you can’t help but express your happiness, gleefully cheering as sparkles waltz in your eyes “oh mr. o’hara you’re a life saver! thank you, thank you!” skipping away in your own little world you don’t feel the way your superior looks at you, observing the way your tight little skirt hugs your curves. delicious supple thighs pudging where the skirt ends, the slight jiggle of your ass that causes his cock to fatten, slacks growing uncomfortably tight.

he also can’t help but observe the way your other colleagues are looking at you. at his puppy, practically undressing you with their eyes and eye fucking you senseless. he can’t help the twitch in his eye, tension building in his jaw as it tightens and constricts with agitation. he’ll have to correct this somehow…

he can’t have this.

5:27pm

you stare at the 27 with anticipation, nails click clacking at the lettered keys as you hope for 5:30pm to hit. you can’t wait to go home to your kitty, pepper, to catch up on that one popular kdrama lyla recommended about the attorney, to have some sweets your neighbor baked for you yesterday! you just can’t wait to unwind and be in the comfort of your home, not at a stuffy poorly lit office, home.

5:29pm

you’re packing up your things and tidying up your scattered documents into neat piles for tomorrow, sending one last email before your inbox flashes, indicating an incoming message that could wait until tomorrow… that is until you read who sent the email.

inbox (1): miguel o’hara. and it’s marked with high importance…

it’s a little after 5:30pm, 5:36pm to be exact. there’s a silence and energy in the room that feels…different. usually the atmosphere here is normal, flashes of you peeking your head in to ask for help come to mind, his familiar smile greeting you. it’s not an uncomfortable feeling you’re experiencing, it’s just…different. it’s not until miguel starts to speak that you feel an abundance of heat ignite in your chest. “just to preference this, you aren’t in any kind of trouble, okay? i wanted to speak with you about one small little thing. is that okay?” you nod slowly, trying to think what you could have done to be called to his office.

he stands up from his desk, the chair legs scratching at the integrity of the wooden floor beneath. in his hand is a black, metal standard ruler, the ones you remember from elementary school. he walks over to you slowly, painfully slow, until he’s behind the chair you’re seated in. “m-mr. o’ha-“ you're cut off, his heavy calloused hands rest on your shoulders, taking in the way you jump slightly at his touch. “stand up for me?” he instructs in almost a whisper, tapping the ruler on the outer part of your right thigh. “oh! um, okay sir.” doing as you’re told like always, you rise from your seat, tugging at the hem of your skirt as to prevent miguel from seeing the baby blue lace underneath.

“you’re familiar with the dress code, correct?” he questions, his tone baritone as he steps closer, the ruler now placed at your thigh. miguel’s cologne has grown pungent now, his musky scent overwhelming your senses as you answer honestly. “um…a little. is it my skirt, mr. o’hara?” he quirks up a brow. you’re playing coy, knowing full well you’re in his office because of this little number you chose to wear this morning. “i thought wearing tights with it would make it more acceptable, m’sorry.” oh you’re sorry? he thought. his jaw clenches slightly as he focuses on the fullness of your hips, watching as your thighs rub together nervously in that little skirt. yeah, he wanted to see just how sorry you really were…

“m-mr. o’hara!”

you can’t really help the squeak that leaves your glossy lips, the whine of his name fattening miguel’s cock as you’re pushed over his desk, your breasts squished against the glossy wooden surface. you can’t see what he’s doing but you can feel him, the warm air that’s exhaled fanning against your ass, coarse hands kneading your doughy thighs. you aren’t able to see the hunger in this man’s eyes, pupils slightly blown as he takes in your sweet natural scent. “my my, this is a short skirt,” he tsks, reprimanding you condescendingly as his fingertips dimple your skin, small crescents making their mark. “go ahead and spread those legs for me, hm? show mr. o’hara just how sorry you are.”

you can’t help the tension that coils and contorts deep in your core, thighs hugging together as your ass squirms in the air. is this…allowed? what he’s doing? you know it’s not, this is definitely a fireable offense and a definite abuse of power. but…it felt good…the way he’s groping and grabbing at your ass, the pressure from the weight of his body on yours, the tight grip he had on your wrists moments ago. it’s why you’ve been hugging your legs together, trying to subside that want and desire that’s rapidly starting to awaken.

slowly your legs spread apart, aromas of your favorite body butter and sweet natural scent lure him to the soft, supple skin of your inner thighs. miguel swears he’s been granted the key to glory, your glory. “like this, mr. miguel?” god the way you mewl his name has him gripping at the fabric of your nylon tights, the threads ripping and snapping as he tears it from your shape. he palms at your ass, smacking it and watching as it jiggles. “mhm, just like that and keep them spread.” he commands in a deep growl like groan, earning a small whimper from you as you nod. you haven’t been touched like this in so long, your last fling barely able to make you wet let alone find your clit. but miguel has you writhing for his touch, your hips shifting in anticipation for what he’s going to do.

the calloused pads of his thumb caress the seat of your panties, toying with the damp stain slick with your arousal. “mm you were getting wet this whole time, sweetheart? should have said something and i would have taken care of this sooner.” you whine as his thumb presses into the lacey fabric, the pressure applied to your sensitive clit. the want and need turns into ache as he continues to play with your cunt, his thick fingers massaging and spreading your slick coated lips apart just to push them together again. his mouth latched on to your thigh, suckling and licking at the skin. you were soaking wet, practically dripping as miguel’s digits were saturated in your lust. “i’m sorry if i’m teasing, i’ve just dreamt of having the honor to make this sweet pussy drip for me. i know she needs a lot of attention, just like you, no?” he rasps breathlessly as he places a small kiss to your ass.

your fingers frantically pull the baby blue lace to the side, you’re embarrassed at just how soaked your panties were from just teasing, what were you gonna be like if this went any further? “please…no more teasing mr. miguel… i- i can’t take it anymore…” your voice was dripping with desperation as you looked over your shoulder, catching the hunger in miguel’s eyes through your peripheral.

you start to run your fingers through your folds slick with your sweetness, tapping at your buzzy clit before whimpering for your superior. “make me cum, sir…i need to…” before another word leaves your lips you feel two thick fingers prod at you before slowly delving into your sloppy heat. you can’t help but flutter around him as he starts to pump them in and out, curling his fingers and letting the pads of them massage the spongy rings of muscle sucking him in. your moans were like a symphony to miguel, the saccharine flutter of your cries for him were almost enough for him to stuff you full of his cock, pounding into you just as he’s imagined when fisting his cock to the thought of you. but for now he’ll have to settle.

his mouth latches onto your aching clit, letting the tip of his tongue work the sensitive bud as you wail from the stimulation. “oh! m-miguel i’m gonna! if you-!!” he doesn’t head your warnings as his tongue flicks at it, suckling as his fingers continue to pump you full. he almost dared to add a third. “if i what? tell me, princess,” he taunts, smacking your ass with the ruler and getting off to the way you clench around him with each impact. “fuck! i’m gonna-!” you wail, tears bubbling in your lash line as they trickle down the apples of your cheeks, muddied with mascara. your mind was hazy from the pleasure and pain, nothing but sweet babblings fell from your lips as miguel continued to toy with your pussy.

“i think she’s ready to cum, it’s what you wanted after all.” he sneers, his fingers brushed against a spot within you that sent you right over the edge, your legs beginning to shake uncontrollably as your pleasure reached the peak. miguel’s hand rubbed over the fullness of your ass, massaging the marks left from the impact of the ruler, even kissing a few. he pulled his fingers out of your dripping heat, a string of your slick connecting them to you until it dissipated. his finger were coated down to the knuckle, some of it daring to dribble down his forearm before he licks it away, savoring your flavor.

you were left in a daze, your mind still fuzzy as your cunt fluttered around nothing. you wished it didn’t have to end, the desire to be fucked dumb on his desk another want of yours. you try to voice that but talking isn’t coming to you easy right now, and miguel picks up on that. he shushes you before fixing your clothes and hair for you, wiping your face of smeared make up so that the evening cleaning staff doesn’t jump to accurate conclusions. “let’s get you home, then we can discuss… future mandatory meetings.” you can’t help but nod dumbly, to be expected of his sweet puppy, you hug onto his forearm while you remain in your dream like state, your mind clouded with bliss thanks to mr. o’hara’s help.

psst hey you! thank you for reading! if you have any slutty thoughts you wanna share, you’re welcome to come to my inbox so we can scream together! as always likes and reblogs are encouraged if you enjoyed! 🦋

[whxtedreams]

Chapter One: The Arrival

The Depths we Devour, a gothic horror detective!joel fic

Summary

Detective Miller arrives at the manor and learns that this case is a lot more complicated that he first thought. A father gone mad, the daughter stuck on the detectives mind.

Word Count: 8.1k

Tags: Joel POV, smoking, alcohol, joel miller is scared of rats, reader is referred to as the girl and she/her, reader has hair that can be braided and reaches her back, reader wears dresses, author! reader, joel miller has inappropriate thoughts about reader, jealous!joel (weak), protective!joel, joel calls reader sweetheart, soft touches. - as always, if i miss any let me know

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

The Detective

Day One

3:26pm

The afternoon sky glistens on the wet road, rain pelting on every surface the storm sees beneath it. Poor unfortunate animals scurry through the rattling grass desperate to find shelter from the harsh wind that gusts through the forest floors and the rain that forms small flowing rivers in the mud.

 The swift and nimble fox dashes across the road, its feet almost silent upon the hard pavement. The beam of light from oncoming traffic catches its eyes, causing the animal to pause in its erratic travels. It watches in terror as the death-machine races towards it, growing closer with each passing second. The car swerves, tires screeching as they slide on the wet, slick surface.

The fox's movement is sudden and brief, finally spurred into action only as the blaring horn of the car breaks its daze. Within mere seconds, it's back once again hidden from danger, as it sprints into the bushes.

The storm rages on, unrelenting in its intensity. Lightning flashes in the sky, brightening the world for a fraction of a second before fading once again. Thunder rolls across the sky, rumbling through the ground with each booming clap.

And yet, the car keeps moving.

The driver has somewhere to be. Someone to meet. Someone to find.

A crossroad lies ahead, the water having already claimed and devoured a large portion of the path to the left. The detective glances down at his car's navigation system, exhaling in relief as it directs him to take a right-hand turn instead.

He sits hunched over the wheel, a deep frown on his face as he focuses on the road ahead. The rain lashes at the windshield of his car, the windshield wipers working in overdrive to try and clear his line of vision.

The radio sputters, the crackle of static filling his ears. He flinches as his ears are subjected to the harsh sounds, grunting in annoyance at the abuse he's being forced to listen to. He takes a few attempts before managing to find the volume knob, fumbling for it as he continues to focus on the road. Once located, he turns it to zero, taking an audible sigh of relief as the silence returns.

He turns into a driveway, his car following the paved road as it slowly rolls to a stop outside an old manor. The imposing structure stands before him, the ancient architecture a stark contrast to the modern vehicle now resting beside it.

The detective half expects a vampire to turn into a bat and fly into the sky before his eyes. Or an old pipe organ, the deep sound to announce his arrival, like out of one of those old horror movies his daughter liked to watch.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters under his breath as the building comes into focus. The structure shines even in the dim light, the rain coating the exterior in a thin film of water. The dark grey concrete bricks stand out against the vibrant green surrounding foliage as the water runs down the exterior, dripping from the gutters onto the ground below.

He rummages through the paperwork on the passenger seat, his flask slipping from its spot and hitting the floor with a quiet thunk. He stops in his actions, his hands freezing on the paper as he stares down at the flask. Before he has a chance to reach for it, a loud rumble of thunder shakes the ground beneath the car, a flash of lightning illuminating the interior for just a split second.

He shakes his head, dismissing any thoughts of taking a sip of alcohol from his mind. Taking the printed-out email for the job, he reads over the details once again before exiting the car.

Dear Detective Miller.

I found myself reading an article about you in the paper the other week, the case you solved involving a missing child. The author wrote praises for your efforts, and I unfortunately need your expertise in the dire matter.

My father is a Mycologist, researching and experimenting with all sorts of fungi that peeks his interests. He’s been obsessing over a new discovery in the woods surrounding our manor, gone for days at a time but I’m afraid this is different. No one has heard from him in over a week as I write to you, and I am afraid something has happened to him.

I have contacted the local authorities, but they turned their back on my father, stating he’s just busy at work and he will turn up soon. But I know that not to be true. If he’s lost in his work, he always checks in with either myself or our staff as the woods around can be dangerous.

It’s been almost two weeks and it’s been radio silence.

Please, if you could find my father, I would be forever in your debt.

Joel lifts his eyes from the crumpled paper in his hands, staring up at the manor once more. "All this from just looking at mold and mushrooms?" he mutters to himself, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. With a sigh, he tosses the paper back onto the pile beside him and hunts for his lighter in his jacket pocket. Balancing a cigarette between his lips, he sparks the flame and takes a long drag of the nicotine before exhaling a puff of smoke into the car. “I’m in the wrong damn profession.”

He tucks the lighter back in his pocket as he kills the ignition, stuffing the keys into their rightful spot alongside the lighter. The nicotine surges through his body, the soothing sensation seemingly relaxing his bones as he leans back in his seat with a heavy sigh. He closes his eyes, allowing himself a moment of peace before he has to get to work.

He rolls his head to the side, taking in the sight of the fat raindrops smashing against the car's passenger window. The trees sway violently in the wind nearby, the weather conditions worsening with every passing second. He leans over the console, tugging on the glove box until it opens, ignoring the second fallen flask as he continues to dig through the paperwork. His fingers slip past the scattered pages and documents, ultimately gripping onto the handle of his gun.

The gun fits snugly into his shoulder holster, the weight of the weapon a constant and familiar sensation. He adjusts his jacket to cover the weapon once more, the holster hidden from view as he smooths his fingers through his hair. An attempt to fix his appearance that's ultimately hopeless in the face of the terrible weather outside.

Before exiting, he picks up his flash from the floor. Just in case, he tells himself.

He opens the car door with a soft, annoyed hiss, taking in the frosty wind that whooshes into the car. He tosses the cigarette from his mouth and into the mud, stomping on it for extra measure despite the fact the rain had already killed the heat the moment he opened the door.

Uncaring of the rain, the detective quickly jogs up the stairs and reaches the door. He knocks once, then waits patiently before knocking again. This time, he knocks with a bit more volume, hoping that their attention would be drawn to the fact that he had arrived.

The rain covers any sound coming from beyond the door, making listening in difficult. The detective grunts in annoyance, trying to wiggle the handle only to find out that the door is locked.

“Fucking great.” He mutters as he looks up at the sky, as if the storm will help him.

Joel jogs back down the stairs, his eyes catching sight of another set of dark green doors to his left. With a quick motion, he pushes the large, wooden doors open with his hands. A sound of wood against the concrete floor screeches as he manages to force the heavy doors open.

Joel's voice echoes through the darkened room as he steps inside, the sound of his footsteps crunching bits of the hay that coats the floor. "Hello?" he yells out into the empty space, hoping that someone else would respond. His hand continues to explore the area nearest to him, his search for a light switch failing. In a last attempt before completely giving up, he removes the flashlight attached to his holster and repeatedly hits it against the palm of his hand until it finally turns on. The beam of light illuminates the barn in front of him.

Joel startles at the loud, sudden noise of the door slamming behind him. "Fuuuuck me," he lets out a small huff of air, placing a hand over his heart as his breathing becomes quick and agitated.

He’s getting too old for this shit.

The light shines across empty stalls, the once-organized buckets having been knocked over and the scattered hay now covering the floor. Joel frowns at the sight of this mess, using his booted foot to push a large barrel to the side. The sudden movement of the barrel causes a mouse to squeal, dashing across the room after its hiding spot had been compromised.

Joel stumbles back, his yelp filling the room much louder than the small creature's. With a quick glance around, he sighs in relief as he thanks whatever gods there may be that his embarrassing moment was left unnoticed.

“Damn rats” he mutters.

The detective regains his composure, quickly exiting the room before he makes another embarrassing, albeit vocal, expression of his fright.

The flashlight flickers before eventually dying out as he steps into the hallway. Joel scolds himself for his oversight in forgetting to change the batteries, making a disgusted noise as he tosses the useless, flickering flashlight back onto the strap of his holster.

In the absence of any proper lighting, his hands guide him instead as he moves down the dark, eerie hallway. Flashes of lightning illuminate the area through dusty windows, giving brief glimpses of his surroundings as he passes. He reaches the end of the hallway, pushing open a door into a brightly lit room - a conservatory.

The plants here seem to have a mind of their own, growing wherever they may wish and creeping over the garden beds. The various plants spread out in untamed, wild ways, almost as if they were crawling along the ground. They have completely overtaken the statues within the area, their vines and leaves wrapping around the cracked statues, like a python sucking the life out of its prey.

He hears the faint, humming sound coming from deep in the room. His feet carry him across the vine-covered bricks with each step, the stems of the plants snapping under the pressure of his boots as he moves through the room. The rain continues to pelt down on the glass roof above, the constant sound of raindrops hitting the surface of the glass echoing through the room.  

He should probably call out, announce his presence to whoever or whatever it is that is humming. But, despite the fact he knows it is most likely the safest course of action, he finds himself entranced by the sound.

The massive tree dominates the corner of the conservatory, its thick trunk taking up the majority of the space as if it were demanding it. Its roots are thick, having already done their fair share of damage to the concrete path that surrounds it, tearing into the surface with reckless abandon. Joel carefully steps over a particularly large root as soon as he spots the end of a dress peeking out from around the side of the tree.

The humming is louder as he walks closer to the gigantic tree, the sound becoming even more beautiful as it mixes with the rain. He stops on the path, pausing to listen for several moments as he enjoys the melody and the ambiance that surrounds him.

He takes another step, a branch crunching under his boot.

The humming suddenly stops, interrupted by a startled gasp as the girl scrambles to her feet. She looks at the detective with wide, terrified eyes, her breath catching in her throat. The book she had been holding falls unceremoniously to the ground beside her, forgotten in her haste and fear. She stares at the detective, wide eyed like the fox he almost killed earlier.

They stare at each other, both wide eyed and frozen.

"Sorry, miss," he begins, his voice gentle as he attempts to puts her at ease. "Didn't mean to scare you," he assures her, shaking his head in genuine regret. He offers his hand for a handshake. "I'm Detective Miller," he introduces himself with a simple, respectful smile.

She relaxes at his reassurance, a warm smile settling on her face as she takes his hand into hers. Their hands fit together well, her hands being soft and delicate in his as he gives them a gentle shake.

“I’m awfully sorry sir, I guess the staff didn’t hear you. The storm is dreadfully loud.” As if to prove her point, thunder erupts through the room, shaking the ground beneath them slightly.

They both look up at the sky through the glass roof, a soft smile on her face.

He quickly lets go of her hand, allowing her to retrieve the book that she had dropped in fright. As she rises to her feet once more, her eyes move across his body, taking note of every little detail. He raises an eyebrow in response to her action, a curious and amused expression lighting his face as he watches her take him in.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re absolutely drenched. We’ll have to get you dry before I let you in the main house. Eliza will have your neck if you dirty her precious floors.”

He takes a moment to look down at his clothes as well, taking note of the way that the damp fabric drips onto the bricks beneath him, a small puddle slowly forming and slowly oozing its way through the cracks.

“Oh, right. Of course. Sorry.”

"Follow me," she says with a wave of her hand, causing him to trail behind her as he follows her closely. Her braided hair flows softly down her back, the delicate bow sitting unevenly at the end. It calls out to him, his hand twitching with an urge to reach out and straighten the ribbon. But, he refrains from doing so, realising the action would indeed be weird. He knows that.

She leads the detective through a door, stepping into a room that is completely void of any source of light until she pulls on a string that's dangling from the ceiling, a single bulb that dangles above. She chuckles at his expression of annoyance as he eyes the old light, frowning at the way it flickers as it sways.

Was there a string light in the stables?

"It's a rather old house," she says with just the smallest hint of amusement, gesturing around the room to make her point. "You're going to find it operates like one," she continues, her words proving to be true. She turns around gracefully, her dress swirls and his eyes follow the movement of her figure as she walks away.

He liked the way she called him detective.

He's been referred to as a detective countless time over decades on the job, however, something about the way she said it, the tone she used, and the slight glimpse of amusement that danced upon her features when she said it made him feel almost...flustered.

He follows her through the room and into the kitchen, his nostrils immediately assaulted by the aroma of home-cooked food as he walks through the doorway. The smell causes his stomach to rumble slightly, a reminder that he hasn't had a home-cooked meal in a while. Having lived off greasy fast food and diner meals for far too long, he finds it hard to recall the last time he has had a meal that wasn’t drenched in oil or salt.

Freshly baked bread and pastries lay unattended on the island in the middle of the room, their scent wafting through the air as the large room fills with the aroma of baked goods. A pot full of what he assumes to be pumpkin soup sits on the stove top, the heat from the pot making the liquid simmer softly as an appetizing smell wafts forth.

He was just about to reach for a croissant, his fingers just about to pluck it from its plate when her words stop him in his tracks. "Alexander is a wonderful cook, but I wouldn't touch his pastry if I were you," she says with a light chuckle, making him freeze. He then clenches his hand into a fist and lowers it back down to his side, his fingers curling against his palm.

She pushes the door open, guiding him inside a dark, dirty hallway. A thick veil of cobwebs has taken over the space between the ceiling and the wall, blanketing the area in a spidery web of filth. The girl pauses at the entrance to the laundry room, quickly ushering him in with a brief gesture.

The room features a mixture of modern and old forms of laundry, the contrast between the two creating a unique atmosphere. She pulls out a stool for him to sit upon in front of the lit fire, which provides a welcome warmth to the chilly air. He doesn't hesitate to do as he's directed, shrugging off the water-soaked jacket before she quickly drapes it over a rack beside the fire.

He takes his sodden shoes off as the water sloshes around inside. She grabs the boots from his hands, quickly emptying the accumulated water out into the sink before placing them in front of the fire to dry them out.

He settles in front of the warm flames, adjusting the way his damp socks are positioned to soak in the heat. However, he doesn't linger on that activity for too long. "So, your father is missing?" he asks, falling into his typical line of questioning.

She sighs and nods her head, the sudden movement causing her shoulders to slump. Sitting on the back of her heels, her pale-yellow dress falls to the dirty floor, collecting on the grungy tiles as she settles down in front of the fire herself.    

The detective watches the dirt from the grimy floors of the laundry room begin to pollute the pristine pale yellow of her dress, his frowning expression growing deeper at the sight. He stands from the stool and offers his hand to her. She tilts her head at him, a soft frown filling her features as she seemingly questions his actions. She does, however, take his hand without verbal questioning, allowing him to effortlessly lift her from the ground and gently guide her onto the stool. He then presses gently against her shoulders to encourage her to sit.

Joel doesn’t mind the dirty floor; he’s accustomed to it. But the girl? No, she deserves better.

He lowers himself to the ground, grunting as his knees crack from the act. He would have missed her giggle or smile; had he not been paying attention. It's this small noise that catches his attention, forcing him to look up at her with a faint, amused smile filling his expression.

 Too sweet, too innocent.

He rolls his sleeves up before leaning back on his hands, his knees bent as he looks up at her. "You mentioned in your email that your father isn't known for disappearing without any contact," he repeats, referring to the words she had used when requesting his assistance. "How sure are you that he's not just out of range or just busy?"

Her smile disappears and the detective finds himself mourning the loss, an upset frown replacing it. “He wouldn’t just leave me for this long, detective. Somethings not right. He’s been so obsessed with this place since we moved here not that long ago.”

She continues to fiddle with the hem of her dress as she keeps her gaze firmly down at the ground, her fingers playing with and gently twirling the fabric around her fingers. He catches himself, noticing his eyes trailing down her bare legs to her white frilly socks, and promptly scolds himself for such an action.

Too soft, too innocent.

Her voice becomes softer as she continues to speak, a hint of sorrow permeating throughout her tone. "I've been dishonest with you detective," she says, expressing her shame and her apology. "And I’m sorry, I truly am,” she adds on with an emphasis on her sincerity, making it clear that the words she speaks are a genuine admission of fault. He finds himself wanting to reach out to her, to run his hands down her arms and let her know that whatever it is she may be ashamed of, he can assure her he's done worse. Much worse.

"That's alright, sweetheart," he reassures her in a calm and honest tone, his voice oozing with a mixture of comfort and confidence as he speaks to her. "As long as you're honest with me now, I need to know everything if I'm going to bring your daddy home safe," he continues, making it clear that he needs all the information he can get if he's going to succeed in locating her missing father.    

She looks down at him, wide eyed and he feels as if he’s said something wrong.

“My father,” She corrects him before looking back down at her hands. “He hasn’t been the same since coming here. I’m afraid he’s gone mad, detective.” 

“Mad?”

“He’s delusional, erratic almost. He talks about some big science company wanting to take his research away. How he won’t let them. He talks about how people have tried to kill him and how he’s created monsters in the woods that shouldn’t be alive. It’s insane sir, there hasn’t been anyone on our land since we got here. Besides you, of course.”

The detective listens to her statement intently, rubbing his hand over his stubble and scratching it against his chin as he does so. A brief thought crosses his mind that perhaps he should have trimmed the stubble before traveling the four hours to reach this isolated location, but he quickly shoves that line of thought to the side as he focuses on the task at hand - locating the girl's, insane sounding father. 

“So, you think he’s running around in the forest naked, yelling at things that aren’t there?”

“No, of course not. He’s certainty clothed.” She stops, a wave of disgust covering her face. “Well, I hope so at least.”

A surprised chuckle escapes from him, the noise sounding more foreign to him than he realises as he's momentarily stunned by his own behaviour. The laugh seems to come from someplace deep within him, a forgotten aspect of his personality that seems to have disappeared along with most of his joy in life.

It's an unexpected, bittersweet surprise.

5:15pm

The manor is indeed far bigger than he would have suspected, as its winding, brightly lit corridors stretch on for what seems like miles, leading into rooms of various lengths and sizes. The lower, underground levels bear a stark contrast to the rest of the mansion, the lack of use evident in the dirty walls and the dust that has accumulated over time. The change in the appearance and level of cleanliness from one floor to the next hints at the lesser use the lower levels receive when compared to the upstairs.

His boots echo loudly on the clean tiles, each step he takes filling the space with the sound of his footsteps. His jacket is draped over his arm as he holds it tightly to his chest, keeping it closely to his body as he walks through the manor.

The girl leads him up the stairs and to her father's study, where she stops dead in her tracks upon entering. A surprised gasp escapes from her mouth as she covers it with her hand, shock, and surprise evident in her expression as she takes in the sight before her.

Without pause to consider his actions, his hand instinctively grasps her arm and tugs her behind him, his body reacting to the possibility of danger as his hand quickly reaches for his weapon. A deep scowl forms on his face as he swiftly surveys the room with his eyes in search of any potential threat. However, he finds the room to be completely devoid of danger, yet with a clear sight of destruction as it seems as if a tornado had swept through the room. The books and papers are scattered throughout, the furniture overturned as if someone were carelessly searching for something.

He steps over an overturned chair, his gun forgotten once more in his holster as he takes in the state of the room. The girl cautiously follows him through the room.

He watches with interest as she picks up a small statue and places it carefully back on the shelf. “I was in here yesterday; nothing was out of place.” She utters as she adjusts the statue on the shelf, stepping away once she’s satisfied.

Joel quickly turns his head to face the direction of a booming voice, the papers gripped tightly in his hands. He finds himself locked in a gaze with an older woman in her late sixties, her head topped with greying blond hair tied into a tight bun. She is clad in an apron tied around her waist, the fingers of one hand pointed directly at him as she points with disdain in her expression. "What do you think you're doing?" she questions loudly, her tone demanding as she expresses her dissatisfaction with the presence of a man she's unfamiliar with within the confines of the study.

The girl steps into view of the doorway, and for a moment, the woman's expression settles upon seeing her, seemingly softening her demeanour temporarily. However, her gaze settles back onto Joel in a moment, her glare quickly returning as her eyes study him.

"Did you do this?" she questions, her tone sharp as she places the blame on Joel without a hint of doubt in her voice. He lets out a quick scoff in response, shaking his head before returning his gaze to the desk and the small remnants that remain of the once elegant and put-together study.

"No, of course not, Eliza," the girl says, her voice softer and more subdued compared to the older woman. She attempts to take on a calming and reassuring demeanour in hopes of alleviating the older woman's clear anger at the situation.

Joel watches the scene play out in the corner of his eye as he flicks through papers on the desk, almost enjoying it.

"Why is this man here, what have you done?" Eliza's hushed, stern voice is aimed directly at the girl, who gazes upward at the older woman with a look of frustration and bewilderment in her eyes.

“I hired him.”

"Hired him?" the older woman scoffs, her tone dripping with a mixture of amusement and condescension as she regards the girl as if she were a child. "Why on earth would you hire him?" she questions, her voice carrying on that same attitude of dismissing the girl as if she were making a foolish decision.

“He’s been gone too long, something is wrong.”

“Oh, you foolish girl. Your father is just working, this isn’t one of your stupid little stories in your books. You can’t go hiring some lowlife detective because your father hasn’t talked to you in a few days.”

Her face drops as the words fall from the older woman's lips, her head lowering to the ground as the woman scolds her with a dismissive tone. Joel feels a brief flash of anger flare up within him as he watches the interaction and realises how the older woman is treating the girl. Without hesitation, he casts aside the papers he's holding and quickly traverses the distance between them, placing himself at the younger girl's side.

“Now, I might be some lowlife detective,” Joel grits as he approaches Eliza, unpleased by her tone. “But she has every right to be worried about her father. And from the state of this room alone, I think I’m right to believe her concern. And if you don’t believe her, I ought to believe you had something to do with his disappearance.”

His arm brushes against the girl's shoulder as he stands beside her and makes no move to step away from her. A soft smile forms on her face as she glances downward, her eyes locked on the clean tiles beneath their feet. With a loud scoff, Eliza shows her displeasure at the detective's words, the older woman evidently offended by his words.

"How dare you accuse me of such things!" she counters angrily, her hand rising to her heart with a sudden huff of air.

"Well then, I guess you'll leave us alone then as I look for her father, your boss' whereabouts then?" Joel interjects as he raises his eyebrows, almost daring the older woman to object or to protest his presence within the manor.

Eliza shoots a final hateful gaze at the girl before shaking her head with a hmph! as she leaves, refusing to engage further with the situation. Joel's irritation grows within him, but he manages to tamp down the urge to roll his eyes or to confront the older woman further, restraining himself. 

He glances down at the girl as she stands beside him, her head still lowered to the ground. His heart clenches and he stops himself from chasing the women and yelling at her, releasing his temper on her for treating her like that.

Instead, he reaches up with his hand, gently placing it beneath the girl's chin and lifting her head. Her watery eyes lock on his, their gazes becoming locked together as she meets his gaze, and he grits his teeth at the sight.

protectprotectprotectprotectprotect.

"Don't let her talk to you like that," he whispers softly, his voice barely audible as an urge to comfort the girl grows within him. His hand moves slowly as he cups the side of her face, his touch gentle and comforting as he caresses the girl's cheek with his thumb. The girl's breathing grows more laboured as a tear rolls down her face, her eyes closing as the emotional floodgate begins to give way.

His hand twitches slightly where it rests upon her cheek, and he frowns at the lone tear rolling down her cheek. Without warning, he pulls her into a small, comforting embrace, her cheek pressing against his chest as he gently massages the back of her head with one hand and rests the other upon her shoulder blades.

protectprotectprotectprotectprotect.

"I don't like people being upset with me," the young girl mumbles, her voice small and strained as her fingers grip firmly onto his shirt beside her face.

"Nahhhhh," he responds with a teasing tone, dragging it out as he smiles slightly. "Don't listen to her, she seems like a stuck-up bitch," His teasing words elicit a soft, quiet laugh from her. He watches her reaction with a smile, satisfied with her response. However, her mood dampens quickly, and a frown settles back onto her face as she pushes herself away from him.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," she quickly apologizes, gesturing towards Joel with a somewhat embarrassed and apologetic look. She quickly pulls her arms around her own body, closing herself off once more and practically clutching onto herself.

He scolds himself, mentally kicking himself. He shouldn't have touched her, shouldn’t have hugged her. She’s a client, a much younger client at that. But he can't help himself. There is something about her, something that draws him in and calls to him, a need to hold her close and protect her, a desire to never let go.

“No, No. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He raises his hands in defence before he sighs and lowers his hands to his hips. “I shouldn’t have done that. You were upset, I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry.”

If he knew what was good for him, he would get right back in his car and drive as far away as he possibly could, get away from this house and this girl and all the strange and unusual events which seemed bound to revolve around the house. And yet...the detective never did what was good for him.

So when she offers to show him the room he would be staying in with a kind gesture, he should have declined and given her a card for a detective much more qualified than him. He would have been better off finding another job, leaving her in better hands.

He follows her to his room.

6pm

Creamy pumpkin soup is placed in front of him, the thick and hearty, delicious-smelling bowl of soup setting his stomach rumbling. Thick, freshly sliced baked bread are stacked on a plate in the middle of the large dining room table. The smell alone causes him to practically drool as he takes in the sight before him.

Candles are lit along the sconces on the walls, providing a soft, dim light throughout the room, the atmosphere made more comforting as the storm rages outside.

He utters a quick thank you, giving a grateful nod towards the man who is pouring a glass of ice-cold water for him. He’s younger, maybe in his early thirties. His thick black curls dance on his head, his beard neatly trimmed as his dark green eyes shine in the candlelight. He’s wearing a dark blue apron, flour dusted on the material. The ice clanks lightly in the glass as he fills it, his movements efficient and precise as he places it in front of the detective before stepping away.

“I hope this is okay. If I had known we were having company, I would have asked for your preferences or any allergies.” The man moves swiftly to a cart at the end of the table, picking up a small plate littered with small slices of - what Joel assumes - different types of freshly made butter.

“This is more than okay, and no, no allergies.”

“Well, in that case detective, I’ll leave tomorrows menu in the kitchen in the adjacent room. If you have any requests, there’s a requests pad on the bench in there and I check that every morning. Little miss over here has requested French Toast for breakfast tomorrow, otherwise I normally tend to have free reign with the menu.” The man warmly smiles at the girl, his hand placing warmly upon her shoulder as she happily smiles back up at him. Joel feels a faint twinge of jealousy course through his veins as he watches the two of them, the girl's smile as genuine as the man’s.

Little miss.

When Joel notices the exchange between the man and the girl, he grinds his teeth slightly, trying to stave off the urge to say anything that he would regret in the heat of the moment. He does, however, glare into the man's head as he leans down to whisper in the girl's ear, his mouth moving too close to her ear for Joel's liking. The girl rolls her eyes with a small giggle, pushing him away with a smile, much to Joel's frustration.

Joel huffs, speaking up as he watches the two of them exchange another look. “I didn’t catch your name,” he says in a harsh, terse tone, and while his voice might have reflected a hint of annoyance, no one in their right mind could mistake that the detective was anything but annoyed in the situation.

“Alexander.” He nods back, his back straightening as he does so and his stance becoming more formal and proper. The detective notes the change in tone.

“And where can I find you, Alexander, If I have any questions?” The detective questions him, the man’s name like poison on his tongue.    

“Either in the downstairs kitchen or the gardens, sir.”

Joel nods, his hand smoothing over the napkin on the table before him, a slight fidget of annoyance from the exchange. He is attempting to regain his composure, if only to maintain the image of a proper detective and not the jealous and irritated man he had been moments before.

Alexander excuses himself and leaves the room, leaving Joel alone with the girl, who sits across from him. The two of them sit in the silence that follows for a few moments, the air and tension heavy.

“Alex is a wonderful chef,” she says with a cheerful smile, and Joel makes quick note of just how oblivious she is to his soured mood. He forces his expression to soften somewhat as he nods and offers a faint, polite smile in response.

She leans across the table, picking up a slice of bread from the pile that rests on the center of the table, and he follows her example, taking a slice of bread himself. As he feels the soft, fluffy texture of the bread, he pauses for a moment, he hasn’t had bread this fresh in years.

“Where is everyone? The staff? They don’t eat with you?” He asks as she spreads the flavoured butter on her bread.

She shrugs, dunking the slice of bread into her bowl of soup and taking a bite, the soft crunch of the bite sounding delicious and mouth-watering. She smiles as she chews, her lips curling into a faint, happy smile, her eyes closing as she seems to take enjoyment in the flavours of the meal before her. He watches her, his hand lingering just above the plate of delicious and perfectly made butter as he freezes in place, transfixed by the sight of her across the table, his gaze lingering upon her as he tries not to lose himself completely.

He blinks, shakes his head as he slides his knife through a thick, soft portion of the butter and spreads it on his bread, ignoring her completely. He does not wish to get distracted by her, does not wish to allow himself to get caught up in the moment and get lost in watching her.

As he takes his first bite, his eyes widen in surprise and he lets out a curse, sitting back in his chair as he lets out a soft, expletive-laced murmur in amazement. "Fucking hell," he mutters, his gaze glued to the bowl of soup in front of him as his mouth waters from the delicious creamy texture, trying to understand how something could taste so damn good, how he had been missing out on something as amazing as this.

She laughs, across the table and he looks back up at her. “I told you he’s an amazing chef.”  

“You eat like this every day?”

She nods, taking a sip of her water.

“Damn, sweetheart.”

He watches as her eyes widen before she relaxes, her reaction all but confirming his suspicion that the simple term of endearment flusters her. He watches her sink into her chair as she puts her cup down, and then picks up her spoon and resumes eating.

Sweetheart.

8:48pm

He spends the night in the study of Dr. Lewis, taking in his surroundings as he moves through the space, taking note of the countless papers and artifacts filling the room. However, upon searching the area, he comes up empty-handed, realising that whatever might have held the clue to her father’s mysterious disappearance was long gone, most likely alongside the individual who broke into the study.

What he does find, he should have put back and not read. The locks on the filing cabinets are broken, so he feels better about not breaking into the files. Although if he thinks about it, he still is.   

Her name is at the top of the document he's holding, and he pauses, his curiosity overcoming any reservation he might have held. He glances behind him and sees that the room is empty, that he is alone with no risk of getting caught. With that reassurance, he begins to read, feeling as if he is delving into forbidden knowledge.

He learns her age, a young twenty-two that makes his old forty-four bones ache. He skims past her brief description and head-shot photo, realising quickly what he’s reading is a copy of her own authors blurb he would find at a back of a novel.

She’s an author?  

“Your silly little stories” echoes in his head and he grits his teeth in anger, realising the woman was scrutinizing her own books she’s written, and he shakes his head as he puts the paper back and slams the drawer.

10:04pm

The detective grumbles as he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, settling into the armchair in his room. A glass of dark whiskey sits on the small side table before him, and a lit cigarette sits pinched between his fingers. He takes a slow, deep drag of the cigarette, pulling the smoke into his lungs, exhaling slowly through his nostrils as he lets his mind wander, trying to sort out all the conflicting and confusing thoughts that were running through his mind right now.

The window is cracked open, letting fresh air into the room as he exhales smoke into the room, the rain still falling from the night sky in a steady downpour. He takes another drag from his cigarette and settles back in his chair, his mind wandering as he watches the curtains flow in the breeze, raindrops sliding down the windowpane to hit the concrete outside.

His shoulder holster is hung on the back of the desk chair, the gun secured in the bedside table next to the bed. His white sleeves rolled up to his elbows, leaving the forearms exposed as he takes a drag from his cigarette and his gaze drifts back out to the window. His shoes are placed neatly by the door, his knees spread as he sinks into the chair.

The girl. The damn girl, she's all he can think about. She keeps entering his mind every time he tries to focus on the case, the thought of her distracting him from his duties. He knows he's here for a reason, he's aware that he has something he has to do- someone to find. But he can't stop thinking about her, keep getting lost in the thought of her. He's supposed to keep his mind on the job here, but she keeps slipping in, forcing her way into his train of thought, and distracting him from his purpose.

He closes his eyes, doing his best to think about her father instead, the case.

Last seen? Tuesday morning two weeks ago at the breakfast table. Happy, normal self. 

Last contacted? Wednesday night, supposedly five miles west of the manor in a small underground cave he’s been working out of. Short tempered, not his normal self.

His study? Ransacked. Did someone break in? Was it one of the staff? Was it Dr. Lewis himself? The girl mentioned she had been in there the day prior, nothing amiss. They would have been loud from the state of the furniture tossed around. How did no one hear it happen?   

The housekeeper seemed very opposed to him being here, he’ll have to keep an eye on her. For the case of course, not to make sure she’s treating the girl right. For the case.

The chef, as much as he wants to throw the man out, cooking seems to take up most of his time. Still, he’ll be keeping a very close eye on him. For the case.

She had also mentioned a grounds keeper that also lives in the manor, yet the detective had seen so signs of the woman she had mentioned. He’ll have to track her down tomorrow.

He hears a soft knock on his door and, with a quick glance towards the door, he calls out, "Come in." The door opens slowly as he watches it, his head tilting slightly to the side with curiosity when the door begins to creep open, the dim light from the hallway spilling into the room.

He takes the cigarette still between his lips, extinguishing it in the ashtray on the table beside him, his body tensing as he does so, the small moment of relief he got from inhaling the smoke gone now, replaced with a sense of restlessness.

His hands grip onto the arms of the chair as he watches her enter the room. She’s dressed in a pale blue set of pyjamas with small rabbits, the long pants and button-up shirt making her look quite adorable. Her once braided hair was now loose and untidy, the strands falling against her face and her neck. It takes everything in him to not stand from the chair and throw her on his bed-

"Thought you might like some cookies, they're fresh out of the oven." Her voice is faint, almost shy, and her smile follows suit, causing his eyes to drift downward to the plate of thick chocolate chip cookies she is clutching close to her chest. His gaze moves beyond the cookies to the glass of milk she is holding in one of her hands, his throat growing tight.

“Alexander make them?” He asks and she shakes her head.

“You then?”

She shrugs, a bashful look on her face, as she avoids his gaze and looks around the room as if she's never seen it before.

"Sure, I'll have one sweetheart," he sighs with a slight smile, lifting a hand from the chair and reaching out, motioning her to move closer. He wants her closer, wants her to sit next to him or perhaps even on his lap-

Her closeness is almost intoxicating as he takes a cookie from the plate, taking note of how warm and soft they are, of how the chocolate melts on his fingers. His eyes lock on hers as he takes a bite, his eyebrows furrowing as the sweet mix of chocolate melts on his tongue. A soft, content moan rumbles in his chest as he savours the taste, taking a larger bite from the cookie, he watches as her breath hitches.

“You really make these?” He asks.

She nods softly, her eyes glued to his.

Fuck it.

His hand is slow as it reaches out, as if he is unsure of what he is doing or if he should even do it at all. The fabric of her shirt is smooth on his fingers, soft under the feel of his hand as he places his hand on her hip and gently tugs, feeling her step closer to him and position herself between his spread legs, her shins against the chair. His eyes lock on hers as their bodies are suddenly so close.

“I…” she begins, her voice stuttering as she finds her words hard to come by. She glances down at his hand, which traces her hip slowly and delicately, his fingers lightly pressing into the soft fabric of her shirt.

"Hmm?" he hums in response, his eyes following as his thumb moves the shirt, exposing her delicate, soft skin as the tip of his fingers trail across her hip.

Softsoftsoftsoftsoft.

Her eyes widen as his fingers graze her skin, her body reacting in surprise as his fingers move over her skin. She gasps, quickly taking a step back from him, the unexpected movement sloshing the milk in her glass as she places the plate on the table beside him with the milk, their moment of intimacy cut short before he lowers his hand back to the armrest, watching as she settles herself at a distance.

"I hope you like them," she rushes her words with a faint smile, before she leaves the room, closing the door behind her. The suddenness of her leaving makes his jaw clench, his body tense as he stares at the closed door, the sound of her footsteps as she walks away from him the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

He looks over at the cookies, picking one up and taking another bite.

Sweet, soft, delicate, warm - just like her.

His eyes shift from the glass of milk to the untouched whiskey as he takes in the sudden shift in the air, trying to regain his composure. His hand reaches out for the glass of whiskey, drinking it in one go, the warmth of the alcohol burning down his throat as he lets out a sigh, trying to take his mind off her.

Click here for Chapter Two

Notes

so i got this idea after playing Alone in the Dark and getting into a resi evil playthrough. So if you see any similarities or themes, that's why. Also stemed from that joel mod in resi 4 in the chain scene. if you know- you know. (im feral over it) tbh i just needed to write detective joel. also this is just chapter one, it will be a POV switch and there will also be a reader POV

If you want to be tagged, please comment on the masterlist for this series and I will add you. If you want to be taken off, please DM so i don't miss your request.

Every comment, like and reblog means the world to me. please let me know your thoughts about this, i want to ramble about this story so much.

[nekassvariigs]

"This one's reserved"

SFW , Fluff.

crocodile x reader

You always wondered why he never put rings on that finger, he'd always wear the flashiest diamonds and most intricate exspensive golds on his hands however solely refused to take up space on his hand.

He likes looking exspensive so why didnt he add another?

"Could it be?" The thought flashed your mind. Maybe he leaves it bare because hes reserving it for a wedding ring.. You thought.

Its the right hand and the right finger is he really that type of man? To hold him in high enough proper standarts to avoid using jewlery for that purpose alone. The thought made you blush a little.

"How modest of him.." you giggled.

"What is?" A voice from the shadows erupted, gleaming brown eyes reflecting sunlight.

"Oh nothing.." you kept smiling.

"Go on i'm waiting." He waited, stepping out of the shadows he leaned back in his chair white smoke lingering from his cigar.

"I don't think youre interested in old fashion modesty, are you?" You leaned on the table beside him scooting over some of his papers.

"Who knows, is this the reason youre acting like a school girl?" His answer was as dry as sand.

"Not really no." You lied looking at the way he puffed his cigar. Every finger coated in gold except one huh.

"In any case get off the table i have work to do." He demanded making you push yourself off the wodden desk.

Not to assume but was he avoiding your questioning?

You smiled to yourself for the last time nearing his door until you stopped. He didnt ask you to leave like he usually does, you dared to test your limits trying to overstay your welcome you headed for the large bookshelf grabbing out a book.

Crocodiles eyes followed you slowly watching what youre doing, not like he cared but somehow it was nice to have company for once. He thought.

You knew how dismissive and heardheaded this man was, how little he trusted those around him and not to mention how hard was it to even begin to make him talk to you like two proper adults not wanting to kill eachother.

You flipped the book on its back reading the introduction of it then you pried open the first page starting to read.

A while passed eventually Crocodile butted out his cigar cutting it with a neat machine for another use.

Some time passed as you were now on the fiftieth page of the book enticed in the story it told, until you looked over his direction. He was sitting silently filing out paperwork ,somehow he looked a little at peace, not guarded a bit relaxed. It was a refershing sight.

You gently smiled at the view and with a poof your book came to a close. You didnt want to disturb him so you got up quietly putting the book back ,your feet nearing the door out of his office.

In the back of your head you could feel a gaze, he was eyeing you again. The question seemed to bother him a little.

You opened the door and before he got to annoy you more with his dry and uninformative answers you headed out.

You made your way to the kitchen many floors below his office, asking the chefs at his casino for some hot water and tea.

"Whats the occasion las'?" The cook asked unusual of you to order anything here.

"Oh you know, showing some courtesy to the big bad man."

"Hmm i see, take this in that case.

He offered you a small bag filled with crumpled up leaves no doubt tea, with a bit of a crunch you opened it, nose filling with the scent of ginger and florals.

"Do you mind if i get some utensils and hot water with it?"

"Not at all, here you go kid." the man replied offering you a nice tray with some sugar lemon and a tiny flower in an even tinier vase.

"How cute.." you observed the little flower.

"Think he's the type to care for flowers?"

"Dont think so, but if you are keep the water changed every few days, should bloom beautifully." he added trying not to talk about his boss all too much.

The flower was maybe a bit bigger than a timy rock, a very floral white it had for petals, you wanted to nurture it and see it bloom.

Making your way back into his office you put down the tray on the book-table the tiny flower dangling in the middle of it.

"Care for some tea?" You offered politley. Hearing nothing.

Back to his old self again?

Crocodile was so much in the zone he actually didnt even notice you entering as this was a very important contract he had to decide on, he was wondering about expanding the casino buisness for a while now however not in the same town or country.

You poured yourself two cups of tea the aroma of ginger filling the air around you. You placed a few sliced of lemon on the side of the cupholder and a pair of sugar cubes, not knowing how he likes his tea you prepared for the occasion anyway.

"Thanks." He kept reading the contract.

You paused for a second, giving the authorative male a quick glance, he wasn't even focused on his surroundings he spaced out so much that he of all people thanked for tea from you.

You slightly chuckled daring to press your hand against his shoulder before walking off a second time.

He felt the warmth on his side however still too distracted with the contract to care.

"In order of offering our land in the country of-" he stopped focusing. He had been reading far too much and all these logistics were making his brain aggitated. He lit the cigar taking the cup in hand didnt bother with sugar or lemon. He admired the taste afterall he picked it for the mènu.

"I wouldnt call it modesty," He exhaled a cloud of weak smoke, "This one's reserved for something better than gaudy jewelry."

"Theres something better than gold for you?" you piqued not expecting him to start talking about feelings what so ever.

"Mm." his voice rumbled deep in his chest, it was interesting how little yet how much he can exspose you to his inner world.

You smiled understandingly, "Cheers to that." You drank in odd silence, Crocodile held something back that day.

- 5 days later -

You had taken care of the flower everyday watering it putting it in shade and in the sun making sure to relish the hard work and consistency you gave it.

Ah if only work could be this easy.

Thankfully your errands dropped before you had the chance to start them, you didnt ask about it either, happily taking the day off.

It was around midday, you were busy continuing the book and all of a sudden the sound of metal on wood alerted you, something fell..

You got up to check, still rolling right under the beautifully bloomed flower layed a slim gold ring.

Your eyes wide as how it got in the room in the first place you picked it up setting it on your finger for experimentation. It fit at best your middle finger however once switching one over it slided on perfectly not willing to budge.

"Hmm, this is nice." you liked how it looked, chique but extrordinary something about it made you like it more and more.

Few knocks and no wait for an answer the door opened the tall figure welcoming himself in.

"Anything wrong?" you asked him.

"No, simply sweeping the perimiter, i seem to have lost something." he looked at you.

"?" you stared stupidly at him.

"Maybe it was this?" You showed you hand to him the golden ring sitting on your ring finger perfectly.

"Got married or are you just bragging?"

Your face flushed. "W-What neither i just found this thing in my room."

He hummed staring at you, hand reaching for his cigar you noticed the spot on his hand that was empty a few days before was now enticed in a simple thick wedding band.

"Youre joking right?" you were shocked.

"What."

"Well hello something better than gold? but its there anyway."

"It's different." He calmly stated taking your hand in his, he kissed your knuckle leaving you speachless.

"This one is for you and me."

[shu-box-puns]

I never would have given you to them; not for anything (Tsu'tey x Reader)

Last Chapter <- Part 4 -> Next Chapter

If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!

Summary: The memory hurts, but does you no harm.

Word Count: 8,978

Reader uses they/them pronouns.

With every room, Tsu’tey was shown a snippet of the past. 

Some things he remembered, and others, he knew, belonged to the mind he was currently trespassing in. In all of them, he reached out. And in all of them, his hand caused their disappearance.

By the third room, Tsu’tey knew what Eywa was trying to tell him. He finally understood, but the torment continued regardless.

Now, he found himself back in Hell’s Gate, crouched awkwardly in a laboratory that was not built for someone of his height. Link units lined the far walls, whilst military personnel manned the machines instead of the usual white lab-coated scientists. 

The room was teaming with yet more military people. All in uniformed lines, waiting to be called up.

One by one, Tsu’tey observed as important looking men and women stepped up to empty link units with papers in hand. Predictably, they would hand the papers to the officer manning the machines, who checked it over before motioning for them to climb into the link units. They laid down, and the lids would close. 

Tsu’tey watched from the sidelines, feeling drained and weary. 

Out of nowhere, he spotted his human mate in one of the far lines. They held their papers and chin high, eyes burning as they had been in that very first corridor, although the rage tinting this memory was significantly more subdued, as if it had had plenty of time to stew and calm. Carefully, Tsu’tey rounded the room to approach them, watching as they stepped up to the link unit when their name was called. They were all business now, following orders as they climbed into the unit and laid down, falling still as they allowed the lid to be closed on them.

Curious, Tsu’tey approached. He had witnessed the scientists linking up to their avatars once or twice, and knew they would lay in these pods for hours at a time, before emerging sweaty and exhausted, but beaming every time. These military people did not emerge smiling. They hauled themselves out of the link units with scowls and menacing rolls of their shoulders. They oozed aggression and confidence, and it made the back of Tsu’tey neck itch. 

It made him want to grab his mate and drag them out of this horrible prison. Back out into the open forests of Pandora, where the enemy was securely out of sight and he had the upper hand. Of course, he could not do that here. He was trapped within a memory, still struggling to find the real recom, whilst his family guarded his unconscious body. 

His attention was drawn back to the link unit as it beeped and clicked open. Instinctively, he stepped back, expecting his mate or perhaps their recom form to come rolling out. Instead, the lid swung up and Tsu’tey found himself looking down into a room. The link bed had hollowed out and left behind an opening barely big enough for him to slip through.

Lips tightening, Tsu’tey glanced back up to the room and realised all the doors had disappeared. There were only windows that peered out into the corridors beyond the link room. Clearly, there was only one place for him to go.

Sighing tiredly, Tsu’tey readied himself. No one glanced his way as he approached the unit. No one seemed to hear the metal squeak under his weight as he sat on the lip and swung his feet to dangle down into the hole nestled within. Tsu’tey went completely unobserved as he shuffled forward and dropped through the opening into the room below. 

The ceiling closed up behind him, sealing him in the second room. Swallowing down the immediate panic at being trapped, Tsu’tey righted himself and forced himself to take in his surroundings. 

The room was small, barely the size of his tent back in High Camp, with tall, blinding white walls and a high ceiling. The air smelt stale. Sterile and unnaturally clean. As if the room hadn’t been aired for several years. Tucked against the far wall was a gurney big enough for an avatar to lay down on, whilst the walls directly opposite consisted of ceiling to floor one way mirrors that gave the illusion of the room being bigger than it was. Absently, Tsu’tey realised he didn’t need to crouch in here.

Straightening, he took a tentative step deeper into the room, only for paper to crinkle underfoot. He paused, lifting his foot to find those same papers everyone had been holding upstairs, littered across the spotless floor. They had been ripped up and left to float down in disorganised clusters. Every now and again, he caught sight of blue font, but found himself unable to read it.

In the far corner, tucked behind the gurney, someone sniffed wetly. 

Tsu’tey’s ears pricked as his head snapped up. Quiet shuffling suggested someone was curling in tighter on themselves. Tsu’tey wasn’t sure whether it was the lack of scent in the air that made him nauseous, or if it was the thought of finding another broken phantom tucked in that corner. 

Tentatively, he rounded the gurney, minding to keep a polite distance regardless of who he found seeking refuge behind it. Slowly, a shoe came into view, then a leg, both of which were swiftly yanked backwards and out of sight.

Amused, Tsu’tey huffed slightly and took another step. Bit by bit, he found his human mate curled up in the corner, quivering as they tucked themself up small. Their eyes watched him wearily, as Tsu’tey looked back with curiosity. 

That was new. Tsu’tey observed, holding their unsteady gaze. The others hadn’t noticed him until the memory drew to a close. 

Neither had they appeared so small. Of course, Tsu’tey was not surprised by the size difference, he vividly recalled how tall they had stood beside him. But here, there was something different. Something missing. As if someone had reached in and removed their spine, leaving their body to crumble without the support, curled in small and vulnerable. 

He also noticed the lack of feeling in this memory. The other phantoms had all portrayed grief or rage or regret, this one just looked tired.

“What do you want?” They croaked, their voice sounding as if it hadn’t been used in quite some time. Privately, Tsu’tey was impressed by how they managed to keep it somewhat steady, despite the lines of exhaustion carved into them. He noted that they were clothed in a simple tank top and cargo pants, the equivalent of the recom’s attire when they had been dragged into his tent.

How intriguing. Tsu’tey tilted his head, knowing that his ears were fanning wide in interest. His mate glanced from them to his face, and then checked what his tail was doing. That helped him figure out vaguely when this memory was, since they didn’t appear to be afraid of him at all, just cautious. 

“I was looking for you.” Tsu’tey replied honestly, his English thick on his tongue but still understandable. 

Their expression did not change. The exhaustion remaining the most prominent emotion on their face.

“Did you break in here to kill me?” They asked him. 

Tsu’tey felt his ears fall at the accusation. His throat was suddenly tight as he held up his empty hands and wiggled his fingers to emphasise that he came unarmed. Their expression did not hint to relief.

“Guess not.” They sighed, almost sounding disappointed.

For a long, drawn out moment, they simply looked at him. Watching. Calculating. No doubt drinking in his differences from the Tsu’tey at the time of this memory. And in return, Tsu’tey looked right back, his eyes flicking from their attire, to their face and then back again. Scrambling for clues or hidden meanings. In the other memories, he had been mostly an observer, with hardly anyone noticing him until the scene neared its end. And now that he had been addressed and seen so thoroughly, he found himself thrown off.

The human did not blink as Tsu’tey stared. They didn’t do a lot of anything really, other than breathe and watch him right back. It unnerved him enough that he had to look away first. 

Instead, he decided to take in his surroundings once more. Perhaps an exit, or a face behind the mirrors which would allow him a greater understanding of what exactly he was supposed to be doing here.

Instead, he noticed a holopad discarded near the head of the gurney, which he somehow hadn’t noticed upon dropping in through the ceiling. Or perhaps, it hadn’t been there to begin with. In this weird place between consciousness and reality, Tsu’tey had found that objects tended to appear and disappear on a whim with no rhyme or reason to it. As such, he wasn’t overly surprised to discover that the holopad was displaying a picture of his human mate. 

In the video, they were sat in the link room upstairs, their mouth frozen mid-word due to how the video had been paused. But he noted that they were still dressed in their usual military attire, with their beaded necklace barely visible above the collar.

“They had all of us film those.” His mate explained absently, “even though there wasn’t a guarantee they’d even use our file for the programme. I just did it for the information.” “Your file?” Tsu’tey pried, his eyes flickering back to them only to be guided downwards when they motioned to the paper confetti strewn across the floor. “Ah.” 

With a deep, steadying breath, they continued to explain. “The company didn’t use all of us. Just a select few of their favourites or most competent. Somehow, I must have convinced them I’m trustworthy.” They laughed dryly, “how though is fucking beyond me. I’m fucking terrible at this.”

If Tsu’tey weren’t so tired, he might have contradicted them. Afterall, they had been offering up information for weeks before the RDA had decided to make a move, and even then, it hadn’t been because of them. Instead, his mind faltered at the new information. 

It hadn’t even occurred to him that the demons had had plenty of sky people memories lined up in preparation for their unnatural experiment. It hadn’t crossed his mind that there had been a chance that his mate wouldn’t have been one of them. The idea that the last few days had only occurred because of coincidence stumped him. If anything had been different, then his mate would still be resting, still be buried in the Wells of Souls, but instead, they were here. And he had no idea how they felt about that.

“You are a convincing ally.” Tsu’tey said instead, shoving all of his panic down to ensure that his voice came out smooth. “People want to trust you.”

They laughed with no humour. “Must not have carried over.” 

Tsu’tey frowned. Something in the back of his mind flickered back to life, letting him know that this interaction was not turning out like the others.

“God, what a mess.” His mate continued, a small, bitter chuckle slipping out of them. “Should have just stayed dead honestly.” They continued to say, making Tsu’tey’s stomach go queasy with unease. 

He turned back to them, no longer surprised to find the recom body curled up in the corner instead of their human form. The shifts had happened randomly within every room, even as the recom’s personality and decisions had remained consistent. “Would’ve saved you all a shit tonne of trouble.”

Tsu’tey looked at them now. Really looked at them. At the distant glint in their half-lidded eyes, the droop of their ears, the slump of their shoulders. How they were leaning heavily against the wall, loosely holding their knees. All the fight seemed to have seeped out of them, and somehow, that was more terrifying than any of the fury or desperation from earlier memories. 

“You don’t mean that.” Tsu’tey hissed, his voice tight. His mate refused to look at him now, all curled in on themselves in the corner so that Tsu’tey wouldn’t be able to reach them unless he moved the gurney to the side. “Please tell me you don’t mean that.” He sounded desperate, even to his own ears.

Their tail lightly tapped the floor. Once. Pause. Twice. Another pause. 

“It would have been easier though, wouldn’t it?”

Their tail tapped again.

“Perhaps.” Tsu’tey agreed hesitantly. “But you don’t say things like that. You’ve never said things like that!”

The comparison struck a nerve. “And look where that’s got me!” They snapped back, eyes jumping to find his. Their lip curled up into the beginning of a snarl. “Alone! Again!” 

“You’re not alon-”

And it were as if he had found a loose thread in a loom and tugged with all his might. Before his eyes, the recom unravelled. Any calm, any hint of control they were harbouring, abruptly shattered as they snapped. “Cut the crap, Tsu’tey!” They snarled, a growl slipping into their voice now. The way their face twisted was like no expression Tsu’tey had ever seen on them before. “I betrayed the RDA, again. The first fucking chance I got. And somehow Quaritch knows now and he’ll stop at nothing to kill me. The clan is,” they swallowed painfully, “different. But what the hell was I expecting? It’s been fifteen years, of COURSE it’s different.” They were breathing fast now, their previous weariness at Tsu’tey’s presence having been completely swept away. “And I have a son. We have a son!”

They threw themselves forward, legs crossing as their elbows slammed down onto their knees. They buried their face into their hands, ears swivelling with the sheer shock of it all. “How the hell did I end up with a kid? I don’t even remember adopting him, but fuck, I know I loved him. I had it so good, and now, it’s gone! We had everything! And I don’t fucking remember any of it!”

Tsu’tey was left speechless once again as the recom curled in on themself, dry heaves making their back jump. “It’s all gone.” They repeated brokenly. 

Tsu’tey’s eyes widened as he watched them break down. Their sobs were deep, shuddering things, heavy and heart wrenching. It made him want to rush forward and scoop them up in his arms. To hold them close and shield them from the world with his much larger body until they felt whole again. He wanted to smooth down their hair, and whisper meaningless reassurance as he held them tight. But most of all, he wanted the tears to stop. It was like an itch he couldn’t reach. A burning need to soothe their pain. Rage, he could deal with. Regret, he could appease. But this, this grief was raw and painfully fresh.

Hesitantly, Tsu’tey reached out, but stopped himself. 

How dare he attempt to wipe away the evidence of their sorrow, when he had had a hand in placing it there. How dare he want to offer words of comfort, when he had tried to kill them before. 

Tsu’tey’s throat was tight as he cursed himself for not reacting differently. For not listening the first time round and avoiding this entire mess. Maybe, in another universe, it wouldn’t have been his fault they were here, injured and alone in the forest with only children for company. 

So he just stood there, frozen and helpless, waiting for those sobs to subside on their own, his hand still outstretched. Tsu’tey vowed to himself that for as long as he should live, he would offer them a better life than the one that had been stolen. 

It took several, long minutes for them to calm themselves. With a snivel, they rubbed harshly at the skin beneath their eyes. Clearly, they had needed it. 

“Spider watches your old security logs.” Tsu’tey found himself offering, noting in his peripheral, how the recom stilled at the wobble in his voice. “It helps him, to see you. To hear your voice. Sometimes I sit down and watch them with him.” “He’s a good kid.” The recom agreed bitterly, their voice muffled. “You did a good job with him.”

“Perhaps.” Tsu’tey agreed noncommittally. “But he is still young, and he has missed you, I have-”

Abruptly, they caught his gaze. Tsu’tey stopped talking.

Something in their expression had changed, although he couldn’t place it. Their response was simple but devastating. “It will pass.” 

The words startled him. 

His silence allowed his mate to keep talking, their eyes watery and distant. “Missing a ghost, will not help him to heal. You know this.”

Tsu’tey dropped to his knees. Panic clawed up the back of his throat as their expression shuttered, their emotions sweeping out of their features. Shutting him out. 

“No. Don’t. Pleas-” “I think it’s time to wash off your paint, Tsu’tey. Don’t you?” They said, “you need to stop punishing yourself. You can’t keep living like this.”

“How did you- how do-?” He cut himself off with a growl of frustration. At this point, the words were beyond him, the English growing awkward and clunky on his tongue. He slapped his tail against the floor in irritation.

Across from him, the recom managed to collect themselves. 

On legs that shook like a newborn pa’li, they stood, leaning heavily on the gurney as they went. They were tall, he realised, having only seen them kneeling and cowering before.

<”Where are you going?”> Tsu’tey demanded, panic creeping in now. He didn’t think he would survive another door. 

The recom paused. They made a point of surveying the blank walls, eyes squinting in the bright light. <”I can’t stay here.”> They told him, a mirror explanation to the one they had offered when Neytiri had them kneeling on Mo’at’s floor. <”And neither can you.”> They stood, and on shaky feet began walking towards a door that had appeared in the far wall of the door. Tsu’tey had been so focused on them, that he hadn’t even registered the familiar pull of the exit coming into being. 

He was on his feet in moments. Hands shaking as he watched before his eyes as the recom changed once more. Before his eyes, dirt and blood began dotting their blue skin, concealing their stripes under filth and injuries. He watched as makeshift leaf bandages wound around their torso, clinging tight to an injury Tsu’tey couldn’t see. They hunched over themselves, an arm winding around their stomach to add pressure.

They hobbled towards the door. Tsu’tey reached out. His long fingers shook as they hovered in midair. The recom froze when his searching hand found theirs. Large, terrified eyes caught Tsu’tey’s and held. Their wrist was warm in his grasp, solid and real, their pulse thundering under the thin skin. He waited. One breath. Two. They did not disappear.

The relief that flooded him almost had him falling to his knees.

<”Found you.”> 

The room shook. Lights flickered and the gurney slammed into the wall.

“Shit.” The recom breathed, the arm around their stomach shooting out to slam against the wall in an attempt to keep their footing. Tsu’tey’s grip on them turned supportive as he braced himself. Before the first had even subsided, a second, more insistent quake shook the room. Overhead, the lights swung on their wires as the sound of footsteps had stopped. “We have to get out of here!” They flicked their wrist, fingers twisting to grasp Tsu’tey’s wrist in return. Their grip was firm; unbreakable. “Come on!” They snarled, yanking with surprising strength and dragging the surprised hunter through the now open door.

>_<

Before he even opened his eyes, Tsu’tey knew he was resurfacing from the bond. That that last door had been the door.

Beyond the shield of his closed eyelids, he could hear disembodied voices yelling at one another. Tsu’tey huffed, typical of the Sully's, to devolve into a verbal sparring match the moment he was occupied. Lo’ak no doubt offered up a ridiculous plan that reminded Jake too much of his younger, wreckless self, and therefore sent the man into a panic. 

Blarily, Tsu’tey managed to peel his eyelids open, the sound of raised voices helping to rouse him. Gently, he reached down and disconnected from the recom, who was also beginning to come round. 

Before waking up properly, Tsu’tey wanted to take a moment to look them over. To study their face and begin to learn where the similarities began and where they ended. He wanted to start over, to soothe their fear and take them home, where they would be safe. Somewhere where he could apologise-

With a jarring suddenness, Tsu’tey realised Spider wasn’t at his side. 

Tearing his eyes from the recom, he wasted precious seconds glancing stupidly down at his empty side, where Spider’s warm little body was not curled up next to him. Nor was he there to bring Tsu’tey out of the bond with his voice. And that alone sent alarm zinging through Tsu’tey’s nerves. 

It was then that he realised he did not recognise all of the yelling voices.

His bow was in hand before he’d decided on reaching for it. 

“Don’t make any hasty decisions colonel.” Jake instructed from the foot of Eywa’s throne.

With a start, Tsu’tey realised that he was the only one still perched between the roots, whereas the rest of the Sully family minus Kiri stood on the moss, their knives drawn as Jake attempted to negotiate with yet another recom. A demon that Tsu’tey distantly recognised as the human that had died in the metal skeleton by the old compound. The one the soldiers addressed as ‘sir’. 

And the demon had Tsu’tey’s son by the hair, a knife pressed across the base of his throat. How he had managed it was beyond Tsu’tey, but he knew that the demon would pay for such a blatant show of disrespect.

At the demon’s back, on his right, stood a bald soldier. His hair shaved apart from the single braid that protected his kuru. This one had somehow gotten ahold of Kiri and was holding her in a similar stance. The sight stoked the flames of Tsu’tey’s rage.

Drawing himself up off of his knees and into a low crouch, Tsu’tey notched an arrow and aimed. The movement drew the enemy’s attention. And Tsu’tey hissed as his burning eyes met that of the demon and held his stare.

“Release!” He snarled, the English rusty and disjointed as it slid off his tongue, but he could tell the demon understood by the minute raising of his ears. 

The colonel looked him up and down, no doubt noting his assortment of bands and beads which symbolised his elevated status within the clan. Distantly, Tsu’tey wished he were upon a pa’li or something more threatening than the Great Mother’s throne, just so he could glare down at the demon with the silent threat of charging after him if he decided to run.

Predictably, the colonel did not back down.

“Tell your friend to stand down or I’m killing one of ‘em.” The demon ordered, eyes trained on Tsu’tey even though he was clearly talking to Jake, who stood the closest to the recom, with Neytiri practically glued to his side, her bow clenched tightly in one hand. 

“Tsu’tey.” The marine warned, chancing a glance over his shoulder to Tsu’tey, who’s tail writhed in rage. 

At his back, Neteyam shifted uneasily. His glare trained solely on the recoms, his knife held at a threatening angle, ready to jump in should the colonel take Jake’s distraction as an invitation.

Tsu’tey did not want to listen to reason. He was a predator. A father. Fuming and coiled to protect his own. 

He had wanted this demon dead before, for what he had done to HomeTree. For abandoning Spider in the first place. But now-

Tsu’tey tightened his arm, pulling the arrow back.

Now, he wanted to send this abomination back to Eywa personally. 

“Tsu’tey!” Jake repeated through gritted teeth.

<“He has my son!”> 

<”Not for long.”> Jake promised, in that infuriatingly determined way of his. <”Just let me…”> He trailed off, allowing the silence to speak for him. For several seconds, Tsu’tey held his posture, expression positively thunderous. The demon did not so much as flinch, not even when the hunter’s arms began aching from the strain of keeping the arrow notched. 

His eyes briefly flickered down to Spider who was holding perfectly still. Despite the fear in his expression, the boy did not shake. There was quiet defiance there, accompanied by a strong foundation of trust. Trust that Tsu’tey would make the correct decision to keep him safe. 

<”Olo’eyktan!”> Neytiri snapped, fixing him with her most lethal of looks. The one that implored him to think clearly. And reminded him that they were in the same boat.

Tsu’tey drew his arrow back an additional inch, debating, only to loosen the tension and allow the projectile to land uselessly in his hand. Even if he killed the colonel, the other would slit Kiri’s throat before he could ready a second arrow. It would be too risky. Not to mention, Neytiri would have his head if anything happened to Kiri on his watch.

The demon grinned in victory. 

“Good choice.” He praised condescendingly, to which Tsu’tey hissed harshly. “Now throw it down.” 

Tsu’tey glared right back, holding onto his bow defiantly. 

The demon did not take kindly to that and turned his fury on all of them. “All of you! Drop the knives!” Almost in unison, Spider and Kiri let out a cut off yelps as the knife at their throats were dug in.

Jake did as ordered. His shoulders impossibly tight as he allowed his knife to clatter to the floor. As some twisted reward, the demon holding Kiri, relieved some of the pressure on her neck, causing the teen to gasp in relief.

The action prompted Neytiri to follow suit. Her father’s bow was carefully lowered to the moss, her arrows tossed down with it. Tsu’tey noted how she didn’t bother reaching for the knife to do the same and simply allowed her hand to remain close to it, partly concealing the sheath from view. Under her breath, she snapped at Lo’ak and Neteyam to do the same, urging them in Na’vi to make a show of it. 

They did. 

Neytiri slid her eyes up Eywa’s throne to Tsu’tey, who immediately took notice of his friend’s expression. This was not surrender. Not in her eyes. Just a means at which to succeed. With a deep breath, Tsu’tey decided to perform like she expected and threw down his bow, which bounced off the roots and landed somewhere in the moss. Neytiri dipped her chin but said nothing more as she snapped her attention back to the grinning colonel.

“Good. Very good Sully.” The demon complimented, “it seems you’re much better at taking orders when it’s not just you. Noted.” He allowed his knife to stop cutting into Spider, and instead hoisted the blade higher, forcing the boy to lift his chin to avoid a new injury. Tsu’tey blood boiled at the thin line of red left behind in the blade’s wake. 

Behind the colonel, the demon holding Kiri shifted his stance. Knife still held firmly to the teen’s throat, the man reached for his belt and pulled out a pair of bright orange handcuffs. With a nod from his superior, he tossed them to Jake who fumbled to catch them. 

“Put the cuffs on Sully and no one has to get hurt.”

<”Jake-”> Neytiri spoke up, her hand falling to her mate’s wrist, trying to discourage any rash decisions, but she was powerless in the wake of his earnestness. 

<”Whatever happens, stay with the kids.”> He whispered, causing Neytiri’s expression to break wide open in panic. Jake smiled sadly, reaching up to place his hand over her’s and squeezed tightly. 

<”Do not be stupid.”> Neytiri hissed, before relenting and stepping back. She pulled Tuk with her, keeping her youngest daughter firmly shielded from view with her body. Lo’ak stepped back with her, flanking her side with a glare on his face that matched his father. 

Neteyam stayed with Jake. Furious. His upper lip was twitching constantly, a sure sign he was one bad move away from letting out a snarl and throwing caution to the wind. 

Jake drew himself up, inhaling deeply before returning his attention to the colonel. “Let up on some of that pressure.” He ordered smoothly, aiming for a tone that would guide but not offend. “The kid’s gonna pass out.”

The colonel’s face split into a wide grin, 

Whatever cutting response he was gearing up to throw back, however, never reached Tsu’tey’s ears, as he was distracted by movement in the corner of his eye. Glancing down, he startled as his mate finally began moving. Up until this point, they had been entirely motionless, as if caught in a pleasant slumber. But now, they were shifting and quietly groaning.

With blurry eyes and jerky movements, they somehow hauled their battered body up into a sitting position, whilst Tsu’tey stared dumbly. The conversation on the moss had also fallen quiet at the introduction of yet another player in the game. <”Zaza-”> Spider whispered softly, before biting off a wince as the knife at his throat dug in to silence him.

The name caused the recom’s ears to flick up in recognition. 

Rubbing at their temple, they struggled to get their feet under them. They were still mightily unsteady from the blood loss, so much so that Tsu’tey couldn’t stop himself from stepping forward to offer a hand.

The movement caught them wildly off guard. 

With a yelp, the recom stumbled back. Their arms windmilling frantically to keep their footing on the uneven roots, only for their entire body to flinch and throw them off balance when they realised it was Tsu’tey stepping towards them. They stumbled backwards, only to trip on a high root and promptly fall over the side of the throne and land in a painful heap of limbs on the moss below. 

The colonel let out a loud, obnoxious laugh. “Finally awake then Private.” The demon mused, “thought these savages got to you before I could.”

The heap on the floor let out another yelp, as they scrambled to sit upright. If the recom’s eyes were wide before, they were practically the size of the moon as they slowly turned their head to find the colonel standing a few short feet away. “Colonel.” They greeted shakily, “fancy seeing you here sir.”

The colonel glared down his nose at them.

“Wainfleet.” The recom continued, nodding mockingly to the demon holding Kiri. The sunglasses on his nose obscured his eyes, but Tsu’tey knew he was glaring.

“Ah shit.” The recom muttered to themselves before waving sheepishly at Jake and the rest of the Sullys. “Long time no see guys.” They glanced briefly up at Tsu'tey, still perched upon the throne. “Olo’eyktan.”

Tsu’tey’s expression shuttered. The fear tinted respect that oozed into their tone made his stomach turn.

Just as quickly as he was addressed, Tsu’tey was forgotten as the recom’s gaze fell back on the other demons and their hostages. Before his eyes, Tsu’tey observed as something in their posture shifted. 

With all the swagger of someone still heavily injured, the recom collected themselves and scrambled to their feet. They made a show of dusting themselves off before straightening. “I’m assuming Mansk called you then.” “That would be right. Led me right to ya.” The colonel confirmed, the recom having thoroughly captured his attention. “Nice. Wanna get on with this then?”

“I’ll deal with you later.” The colonel snapped, eyes returning to Jake who was turning the orange cuffs over and over again in his hands. He made no move to put them on, his attention completely on Tsu’tey’s mate, waiting to see their next move.

“Oh.” The recom huffed, all theatrics and flowery words. “I thought you’d want to get right into it.” 

Tsu’tey felt his confusion mounting. Only seconds before, their spiritual form had been having a breakdown about being found by the colonel. What had changed?

The colonel sighed heavily, the blade at Spider’s neck relaxing now that his attention had been captured elsewhere. Smartly, the kid did not react, and simply sucked in some deep, welcoming breaths. 

“You’re dying, Private.” Quaritch spat, as if it were obvious. “You’re the least of my troubles.” “Of course. Yeah, I mean, you’re probably right.” The recom agreed, glancing down the line of their body, to their blood soaked tank, and the torn state of their trousers and embarrassing lack of footwear. They glanced up, their head tilting dangerously. “But I always thought you were an eye for an eye kind of man. All about vengeance and settling the score. I never dreamed I’d get off so easily after everything I’ve done.” 

<”What are you doing?”> Tsu’tey hissed, watching the recom’s ear flick back to him. They ignored him, or simply did not have good enough of a grasp on Na’vi to understand. “If you know what’s good for you, Private, you’ll shut it. Now!” tTe colonel snapped. 

In the next moment, his attention had snapped back to Jake as his knife once again dug back into Spider’s neck, carving a new line into his flesh. “Hop to it Sully, I don’t got all damn day.” Jake didn’t move, his head snapping from the recom to the colonel in quick succession. He didn’t move to pull on the handcuffs.

The recom took one, deliberate side step away from Eywa’s throne. The colonel’s attention was immediately back on them. They tilted their head and smirked sweetly. 

“The hell are you playing at Private?” “I’m just a little hurt, sir.” They told him, their steps turning into a languid saunter as they moved away from the Tree and began putting some considerable distance between themselves and the Sullys. As a result, Quaritch had to turn with them to prevent them from slipping into his blind spot.

“I mean,” the recom continued, their tone as sweet as a lover in the dead of night. “I repeatedly backstabbed you for years, and you’re practically letting me go. And then we’ve got Jake, some random marine that only screwed you over after three months of knowing you. I’d assume, you’d be more hurt by my betrayal, rather than a man you hardly know, Colonel.” They paused their strides, smiling still. “I thought we had something special.”

If Tsu’tey didn’t know any better, he might have thought the recom were flirting with him.

The colonel stiffened. Something dangerous slipped into his tone as his head moved with the recom, calculating their every step. “Whatever game you’re playing Private, I’m not interested.”

“Come on,” they drawled, “you’re no fun.”

“And you’re wasting my bleeding time!” The colonel snapped back.

They shrugged, all false bravado and pointy teeth. 

Wainfleet, who had been as distracted as his commanding officer up until this point, promptly snapped out of whatever trance the recom had put them under. With a growl, he turned his attention to Sully, whilst the colonel glared at the recom.

“We don’t have all day. Move it Sully.” He snapped, tightening his grip on Kiri so she yelped and jerked against the knife. Jake took half a step forward, to which Wainfleet tightened his hold. 

“Ah ah ah, Corporal.” The recom sang, beginning to circle again. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“The hell are you going to do about it?” Wainfleet immediately challenged. 

“Lyle!” The colonel cut in warningly, his second in command promptly backed down. “Watch my sixth.” He continued, as the recom’s leisurely strolling finally took them behind him and out of sight. 

“Sir.” 

The recom had stopped walking again, their tail flicking every now and again. Slow and relaxed, despite the pale sheen to their skin and how their freckles barely glowed. If Tsu’tey weren’t actively looking at their bloodied shirt, he might have been fooled into believing they were fine. 

Their tone was chipper as they responded to Wainfleet’s jab. “Pandora is a dangerous place.” They told their old comrades. “But it’s deadly the moment you fall out of favour with the clans who roam it.”

“You and whose army?” Quaritch immediately challenged with a scoff. “You’re no na’vi. These <i>freaks</i> won’t help you.” He momentarily removed the blade from Spider’s throat to motion to the Sully’s and Tsu’tey, who were all motionless on the sidelines as they watched the recom work. The colonel looked awfully confident for a fly unknowingly caught in a hungry spider’s web. “You’ve seen what they do to us.” 

The recom pulled their lips back and smiled menacingly. “I don’t need them any more than I needed you.” They said sweetly, and began circling again. Winding both men up tighter and tighter with unease. “In fact, you’re no longer of use to me, colonel.” “What in hell has gotten into you?” The colonel asked, eyebrows scrunching now in confusion. “What freaky plants have you been hooking up to out here?”

“Only the important ones.” The recom replied merrily, “and now that that’s out of the way, and I finally have your attention sir, I’m ready to repent.” “What are you on about?” 

The way the recom had positioned themselves, had Quaritch and Wainfleet’s attention completely off of the Sullys. Neytiri had taken the opening by the throat and scooped up Tuk. Eyes never leaving the enemy, she deposited the quivering child into Lo’ak’s arms, who took her easily. Tuk cuddled into him, allowing Lo’ak to run soothing fingers through her braids as he offered quiet reassurance. 

Catching onto her intentions, Jake firmly pushed Neteyam away from his side, silencing the teen when he instinctively tried to argue. The marine looked pointedly at his other two kids, a look which Neteyam followed and immediately understood. Between them, both parents pointed the trio in the direction of the Tree without drawing the enemy’s attention. The children went willingly enough, their anxiety obvious. 

Tsu’tey offered his hand to them, helping them over the roots and behind the tree. His attention was still firmly on the odd scene occurring out on the moss, but he offered soft reassurance where he could. 

<”Keep quiet.”> He whispered, to which only Tuk nodded. <”This will be over soon.”> They slid out of sight, and Tsu’tey took the opportunity to hop down from the throne. The motion drew the attention of Wainfleet, but he did nothing but watch. In return. Tsu’tey did not charge him, even though he desperately wanted to.

“-taken a lot of shit that doesn’t belong to me. Including your private documents, personal keycards and military supplies.” The recom listed out on their fingers. It seemed they had taken their role as distraction incredibly seriously. And Quaritch was predictably eating it up. 

“You little snake.” The colonel snarled, fury evident in the thrash of his tail.

Tsu’tey sidled up closer to Jake’s side, the movement completely unobserved by both recoms. <”What are they doing?”> He hissed to Jake who shrugged, the cuffs half hanging off one of his wrists.

Somehow, his mate had heard him, despite standing a considerable distance away. The next words that slipped off their tongue, dripped with fake bravado so thick that Tsu’tey could almost smell it. “Why, I am confessing of course.” They declared dramatically, their arms spread wide in some confident mockery of a repenting sinner. They cackled, high and breathless. More pained than mirthful. “God this is gonna feel fantastic to finally gloat about.” 

It was then that their odd behaviour clicked for Tsu’tey. This was not the bravado of a soldier seeking recognition. Nor was it a hunter boasting about a long and tedious hunt. The confidence was all for show. Every perfectly selected word was laced with pride and oozing badly concealed desperation. The closest thing he could compare it to was an animal attempting to convince a predator that they would make a more appetising meal than the younger prey in its clutches. “Oh, but I’m sure you know that colonel. You’re an awfully smart man.” They continued condescendingly, “surely you had to know I was disloyal from the beginning.” Quaritch had gone unnervingly still, so the recom continued. “Surely, you weren’t convinced that Jake arranged all of those inconveniences. Come on sir, you remember it like it was yesterday, don’t you? All those security plans going missing. All those dozers getting decimated by Omaticayan hunting parties within minutes of entering the territory. All the inconsistencies in the armoury. Those missing weapons that no one seemed to be able to explain.”

“I don’t believe you.” The colonel said plainly. “Not even you are that bright Private. Besides, you had no reason to betray me, I treated you as my own.”

“That’s what I wanted you to think.” They told him. “You can’t have orchestrated all of that.” Wainfleet jumped in. They grinned. “Who else? Jake certainly does have the brains. He’s all brawn and eye candy. He may have had a hand in killing you, sir, but I essentially handed him the knife.” They explained. “I traded your classified secrets for archery lessons. I handed over the maps for private supply routes in exchange for an ikran ride. Oh, and the locations of your forest squads? All that broken equipment? I gave those up for a sip of the clan’s alcohol, and shit, it was worth it. That stuff was strong-”

Tsu’tey saw the entirety of the recom’s plan moments before all hell broke loose. He knew that they knew they were playing with fire. He was aware that they knew they would not win this encounter, not unaided. He saw the look in their eye, the one a hunter wears when they got on a mission they have no issue with not returning from. And it infuriated Tsu’tey to no end. 

“And then.” They paused, snorting obnoxiously. “The idiots brought me back, and practically handed me all the new stats. All those delicious numbers and coordinates,” they tapped their temple, “all right here, ready to buy me all sorts of things.”

It was then that Miles Quaritch snapped.

With an enraged snarl, the man threw Spider aside and charged. And of course, the wounded recom had anticipated this reaction. Smooth as water sliding over a submerged river stone, their stance shifted from a confident standoff, to a defensive crouch. Suddenly ready to take on Quaritch’s rage. 

Tsu’tey took off at a sprint, Neytiri hot on his heels. 

Spider sprawled in the moss, eyes wide and fearful. He’d barely landed on his forearms, before he was trying to shove himself back to his feet.

<”ZAZA!”> 

 Tsu’tey was skidding to his side within moments, his knees smarting with friction burns but he didn’t care. Frantically, he checked him over, hands, feet, neck. The latter which, thankfully, only had a shallow cut. 

Neytiri had continued on, yanking her knife free of its sheath before she leapt and threw herself at Wainfleet, who threw Kiri aside in order to parry the blow with his own weapon. The teen collapsed to her knees, her breathing fast and bordering on hysterical. As Tsu’tey held his quivering son close, he watched Neytiri herd the soldier away, her knife strikes precise and deadly. Forcing him to back away or get skewered.

Jake was at Kiri’s side in seconds. His voice was low and soothing as he pulled her against him. Kiri went willingly, dissolving into choked sobs as she grabbed desperately onto Jake, who held her back just as fiercely. 

<”Dad!”> Spider gasped, panic evident in his tone. He was squirming hard against Tsu’tey, trying to wiggle away, but Tsu’tey was reluctant to let him. <”DAD!”> His boy yelled at him, snapping Tsu’tey out of it with the sheer desperation in his tone. He looked down at his son who looked on the verge of tears. Spider pointed at the brawl currently happening across the moss. <”DO SOMETHING! HE’LL KILL THEM!”>

And Quaritch certainly was trying his best. 

Any technique he had had been thrown out of the window as emotion took over. 

“I trusted you!” The man roared, aiming blow after blow that the recom only barely avoided. 

“Your mistake!” They threw back, accenting the end of the declaration with a loud cackle. The response was all bravado, just another feeble attempt to keep the demon’s attention on them. To allow the rest of them to escape. 

<”DAD!”> Spider repeated, shaking him. Tsu’tey yanked himself out of his stupor. 

<“Okay.”> He reassured him. <”Okay. Don’t worry.”> He pressed a kiss to the top of his boy’s head, giving him a tight squeeze before rising to his knees. 

There was no doubt left in Tsu’tey’s mind. No inkling of uncertainty. Not now, not after everything he had seen and everything he had witnessed. He only prayed that he would be forgiven for his mistakes. 

Across the bowl, the colonel was still spitting enraged declarations with every wild swing of his knife. “-should have killed you the moment-”

“But you didn’t!” The recom sang, barely dodging the utility knife Quaritch tried to shove in their eye socket in retaliation. To their credit, they were putting up a valiant fight. Snarling and spitting as they kicked and shoved with everything their wounded body had left. 

It spurred Tsu’tey into action. 

He sprinted across the moss, leaping over Wainfleet’s felled body and then again so that he collided with the colonel’s body from a higher vantage point. The man let out a whoosh as the breath was knocked from him. Tsu’tey followed his body down, wrestling the demon down onto his stomach before sitting himself firmly on his back. In a heartbeat, Tsu’tey’s knife was slipping from his sheath and carving a new one into the body of the writhing demon, who grunted from the force. He wasn’t dead yet. 

Tsu’tey wanted him dead. 

He wanted the peace of mind in knowing that he had ended this demon here and now. He needed to know Spider would be safe from him. That his son would be able to move freely in the forests again without fear of being kidnapped. He had to know that this demon would not seek revenge on his mate. That the man would be unable to raise his blade against anyone again.

Twirling his knife into a new grip, Tsu’tey reangled his blade and shoved it in between the demon’s ribs, straight into a lung which popped with a distant thud and a pained wheeze from the demon’s slack lips. His body spasmed from the pain before relaxing into death’s embrace. 

Neytiri’s shadow fell over Tsu’tey as the Olo’eyktan fought to catch his breath. The kill itself had been easy, but the time it had taken to get to it had thoroughly drained him. 

Her tail flicked in contentment as she glared down at the fresh corpse. <”Nicely done.”> She informed him.

Tsu’tey almost smiled. Such praise from Neytiri of all huntresses was as good as a pat on the back. 

He allowed the comment to hang in the air for a moment as he yanked his knife free of the body and rose to his feet. 

<”At least we will rest well knowing the job is done properly this time.”> Tsu’tey teased tiredly. Neytiri clicked her teeth at him, giving his shoulder a playful shove before turning on her heel and rushing back to her children. 

Tsu’tey had a similar idea and immediately returned his attention to Spider. Only to realise his son was no longer where he had left him. 

Instead, he had raced across the moss and promptly thrown himself into his Zaza’s arms, who had collapsed onto their knees out of sheer exhaustion. All bravado had been swept off of their expression now, replaced by relief as they opened their arms to Spider and held him tightly. Their unsteady hands loosely brushed through Spider’s dreads, mindful of his mask straps. “I’m alright kid.” They told him, even though they hardly sounded as if they believed it themselves. “I’m okay.”

Spider didn’t respond. His body was tense all over, and only winding tighter under their careful touch. 

“We’re okay.” The recom repeated. “He’s dead.” 

Spider nodded, giving them another tight squeeze before pulling back. Standing beside the kneeling recom, he almost towered over them. 

His son frowned as he looked down upon his Zaza’s beaten face. Gently, his hand cupped their cheeks, turning their face this way and that to check the damage. “You will need to be looked at by a Tsahik.” He informed them seriously, which startled a smile out of the recom as if it were some inside joke between them. 

“You’re going first.” They told him, looking pointedly at the thin lines still bleeding down Spider’s throat.

“I’m okay, Zaza.” Spider said quietly, although it did little to ease the crease between the recom’s brows. Even that simple expression was frighteningly familiar to Tsu’tey, as it had been the look they wore when Spider had skinned his knee or sustained some miniscule cut as an infant.

“Good to hear, but you better get Mo’at to put something on that when you get home.” “Yeah, that’s the plan.”

They smiled, small and lopsided. Spider finally began to relax.

Tsu’tey stepped further from Quaritch’s body. Absently, he flicked the blood off his blade before sheathing it. 

His eyes never strayed from the sight of his mate and son, finally reuniting and talking after so many years. The sight warmed him. Soothing something that had been left ragged and raw since carving their name into the cliff face of the Well of Souls. 

Running a tired hand down the side of his face, Tsu’tey glanced down at the flaking white paint the movement had rubbed off of his skin. Thoughtfully, he rubbed his fingers together, watching the flakes crumble into small, almost unnoticeable pieces. Perhaps, he thought, there was no longer a reason for him to renew it.

He smiled to himself, reaching up and rubbing away the itching paint with his hand, so that the normally pristine line broke and wavered. Tsu’tey watched the flakes rain down past his eyes as snow would fall in the colder regions. And he felt content. 

When he got the worst of it off, he lifted his head, only to find Neytiri already watching him. Her smile could only have been described as proud and full of unspoken understanding. Somehow, Tsu’tey knew she had come to the same conclusion as him, and would allow him to take the lead moving forwards. Tsu’tey dipped his head in thanks, to which the huntress nodded once, her expression oozing pride. 

It was then Tsu’tey steeled himself and approached his reunited family.

The moment his shadow fell over them, the recom was tense again. Snapping their head up, they promptly ripped themselves away from Spider at the sight of him. 

“Don’t!” They snarled, jabbing a hand in his direction as they bum shuffled away from him. Their shaking hand slipping and sliding over the moss in an attempt to put some distance between them. “I’m leaving! I promise I’m leaving! You won’t ever find me here again!” They swallowed loudly, “I just got ambushed! But I’m going now! You’ll never see me again!”

Spider stared after them, looking torn between offering reassurance and looking up at his Dad pleadingly. With a sigh, Tsu’tey spared his son an encouraging look before slowly following the panicking recom.

His heart broke a little as he looked down at them now, the words having escaped him, again. As he had in Tsaheylu, Tsu’tey made a show of lifting his hands to show they were free of weapons. The recom flinched, only to let out a groan of pain. It appeared that their earlier adrenaline was beginning to fade.

Tsu’tey smiled sadly, stepping closer. The recom hissed at him, their scrambling hands suddenly finding a utility knife concealed in the moss, which they rapidly brought up between them. The blade danced as it was held aloft, aiming at Tsu’tey’s heart. 

“I’m going.” They promised him.

Tsu’tey huffed softly. Slowly, and with great care, he caught their raised wrist. They jumped so hard that they lost their grip on the knife, which Tsu’tey promptly caught in his other hand before it could impale them through the leg.

The recom somehow stiffened more, eyes glued to the weapon in his hand. 

“Tsu’tey.” They plead quietly.

He lowered his knife hand before throwing the blasted weapon away and into the moss.

“That was a stupid, <i>stupid</i> plan.” He told them simply as he released their raised hand and stepped back. 

“Well it worked, didn’t it”? They snapped back defensively, only to flinch at their own tone. “Sorry. It’s been a really long day.”

Tsu’tey nodded. “Then you should return with us to High Camp and rest.”

“What?”

“It is too dangerous for you to remain here.” 

They were staring at him blankly. As if he were some confusing puzzle.

“I mean-”

“It is decided.” Tsu’tey cut in, before turning on his heel and shooting Spider a nod. His son lit up. 

<”You mean it?”> <”Yes.”> Tsu’tey confirmed, lightly ruffling his son’s hair on his way past. <”Get them on someone’s ikran and then meet me back here.”> <”Thank you! Thank you, Dad! You won’t regret this!”> Spider exclaimed, giving him a tight, grateful hug. Tsu’tey felt inclined to agree with him, as he watched his son dart away to help the stunned recom to their feet, already nattering on about this or that.

He smiled. Feeling lighter than he had in years. 

Last Chapter <- Part 4 -> Next Chapter

[sparrowrye]

Demi Demon || Alastor x Reader, A2 part 3

Synopsis: It’s been over a year since we were brought under Alastor’s watchful eye. We’ve unlocked our Demonic powers, discovered our own talents, and began building the Safe Haven with Charlie and co. Alastor seems increasingly interested in the power we hold as one and intends to use it properly.

Previous part

Part 3: a reporter

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A loud knock came at the door. Spencer looked up from the article on his desk. His eyes glanced at the little clock that read 11:00pm. It was typical for his 'anonymous' parties to pay him a visit around this hour.

His office was an old storage room. The building a manger had been nice enough to move most of the stuff out of the room and allow him to set up his office and print shop. His printing machine was in the back corner and piles of new and old newspapers were all over the place. A small fire place had been roughly dug out of the concrete wall and did little to help keep the place warm.

He turned the old radio to a music channel, the Radio Demon's typical broadcast having ended, and went to the door. Once he invited the anonymous party in, he would turn the volume up so no eavesdropper could overhear.

He opened the door to a dark, red coat. His eyes trailed up the red and white lines, his blood running cold when he reached their face. Staring down at him was the none other than the Radio Demon. Spencer's knuckles had turned white from gripping the door handle.

"Greetings Mr. O'Connor. Might I have a word with you?" Alastor said.

"O-Of course." Spender stepped the side and held the door open. Alastor's eyes scanned the room as his cane tapped loudly on the floor. "I-I wasn't expecting you. I would have tidied the place up."

"No need. I don't intend to stay for long." Alastor stood by the fire and turned to face the small man. His eyes were wide and locked on Alastor, not noticing the darkening of the shadows in the corner of his office. I stayed covered with illusions and shadows combined, watching and listening.

"What could the famous Radio Demon want from me?" Spencer asked. He joined Alastor by the fire but kept a safe distance. His figure was as small and narrow as his horns hiding underneath his flat hat. He wore cuffed pants, black boots, and a long sleeve button up he always had rolled past his elbows. He scratched the scruff on his chin and shifted uncomfortably.

"It's my understanding you're under the threat of losing your job. Is that correct?" Alastor asked. Both claws rested still on his cane.

"Well, if you mean the mayor wants to switch to digital, then yes. Paper isn't really popular these days."

"I understand quite well. The digital era is trying to smother its predecessors. But I intend to ensure that doesn't happen. I believe you can be of assistance."

"Me? How?" Spencer's fear had melted most of the way. Was the Radio Demon asking him for help?

"There is a project on my hands." Alastor started walking. I watched as he circled Spencer, a tactic he used on everyone. "You know of the trouble Demons are in, as well as Full mage Humans. There is a Safe Haven for the persecuted. And I need someone I can count on to spread the word."

He walked past Spencer to stand in his original spot, careful to walk close enough that their sleeves almost touched. Spencer knew what he was asking of him. He wanted him to use his personal print machine to write articles about this Safe Haven and post them everywhere. But that brought many dangerous with it.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, why won't you do it? Surely you can reach a larger audience than me." He tapped his fingers together as the Radio Demon turned to face him.

"That is precisely why I'm looking for you to do it instead. This Safe Haven is nowhere near ready to be widely known. It needs more time to build and establish itself before it's many enemies discover it. This is to be a gradual reveal."

I heard Alastor's shadow chuckle in my ear. Only I could see it's red eyes open slightly to look at me. I felt Alcine, my own shadow, protectively cover my side closest to it.

"Well...I would love to assist you of all people, but I'm afraid I don't have the finances for it."

"That is something I will take care of." Alastor's smile widened.

"Right. Well...uh..." Spencer dragged two chairs from his desk to the fireplace. "It would uh...it would be tricky. And dangerous, for me especially." He went behind his desk to retrieve a bottle of whiskey.

"I've seen how you work," Alastor sat in one of the chairs, "I've seen you shapeshift into others to get what you need. I've seen the lengths you've gone to get a story. This task is something you could handle."

Spencer paused in pouring the second drink. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Some time."

"Oh...well...the stakes would be much greater. Especially for such a controversial and touchy subject," he said. Alastor motioned for me. "I could have enemies using me to get to this Safe Haven. Or they could simply ensure I stop publishing it." He finished pouring the last glass.

He closed the bottle and turned around, his feet freezing when he saw me standing beside Alastor's chair. I was in my Demon form and my shadow's edges were as sharp and janky as Alastor's. He didn't move for a long minute, eyes jumping between the two of us.

He cleared his throat. "I-I'm sure I could find a way."

Alastor accepted the drink but I declined, watching the small man try to sit in the chair without taking his eyes off me. A moment ago he had gotten somewhat used to Alastor's presence and now he was back to a rigid posture and stammering over his words. Had my presence really effected him?

"Excellent!" Alastor rested his foot on his knee. "Then let's get down to business."

****

I dove off the cliff and glided down to the beach. I slammed into the closest teenager and sent the group sprawling away from the jagged rocks in the water. They immediately got up and fought again. They were kicking up dirt and the kids were trying to jump out of the way.

The boy was clawing at Reagan who was desperately trying to run. His claws were razor sharp and slicing through her clothes. She already had dozens of marks across her skin. A Demon girl rammed her thick horns into his chin and tried to shove him away. He just took her with him and kicked her into the cold ocean.

He lunged for Reagan again but I caught him midway. His claw caught my nose as I slammed my body into his side. I planted my feet and made myself bigger as a Demon. His eyes widened and he scrambled back.

My eyes opened to the dim fire. My neck hurt from the strange position it had fallen into, my book flat on the ground seemingly waking me up, and the room itself was casted in a dim light. I yawned as I picked up the book. I set it on the chair and sauntered outside to the edge of the cliff. I sat with my legs hanging over and took a deep breath of the salty air. I remained there for what felt like eternity, focusing on neither anything or nothing.

"You seem upset."

I knew Husker was walking up to me long before he said anything. I kept my eyes on the cresting waves and pending rainstorm. I was wearing a coat since the temperatures were dropping for the fall season.

"I think that's the most you've said to me in weeks," I retorted. I heard him wince.

"I thought maybe you were happy with the way things were going." He sat down beside me and let his legs dangle over the edge. "What's wrong?"

As hurt and angry as I was with him neglecting me, I had been dying to speak my mind to someone. I certainly wasn't about to talk to Charlie or anyone new about my issue.

"He's using me again. I'm just a puppet for him to control, a tool to use. I wasn't part of that conversation. I was just there to make the guy say yes."

"What conversation?"

"We met an old newspaper reporter. Alastor and Charlie think it's smart to advertise the haven through paper articles."

"Ah," he nodded, "but...I mean this in the kindest way, but why would Alastor need you to get the guy to say yes? We both know he can convince anyone."

"I don't know. But he waited before telling me when to come out of the shadows. The guy was more willing to do it once he saw me. And Alastor smiled at me, too. Like one of his evil smiles."

"Hmm." Husker leaned on his legs and tapped his heels into the harsh stone. "That does seem strange. Maybe you—"

My ears twitched and my head jerked away. I locked my eyes on the group of kids on the beach. Three teenagers were fighting dangerously close to the sharp rocks. The little kids were yelling and Vivian was trying to break up the fight.

I dove off the cliff and glided down to the beach. I slammed into the closest teenager and sent the group sprawling away from the jagged rocks in the water. They immediately got up and fought again. They were kicking up dirt and the kids were trying to jump out of the way.

The boy was clawing at Reagan who was desperately trying to run. His claws were razor sharp and slicing through her clothes. She already had dozens of marks across her skin. A Demon girl rammed her thick horns into his chin and tried to shove him away. He just took her with him and kicked her into the cold ocean.

He lunged for Reagan again but I caught him midway. His claw caught my nose as I slammed my body into his side. I planted my feet and made myself bigger as a Demon. His eyes widened and he scrambled back.

"What is going on?" I demanded, looking between everyone here. Vivian was helping Reagan sit up and checking her wounds. I wiped my bleeding nose with my sleeve.

The other girl stood from the waves to join us, drenched and dripping. "He was taunting her."

"I was not!" he claimed. He backed further away before standing.

"He was!" she said. "He was telling her anyone could beat her because she didn't have any magic."

I looked briefly at Reagan before turning to the boy. He was new, a fighter from one if the recent rings we had saved.

"It wasn't meant to be taken seriously," he tried.

"Think next time, then," Vivian snapped. She was still in her Human form but the look she was giving made anyone anxious to be in her sight. "You're both from the rings. Did you really think it wasn't going to start a problem?"

"Well it did," I interjected, "and it won't happen again." I pointed a claw at the boy. "You're new enough to have heard our rules about no fighting." Next I pointed at Reagan and the girl. "And you've both been here long enough to know why we don't allow it."

They both dipped their heads.

"Come on." Vivian helped Reagan to her feet. The two girls walked past the boy and would be paying our new healer a visit.

I gathered the younger children and walked them back up to the top. The adults were quickly finishing another building before the rain came in. I made sure each child was back in their hut, safe and cozy. I had just finished when Reagan walked out of Althea's hut. The scratches were all gone but her face showed she still had some adrenaline still in her.

"Are you alright?" I asked her. She motioned to my nose but I passed it off. It had dried by now and it was only a nick.

"I'm sorry." She held onto her own arms. Her friend put a hand on her back.

"I understand why you did it." I touched her shoulder. She had revealed to me in prior conversations about the other teenagers poking fun at her magicless abilities. "But remember, fighting is easy. But not everyone can outwit someone with words."

"Right." She didn't sound too convinced. I walked with her and her friend to their hut and watched them walk in as the rain began to fall. Everyone disappeared into the safety of their warm, well lit shelter.

Husker invited me to join him and the others but I denied. I wasn't really feeling up to the socializing. I never was, though. I always felt out of place when I was with that group. I didn't feel a part of it.

I slowly made my way up the hill. I let the rain dot my clothes until it was all one dark color. I tilted my face to the sky and felt the wet grass sticking to my feet. I loved the feeling of rain. Everything smelled so earthy and fresh, so alive. I felt connected to it all, like I was meant to be here.

My joyful mood dropped when I opened my eyes. Alastor waited under the safety of the porch, cane in hand. I probably looked like a mess compared to him, always looking pressed and perfect.

"What?" I growled as I climbed the steps.

"Must there always be a reason?"

"There always is with yo—"

His hand covered my eyes and pulled me back. I felt the tingle of magic on my nose and froze. When he pulled his hand off I touched the smooth skin. I felt his presence past my shields again but this time was different. It felt as if he was searching for something.

I plucked his hand off and walked inside.

****

"It's been awhile since we've chatted. How's it been?" Rosie asked, taking a sip of the warm tea. She and Alastor were sitting in the private room of her store.

"She hasn't made any progress in the connection." Alastor was leaning back into the chair and running a hand over his face.

"You mean you haven't made any progression."

"Excuse me?" A red eye snapped up to her.

"Alastor, darling, she has to want to be around you. You have to be somewhat pleasant to be around."

"I'll do no such thing," he growled.

"Then the connection will remain weak." She took another sip.

He let out a sigh. "I don't know how to turn her around. She has nothing but anger and hatred for me. I can feel it."

"Then be the gentleman you are. She's the only one I've seen you treat in such a way. You treat Mimzy and I so much better than her and she's your soulmate, my dear."

"She's annoying."

Rosie laughed. "I'm sure she thinks the same thing of you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

Ooooh boy. Welcome OC Spencer!

I may or may not be procrastinating the development of the feelings arc. I'm a little nervous if y'all will like how I write it. I'm so grateful to all of you who've been following along since the beginning, reading each and every post of mine. <3

[jellyfishandry]

Could I request an Toshinori Yagi one shot where he meets a lady who actually prefers him in his "small might" form, mainly because it's easier to give him head pats and cheek/forehead kisses cuz she can reach when he's in that form compared to his muscle form where he's just way too tall for her to reach🤭 also it'd be cute if she's the teacher's assistant so she usually works alongside each of the classes teacher's and Toshi likes spending time with her cuz she gives him good advice on how to improve his teaching skills, and they often have lunch 2gether and go out on "dates" tho they prolly don't see it that way. Something fluffy and platonic possibly even like a slow burn where it takes them time and forming a true emotional connection b4 either starts to feel any sort of romantic type of love, but in the beginning it's all platonic and friendly like. Hope this makes sense😅

Toshinori one-shot

Content: Mentions of food, platonic or romantic, mentions of trash??, gn!reader,

Word count: 0.5k

A/N: I'm so sorry that this is a month late, but hope the way I wrote this is okay, as I'm not great with slow burn :'D (I'll do part two if you'd like)

“Good morning All Might.” You said, entering the staff room. You placed a pod in the coffee machine, and placed a mug under the spout. “Oh uh, good morning.” He was looking through some papers, and he seemed somewhat in a rush. Your eyes scanned his messy desk before you spoke again. “What’re you looking for?”  “I lost my keys again, I swear I set them on my desk…” He replied, looking behind his monitor.  You nodded and picked up your mug and took a sip of coffee. You motioned to his coat that was hanging off the back of his chair. “Have you checked your pockets?”  He nodded, and sat back down in defeat. He looked under a folder, but to no surprise, his keys were not there. He always had a backup house key in his car, but of course that would require finding his car keys.  Then his phone that was sitting on a pile of papers started to buzz with a reminder.  “Why don’t you get to class, I’ll look for your keys while I have prep.” You suggested.  A small smile appeared on his lips. “Thank you.” He stood up and gathered his things before leaving the staff room.  Your eyes scanned the area around his desk, looking for his keys or the little All Might keychain attached to them. But there was no sign of them.  A sigh escaped your mouth, and you sat down in front of your desk.  You stared at the blank screen of the monitor for a moment, not wanting to start working. But you started anyway, going through the papers that were stacked in a neat pile on your desk.  As you were sorting through them, you found a pencil about the size of your pinky. Assuming no one would want to use it, you dropped it in the trash can next to your desk. But when it made contact with the contents of the trash, there were a few quiet clinking sounds. You looked over at the trashcan, confused. You could see a key poking out from behind some trash. Hesitantly you reached down, reluctantly picking the keys out from the trash.  They were indeed All Might’s keys.  A soft chuckle escaped your mouth. He must’ve accidentally pushed them off his desk without noticing.  You gently placed them on the desk and resumed your work. “Oh, you found them; where were they?” You jumped slightly, unaware that All Might had entered the room. “They were in the trash bin.”  He laughed slightly, and sat down at his desk. “I must’ve knocked them off my desk, thank you for finding them.”  You smiled at him. “It’s no problem.” There was a few minutes of silence where you continued working, and he was trying to do the same, but he seemed distracted. “Do you want to eat lunch with me?” He blurted out. You looked over at him, slightly shocked. But your look of surprise soon melted into a smile. “I’d love to.” 

|| Navigation ||

[milkytheholy1]

It's my favourite colour

Request: I don’t really know if your ask box isnopen so I really hope it is.

could I maybe ask for a rise Donnie x reader (female is preferable but Gender neutral is alright with me) where the reader’s favorite color is purple and she always wears it. Then one day she’s sitting in the lab with Donnie when he can’t stop staring and eventually the reader makes a joke like: “what? You wanna kiss me or smth?” And he just takes it seriously and nods.

I dunno. Brain doing brain things.

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

The lair was oddly quiet to say it was so close to the weekend, while the two days off didn't really mean anything to the turtles, it meant a lot to you and April. Those two days would give you a break from school and work, allowing you to chill out at home and in the lair with the boys.

Speaking of which, you couldn't see any of the turtle brothers as you entered their underground home, which was weird, to say the least. Your black detective coat hung around your form, protecting your insides from the cold blizzards up above. The edges of the coat swayed romantically as you stalked around the lair; assuming the teens to be pulling another prank on you.

However, no prank came. They were simply nowhere in sight, not even Splinter or Draxum were around. But the tell-tale sound of machine parts roaring in the distance alerted you to where one turtle could be; your favourite turtle too. You skipped towards Donnie's lab, you had actually been meaning to talk to the turtle, you drastically needed someone to reread your English paper and Donnie was just the guy.

Walking into the wide metal doors, the smell of oil and burnt iron invaded your senses. Over in the corner of the room, with his shell facing towards you, was Donnie. 

"Hey, D." you beamed, already giddy by his presence. You strolled up to his side, watching as he tinkered with parts you couldn't even name, "Greetings," was all he said. You looked around the expansive lab, searching for something specific in mind, "If you're looking for your chair, it's over by Shelldon." Donnie stated, not even looking away from his project. 

You blushed, he knew you so well or were you just becoming predictable. Patting Shelldon's lifeless head, you picked the chair up, knowing better than to drag it across the floor. Once it was perched not too closely to Donnie's side, you shimmied off your coat and draped it across the back of your seat. 

Donnie gave you a side eye, studying yet another purple outfit. Did you know how much you were killing him by wearing his colour? Did you even know what it was doing to him? You had been wearing purple all week, coming down in extremely fashionable outfits that all followed the central theme of purple.

It's like you were playing some game, a very sick and sadistic little game. But Donnie couldn't help to swoon over your accidental actions too, well he assumed they were accidental. He knew you shared a similar interest in the colour purple, but at the same time, he never knew one person besides himself could own this much purple fabric.

"What're you looking at?" you mumbled, dusting off some lingering fur that lined the inside of your coat. Donnie stuttered, flailing the small drill in his hands around, "N-nothing, absolutely nothing!" You quirked a brow at his behaviour, you know someone doesn't just stare at you if they didn't have anything to say.

"Oh, ok." Donnie relented, he placed down the drill, still trying to act aloof, "You- you look good in purple, I've seen you around the lair wearing that colour, my colour, all week." you remained quiet, unsure what this meant. Was Donnie trying to make a move on you or monopolise the colour purple?

"W- thank you, I think purple looks good on you too." you hummed, priding yourself on seeing his cheeks deepen in colour. It was like Donnie had been shot by Cupid's arrow, his eyelids had drooped, his smile had become wobbly and his sighs became louder. He was totally, utterly, stupidly in love with you. 

"What?" you threw out a nervous giggle, your own cheeks turning rosy at the look he was giving you; full of care and warmth. You pulled at the sleeves of your shirt, fingers fumbling to distract the onslaught of nerves that took over your mind, "You wanna kiss me or something?" it was meant to be a joke, something to pull you away from the glistening pool in his eyes.

But when Donnie just nodded along, completely at ease with the reality of the situation, you felt your brain stutter. With wide eyes, you pointed a shaking finger at yourself, "Wait, really? With me?" you questioned. Donnie held back a laugh, but the notorious smirk he was known for graced his lips, "I believe I do, w-would you like to do...that with me?"

He wished he could have said something sweeter than that, but thoughts about feelings and actually feeling feelings weren't really his thing; not that he really tried to make it his thing either. 

Fortunately, you recreated his previous actions and shook your head rapidly. Donnie's dopey grin grew larger in size, his cheeks stinging with just how much he was smiling. You both leant forward, perhaps too eager as you hit your foreheads together. But with the awkward laugh aside, you eventually melted into each other with ease. 

"Hey, D, we're bac- WHOA!" Leon gasped, the pizza box in his hands dropped to the floor, "Oh ho hooo," he began laughing, not really caring that this was a very private moment for his brainiac twin brother. Donnie yelled at him, throwing random nuts and bolts until Leo fled the scene. Though he did poke his head back in to deliver one more line, "If you dress up in blue all week will you kiss me too?"

"LEO!"

[notanotherstory]

Mistle-toeing

Warnings: fluff, a really annoying "i-don't-know-limits" man.

Word count: 4.5k

Disclaimer: this was the first lil thing I wrote about Angie. I do hope you enjoy it <3

Morning came and you groaned as your alarm rang and pulled you out of dreamland. You pulled your arm from under the covers and slapped it off, proceeding to stretch and swing your legs to the side of the bed, putting one foot in front of the other before opening the curtains and getting hit by the morning light. 

You rubbed your eyes and blinked repeatedly as they adjusted to the light, getting ready for a much needed shower that’d finally wake you up. It was going to be a long, long, day, you thought, before stepping under the stream of warm water and letting your dreams wash away with it.

As you walked through the streets of Collinsport, you pulled on the brown, thick coat you wore, trying - and failing - to hide your nose from the cold so it wouldn’t turn rudolph red. 

Quickly, you entered the building and shuddered at the change of temperature, ruffling your hair to get rid of the snow that had collected in it, and running your hands along your coat to clean it up from the little white particles that had stuck to it. Rubbing your hands together to warm them up a little bit, your eyes scanned the place.The sight was not the usual; and the energy felt different. A good kind of different.

The office was decorated all around, giving the usually white, clean, serious and cold surrounding, a cozier feeling. An elegantly decorated tree sat next to the coffee machine, which now had an addition of delicious ginger cookies on the counter, along with garlands up on the walls and some wreaths hanging in between them, finished with lights adorning the cubicles, everything strategically placed so it was a harmonious look. Funnily enough, everyone seemed just as surprised as you were. In the few months you’d been around, you had never heard of the office celebrating any kind of festivity, but, well… Here you were, with decorations along the office boxes, Christmas music playing in the background (you recognized Sinatra’s Let it Snow) and Nancy, Angie’s secretary (and your confidante) wearing a Santa hat. You guessed this was her making, and you couldn’t fathom how she had convinced Angie Bouchard to let this happen. 

As you walked by Nancy, you waved shyly at her, mouthing a “Good morning, Nance” and receiving a big smile in return, followed by a wink - you didn’t get the reason for the last gesture, but you knew she always knew things you didn’t. To be honest… you were quite oblivious.

Absentmindedly walking towards your desk, the decorations distracted you from the pair of cobalt eyes following your every move, like a predator stalking its prey, silently, meticulously, and waiting until you had reached your designed space, still staring and assessing your reaction to the changes.

You dropped your leather bag on the desk unceremoniously and hung your coat on the chair, starting your computer to check for the new mails - but something felt off. A glimpse of red showed up on the corner of your eye, and you rapidly turned your head towards the salient colour. There was a gift sitting on your desk. You stared suspiciously at the neatly wrapped box that sported a ruby red colour, finished with a golden bow. No one in the office was too close to you, so this was quite the surprise. Carefully lifting the box while looking for the tag, you instead found a neat card that had your name elegantly written on it, alongside a small message;

“Y/N,

A little birdie told me you had been staring at these for quite some time.

I do hope you enjoy them thoroughly.

P.S., I see you’ve got good taste. Very nice choices.”

You turned the card around to find any kind of initial or name, but ended up with nothing. Saving the little card safely on your bag, you pulled on the ends of the ribbon and watched it fall lightly on the desk. The tips of your fingers grazed the red wrapping paper, feeling its soft texture and travelled down the softness of it until it met one of the seams; your nails picked on the scotch tape and lifted it, being meticulous enough so it wouldn’t tear. 

After you pulled the box out, you kept trying to figure out what it could be. And when it opened, you had to bite your lower lip to keep the grin from taking over your whole face, yet still jumped up and down in your spot excitedly. Inside it there were two of the vinyls you had been looking at the store for the past two weeks, but always decided to not buy them just yet: Herbie Hancock’s Crossings, and Santana’s Caravanserai. 

You were a huge music geek, and these were recently out. You looked around hoping to recognize something in someone’s eyes or expression, any tell-tale sign, but only found Nancy’s warm eyes; “Oh!” you exclaimed. 

In one of your many conversations with Angie’s secretary, you had gushed about one of these two albums and how much you absolutely loved Christmas, considering it was big back at home. You set the vinyls back on the box and walked towards Nancy, but before you could open your mouth, she spoke without even drifting her eyesight from the computer screen. 

“That was not me, dear.” You cocked an eyebrow up and a quizzical look took over your features. “Well - if it wasn’t you, then…” Nancy looked up at you and shrugged innocently. “I have no idea, darling. But they do seem to be paying attention to you.” With that, you decided to drop the topic and go back to work; god knows the secretary would not spill any more information. Jesus, this woman could get caught by the CIA and keep everyone’s secret’s safe, acting like she knew absolutely nada. And even when you tried to avoid your workload, you had a lot to catch up on. Yet, you found yourself looking back at the little card and reading it repeatedly during the day, smiling at the neat handwritten message.

The day passed by fairly quickly, and you were drained. Meetings, mails, getting ready for the end of the year at Angel’s Bay meant absolute mayhem, you learned. The thought of a warm cup of hot chocolate and a good Christmas movie under the warm covers of your bed, in the safety of your little flat made you yearn for the end of the shift, when you could finally relax. With that in mind, you finished typing the document you were working on and stood up from your chair, quickly making your way towards the coffee counter, eyes focused on the warm cups of chocolate that Nancy had just put down, turning towards you to gift you a soft, caring smile. You loved that woman to bits, and she knew you had been having a hard time lately. Christmas was not a day you were used to spending alone, so the thought of it had been taking a toll on you the past week. Of course, Nancy was constantly checking on you and doing small things to cheer you up - asking about your day and if you ate, to which you would roll your eyes playfully and answer while chuckling “Yes, mom”, or leaving candy canes on your desk, and now preparing your favourite thing ever; hot chocolate. She left the tray and kept walking forward towards her desk, which was right next to Angie’s office.

You grabbed the warm, white cup and the sweet smell of chocolate invaded your senses, bringing you the comfort you were looking for. There were small marshmallows on top as well, and you had to contain your excitement to avoid squealing like a little kid from the happiness it brought you. 

While you were immersed in your hot chocolate cup, you didn’t realize who was walking towards you, until your personal space seemed to be awfully invaded by a strong cologne that reeked of musk - not the good kind. You don’t know what you despised the most; the smell or the person who came along with it. 

Freaking Jack from the sales department. Another of the smug assholes who never took “no” for an answer, because his fragile ego could not take it. He’d been trying to get your attention since the first day you started working at Angel’s Bay, taking advantage of any situation he had to brag about himself - god, he was so full of himself. Today was not the exception. The rest of the girls in the office swooned over him; it was sort of like a Belle and Gastón kinda situation. Terrible, to say the least. 

You heard him clear his throat and rolled your eyes before plastering the most fake smile you could manage, turning back to look at him.

“Jack.”

“Y/N, what a coincidence” Not. 

“Yeah, well, considering we work on the same floor, I'd call it a very probable event.” You said, matter-of-factly. You knew he had spent the last 5 minutes looking around for you, and you actively avoided him. It’s not that you disliked him… No, no, it was that you disliked him. A lot.

He laughed forcibly at your statement, flashing you what should be considered a perfect grin, but instead came off as straight up weird. “Oh, aren’t you a funny one” 

Realizing how close he was, you took a few steps back, and he followed suit, playing aloof while talking about his day, not bothering to ask you about yours, until you were standing in front of the tree, and very much cornered. You hugged the mug to your chest and felt it warm your skin up, looking around nervously, meeting Nancy’s eyes and praying she saw the apprehension in yours and came in to save you from this idiot, who wouldn’t stop talking.

Speaking of the devil, you saw a sharp, mischievous smile form on his lips, and you knew he had come up with some sort of plan to make you even more uncomfortable. He had his eyes glued to the ceiling, and for a moment you thought he had just… rebooted himself. Who knows.

Following Jack’s eyes, your own gaze sat on the pointy green leaves that accompanied the white, round fruit, delicately placed with a red bow over your heads. Of course you had to be standing under the one mistletoe that was up. You mentally facepalmed as soon as your mind registered the little plant, and you regreted every single decision that had taken you to this situation.

“Well, well, well… Seems like we have found ourselves under the mistletoe, my dearest y/n”. His voice lowered in an attempt to sound seductive, and it only made you want to smack the satisfaction off of his face. He grabbed the mug from your hands and left it back on the counter, not giving you a chance to speak before talking once again. “You know what it means. And it’s tradition, lovely y/n.” 

You were at a loss for words as you felt his rough hands grab you by the waist and pull you against him, as your hands landed on his chest and you attempted to keep him away. 

“Jack - this is not funny. Back off, please.”

The rest of the office had started speaking in whispers and hushed laughs, presencing Jack’s shenanigan as if it were nothing but a simple joke. They watched amused, except for two pairs of eyes. One belonging to Nancy, of course, and the other cobalt blue pair throwing daggers with her eyes, ready to strike.

“As I said, it’s tradition, y/n. Come on, don’t be such a buzzkill. I promise you’ll like it.” He said smugly, while leaning in.

You were so lost in thinking about what to do and how to kick the man and get away from his grubby hands, you didn’t even listen to the faint clicking of heels that had sent the whole office scrambling back to their desks and work, as well as the cold silence that had taken over. You could only hear your own blood pumping in your ears, until the clicking of the heels stopped. And Jack’s face looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Such a pretty face stuck on the body of a useless man. If I were you, I would leave this instant. That is, if you wish to keep your hands.” Her words seethed with venom, eyes shining brightly and sporting a menacing look, alongside an emotion you couldn’t quite put your finger on dancing on her deep blue orbs. Was it hatred? Jealousy? No, it couldn’t be. She stared at his hands grabbing your waist, which were quickly dropped and followed by an amount of excuses Angie was clearly not interested in listening to. 

“Listen up, boy. You better gather your things immediately and leave the building within the next 10 minutes, or you’ll suffer a much, much terrible destiny. Your reputation is already ruined as it is.” She spoke without paying mind to the man, now a stuttering mess, who left the moment she had gone silent.

You dreaded the thought of being on his spot… Until you realized you were next. “Shit.” You said quietly, breathing deeply and getting as ready as you could to confront the upcoming interaction.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A fucking mistletoe. A single piece of dangly fruit that hung over your head, reminding you of the promise it brought, mocking you with its gentle swaying. You swore that if it could talk, it’d laugh at you. One little mistletoe that had gotten you in this mess.

“Fuck - fuck fuck fuck” you thought, as your eyes tried to set on anything but the alluring woman in front of you, her red, full, pouty lips, the defined jawline and high cheekbones, the softness of her porcelain-like skin, the intensity of her cobalt eyes that added to that ethereal, almost unrealistic look - no, nope. Stop. Stop thinking about it.

You didn’t even need to look at her. Instead, your eyes were glued to the floor, which suddenly became extremely interesting. Your gaze set on anything and everything it could. You probably never payed this much attention to the rugs before, but you had decided the best idea was to count every single damn thread in it, if it meant you could avoid the situation. Still, the air seemed to thicken, and you could feel the wicked smile setting on her ruby red lips as she looked at what hung over your heads, completely understanding what it meant. Suddenly, you felt hot under that piercing stare that turned your cheeks bright red and made the shirt you were wearing feel a tad bit too tight. 

The way your name left her lips made you feel like your knees had turned to liquid, and you swore they buckled slightly. Her voice was all that was tempting in this world - sultry, velvety tone, honey-dripping. Christ, even the foulest of words would feel like a damn poem coming out of her mouth. You could only imagine what it would be like in a more intimate setting, your name leaving her lips with passion and lust. And god, you wanted to hear that prayer repeatedly. You only thought of worshipping her.

Your thoughts didn’t matter anymore - there was simply no way you’d get more flustered. She repeated your name, two, three times, before grabbing your chin in between her thumb and index finger, softly raising it, forcing you to redirect your eyes back up. You peered up at her through your eyelashes, as she dropped her hand and pushed a strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. Your lips parted at the glimpse of her features, the same features that had flooded your dreams countless times. An almost inaudible sight left your mouth, and you wanted to convince yourself she had not noticed; but you knew she did, she always did. Her right eyebrow lifted ever so slightly, and there was the ghost of a pleased smile on her lips, before she spoke again and broke the obvious ogling you had going on. 

Your throat felt dry and you cleared your throat to avoid the crack of your voice, because the last thing you needed was to falter in front of the one and only Angie Bouchard.

“I’m beginning to think the floor is much more interesting than listening to me, y/n. I did not know I could be so uninteresting.” She said in a scolding manner, yet there was a tint of playfulness that bathed the statement.

That was the last drop you needed, and like a dam breaking, your words spilled out quickly, without a single thought behind them. You just needed to say something.

“I - I’m sorry, boss. I didn’t know there was a mistletoe and I don’t really know who put it up here but I just wanted a cup of hot chocolate and, well, you know, Jack arrived too and - I am very aware of the rules but it… it wasn’t like that I promise, I - why is there a mistletoe there? I swore it wasn’t when I got here!” your nervousness expressed itself on rambling, speaking without even taking a breath, while Angie watched clearly amused at your nervousness. She tilted her head to the left and her soft blonde hair followed the motion, falling over her shoulder until it set properly. She let out a soft chuckle that echoed in the floor, as everyone watched the exchange with curious eyes. The realization of the scene made you shut your eyes with shame and sigh defeatedly.

You didn’t know if she was about to have your head on a platter and fire you in front of everyone, scold you as if you were a five year old brat, or just leave without saying another word.

And you didn’t know what option was worse. But in between the plethora of scenes and options you ruminated, the upcoming one was definitely not in the books.

“So, tell me, did you like your gift?” She said, redirecting the conversation. You paused and narrowed your eyes at her. “Gift? What gift - wait. That was you?” Your voice had shown more shock than you would’ve liked to, but to be fair, it was pretty damn shocking. 

Angie smiled, pleased with herself and your reaction, nodding once. “I had a little help, but someone told me this festivity is quite the big deal for you…” You shook your head and recovered the words you’d been missing. “I loved it. You didn’t have to, boss.”

She rolled her eyes and softened her gaze. “Drop the formalities, darling, you can call me Angie. And I’m glad you liked it. Nancy worked hard on the decorations of the floor.”

Of course the secretary was in all of this. You giggled and hid your face in your hands, shaking your head side to side. “A little birdie, huh? So it was Nancy.”

“Well, she told me about one of the albums, and the hot chocolate. Technically, there were two little birdies. The owner of the shop told me how much time you spent there looking at Santana’s vinyl. I didn’t need to do much, one stare and the information was there, willing and able.” She shrugged unapologetically before speaking up once more. This time, the timing of her words was slower, more thought out, and felt very private. She lowered her voice and inched closer to you, the mistletoe still dancing over your heads. And you were far too aware of it, your eyes travelling up quickly, before locking back with Angie’s.

“As for the Christmas decorations… You do get loud when you speak about something you like, don’t you know that? Whether it's music, festivities, or… people.” The last word made your blood run cold and the smile dissipate from your lips - her voice dropped and seemed to be impossibly attractive, but all you could think about was the fact that Angie found out about your crush. Detail, big fat detail: your crush on her.

Considering how many times you had spoken to Nancy about your admiration for Angie, and how every single one of those times she’d tease you -“Wipe the drool from off your face, y/n” she’d lean in and whisper- either for how you couldn’t stop smiling when speaking about the blonde enchantress, how your eyes lit up when she passed by (and how you’d get flustered every single time) or for every time you looked at her a little too long, you mentally scolded yourself for doing it in front of her office. Not the smartest of moves if you’re trying to keep it a secret.

“I - Oh.”  She nodded softly and repeated your words “Yes, oh.”

The silence fell heavy between you, and the energy shifted into a tense, addicting feeling. You were sure you could feel electricity surging between both of you, and you definitely didn’t miss Angie’s eyes looking up at the mistletoe. “Ah, the infamous mistletoe. Shouldn’t we honour the tradition, then?” Her voice seemed impossibly seductive, and you were sure this is how mermaids had to speak - it was far too enticing, far too consuming.

She inched closer and snaked her arm behind your waist, pulling you in, hips snug against each other. You felt the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest, synchronizing your own breathing to hers. The proximity made you extremely nervous, and you kept breathing in her perfume, that intoxicating scent that made your brain go into overdrive and your heart beat faster. Your eyes followed the outline of her lips and marvelled at the way the light and shadow mixed and hit them, making them look even better. The lights of the tree twinkled softly and reflected on her eyes, which transformed them into the most beautiful starry sky; a universe in its own. You had gotten lost in the thought of them countless times, and here you were, staring right at them, feeling completely vulnerable and transparent, like she could read your mind. 

Her right hand travelled up to your neck, thumb, index and middle finger pressing softly on each side of it as it looked for your pulse points, not leaving the spot once they had found it. You were inches apart, and as if the teasing was already not enough, she gently pressed the first kiss on the corner of your mouth, moving to the other side, doing the same thing before putting some distance between both. “Is this okay?” She said softly. You could barely nod, absolutely immersed in the situation.

After your confirmation, she brushed your lips against hers before pressing them softly. You wanted to remember every sensation, the plump feeling of your lips against her, the softness of her mouth, the intoxicating scent, her electric touch. You felt her hands grab your waist and press down, her nails digging in your skin with just the right amount of pressure, and you relaxed against the kiss. 

Angie lightly slid her tongue across your bottom lip as if asking for permission, which you dutifully granted. You drew a deep, staggered breath at the surge of sensations and the heat you felt coursing your whole body. The kiss grew intense as she sucked on your lips and a shallow hum escaped her, completely pleased at the feeling she evoked on you and how you felt.

She tasted like a sweet, addicting nectar. And right then and there, you knew there was nothing you’d crave more in your life. Nothing that felt more right than this. Her body responded to yours and they moulded perfectly together, your primal needs clawing its way to the surface, and begging, begging you to not let her go. And so, your hands locked behind her slender neck, pulling her impossibly closer. They moved towards her face and caressed her cheek softly.

You swore you could feel your heart push through your chest as Angie’s left hand left your waist, which immediately missed the pressure and warmth of her touch, travelling through your upper body to set roots on top of your fastly beating heart. You felt so alive - and she felt it too, smiling through the kiss at the amount of power she held over your fragile heart, knowing, deeply knowing, you were hers. Her nails raked over your heart as she bit down on your lower lip and growled, “mine”. And there was simply no way you could ever contradict that statement, for the woman had been the owner of your heart since the moment you set eyes on her. 

The tidal wave of lust that had washed over both of you slowly started to set once you parted from the kiss to allow air into your burning lungs. Still dazed from the experience, you were sure you’d wake up from the dream at any given second. Angie’s thumb still ran across your lips reassuringly, her pupils blown wide, black against cobalt blue with shimmering lights reflecting from the tree. All danger, adventures and strong desire, a reckless sea, a new odyssey - and with all the trouble it might come, you knew it was absolutely worth it. 

Exhaling and taking a step back from you - which made you miss her warmth immediately - the blonde woman intertwined your fingers with hers, squeezing your hand before looking back at the rest of the office, which had seen the exchange and were staring slack-jawed.

“I do not like it when people touch things that belong to me. Good thing I put up that mistletoe and everyone knows who you belong to, now.” She winked at you, and before you could open your mouth to protest, shut you up by pressing one last soft kiss to your lips.  Angie hummed in approval while assessing the messy red tint on your mouth; her work made her chest fill with pride, before wiping the red stains from your mouth as best as she could, although she liked the view, the mark she’d left on you. Somehow hers didn’t seem messy at all.

Before you realized, Angie was walking towards your desk, pulling you along with her, ignoring the staring and whispers. Confused, you followed like a lost puppy. Honestly, you’d go anywhere she took to you, without thinking about it.

“Grab your things, darling. We’re not done yet.” She purred. 

You were completely entranced, and stumbled over your desk to grab your things, as she stared amused at your clumsiness. Once you had your coat, bag and gift, you looked at the muse in front of you and waited for instructions. She went into her office and gathered her purse and car keys, before saying goodbye to Nancy. You did the same thing, earning a sly smile from the old lady behind the computer. 

“Take the rest of the day, Nancy. Go enjoy it with your family.” Angie said, sauntering towards the door with a hand possessively set on your waist. You were sure you’d faint if she kept this going.

“Well, dear. What is it that we’re going to do to enjoy our first Christmas together?” She spoke while turning the car on. You held onto those words like a promise, like an oath, and giggled at the thought of what a little plant could do.