#and her birth parents disappearing without a trace... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

awordsmith · 7 months ago

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rained on with you 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you attend a few of Spencer's classes as an auditor for personal reasons and he calls you out in front of the class, and has no idea just how off he is.

katcember

who? spencer reid x college!reader when? s13 genre: angst to fluff (hurt/comfort) content warnings: kidnapping of a sibling, mentions of sa (not you), anger, shouting, stress, public embarrassment, student/professor dynamic (you're not his student), Spencer being sexually harassed by female students, intense despair and sadness, self-loathing, guilt, thoughts of murder, happy ending, not proofed, reid with care word count: 8.7k a/n: my first post, be pleasant! this actually made me cry because I've had a teacher I trusted and felt comfortable with yell at me for something I thought was completely okay in front of not only my class, but another class. enjoy!

You cursed yourself, there was something about the dreary weather outside that had you rushing through the outdoor halls of the building that made everything worse, you thought perhaps it was because it perfectly resembled what you felt inside.

It's been a month, you'd told yourself the first time you'd decided to audit the first class. It was a sociology class by a woman you'd never heard of, it wasn't even a general class needed for your major, you could have taken it as an elective, sure, but by that time, the deadline to add and drop classes had ended.

You'd taken notes and must have read them a hundred times over again, the police were kind at first, understanding, but as you began to compile more and more information, they stopped listening.

Two months had gone by and they'd eventually labeled her as a runaway. It wasn't uncommon for girls her age, but you knew your sister, and it just did not make sense.

That's when you decided it was you or no one, your parents could not handle the thought of anything else, and they too–eventually–chose to move on. "For the better," they'd said, it had made you so angry and feel so incredibly helpless at the same time.

How could they–her own parents–give up just like that?

Not you. You would never forget your sister, nor her person. You had gone over the day multiple times in your head and yet could not wrap around the fact that she'd just vanished without a trace.

You were entering the third month of her disappearance in December, and coincidentally her birth month. You did not want to celebrate without her and though the mere thought of her threatened tears rolling down your cheeks, you couldn't stop. It was as if the guilt wouldn't let you.

During the day, you attended your normal classes, and at night, almost every night, including Friday–tonight–you'd attend a lecture-based class that surrounded around psychology, sociology, and criminology. You had become a regular in each of the classes, criminology being the last you started attending.

You took vicarious notes, and when you weren't studying for your course classes, you were cramming as much information you'd learned from your secret night classes into your head and pouring it into your sister's disappearance.

To quench your need for sleep, you'd taken up drinking a lot more coffee than one should normally take in a day. You had been running a little behind schedule, so when you walked into the lecture hall and all eyes–including the professor's–fell on you, you absently took a small step back.

"Sorry I'm late," you murmured, avoiding his eyes as you moved to take a seat in the front like you normally did. The hall wasn't that big and most students sat in the back-row, what few did sit in the front were pretty quiet and never said a word to you. The lights were always dim, but enough for you to see your paper and pen.

The scent of rain and coffee wafted through the air as you began the trek to your normal seat. A question abruptly stopped you in the middle of the row, you had passed all the other students and you normally would have deigned to go around them, but thought not to interrupt the prof introducing the topic of today.

"What's your name?" Called the professor. You were startled as you set your back pack on the floor and slid into a seat.

"My–my name?" you swallowed, wishing the floor would swallow you.

"Yes, your name." His voice was thick and laced with something more than displeasure.

You glanced up at him, biting your cheek for a moment, deciding how to respond. What could it hurt? You thought. You looked back up at him, meeting his eyes, they were soft, and for some reason you abruptly wondered how old he was, surely not much older than you. You mumbled out your name, then shifted in your seat to lean down and rummage through your bag for your notebook.

"I don't actually believe you're in my class," he glanced around the room briefly before his eyes returned to you, your head down. He waited patiently for you to lift it again and meet, "I'm not in the habit of being straightforward like this," he began walking toward you.

Your heart pounded in sync with each step he took. Was he made you hadn't asked him to audit his class? You should have just asked him, but he always seemed to be with someone, you even once tried to find him during his office hours, but you didn't really want to go into depth about why you wanted to listen to his lectures. You'd barely escaped the previous two.

Besides, he'd looked intimidating, just as he did now, hovering above you with his arms crossed, "tell me," you kept your head down as your cheeks grew red, knowing every one in the class had their eyes on you, "why do you keep coming back?"

When you didn't respond as you just didn't know how, he scoffed, "listen, I don't mean for this to come off as personal, but stop." You jerked your head upward, eyes pleading. He was the only professor that aloigned with your schedule.

He rolled his eyes, ran a hand down his face, and sighed. "Stop–just," he held bout a hand, a resigned and indifferent expression on his face, "girls like you are the reason I don't allow auditors in my class anymore. If you're not curious about the material, there is no reason for you to be here."

"But I am," came the tiny squeak of your voice.

He laughed, but tried to cover it up with a cough as he deigned to look at you again, "I have students here," he motioned toward the other students in the hall with his arms, "who I'm sure would appreciate their time and energy being respected, I know I do." His face fell flat, "so do us all a favor and–

"What?!" Came your realized reply. For as long as it took you, you were surprised the prof had not yet realized the mixup. You felt less embarrassed now and more–pissed. How arrogant can one person be? How big is too big an ego? "Are you crazy?" You couldn't help the shout as you stood.

To his credit, the prof–yeah, you didn't even know his name–and he thought, you scoffed internally, rolling your eyes on this outside, you took a few steps forward until you were in front of him. You shoved your notebook in his chest and waited for him to grab it before taking another step back, doing your best to ignore the number of eyes that were most defiantly flying between you and the prof.

"Look, I'm sorry I interrupted your lecture, and I'm also sorry for not asking to audit it, but to say that I've been using my free nights where I could be sleeping or working on her case to see you–" you took a breath, face flushed despite how you both wanted to laugh and cry and scream, "whatever," you shook your head, a scoff leaving your lips as you did so; you turned around, snatched your book bag from the floor, and stormed out, letting the metal door fall closed with a hard thud.

You only got a few paces away before tears began welling in your eyes and you plastered yourself against a nearby wall, the car lot you'd been at no more than 5 minutes ago right around the corner. "I'm sorry," you whispered, "I'm so–o, so-rry," you wiped your eyes, your voice trembling with and cracking with the weight of the day and the most recent events. You knew that it wasn't the last you'd see of that prof, you'd need to go back eventually to get your notebook back, that is–if he kept it, for all you knew he'd thrown it away already.

Whatever the case, just one last time, you'd need to talk to him just once more, if only to get your stupid notebook back that you stupidly handed over in a moment of dumbfounded and audacity-stricken. You just couldn't believe it.

You shook your head, swiping at the tears that had began streaming down you face. You'd go during one his office hours, perhaps he'll feel sorry or guilty. Good, you thought, he should.

Not tonight though, tonight, you were sleeping, you weren't going to think about anything. Your body was exhausted and you knew it; it had been for a while and yet you neglected it the sleep it desperately needed for favor of finding your sister and keeping up your normal schedule.

Just one night, you thought, making your way into the lot.

Huffing, you stuffed your hands into your pockets, it had been a few days now, you let Saturday and Sunday pass, Monday too, today, you couldn't handle it any longer. You needed your notebook, you were nearly there, you had gone over your suspect list, you had what you thought was a solid profile, though you couldn't be too sure, you were planning to go over it with the sociology professor when you had the chance, though you had no idea if she'd be able to give you anything more, especially if she didn't take it seriously.

You were just thinking that you could probably say it was a personal project, something to get your gears turning when you ran headfirst into someone. "Oh, I am so sorry," you backed away, reaching an arm out to steady the girl.

She glanced at you, tear-marks down her face, "it's fine," she huffed and held her head up, "it's nothing," she smiled painfully, "my fault really," she turned to you with an endearing expression, "thank you, though." She walked off quickly, no doubt wanting to get to her car.

It was such a strange experience, you had to rub your own head, thinking you'd hit it too hard and that's why you weren't walking in a straight line.

Nearing his office, you puffed out your chest, ready to stand your ground and demand your book back if necessary. You didn't believe yourself above the law, but spending a night or three in a jail didn't seem all too bad when only God knew what your sister was going through.

The smell of coffee hit you, like it always did, it became somewhat familiar in your routine, smelling it now–when you normally didn't–almost through you off.

You cleared your head and were about to clear your throat before stepping into his office, when you caught a sentence, he wasn't alone. You raised a brow and pressed your back against slightly ajar door, "please," it was the prof–his shaggy brown hair and puppy brown eyes appeared as a perfect image in your head, though his eyes were narrowed in your depiction. You glared back at the him from last Friday, then paused, catching the other side of the conversation.

"I–I don't know what you mean," murmured the student–a girl. You briefly thought of the girl you'd ran into, then through the image away in favor of eaves dropping. "I just," a char creaked and a heavy sigh came.

"Listen," the prof's gruff voice was lighter this time, he sounded almost...awkward. You smirked at it, now he was intimidated by a girl? An actual student of his no less? What kind of pathetic–

"I just was to know how I can please you, in the class, I mean," she corrected yourself, but the meaning was there and it made you cough, you'd covered it in time, swiftly moving your face into the inner side of your elbow.

"And I've told you," the prof's chair shifted, man he must be uncomfortable, you thought, feeling a little sorry for him. You had no idea–it just never crossed your mind–that he could have been yelling at you from a reasonable stand point.

You sighed and through your head back, prepping yourself for something you most definitely shouldn't do.

"I know what you said, Sir, but," the girls voice began to get pushy, which is when you thought it finally time.

You swept open the door all the way and stepped inside, arms crossed a sly smile on your face, "sorry to interrupt, oh," you let your eyes fall to the girls, "sorry I didn't know you were with someone, but," you had the decency to try looking regretful, "I'm sorry, this is really important."

It took a few seconds for the girl to register that you were now addressing her. She glanced at your dominating figure and then back at the prof, who looked both grateful and constipated. You bit your cheek to keep from laughing.

"Right," the prof said, turning to the girl who now went limp in the chair, "thank you for stopping by, I appreciate it I do."

The girl nodded solemnly, understanding this was a polite way of being dismissed. She collected her things gravelly, which is when you paused, she was young–fresh out of high school young. What was she doing trying to mess with a professor her first year in university?

Her face pinged familiar when she looked at you and you instantly made the connection from the girl you'd bumped into earlier. Your eyes widen and a just barely audible, "oh," came from you mouth.

When she was gone, you took a breath before turning back around, meeting his eyes in a silent, "so, that was crazy," his lips formed a line and his eyes almost shrugged for him.

"Does that happen a lot?" You didn't know why you asked, but you did, and well, he answered didn't he?

"More times than students come in with actually problems." He frowned, eyes fixed on the door left open.

"Maybe that just mean you're a good teacher?" You raised a brow, at least you thought he was, he did ramble sometimes, but it was enjoyable, seeing as how you were used to it. Well, you used to be, Your face tightened, "my notebook," you roamed your eyes over his desk before looking up again, "I want it back."

He nodded thoughtfully, watching you for a moment, "who is she?"

Your eyes fell, so he had read it, "my sister."

He nodded again, though you only looked back up when he pulled open a drawer. "I assume you..." his sentence broke off when heavy rainfall began.

He glanced at the door again, then at you, to which you smiled, though small, kind, "we can leave it open."

Relief filled his face and just for a second it made you angry on his behalf. Why hadn't he gone to the dean of his college? Surely it wouldn't be as bad as what he'd been going through now.

You opened your mouth to say something about it, but he spoke before you, "uhm, the case, it was dropped?"

You nodded, "yeah, last month."

"I assume you have a list? This was pretty detailed work," he held up your notebook.

"Thank you, but that's not all I have," you informed, "that's just my notebook for your class, which is incredibly insightful by the way, you should really think about becoming full time, your lectures aren't that hard to understand once you're comfortable and familiar with the material and usage of vocab..u...lar..y..." you dropped of your sentence, glancing away.

He chuckled, almost startling you out of your seat, "it's okay, I do that sometimes too."

You smiles slightly, "I know, you do it constantly during your lectures and seminars."

His smile cracked and he looked a little worried, "do I?"

You snorted, "Don't worry, they're interesting and most of the time relatable to the discussion or topic." He nodded, looking a little conscious. "So," you prodded, noting the book still in front of him.

"Oh, right," he picked the book up and handed it back to you, you didn't know what else to say, so you began to stand, "you know," his voice echoed through the office, though not large and with rain pouring down as if a hurricane was about to roll in, still clear, "if you want I can take a look at it, I am an FBI profiler."

You turned back to him and raised a brow, "what was your name again?"

He looked shellshocked, "you, you don't know my name?"

"Don't take it personal," you waved off, "I don't know my real professors' names, I call them all prof or professor for a reason."

"Do you call me professor?" He smiled, intrigued by the sudden admission. It was a little feeing, knowing that not only did he have a student in his office whom enjoyed his seminars and took detailed notes during his lectures, but who didn't have a single clue who he was. He'd written paper's, was on live television more times than he could recall–and he had an eidetic memory–and still, she did not know a single thing about him other than he taught twice a week once on a Wednesday night and once on a Friday night. He was honestly surprised he was able to get off work in time to head over to campus and set up.

"Prof," you said, grinning smugly, "professor isn't your style."

"Why not?" He scrunched his brows together.

"You're too young, it makes me feel weird and takes a hit at my pride," you grabbed your chest dramatically.

A snort came from his throat as he watched you reenact Romeo and Juliette, act 5, scene 3. He paused, referring to you as Juliette could be misinterpreted and he did not want that. He liked talking to you despite himself and he frowned as he recalled how he'd embarrassed you lat Friday, "I'm sorry," he tilted his head downward, watching your smiling eyes find his, "last Friday, that was uncalled for..."

You stared at him for a long while, trying to figure out how to say it, but eventually gave up and let your thoughts spill out, "yes, it was." He winced slightly at the harshness, you did too, you hadn't realized hoe hurt you still were, but you sighed, "at least I thought it was." He lifted his eyes and you averted yours, "look, it's not my place or anything, but what's happening is not okay, it's harassment. You should.." you bit your lip, frowned, and met his eyes through your lashes, "why haven't you gone to the dean?"

He took a breath and sat down in his chair, it squeaking on impact. You watched him run a hand through his hair, he looked contemplative, "I don't know...I just," he huffs, "they're kids, they have their entire life ahead of them, I don't know how I could just take that all away because of some silly crush."

The way he said "silly" instead of "stupid" or "annoying" made you smile. Your heart warmed and at the same time you felt sorry for him, but you were also beyond confused, "you said you were an FBI profiler?" He nodded, "then, how can't you tell the difference between–" you stopped yourself, that wasn't fair to him at all. "All right," you nodded, "if you won't go to the dean, that's your choice," you pressed your lips together, "but if you ever need a rescuing like today," you patted your arm, "I can be your superman."

His eyebrows furrowed, "don't you mean supergirl?"

"Nah," you smiled smugly again, "I mean superman."

He nodded, a grin falling over his face like it'd been waiting to break free, "okay, thanks. Oh, and–uhm," he pulled out his phone, "should I email you?"

You nodded, "as long as you let me continue auditing your class."

He smiled, eye alight with something you were certain you had never seen cross his face in the two months you'd been taking his lectures and seminars. "If you want me to look at your sister's case," he said quietly after you'd hit the door, "I'd be willing to mention it to my team."

Your eyes widened and you spun around, tears already in your eyes, you kept your hope down, but your thankfulness as clear as the notion you were going to get soaked before reaching your car was. "I would appreciate it greatly, even if nothing comes of it."

He smiled, "I'll let you know what they say after class tomorrow."

"Thank you," you swiped at your eyes, wondering how someone who you had never spoken to you up until now could make you cry so much.

You spun around, notebook covered under you shirt, and headed down the hall, where you were bound to face the wrath of the climate.

You worked out the finality of your suspect list, you could not narrow it as you'd have to actually interact with these people, and if you did, you could only think of what that meant for you sister. You didn't have all the information the cops had gathered, in fact you had significantly less, the only thing you had that the cops didn't was relation.

You threw your head back and groaned, you were hoping the prof had done his job. Yes, you still called him prof, it hit you a few minutes after ringing out your clothes before getting in your car, he'd never told you his name. You felt an urge to go back and ask, knowing it was going to keep you up at night, but as much shit as you talked, you were not brave enough to face the wind and rain again.

You were waiting for it to start hailing, thanking your school for having rooftops over their car lots. Sure enough it did bug you, but what bugged you more was what his team would say. Would they help? Would they roll their eyes and state that she clearly just ran away? Your sister was 23, her birthday was around the corner, you were just a year younger, though your birthday had passed already.

You slide out of your car, breathing in the fresh air, hoping the wind was all you got tonight. You felt someone watching you, knew you were probably just tired. It had happened a few times, so you weren't too concerned.

You were early, not wanting to cause any disruption like the last time you were here. It was a Wednesday, but at this time, the school wasn't as crowded, sometimes, if you were desperate you parked in the teaches lot and hopes no one would pay too much attention.

Your nose picked up the scent of coffee again and you couldn't help the cheeky grin that spread across your face, nor the welling in your eyes. What would he say? Would his team take the case? Would they try helping anyway if they couldn't? Despite yourself, you couldn't help but hope.

When you popped your face in, there were a few students already settled. Some glanced at you, some were too distracted by their phones, none seemed to be much affected by your presense.

"Oh, there you are," came a deep and yet squeaky voice. You spun around, finding the prof behind you, he tightened his lips, averting his eyes from your every time you found his.

Your heart failed, they had denied it. You gulped and prepared yourself, "it's alright–"

"So, they took the case–"

He startled at your disappointment as you startled at his shifty eyes. "What?" Your voice seemed octave, "what do they think?"

"Well," he stepped away from the door and moved you along using ah hand on your back so that a student might get through. You wondered what they thought of you, probably incredibly confused as to why you were still here, having an intimate conversation with their professor after he had so easily confirmed his distaste of you just a few days ago.

"What happened?" You prompted, "just tell me, I can take it." You nodded assuredly.

He huffed, stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned his back adjacent the wall, "how long has your sister been missing?"

"December 21 will make it a full three months," you stated, "what does it matter?"

"They've agreed to take the case, but they're concerned," he started, "they–" a few students passed us and entered the classroom.

You glance down at your phone, "we can continue after class," you spun around without a word and entered the class, half wondering why in the world his team took the case, you were pretty sure–from what you gathered in your night lessons–FBI profilers, BAU agents, only dealt with serial killings. It was a long shot really, and you knew there were likely cases that rendered more serious, but you just could not pass up the offer.

You didn't want to question it, but you did, the prof ended class early and that's it, you thought, I need his name, calling him prof isn't going to do it anymore.

You collected your things slowly, waiting for the hall to empty. When it was, you headed for his desk at the corner of the room. "They never found a body?" He questioned as soon as you braced your hands against his desk, back pack discarded to the side on the floor.

"No," you shook your head, eyes determined, "if they did, my parents or I would have been called in to ID it." You were sure she was still alive, you could feel it.

"If they haven't found a body, there's a good chance she's still alive," he affirmed your suspicions, in any case, I'm not really suppose to be discussing this with you...but I think we're a little past that."

"I'm superman," you remind him, chuckling away the pain in your voice "only kryptonite can hurt me."

He smiled, genuinely, kindly, "they've already started working on it."

Your eyes widened, "already? The police reopened the case?"

He faltered slightly, "not exactly...but...we have skilled...team members."

"My lips are sealed," you mimed zipping your lips.

"Did you bring your suspect list?" You raised a brown and he smiled smugly, as if to say, "come on now."

You pulled your book bag onto his desk as he stood and brought around a stool that seemed to have materialized from thin air. You moved out the way and allowed him to set it down, murmuring a thank you as you took a seat.

He was dialing someone on his phone as you slid over your list, when the person answered, he put the phone on speaker, "hey, Garcia, I'm gonna need you to run background check on a list."

"What'doyou got for me, Doctor?" Came a woman's voice from the other side of the line.

Doctor? You squinted your eyes, watching the man in front of you. Accomplished, was the world that boiled in your mind, this man was incredibly accomplished, how old was he exactly? It made you wonder, honestly. You were in your last year of college, ready to go full time after this year, but not without your sister. You still had so much you wanted to do with her.

The phone call ended, you had tuned out the entire time, "you're skilled teammate, I suppose," you raised a brow, your lis quirked slightly upward.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you'd make a one hell of a profiler." He grinned back, eyes lingering.

Your heart thrummed in your chest, oh no, your subconscious screamed, but your conscious replied anyway, "and what do you know, Doctor?"

He snorted, "alright, first of all, it's Spencer, second of all," he lifted and pointed a finger at your clothing, "you stress easily, you clean up neater when you're trying to mask something, probably juggling being a full time student and full time rookie cop," his eyes dipped to your bag, where a pin of a true crime show you loved sat perfectly, "you have interest in crime, but you'd hate the profession because of the long hours." He reached for your bag and instead of stopping him, you watched, amazed,"you prefer alone time," he placed your current read in front of you, "which means you're most likely single and have been for while," he glanced at you momentarily, then went back to rummaging, "you listen to music when you're trying to focus," he set down your headphones and sets your bag to the side again, "and I can't prove it on my own, but I guarantee if you open your phone right now and look at your purchase history, it'll have more than the average orders spent at the coffee shop across from campus."

You nodded and gulped, "a magician."

He tilted his head with a crooked grin and raised and eyebrow, "no, it's–it's just–"

"–fucking awesome?" You asked, amazement written stark across your face.

"Yes," he cleared his throat, "well, anyway," he forced his gaze back down at the list in front of you when his phone rings.

It's the girl again, says a woman, Emily, had more information and thinks he may have a location. From what you got, your sister was most likely captured by a sex trafficking ring. Your heart sinks when you hear the new, hoping and praying they were able to find her, but you knew the probability, it had been months. "She could be half way across the world by now," your throat was raw and thick.

"Hey," Spencer placed his hand over yours, "it's going to be okay. I promise." But he didn't say they'd find her, he didn't say the probability of her being found at all could be a one in a million chance, and that's when you thought almost irritatingly, he is way too good at his job.

You stood outside the coffee shop a day later, watching the downpour of the day, huffing as you stepped inside the offered warmth of the shop. There was the usual barista at the counter, her smile genuine, "hey, I was just talking about you."

"Really?" You try for a smile, not wanting her to think your sour mood because of her.

"Yep, you want the usual?"

You nodded and stepped up to the counter, "actually can I add a chocolate croissant, too?"

"Sure thing," she rang you up and you sat down near a window to wait. Your fists strained against themselves, anger had racked your brain this morning. It was all you could think about, how you'd kill the people that hurt your sister, that could even think it okay–

You heard your name being called as the door to the coffee shop rung, you glanced up to see an odd looking abominable-Spencer, you snorted, "are you okay? What are you wearing?"

He approached you, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion as he shrugged off the giant, apparently rain- repellent coat, "it's a puffer jacket."

You smiled slightly, one of the realest smiles you've had since the kidnapping. "Did your team find something?" You asked as he placed the jacket on the chair across from you and sat down. You'd assumed so, since he had been the one to email you this morning during your fist class. The fog had cleared away, so you walked instead of driving, leading to regret as soon as you reached your destination, when the rain began to pour.

"Yes, actually," he nodded, "my...they found the drop off, where the gils were being held. You would have perked up if you didn't know what the look on his face meant.

"You didn't find her," you amended, an aching sadness falling over you. You thought it might have been because you'd spent all this time looking for her, trying to prove she wasn't a runaway, and you were so close. Even though you knew the probability of finding her was slim to none, you couldn't give up, your heart and mind wouldn't let you, as long as she lived, and she was alive, you'd never stop looking.

"They're interrogating a few of the..." he cleared his throat, noting the glistening of your wet cheeks. "They, they're also going over what the victims remember, hoping it'll give them some clue as to where...uh, the others were taken."

You gulp, nodding. For a second, you felt an urge to say her name, to tell him, but that wouldn't be fair, "thank you, for everything, Spencer."

"Of course," he frowned, without thinking his hand shot out and lifted your face, eyes darting over you, he was analyzing you.

Your lip quirked, "are you profiling me right now?"

His mouth hung ajar for a moment, eyes searching, then, "no, I've already done that."

You nod, "right, last night, you know my favorite book."

"That's not what I meant," he sighed, then, as if just no realizing, dropped your face so abruptly, you had to catch it. He leaned back, then stood, "I'm...gonna go order."

You nodded, your mind racing with the thoughts of your sister. How you just wanted to hold her hand one last time, press her against you, and tell her how sorry you were. That you didn't mean it, any of it. You had no idea where she'd gone after she'd left your apartment, she had just left.

The fight was stupid, it could have been avoided completely if you'd just been a little more understanding. You hated yourself for that, how could you be so selfish, it was just one person! It wasn't even a boy, it was her friend. Your reasoning may have been a little justified, but just because you didn't know this girl–your brain stopped. Your head shot up and you wiped your tears, waiting eagerly as Spencer sat back down.

"What?" He furrowed his brows, "what did you remember."

Damn him and his profiling skills, "there was a girl, that day, my sister and I had got into a fight, we have our own apartments, but mine's closer to campus, so when she's tired she'll usually crash at mine, sometimes with friends. I only had two rules for that, one there could be no more than 2 of her friends, and that I had to know them. But I didn't know her, and that's why we got into a fight." You take a breath as you ramble out all this information, "I'd thought it was strange, I even told the cops, but they brushed it off–she–she would have never done that. She never broke my rules, that's why I was so annoyed–" you murmur, "H, her name started something with an H, I think," then you remembered.

You told Spencer her name and he had his skilled teammate, Garcia, run that name through the universities system. Of course there were multiple, so you began trying to recall things that stood out.

"Got her," came the reply, "running background check, Rossi's on the other line, brb my sunshine," a click and the call was disconnected.

You stared in awe at the phone on the table, and then you grinned, you lifted your face and was met with an equally proud expression. Your order was called soon after and you stood to grab it. As you passed Spencer his arm shot out and halted you, you looked down at him questioningly, he opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and let you go, "it's nothing."

You nodded, a little nervously. You suppressed the butterflies in your stomach, this could only end one way, he was comfortable with you, he was helping you find your sister, the entire reason you'd began auditing his class. You had told him it wasn't for him and it wasn't, but what would be the point if now...

No, you would find your sister and cease contact with him, that'd b how this ended. I'm his superman, you thought, cringing slightly, and unfortunately I only have one weakness.

They'd did it, they'd found your sister. She was being rushed to the hospital and you and your parents were doing your best to contain your relief. You couldn't help but yell at them. "I told you so, I told you!"

You had emailed Spencer the good news, though he'd probably already knew. You emailed on sing your personal emails, seeing as the university monitored the ones on canvas.

The rush of excitement and thrill was frightening. The bags under your eyes would now disappear and you could sleep again without having nightmares.

"Where is she?" You all but screeched at the receptionist, your parents took assertion, and you let them. It was evident, even to you that you were not in the right state of mind, nor were you physically great. It had taken them four days. Four days to find your sister, all this time you were out searching, it felt like a waste of time.

You couldn't face her, you took a step back, terrified of her reaction. As your parents rushed to the elevators, you stayed where you stood. You ignored their calls to you, you face unreadable in their eyes. As the elevator door shut, your took a shuddering breath. The hospital was full, which didn't seem unusual for the staff, but it was too loud for you.

Too loud, you wanted to scream, and cry, and break down, but you didn't deserve that. Not after all your sister went through.

"Hey, hey, hey," calm and gentle, his voice tugged at you like a life raft. You turned as and soon as you met his eyes the tears fell, you let out a loud wale as he wrapped you in his arms.

"She was–over two months!"

"Shh, shh," he rubbed your back and cradled your neck, you buried your face into his shoulder, "hey, it's not your fault," his voice went high for a second and then lowered again. You heart boomed in your chest–you loved that about him. The uncertainty in his voice, the way he didn't know if what he said was going to make the situation better or worse. In the single four days you had known him on a more personal level, he had grown and grown like a weed.

His presence made everything just a little bit bearable. Why, you didn't know, but you could not do this to him. You could not be the person he comforted on a daily basis because that's just what he expected of you, why he was weary and displeased with you in the first place. You could not feel this way about him, especially because it was almost mad–again you hadn't known his name more than three days.

"What did you mean?" You asked suddenly, pulling away, "when you said you had profiled me before?"

He pressed his lips together and used his thumb to wipe the tears that kept streaming down your cheek, the lights in the hospital seemed to dim and the nose seemed to filter out, "it's nothing, it doesn't matter now."

"It matters to me," you pressed, and then you thought his eyes held warning and you hated yourself all over again. "Right," you unlatched yourself from him, feeling caught it a lie, "I, I should go. Thank you for," you chuckled out a cry, but not for your sister, for you stupidity, and possibly the lost of your just formed friendship, "my families waiting."

He nodded and took–what seemed to you a bigger than necessary–step back. "See you later, then, superman."

You stifled a new set of tears and forced a smile to your face, and turned around, your face instantly falling. You stepped into the elevator, hyper aware of his eyes still watching you. You clicked the button, any button, just fo the door to shut and kept your head down, and when the doors closed, you fell to the floor, wrapping your arms around yourself.

A few floors later, you found your sisters and your parents. She was in bad shape, she had bruises all over her body, you watched your parents stand over her bed, trying to talk with her. It was okay at first, until the doctors brought out a rape kit, you just...you couldn't watch that. You needed air, you headed back toward the the elevator, your eyes rimmed red with crying and dark with the lack of sleep.

When you the elevator opened on the first floor, you kept your head down and your arms wrapped tightly around you, you walked swiftly toward the exist, too wrapped in your emotions to notice the person following you.

Once outside, you headed toward the side, where a small playground sat. You didn't know if you wanted children or not yet, or maybe you did want them, you couldn't think straight. The darkened playground comforted you. You found yourself coming face to face with a rock wall. Not too tall, but challenging enough for 10 year olds. You smiled to yourself and climbed until you reached the top, which was pretty disappointing, but it got you off the ground.

"I hope you're not thinking of jumping," his voice startled you, what was he doing here?

"Didn't you go home?" You questioned, you calfs coming face to face with the top of his head.

"I thought about it," he admits, his hand running along the wall, stopping as it finds one to grip, "but then I remembered," he hauled himself upward, "a friend I made just recently," he grunts as he pulls himself upward one final time, leaving a small space between you, "likes to watch the rain."

"What?" You your voice quivered as the word floated from your lips, but you were smiling...slightly.

He cleared is throat and held out his wrist, "one...two..."

You cleared your throat, trying to make is a bit firmer, "why are you counting–"

There, just the tiniest drop of water fell into you eye, you wiped it away, turning to him with widened eyes, "why didn't you stop me?"

You brace your hands against the rock to jump off, but Spencer stops you, grabbing you wrist, he called your name once and you made the mistake of looking into the big, brown, puppy dog eyes.

Soaked were you a few second later, Spencer too, though you weren't sure if that made up for it. There were no stars, clouds blocked them from your view. You smacked him on his chest shouting through the rain, "what the hell, Spencer?!"

"Technically, Hell is considered insanely hot by many of its believers!" He replies, earning another smack, this time to the shoulder, a laughing fit entangles the both of you as the rain fell around you and after a moment of absolute madness, you caught his eyes and you wondered if this meant what you thought it meant–what you couldn't stop your heart from hoping this meant.

"Thank you," you shouted once more, finding the courage to lean against him. It was odd, the colder you physically got, the warmer your mentally grew.

"Anytime, superman," he brushed strands of wet hair out of your face and you knew, you just knew what you felt, but it's not real, not to him. You were superman and Achilles said it best, "They never let you be famous and happy," and you knew how that story ended.

The weather seemed to ease up this morning, you were happy, two weeks had gone by and your sister was back at home in time to celebrate her birthday. You stopped auditing classes and seminar's, but you still found reasons to email Spencer. Yeah, you still emailed him, if he wanted you to have his number, he'd give it to you or ask for yours–besides, yo9u had grown fond of this way of communication, leaving everyone off with sincerely yours, superman.

He didn't seem to mind and alway replied instantly, he had become one of your closest friends, which awkwardly wasn't hard because–as he had stated previously, you preferred your alone time, which was a nicer way to say you didn't have many friends, but you didn't mind at all.

"Are you texting him?" Came your sister's question as she hopped next to you, wrapping an arm around you, leaning over your shoulder to get a better look at your screen.

"God–no," you grinned, standing up, pulling the phone out of her reach. "And it's emailing," you grumbled, heading into the kitchen.

"Emailing," she widened her eyes, following you to your kitchen, "honestly, I don't why you bother."

"He's more comfortable this way."

She took a sip of orange juice, nodding, "mm, right," she set the glass down, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, "because he's the hot professor girls were swooning over."

"It was harassment," you pointed out.

"Oh, right," she nodded, "and you just happen to come into his life at the perfect time." She put a hand over her forehead, "my savior, my superman." She giggle as you through a jolly rancher at her.

She dodged, "ow hey–those things hurt!"

You snorted, "mmhm."

"Ssss," she hissed holding her side.

Your rushed to her, worried eyes raking up and down her body to find the cause, "hey, are you sure you're fine? We don't have to go out tonight, like I said, Mom and Dad don't think it's a good idea either."

"H-hey," she laughed, but it was pained; you helped her get to her feet again, brushing a lock behind her face, "come one, I've been through hell and back, that basically means I'm invincible now."

You frowned, then smiled softly when she met your eyes, "okay, okay fine. But the second you seem off, we're coming home."

She nodded, "it's just an arcade, what worse could possibly happen that hasn't happened already?"

You frowned, glancing away, and bracing your wrists against the kitchen counter, "if you say so..."

She ran to your room and began picking out outfits, a few of her friends were meeting you at the arcade. You were kind of there to keep an eye on her, you still hadn't apologized for kicking her out that day with the girl–that witch. Too many times did you have dreams about wrapping you hands around her neck and squeezing until there was nothing left but dust.

You vowed to have Spencer have his tech genius friend, Garcia, run backgrounds on all of her friends moving forward. No one was safe anymore. Of course, you kept that bit to yourself.

"Come on, we're going to be late!" Your sister grabbed your arm, tugging you toward the front door, for a moment, your mind took you back to the day in the coffee shop around three weeks ago, when Spencer had grabbed your arm, he'd looked like he wanted to say something, and that was the first moment you realized you might've had a crush on him.

You frowned, feeling bitter about it. It was a shitty thing, a shitty thing for you to do, but you supposed you could not exactly control your emotions like you'd wished.

The day was clear and so far, the night was too, three of your sister's friends, ones you knew well and had more than once crashed at your apartment before, had met up with the two of you.

They headed into the arcade, getting halted do to a line. They pouted and poked fun at each other for almost running into a few children. It was a good time so far, and you were having fun, if not for you sake, for your sister's all the more, but there was an ache. Something was missing and you could feel it.

"You know," your sister fell back, letting the entrance to the arcade go, "he told me everything." You jolted, your gaze jerked watching her saddened expression. She watched the concrete, "you never stopped trying to find me," she lifted her gaze then, eyes sparking and frown flipping, "I guess he thought I should know because he probably knew you'd be too scared to tell me yourself."

Was she talking about Spencer? You couldn't breath, of course she was, who the hell else was there?

"Thank you," your heart melted at her words and tears sprang in your eyes, "and I forgive you, so don't worry about it. Besides, you're not the only one to blame." She threw her head back and snorted at herself, "I broke a rule, you've had them since the beginning. So don't be too hard on yourself okay?"

Her eyes caught on something behind you and her face lit up, "Spencer! Hey, glad you could make it."

He huffed, glancing down at you while you stared up at him in complete awe. "Magician," you murmured, his gaze settling on you for a second, "no, it's just me." He turned back to your sister, mouthing a 'thank you', then, "and happy 24th birthday."

"I should be thanking you, this way, she won't be analyzing everything I do."

The threw her head back and laughed, then slide through the door and found her friends in line again.

"Spencer?" You raised a brow, a half chuckle leaving your mouth, "what are you doing here?"

"Well," he stuffs his hands in his pockets, "I have...skilled teammates..." came his response.

"And that includes my sister?"

"No, no," he waved off, "I just was able to get her number." You raised a brow and he held his hands up. "After speaking with her in person–I thought she should know how much you cared–she invited me," he threw his hands up slightly, "here."

You connected the dots easily, this must have been after you'd told her about the people that found her, after you had told her a little more about the rude turned friend professor. Your cheeks burned, though the darkness hid it. As much as you loved and wanted to be around him constantly, it also hurt you, and you hated being around him because you knew, you knew you couldn't feel this way about him.

Except you did and you were bad at hiding it.

"What's that?" He sniffed at the air, turning around and walking toward the edge of the sidewalk, where concrete met blacktop, "it's...rain."

You threw your head back and groaned, "you're kidding."

"Nope," he laughed, holding out his hand where trickles began to fall.

"I have got to have the absolute worst luck," you huffed, smacking your hands to your cheeks.

"That," Spencer said, stepping in front of you, "or," he palmed your hands, pulling them away from your face, eye tracing every line–

"Please don't tell me your'e about to say something sappy." You cringed, then popped open one eye when he stayed silent.

He was huffing, trying to hold in his laughter, "no, no I'm just gonna," he leaned in, hands finding your face, and he kissed you. You'd thought about what it would be like and a few times you even caught yourself day dreaming about it, he smelled like coffee and rain, just how you preferred, and this was real.

Every part of you on fire, despite the wind that started pulling at the trees. Rain poured over you and you jolted, screeching, "no!"

Spencer laughed at you trying to pull him to safety, "what-what? Why?"

"Not this time," you grinned up at him.

"But–but that was the best part," he whined playfully, jabbing a thumb behind his shoulder, still letting you pull him by his hand under the roof of the arcade sidewalk. "I–I thought you loved the rain?" His voice went high, the low again, the way it always did when he was joking or nervous.

"I love watching the rain, I don't like to be in the rain." You corrected.

"But I love being rained on with you," he murmured, tilting his head; his big brown puppy dog eyes shining with affection.

"Maybe next time, Doctor," you huffed a laugh and he held the door open, and you stepped a small spin to walk in, using his arm as a dome.

a/n: (please let me know if there are any grammatical errors) I am so sorry I honestly did not mean for it to be this long when I thought of the idea, but when I began writing, I realized it would be way longer than I intended and actually is now my longest fic I have ever written. I hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it <3

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22ayla21 · 3 months ago

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Nooo I read the miscarrige fic wdym that was so sad :((( AND I'M HERE FOR MORE ANGST! What is their wife passed away after child birth? How would the other children react? Would the dads try to comfort them? How would they themselves react?

Without her

Her last birth was difficult. She died leaving her husband a widower, and her children orphans without one parent.

From the Author: perhaps this was the hardest fic for me... And all because I was in the place of these children, and my dad was in the place of the Amphoreus men. I also lost my mother and this pain cannot be described in words. In the future, I ask you not to bring up the topic of the death of one of the parents. I have not yet recovered from the death of my mother, although soon it will be a year since her death...

The house was quiet. Not the cozy, evening peace when the aroma of tea spreads through the kitchen and the children, lazily settled in armchairs, whisper to each other, trying not to wake their mother. No, this was a different silence - heavy, suffocating, filled with something invisible, but all-pervasive.

Mydei sat on the edge of the bed, next to the swaddling clothes in which no one had yet managed to wrap the baby. He looked at the empty space next to him and knew that it would never be filled again.

The door creaked carefully.

The eldest son entered first. He was still too young to be an adult, but also too old not to understand. His face was stony, his lips were tightly pressed, but pain splashed in his eyes. He approached his father, stood next to him and lowered his head. Mydei hugged him by the shoulders, and the boy trembled.

The middle daughter appeared next. She was silent, but her eyes were already red. She clenched her hands into fists, as if trying to hold on, but when she came closer, her legs gave way and she fell to her knees in front of the bed. She threw up her hands, as if she wanted to grab something elusive.

- She promised, - her voice trembled. - She promised…

The youngest daughter stood in the doorway. She wasn’t crying. She looked at everyone with wide-open eyes, full of emptiness. She didn’t fully understand yet, but something inside her had already realized: Mom wouldn’t come back.

Mydei stood up. He went up to the youngest and knelt down in front of her.

- Daddy, - her voice was so small.

He took her hands, squeezed them in his palms.

- Mom’s gone, - he said quietly. She nodded. - But she wanted you to be happy.

Tears flowed like a river. He held her close, tightly, and felt the other two children pressed against him as well. They were shaking, clinging to each other, clinging to him. He didn't say it would be okay. He didn't promise the pain would go away. He was just there. And he would be. Always.

The house, once filled with her warmth, now seemed strange, too empty, too quiet. Anaxa looked at the children standing before him, not knowing where to put his hands, how to breathe properly in this new, scary world. He knew he needed to say something, do something, but his chest was empty, as were their eyes.

The eldest daughter stood with clenched fists, her lips trembled, but no tears flowed. She tried to be strong, like her mother, like her father, but it hurt him to see her shoulders shaking from the inner struggle. The second daughter pressed her mother's thing to her chest - her cloak, soaked in her scent. Her eyes, full of childish hope, searched for answers in him that he could not give.

The youngest son was trembling. He clung to the sleeve of his clothes, as if he was afraid that his father might disappear too. His lips moved, but there were no words. Only wet traces on their cheeks, and a lost look in their eyes. He was too young to understand the depth of this loss, but his heart already knew pain.

Anaxa dropped to one knee, hugged them all, pulled them close, letting them hide in his arms. He felt his own heart breaking, but he couldn’t let himself break. They needed him now more than ever.

The silence stretched on for a long time. Only their breathing, only the weight of loss.

The children didn’t speak. They simply held on to him, as if he were the only thing that remained unchanged in this world.

He ran his hand through their hair, remembering how their mother did the same when they were upset. He knew it wasn’t enough. He knew tat no words could fix what had happened. But he promised himself that he would keep her in them – in their memories, in their hearts.

And when a quiet sob was heard in that darkness, he simply hugged his children tighter.

The house, once filled with laughter and warmth, was now enveloped in silence. The air seemed heavy, as if it refused to move. The room, where only a few hours ago the voices of their wife and mother were heard, was now silent, broken only by the barely audible cry of a newborn child.

Phainon sat by the bed, holding the hand of his wife, who would never squeeze his fingers in response. His gaze was empty, but inside everything was screaming. He was used to fighting, to overcoming any obstacle, but this battle was lost. He could not save her.

The children stood nearby, not believing what was happening. The eldest sons clenched their fists, their shoulders trembled with suppressed emotions. They had seen their father strong, unshakable, but now he looked as lost as they were. Their youngest sister did not understand what was happening, but she felt someone else's sadness. She held his hand tightly, as if hoping that her touch could bring back the one who had gone.

But she was gone.

Phainon closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face, taking a deep breath. He couldn't let himself break. He was the only one who could protect them now, comfort them, help them through this nightmare.

He rose carefully, hugging both his sons, holding them tightly to him. They didn't resist. One buried his face in his shoulder, the other simply clutched his father's cloak, barely holding back tears. Their youngest sister, still not understanding why their mother wasn't waking up, pressed herself tighter to his leg.

He picked her up and, feeling her small arms wrap around his neck, closed his eyes.

- We can do this, - he whispered, even if none of them could believe it.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr #mydei x reader #hsr mydei #mydei #mydeimos #anaxa #honkai star rail anaxa #hsr anaxa #anaxagoras #anaxa x reader #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader

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leycorice · 4 days ago

Text

into me you see

sylus x zayne // ghost au // 5k words

after a failed hit leaves the underworld kingpin in a coma, his spirit lingers—trapped in a limbo where no one can see or hear him. three years pass in silence, drifting, watching the world move on without him… until one night, the new doctor came in.

cw: blood, violence, mention of child abuse

sylus has a good memory. great, even.

he remembers things others forget—names, numbers, scars, smirks. the way someone taps their finger when they lie. the way a man’s voice tightens before he kills. he catalogues it all, stores it away, pulls it out when it serves him. that’s why people fear him. it’s not just what he knows. it’s that he never forgets.

he remembers his own beginning too, clear as day.

long before he was the man, the myth, the nightmare in a black blazer.

he was just a child. unwanted. resented by the one who gave birth to him. his earliest memory wasn’t a mother’s smile or lullaby. it was floating in darkness, hearing muffled voices wishing he hadn’t existed.

his first birthday? silence. no cake. no candles. not even a name whispered fondly. just a cold room and two figures that looked through him like he was a ghost long before he became one.

violence came naturally to him.

he won his first fight at eight. three boys, all older, all bigger. they called him names. he didn’t argue. he let his fists speak. when it was over, he bled from the eyebrow and one knuckle was split to the bone.

but the other three didn’t stand back up.

he smiled through the bruises.

at ten, he saw his first corpse. two, actually. his parents.

they were laid out on the floor of their cramped apartment, blood pooling under them like shadows. his father’s hand was twisted awkwardly, frozen in death. sylus stared at it, waiting for it to twitch—for the slap to come. it didn’t. he looked at his mother’s face, expecting a sneer, a snarl, the familiar contempt to crack her lips. nothing.

silence. peaceful, for once.

that’s when he looked up.

a man stood there, tall, dressed in a long coat, wiping his knife clean with a handkerchief like it was part of a routine. a cigarette burned between his fingers, smoke curling upward like lazy ghosts. around him, men moved in practiced motion—dragging the bodies by the ankles, stuffing them into thick black bags.

the man stepped closer.

he knelt in front of sylus, level with him, eye to eye. he took a drag, then exhaled smoke straight into the boy’s face.

"your pa and ma owed me a lot of money, son," he said, like he was commenting on the weather.

"too bad they're not here to meet their dues."

he smiled, warm like poison. in the background, a thud echoed—one of the bodies tossed into the van.

"so." another puff of smoke. "that leaves the heir to pay up their mistake. what will you give me, hm?"

he expected crying. pleading. fear. something.

what he got was a grin.

a slow, crooked grin splitting across sylus’ young face like a crack in ice. his eyes didn’t shine with innocence. they burned with something older, something feral. he stood without a word, walked past his parents’ blood without flinching, and stood toe-to-toe with the man.

"let me join you."

the room stilled. even the man's crew paused, unsure if they heard right.

the man blinked. then laughed—a short, sharp laugh.

"you wanna work for the devil, kid?"

sylus shrugged.

"not much difference between him and my folks."

and that was the beginning.

from then on, sylus was trained.

not to play catch. not to ride a bike.

he was trained to kill, to steal, to lie, to manipulate, to disappear without leaving a single trace.

he learned how to cut a throat silently.

how to make a deal without showing a twitch of emotion.

how to read a room, sense weakness, exploit it.

most kids his age were worried about school uniforms and test scores. sylus was learning which arteries bled fastest. he could disassemble a handgun blindfolded before he hit eleven. by twelve, he was speaking three languages fluently—all of them useful for bargaining, bribing, and blackmailing.

and the thing was—he was good. too good.

smarter than the rest. quicker. more precise. he didn’t just follow orders—he understood why the orders were given, and how to get better results with less mess. some of the older trainees hated him for it. didn’t matter. they didn’t last long anyway.

when he turned thirteen, the man—the same one who wiped the blood of sylus' parents off a blade years ago—called him into his office.

it was night. always night. the city outside was still breathing, neon lights flickering against rain-wet windows. inside, the room smelled like tobacco, leather, and expensive bourbon.

the man sat behind a desk, flipping through a dossier with one hand, cigarette in the other. his eyes flicked up as sylus entered.

"happy birthday, kid," he said, not looking particularly celebratory.

he slid a folder across the desk. thick. bound with a rubber band.

"this one's yours."

sylus took it. opened it. inside—a photo. a name. details.

a target.

his first official kill.

not training. not theory. not clean-up. not a test.

real blood. real consequences.

the man watched him closely, like he expected hesitation. maybe even hoped for it.

but sylus didn’t flinch.

he studied the folder, flipped through every page with calm eyes, then looked back up.

"alive or dead?"

the man grinned, smoke curling between his teeth.

"dead. make it clean. make it quiet."

sylus nodded once.

"understood."

no questions. no trembling hands. no dramatic pause.

that night, sylus walked out of that office not as a boy, but as a blade honed and ready.

he found the target within two days. tracked his habits, his routes, his flaws. waited until the man was alone, drunk, vulnerable.

the hit was silent. efficient.

the body wasn’t found for weeks.

back at the base, no one said anything, but everyone knew.

thirteen years old. first solo kill. perfect execution.

the man poured sylus a drink the next time he saw him—not alcohol, but a high-end apple soda, chilled and fizzing in a crystal glass.

"you’ve got a good head on you, son," he said, raising his own glass.

"you're going to build an empire one day. just don’t forget who gave you the first brick."

sylus clinked glasses with him. took a sip. smiled faintly.

he wouldn’t forget.

but he wouldn’t owe, either.

not forever.

because by the time sylus turned eighteen, he had outgrown the leash they thought he’d never reach.

he wasn’t just another enforcer. he wasn’t muscle. wasn’t a blunt instrument to be pointed and thrown at problems.

he was smarter. sharper. he thought faster, struck cleaner, built deeper connections in the underground than the man who once claimed to own him.

and that man knew it.

sylus could see it in the way things shifted.

missions started getting messy. not because of sylus—no, he handled them all flawlessly, as always—but because someone wanted them messy. more risks. more exposure. information leaked. locations sabotaged. hits that should’ve taken minutes stretched into hours of cleanup.

then there were the “coincidental” ambushes. the sniper that missed. the poisoned wine that tasted just a little too bitter. the men who looked a little too nervous handing him sealed envelopes.

they were trying to get rid of him.

they were scared.

good.

so when the summons came—“the boss wants a word. just a drink, to talk, you know how he is”—sylus knew what it was.

he dressed sharp, as always. red accents. clean gloves.

the guards at the door stepped aside for him. they knew better. or maybe they were just tired of gambling with their lives.

inside, the man waited — that same smug calm, like nothing had changed. he poured two drinks, slow and deliberate, like old friends meeting over a shared past.

"you’ve come a long way," he said, offering one glass to sylus. "almost makes me proud."

sylus smiled — faint, polite. he took the drink, sat, and crossed one leg over the other with the poise of someone who no longer needed permission to be here.

"almost?" he echoed.

the man smirked. "don’t let it get to your head. i made you."

sylus lifted the glass, letting the deep red liquid catch the light. he stared through it — and through the man sitting across from him.

"no," he said softly, voice like silk over wire. "you just gave me a reason."

bang.

the sound was muffled, but final. a single shot, straight through the chest. the man’s smile cracked before his body hit the back of the chair, lifeless. the glass in his hand slid from his fingers and shattered against the floor.

sylus took a sip of his wine. smooth. slightly metallic.

he let out a small huff of amusement, placing his still-warm pistol gently on the table. like it belonged there.

“should’ve aimed better,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

a knock at the door.

it creaked open, revealing luke and kieran, the twins—sharp, quiet, loyal. they owed sylus their lives. he'd pulled them from the wreckage of their childhood and never asked for thanks. only results.

they stepped in, unflinching at the sight of the body.

“boss,” luke said calmly, “shall we clean up the place for you?”

sylus swirled the remaining wine in his glass, watching it whirl like blood in water. he stood slowly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

“no need,” he said, voice smooth as the drink. ��it’s about time we move our business elsewhere.”

“to where, sir?” kieran asked.

sylus placed the glass down beside the cooling corpse. he adjusted his coat, already moving toward the door.

“n109 zone,” he said simply.

he paused.

then smiled.

“and perhaps a rename is due. onychinus. fitting for something built to survive in the dark.”

the twins exchanged a glance. they didn’t ask what it meant. they didn’t need to. sylus had spoken—and the world was about to bend around it.

he was eighteen. the youngest to ever take the throne of the underworld.

not inherited. not handed. claimed.

with blood, brains, and an empire ready to follow.

and by twenty-five, sylus had it all.

an empire that bent the city’s shadows to his will. wealth that didn’t blink at blood. influence that kept even the most powerful at a respectful distance. his name was enough to halt conversations. his glare could silence a room.

everything was in the palm of his hand.

and then, someone gave him his death.

it came quiet. clean. not with bullets or bombs or betrayal from a rival. but a knife—small, old, probably from a kitchen. lodged in his lower abdomen, sharp and precise. not a professional’s weapon. but it got the job done.

he didn’t scream. didn’t make a sound.

the first thing he saw was her—the girl.

young. too young. maybe sixteen. maybe less. her hands were trembling, her mouth tight with rage, her chest heaving like she couldn’t believe she’d done it. her eyes, though—they weren’t shaking. they were solid. steady. burning with revenge.

sylus looked down at her and saw himself. not in appearance, but in fury. in purpose.

he could guess. she was someone’s sister. someone’s daughter. someone connected to one of the bodies he’d left in his wake—a ghost of one of his old sins, clawing back up from the grave to take what the world wouldn’t give her.

she didn’t run. she just stared. waiting for him to say something, maybe. or curse her. or scream.

he didn’t.

he looked her in the eyes and exhaled through his nose, almost like a sigh.

then smiled.

because maybe… this was fair.

he stumbled back, hand over the wound, fingers hot and wet. collapsed into a growing puddle of blood that crept across marble tile like ink. his body was losing heat, fast. but the silence around him was louder than anything he'd ever heard. no sound. no shouting. no heartbeat.

his mind drifted.

sylus wasn’t a man of faith. never prayed. never believed in karma or redemption. but he had wondered, in quiet, sleepless moments.

how much longer?

how many more ghosts would crawl up from the darkness to collect what they were owed?

maybe this was the answer.

maybe this was the bill, finally due.

he closed his eyes, listening to nothing. then, somewhere in the distance—sirens. the wail of an ambulance. the thunder of footsteps. his men. late. always late for the things that mattered.

this was probably where his life should’ve flashed before his eyes.

but sylus didn’t have good memories.

no birthdays. no holidays. no warm hugs. just violence and shadows and voices giving orders.

except—

there was one thing.

a flash. a glimpse. a faint echo in the void.

a boy. small, quiet.

big glasses perched on his nose. hair always falling into his eyes. always hunched over a book too large for his frame, scribbling notes or muttering anatomy terms under his breath like a mantra. a stiff expression, serious even when the world around them laughed. someone so painfully out of place in that orphanage full of chaos.

what was his name?

sylus frowned, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. he tried to picture the boy’s face, but it kept slipping through his mind like water through his fingers.

who was he?

he tried to hold on to it, tried to remember. but the darkness crept in faster.

and then there was nothing.

just silence.

just black.

and sylus qin—the feared, the untouchable, the ruler of the n109 zone—was gone.

when sylus opened his eyes, he was staring at a white ceiling.

sterile. too clean. too still.

a soft beep... beep... beep echoed in the distance—mechanical, rhythmic. somewhere nearby, he heard the faint drip of liquid hitting plastic, drop by drop, steady as time.

his head felt light. not aching, not sharp. just... wrong. off.

he blinked, slowly, trying to place the feeling in his chest—not pain, not numbness. something in-between.

he turned his head.

he wasn’t in a bed.

he was sitting in a plastic chair in the hallway—one of those uncomfortable waiting seats bolted to the floor, facing white walls and flickering fluorescent lights. the kind made to outlast grief and long hours.

footsteps echoed in the corridor. nurses passed by, clipboards in hand. a doctor wheeled a cart. someone laughed—tired, low, like it belonged to a night shift nurse running on bad coffee and worse sleep.

no one looked at him. no one noticed.

sylus frowned.

something was wrong.

his hand instinctively went to his stomach—to where he knew the blade had gone in, where blood should’ve soaked through his shirt. but when he pulled up his coat—

nothing.

no blood. no scar. not even a wrinkle.

he stood quickly, his chair screeching quietly against the floor—yet no one turned. not a single glance.

his voice was low at first.

"hey."

no response.

"hey." louder now, stepping toward a nurse walking past. "you—what the hell is going on? where the hell am i?"

she didn’t stop. just walked past him, like he wasn’t there.

he reached out—a hand on her shoulder.

but his fingers didn’t land.

they passed through.

cleanly. without resistance.

like he was swiping through smoke.

he staggered back, staring at his hand. perfect. untouched. real. but not real enough.

his breathing slowed, deepened—not from panic. sylus didn’t panic. but this was unfamiliar territory. and sylus hated unfamiliar.

a nurse down the hall murmured something.

then another voice replied, quieter, sharper.

his name. he heard it.

“qin, sylus. room 407.”

he turned sharply.

down the corridor, two nurses stood outside a door. one flipped through a chart. the other sighed and muttered something about his condition not improving. they moved on quickly, professional and detached.

sylus didn’t wait.

he moved toward the room.

and what he saw inside stopped him cold.

there. on the bed. laid him.

hooked to wires, machines humming softly. pale, still, bandaged. like a puppet someone forgot to animate. the monitors pulsed in time with his heart, but it looked fake. like the body was trying to pretend it still belonged to someone.

sylus stood there, frozen.

"what the fuck..."

he tried again. reached toward the bed, trying to place a hand on the edge, trying to shake himself awake, or maybe just feel something.

but again—nothing.

his palm passed through the railing like mist.

he stared at his body, expression unreadable. not quite horror. not quite anger. but something heavy. sinking.

“am i dead?”

the silence didn’t answer.

and sylus wasn’t sure what scared him more—the fact that he might be dead...

or the fact that this didn’t feel like death.

it felt like waiting.

like being stuck in a place between worlds, where even the walls couldn’t decide if they remembered him.

he turned away, jaw clenched, mind racing.

sylus qin—king of n109—couldn’t touch a damn thing.

~~~

time passed.

slowly, yet cruelly fast.

sylus stopped counting the days. the first few weeks, he tried everything. logic, force, fury. he tried screaming, even though no one heard him. tried touching his body, slipping into it—lying down, sitting upright, hovering over it like some soul attempting possession.

nothing worked.

he stood beneath fluorescent lights until the buzzing became a part of his thoughts.

he waited for the light, or the darkness.

whichever one had the guts to take him.

but neither came.

the days blurred. nights bled into each other. no sleep. no hunger. just stillness. constant presence, without weight. without warmth.

he watched as luke and kieran came by. regularly at first. their movements sharp, careful. loyal even now. they never brought flowers—sylus would’ve hated that—but sometimes they'd bring his favorite vinyls, leave them in the corner like offerings to a god that wouldn’t wake.

they talked quietly.

one day, he stood beside them, unseen as always.

“we’ve kept it under wraps,” kieran whispered, checking the hallway as if someone might listen. “only the inner circle knows. we told the rest he’s on extended leave overseas.”

“how long are we supposed to wait?” luke murmured, staring at his boss—at sylus’ body, pale and still beneath the sterile white sheets.

“he’s been like this for almost six months.”

sylus said nothing.

he couldn’t.

he’d said everything in his head already. every curse, every plea. now it was just silence.

time bled out again.

six months turned to a year.

then two.

three.

he was 25 years old for the third time.

the restlessness had turned to numbness.

the fury faded into something dull.

not peace. not quite. but a resignation.

maybe this was his punishment.

to remain stuck. between life and death. between redemption and damnation. between every wrong he’d ever done and the forgiveness he never bothered to ask for.

he watched himself—that body on the bed—like a stranger. a replica. skin too pale, hair slightly longer, eyes sunken from years of nonexistence. machines beeped to remind everyone he was technically alive. but no one really believed it anymore.

he’d seen dozens of doctors. neurologists. sleep specialists. spiritual advisors. some brought in discreetly under the radar, others flown in from across the globe. all of them whispered theories like prayers.

brain trauma. delayed neural regeneration. psychosomatic lock-in.

a coma with no explanation, no exit.

none of their tests yielded anything.

none of their machines measured what sylus had become.

and so, he remained.

anchored.

tethered to that room like a ghost with unfinished business—except the business wasn’t revenge anymore. that had passed. it had been burned through, used up. all that was left now was silence.

he couldn’t leave.

any time he tried, he would simply blink—and find himself right back where he started. in that same chair. in that same goddamn hallway. watching himself.

"fitting," he muttered, scoffing as he looked at the husk of the man he used to be.

a king, reduced to an echo.

what a cruel punishment.

but one he’d earned.

~~~

sylus leaned back against the sofa again—or at least, the ghost of him did.

the fabric didn’t shift. no creak. no warmth.

no dent.

he sighed, eyes closed, counting the seconds like he always did when boredom threatened to rot his mind.

three... two... one—

“hey there, mr. boss! we’re here again!”

luke’s voice crashed through the sterile quiet, cheerful as ever. the door slammed open without a knock — standard.

“and i brought something for you!”

“luke, tone down your voice,” kieran muttered, walking in behind him with a far more composed air. he shut the door with a soft click, already checking the iv monitor like he could actually understand it.

sylus exhaled again. a quiet huff.

they were here again.

his loyal dogs. his headaches. his damn family, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

it was always strange—seeing them like this, speaking to his still body like he was just sleeping. like it was any other day.

it was pathetic. it was comforting. it was maddening.

luke and kieran had taken to these visits like clockwork. every other day. sometimes more when things were tense in the outside world. they brought books, music, sometimes the news. anything to keep the illusion going. maybe part of them still believed he'd suddenly blink awake and snap at them to stop fussing.

"we’re keeping things smooth," luke continued, dropping a black case on the small table and opening it with a satisfied grin. “business is steady. that bastard from sector e tried to sneak product past the border. we handled it.”

he pulled out one of sylus’ favorite handguns and began methodically wiping it clean, humming under his breath like a mechanic tuning a car.

“heard from the nurse a new doc’s coming in soon,” he added, voice lighter now. “some cardiac surgeon. big shot. maybe you’ll like this one. try to be cooperative, alright, boss man? he might just be able to wake you up this time.” he chuckled.

sylus scoffed under his breath, shaking his head.

“as if i could do anything about it.”

kieran, meanwhile, had taken up his usual place by the calendar pinned to the wall. a clean black marker in hand, he crossed off another day.

sylus watched him do it, eyes following the motion.

the days were bleeding fast.

april. again.

his birthday was coming. not that it mattered. he never told anyone the exact day. the only one who knew was long dead, a bitter corpse left behind in that old office chair.

but luke and kieran, annoying bastards that they were, had made it a mission to celebrate every day of april. they'd bring cake, candles, even cheap party hats, pretending not to notice when the hospital staff gave them wary looks. every year.

twenty-nine, technically.

still twenty-five, spiritually.

frozen.

nearly three years since he was stabbed and everything stopped.

he forced the thought away.

he had grown used to pushing things out of his mind. restlessness had dulled. resentment hollowed. there was no vengeance here. no action. just the waiting. just the observation. like a king bound to a throne no one could see.

he drifted toward his body again. looked down at it.

still pale. still alive. barely. breathing with the help of machines he never asked for. the bed never moved. nothing changed.

and yet—the outside world didn’t stop.

he heard whispers, sometimes. conversations beyond the door. murmurs of pulling the plug. of “reallocating resources.” the language of the medical system always found a way to sound clinical, never cruel. but sylus knew what they meant.

it wasn’t about the cost. his money could keep this room running for the next decade without blinking. luke and kieran handled that, made sure the hospital was well-fed and tight-lipped.

but it was the fear.

the aura of his presence, even comatose. the guards. the armed men who rotated shifts outside his door. the locked-down floor. the whispers among the staff—who the hell is in room 407?

they knew enough to know they didn’t want to know more.

and now, apparently, some cardiac surgeon was coming in.

another white coat. another expert.

sylus raised an eyebrow, turning his gaze to luke.

“cardiac surgeon?” he muttered to himself.

interesting choice, considering it wasn’t his heart that had been stabbed.

or maybe it was, in some metaphoric way.

the universe loved irony like that.

still, this one must’ve been important if the hospital agreed to it. luke and kieran wouldn’t allow just anyone through.

"let’s hope he’s not a talker," sylus mused, turning his attention back toward the ceiling.

sylus had zoned out again.

luke was still rambling—something about new suppliers, border routes, and how kieran needed to stop eating the pastries from the third-floor bakery because “they’re definitely laced with sedatives.”

kieran rolled his eyes.

sylus did, too. from the sofa he couldn’t actually sit on.

he rubbed at his temples. not that it helped. the headache wasn’t physical. it was this gnawing ache, deep and sharp, like pressure building behind his eyes. familiar, yet foreign. like a forgotten name on the tip of the tongue.

then came a knock.

the door slid open with a soft click of the security override—the guards outside had allowed it. so, someone important.

sylus opened his eyes.

he expected another aging professor or white-haired consultant. another tired face with a clipboard and a sigh.

but instead, in walked a man.

young. sharp. dressed in a dark coat over surgical formality. silver-framed glasses perched perfectly. his black hair was neatly parted, and his expression was unreadable—cut from stone, controlled. following just behind him was someone with brown hair, bangs brushed aside, and round glasses—younger, more expressive.

“oh! are you—?” luke stood up quickly, the usual confidence in his voice tempered just slightly by curiosity. kieran joined him with a nod.

the man spoke, calm and measured.

“dr. zayne li. chief of cardiovascular department. this is dr. greyson guan, my assistant.”

he gestured subtly to the younger doctor beside him, then turned his focus to the patient—to sylus.

“we’re here to see the patient.”

sylus leaned forward slightly, watching. something about that voice scratched at a wall in his head.

the four of them talked. greyson asked questions, clipboard in hand, and luke answered while carefully dodging details that could raise alarms. kieran kept his responses short, factual, but respectful.

nothing about weapons. nothing about empires.

just enough to sound like concerned family.

zayne stood mostly quiet, reading through vitals, eyes narrowed as he scanned the monitor. his fingers tapped once, lightly, on the screen. reading. calculating.

sylus moved in closer, studying him now.

there was something wrong about this. not bad, just... unsettling.

this man—zayne—felt familiar. not from the streets. not from the empire.

from somewhere before.

but every time sylus tried to reach for it, his head ached. a pulsing pressure built behind his eyes—a tight, blinding throb like something buried deep refusing to come forward.

“tch—” he winced, clutching his forehead. the ghost of him stumbling back.

the pain wasn’t imagined.

and it did something strange.

on the monitor, where sylus’ heart rate had been steady for nearly three years—always a metronome, never deviating—it spiked.

just for a moment.

zayne’s head snapped toward the screen.

greyson kept talking. something about possible somatic causes and neural echo theory—background noise to zayne now.

zayne leaned in, double-checked the rhythm, pressed two keys, and scrolled back through the data.

yes. there it was.

a blip. a response.

not normal.

not expected.

and not explainable.

zayne’s eyes moved to sylus' body—perfectly still. no change in breathing. no sign of movement.

but something had changed.

he said nothing for now.

but he didn’t look away.

~~~

it was late.

the halls of the hospital were muted now—lights dimmed, staff thinned. the nighttime quiet had settled over the building like a fog, soft and dense.

sylus had been wandering again.

a slow, aimless stroll through empty corridors and sterile silence. he’d memorized every hallway by now, every flickering ceiling light and every vending machine that still hadn’t been refilled in weeks.

it was his routine. had to be. staying in his room too long, staring at his own unmoving body, started to gnaw at something in him. made the walls feel tighter.

so he wandered. for hours sometimes.

but now he was back.

and what he didn’t expect was him—the new doctor—still in his room.

alone.

sylus blinked.

dr. zayne stood beside his bedside, head bowed slightly as he scribbled something onto a clipboard. his long coat was draped neatly over the arm of the chair, sleeves rolled up. he looked composed, focused—even this late at night, when most of the other staff had already clocked out or passed their shifts off to night nurses.

still working.

sylus hovered near the doorway at first, watching him.

"you’re still here?” he muttered under his breath, eyebrows lifting slightly. "don’t you have someone else to fix?"

he stepped closer.

there was something amusing about it—how serious this man looked, completely absorbed in a case that had already stumped half the world’s medical elite. sylus tilted his head. he almost respected the tenacity.

almost.

and then, like he'd done many times before with other doctors, he decided to mess with him. just a little. just to break the monotony. not that they could ever hear him—at most they might shiver or pause and brush it off.

he crept up behind him, leaning in.

the smell of ink and faint antiseptic lingered off the doctor’s clothes.

sylus smirked, low and quiet.

"boo," he whispered near his ear, barely a breath of sound.

he was already turning away, expecting nothing. maybe a brief shiver at best.

but instead—

the clipboard clattered against the floor.

zayne flinched. sharp. sudden.

his hand instinctively rose to his ear—the one sylus had whispered near.

and then he turned. fast.

their eyes locked.

sylus froze.

zayne’s stare was sharp, alert—not vague or unfocused like the others. he wasn’t looking through him.

he was looking at him.

right into his eyes.

sylus felt the weight of it. the shock didn’t show on his face—he was too trained for that—but inside, something coiled tight. the air between them shifted. no longer passive. no longer silent.

oh.

he straightened slowly, curiosity sharpening.

"you can see me," sylus said quietly. not a question—an observation.

a pause stretched between them — long, electric. no words. just the sound of the heart monitor beeping in the background, as if to remind them both the body in the bed was still there. still waiting.

zayne didn’t move. didn’t speak.

he simply studied sylus the same way he studied charts and anomalies — like a puzzle that shouldn’t exist, but did.

finally.

for the first time in three years...

he was seen.

#lads #crowsnow #snowcrow #sylus x zayne #ghost au #kinda #old wip #i wanted to write something based on just like heaven #but apparently my memory of it was too hazy that i realized halfway how far off a tangent it went...#and thats why kids you should do your research first :')#dropped #bc i have no idea where to go from here

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milky-aeons · 1 year ago

Text

— REASON LIVING

౨ৎ . . . in which a man with no reason to live finds an unlikely one through the tribulations of being a father.

warnings: emotional dysregulation, slight angst, unplanned pregnancy, alcohol consumption, poor parenting (in the beginning), conflict, suicidal ideation, depression, depictions of birth, female reader, healing, w.c 2.4k

♪ . . . ˗ˏˋ ꒰ dancing on my own — vitamin string quartet ꒱ ˎˊ-

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who wasn't ready to be a mother. Not now, perhaps not ever — was a rule you had laid in stone for yourself as a free-spirit intent on enjoying life to its fullest. It was why the world had tuned out into white noise when Yosano Akiko held the small test in her hand and spoke those terrifying words. With a shutter of sympathy in her eyes, coming to place a hand on your shoulder to give it a firm, comforting squeeze. She knew just as well how much you didn't want this to be true. Her touch felt condemning. You felt like you were going to vomit, just like you had been for the last four mornings in a row. Because how were you going to tell him?

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who didn't blink, didn't draw breath, didn't do anything when you let the words stumble from your mouth in one panicked rush. It was a bright afternoon deep into summer and the Agency's café was quiet — private enough for the two of you to have this conversation. You and Dazai Osamu — you were not an item, had been content to have casual shared nights together when either of you wanted to blow off a little steam. But that night, you had said to him, do you remember that night? When we were both drunk and stupid, so stupid?

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who, in that moment, decided not to grace you with any words. Instead, he did something far more uncharacteristic of him; he stayed quiet. He gave one shallow nod of his head and placed a hand softly onto the table so he could stand up. To steady himself, to ground himself back down when you had turned his world completely overhead, you did not know. And Dazai, who left you there, excusing himself in order to get some fresh air. The raking bastard that he was. Not once did he turn back to look you directly in the eye. Not even when you stood up, shouted his name, screamed at him, until tears spilled over your cheeks and your throat burned with the pain.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who saw life through a lens of grey in the couple of days following. Sometimes, you would feel so heavy that you did not wish to rise out of bed. The word swam around in your head like the song of a haunting ghoul — a mom, a mom, I am going to be a mom. Yosano would drop by your Agency apartment after work to see how you were doing, feeling your forehead, bringing you remedies to help with the nausea that roiled in your stomach. Every time, you would resist the temptation to ask where he was. And yet every time, Yosano would still tell you;

"He didn't come to work today, either."

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who slowly came to grips with the fact that this was how it was going to be. The initial shock of it all was as relentless as it was condemning, but it was not infinite. The sun rose the next day, and the next, the world kept moving and you decided that you would have to, as well. That there was a little life growing inside your warm belly that needed a mother, no matter how unprepared you were for that fact. And, if you could do something about it, needed their father. You were not letting him just walk away from you, from the both of you, that easily.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who was exactly where you thought he would be when you set out that evening to find him. Of course, if he wanted to, Dazai Osamu had both the cleverness and the connections to absolutely disappear from the streets of Yokohama without a trace. If he wanted to, he could have abandoned you and this baby completely. But he didn't. Instead, he was here, laying sprawled long and lazy on his messy, unmade futon in his messy, unclean house, as if waiting to be found. When he heard you pass over the threshold of the door he didn't lock, he gave you a long, languid smile.

"My bewitching Beeella~! At looong last, she has come to tempt me!" He slurred his speech, bringing your attention to the heavy scent in the air and the dozen or so bottles strewn about haphazardly. His hair was matted and unwashed. He looked just like you, curled in your bed, refusing to move for days. But unlike you, he was completely and utterly intoxicated. "You look awful." You said in a low voice. Hurt at how he abandoned you in the coffee shop was still a fresh, gaping wound. As if his head was too heavy, Dazai let it flop back down onto the cushions. He waved his hands about. "And you... look just as beautiful... as always. But—it is a trap...! A ruuuuse! A beautiful Bellaaa, sent from my torment... to tie me to this mortal coil!"

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who let him ramble his litany of incoherencies. If only for a few merciful seconds. When you felt like you had had enough, or perhaps fearful with how far he'd take it, you kicked one of the empty glass bottles. It skirted across his floorboards and hit a neighbouring wall, exploding into countless little shards. He looked up then, attracted to the noise, trying to focus on you with his glazed whiskey-coloured eyes. In that moment, you stood your tallest, and just like the bottle you mustered up every last shred of yourself until you built it all back together.

"You." You pointed at him, feeling your voice come on thick, but strong. "You listen to me and listen to me well, I'm only going to say this once, and if you're too fucking drunk to remember it, then more is the pity. But I'm carrying your baby—our god damn baby. And if you're not going to step up and be the father they're going to need, then I'll be that for you. Just say the word, Osamu. Say the word and I'll leave. You'll never hear from me or this child ever again."

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who said nothing in contest to that statement, but also said nothing to affirm it, either. His wide, unfocused eyes studied every feature on your face, trying to make sense of something you didn't know. And for a second, your heartrate kicked up. Because somewhere deep down inside, you wanted him to tell you to stay. You wanted him to sober up, to wear that charming, all-endearing smile and convince you that everything was going to be alright. But he didn't. And that was the moment you deflated with a sigh — laying out all the feelings you once had for him on the floor, ready to cast it to the wind. You had made it to his doorway when two strong, heavy arms came around you and all of his weight collapsed against your shoulders.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who buried his head into the crook of your neck, who's hair tickled your face and made your eyes sting with tears. He, who smelled of whiskey and liqueur, but in that moment, held you so tight, crushed you against his taller frame and croaked;

"Stay." "Please... just, stay."

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who seemed like he had undergone a transformation overnight. He always did have a strange knack for that — changing his persona so easily, crafting masks and façades. And maybe it was just that, at least in the beginning. But he had started to come back to work, again. You would enter the familiar doors early in the mornings to the tell-tale sounds of his teasing tone and Kunikida's threats. When you would walk in, he'd straighten up from whatever headlock the blond had trapped him into, and catch your eye.

"Good morning." You would whisper. "Good morning, beautiful [Name]." He would murmur right back.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who became used to the weight in your tummy growing heavier each day. It was Atsushi, at first, who recognised the shift in your scent and the sound of a little heartbeat in your belly through his superior feline hearing. Soon after, everyone in the Agency were offering you gifts and well wishes. Dazai received a less warm ovation. Especially from Kunikida, who threatened to flush him into the drainage system if he even thought about being one of those shitty laid-back dads who let the mom do all the work.

"That's cruel, Kunikida-kun!" Dazai whined at him. "To think of the rigid, torturous lifestyle your children will have to endure!" He just barely dodged the office chair that was hurled at his head.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who, after a short while, began to let Dazai close to you again. And maybe it was foolish of you, to let that thing which always existed between you two take spark and kindle with new life. First, it was sitting together in the same booth in the coffee shop. Then, it was gentle, quiet touches — his hand brushing your back as he walked past, your fingers twining together underneath the desk where no one could see. He stole you away for long walks in the nearby park when you should have been working. To your protests, he'd pout, and say, but a pregnant lady needs to enjoy as much rest as she can~! And then, he'd kiss you. Underneath the great spurting fountain at the centre of the park. Long and sweet and promising.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who one time, when you were especially close to your due date and he was feeling especially silly, drew a large smiley face on your swollen belly. Or peppered a shower of kisses along the stretched skin, telling you she was taking too long, that he couldn't wait any longer and had too many kisses saved up for her, already. And on that day where you did go into labour, he held your hand, he placed those lips on your forehead and whispered gentle encouragements as you screamed through the pain.

"You are strong, my beautiful [Name]. Come on, can you give one more push? Just one more." "You're doing so great. You are so unbelievable, so resilient and brave. My beautiful Belladonna, that's it. You can do it."

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who, along with the chorus of elated cries from the Armed Detective Agents, made a sound of disbelief when his baby girl came into the world. Slick and wet, red and crying, but beautiful. A copy of her mother's features but with a wild head of curly brown hair. An emotion Dazai had not felt in an extremely long time crept up the back of his throat. It made him laugh, it made his eyes smart with tears. And when he came to your side to see your baby be placed onto your bare chest, a single tear escaped from the side of his eye and got lost when he buried his head into your hair.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who never thought he would ever grow attached to someone. There was you, of course, but if he sat with the discomfort of viewing his life without you in it, it could be done. But trying to see his life without her — his little baby girl — his mind would simply draw a blank. It was unbearable, impossible. Before long, Dazai had insisted you move into his apartment so he could be closer to you. After, of course, you threatened him to scrub the entire place from head-to-toe and remove anything non-child friendly in a black plastic bag. And he did. He used those nimble, clever hands to build the baby a little wooden crib. He would rock her to sleep and place her down, only to watch her for minutes, hours, contemplating how in the world he was ever bestowed with such a blessing.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who sang lullabies to her. Who sang at every given chance he had. For he was such a lovely singer, his soft, velvety voice would be a common thing amongst the walls of your little apartment. Who would sit down with the toddler and teach her all the words he knew.

"Can you say 'Kunikida' my little star?" "Kuni—Kuni—Kooni—!" "Kun—ee—kee—dah!" On the 'dah', he'd pinch her nose. "Kun—eeeee—keeeee—dah!" "Wow~!" Dazai pinched her nose again and she giggled. "Darling, did you hear that? Our little star is a genius." "She takes after her father." You would say from around the bend of the kitchen. Praises and chuckles and the shrieks of a delighted baby would fill the air. Dazai would then drop his voice, thinking you wouldn't hear, and say, "Now, can you say, 'is a bore!'" "Osamu!"

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who always took his little girl to work with him. Everyone in the Agency fell in love with her very quickly. Atsushi would transform his hands into that of giant tiger paws, pretending to growl, letting her pull at the little tufts even though it hurt him just a tad. Ranpo would ask the little baby mind-numbing riddles, then laugh, proclaiming how she barely had any braincells, but not to worry, because when she's old enough, he'd take her as his apprentice. Kunikida, who would let her handle his little ideal book, and then hold back tears when she ripped one of the pages out of it. The little girl would hold the page up high and from her little perch on the table, shout,

"Kuneeekeeda... is... a boooore!"

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who was still laughing when he met you on the terrace roof of the Agency that night. He went straight for his little girl and held her up in the air, proclaiming that he was so proud of her. You would settle down together, just the three of you, huddled on the concrete tiles and watching the sun set over the skyline of Yokohama.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who would hold your daughter on your lap until her curly brown head of hair tilted into your shoulder and she snored softly. In that moment, you would crane your head onto Dazai's broad shoulder, and whisper;

"I'm glad I stayed."

: ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈, who would run his long fingers across his sleeping daughter's face softly, so softly, so as not to wake her. Then, he would reach up to you and cup the side of your cheek, captivating you, looking at you with an expression so warm and tender as he whispered right back;

"And I am forever grateful."

requested by the lovely @ringsofsaturnnnn // writing requests!

#bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd #bsd x reader #dazai osamu #dazai osamu x reader #dazai #dazai x reader #dazai bsd #bsd fanfiction #bsd fanfic #🎋 — writing requests #divider by benkeibear

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twistedheartsclub · 2 months ago

Text

Badge Of Control Male X Female Reader

⚠️ Warnings: non-consensual touching, sexual assault (implied), psychological abuse, stalking, authority figure manipulation, gaslighting, forced intimacy, grooming, trauma response, dissociation, domestic violence (referenced), coerced engagement. This is a work of fiction. The portrayal of law enforcement in this story does not represent real officers or the profession as a whole. It is purely for dark fictional narrative purposes.

A/N: I AM making a tag post if you wish to be tag in future stories please respond here <-

Everyone in town knew Officer Grayson Wolfe.

He had a presence that couldn’t be ignored—tall, broad-shouldered, always dressed in a perfectly pressed uniform, gun resting at his hip like it belonged there. The silver in his hair only made him look sharper, more dignified, like age had refined him instead of softened him.

He was everywhere.

At the high school football games, he stood tall on the sidelines, barking commands and clapping players on the back like he was still one of them. The boys loved him. Their parents trusted him. On Sundays, he knelt in the front pew of the church alone, head bowed, hands folded in reverence. At the grocery store, he helped elderly women load their bags with a smile. At the town fair, he shook every hand, posed for every photo, always looking like the man every mother hoped their daughter would marry—or avoid disappointing.

People adored him. Worshipped him, even.

“Solid man,” they’d say. “A real role model. Damn shame about his wife.”

Everyone knew the story. She’d left him five years ago—cheated on him, they said, packed her bags in the night and disappeared without a trace. Some said she ran to the city. Others hinted at something darker, but never too loudly. Not with Wolfe always nearby. Always watching.

Lately, it was her he’d been watching.

It started subtly. A smile that lingered too long. A hand that brushed her arm when it didn’t need to. A few too many “coincidental” run-ins—at the diner, the library, outside her apartment. And when he spoke to her, there was something in his tone that didn’t match his words. Like a warning dressed as a compliment. Like a man who’d decided something—and expected her to fall in line.

Grayson Wolfe had already made up his mind about her.

And no one was going to stop him.

Y/N had always been the quiet type.

At twenty-five, she was in her second year of teaching at the elementary school—the same one she’d once attended, now standing at the front of a classroom instead of behind a desk. After a few years in the city chasing something bigger, she’d come home. Said it was temporary at first, but then her mother’s smile softened something in her, and she stayed.

It made her mother happy, especially after her father passed. It felt like the right thing. And Y/N had always done the right thing.

She lived in the same small house she grew up in, still hung laundry outside on Sundays, still folded programs at church with the older ladies who’d known her since birth. She wasn’t flashy or loud. She didn’t drink, didn’t date, didn’t stay out late. Her world was small, structured—early mornings, lesson plans, parent conferences, potlucks, and PTA meetings. She brought casseroles to funerals. Volunteered at school dances. Organized bake sales.

People admired her. Thought she was sweet. Responsible. Safe.

They called her “a good girl.”

Some said she was wasting her youth. Others whispered that maybe she was still grieving. But no one really asked her. They were content to keep her in her box—small-town golden girl, reliable and pure.

Grayson Wolfe watched her like something holy. Like something breakable.

And Y/N, as kind and careful as she was, had no idea how dangerous it was to be noticed by a man like him.

Grayson had known of her, of course.

Everyone did. Y/N had been the quiet, polite girl in the back pew—always with her parents, always dressed modestly, always helping someone. When she left for the city, most figured she’d disappear like the others her age. But she came back.

And he noticed her—really noticed her—the first time she stepped out of her mother’s car that morning last spring, fresh-faced and soft around the edges, carrying a tray of cupcakes into the school.

She wore a long skirt that caught the wind and a cardigan pulled tight around her, her hair pinned back like she hadn’t meant to draw attention to herself. But she had. She always did. Not with her body, but with her goodness—that kind of small, radiant warmth that made men look twice. That made him look twice.

Grayson had pulled up beside the school in his cruiser, just to check on things—he told himself. She hadn’t even looked in his direction. She was laughing with the secretary, brushing flour off her cheek with the back of her hand.

She didn’t see the way he stared. Didn’t feel how long he sat there in his idling car, fingers tightening on the wheel.

That was the first time.

But the craving came later.

It was a week before summer break. He’d gone to speak at the school, part of some local “community heroes” program. She was there, seated near the front with her students. She wore a blue dress—soft fabric, high neckline, delicate sleeves. A gold cross hung at her throat.

He spoke to the kids. But he only looked at her.

And when she met his eyes for the briefest second—nervous, polite, nothing more—something inside him shifted. Snapped. A sweet, trembling sort of hunger bloomed in his chest. A need. Not just to look at her.

To have her.

To be the one to teach her what the world was really like. What men like him were really like. She didn’t even know what kind of danger she invited just by existing.

That night, he sat alone in his dark kitchen, replaying the way she’d smiled at a child, the way she’d nodded respectfully when he passed. That smile. That softness.

His hand curled around his glass. He hadn’t touched a woman since his wife left. But this wasn’t about sex.

It was about ownership.

And Grayson Wolfe had just decided that sweet little Y/N belonged to him.

The sun was low when Y/N stepped outside, the weight of another school day settling in her shoulders. She had a stack of graded papers tucked under one arm, her hair pulled into a loose bun, a soft blouse clinging to her from the early summer heat. Most of the kids were gone by now, the buses long disappeared. Only a few straggling parents stood near the front office, chatting quietly.

She didn’t notice the cruiser parked near the curb until she was almost to her car.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

The voice was smooth, deep, and too familiar. She turned quickly, startled, blinking against the sun.

Officer Wolfe stood beside his patrol car, sunglasses in hand, gaze steady on hers. He smiled. Not a wide smile—just a slow, practiced tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh,” she said, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “Good evening, Officer Wolfe.”

“Evening,” he echoed. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just saw you walking out and thought I’d say hello.”

She shifted her books slightly, suddenly hyperaware of the low neckline of her blouse, the sweat at the back of her neck. “That’s kind of you.”

He moved closer, just a step, slow and casual. “How’s the second year treating you?”

She smiled politely. “Better than the first. Still learning a lot.”

“I bet those kids adore you.” He said it like a fact, not a compliment. “You’ve got that...warmth. Gentle voice. I’ve had teachers like that. Ones you don’t forget.”

Her smile faltered for a moment. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I meant it,” he said, eyes sweeping over her—not with lust, not overtly. But there was a hunger there. Controlled. Contained. “Your mother must be real proud. I see her at church sometimes.”

“She is,” Y/N replied, her voice softening slightly. “She’s happy I came home.”

He nodded slowly. “We all are. It’s good to have you back here, where you belong.”

The words lingered strangely in the air.

She glanced down at her keys. “Well, I should get home. Papers to finish, and I promised my mom I’d help with dinner.”

“Of course,” he said, but didn’t step back. “Still living out on Cypress Lane?”

She froze for a half second. It wasn’t a secret, not really. Small town, everyone knew everything. But the way he said it—so smoothly, so certain—sent a strange chill down her spine.

“Yes,” she said. “Same house.”

He nodded. “If you ever feel uneasy, or if anything strange happens—someone hanging around your place or whatnot—you let me know. Call me directly. Don’t even bother with dispatch.”

Y/N hesitated. “I...thank you. I appreciate that.”

His eyes didn’t leave her. “Pretty girl like you. Living alone. Makes a man want to keep watch.”

Something flickered in her chest—discomfort, warning, but wrapped in layers of politeness she’d been raised on.

“I’m alright,” she said gently. “But I’ll remember that.”

He stepped back then, just enough to ease the moment.

“You do that.” He opened his car door. “Be safe, Miss Y/L/N.”

And then, with one last look, he drove off slow, the cruiser disappearing down the road.

Y/N stood frozen for a moment longer, clutching her keys, her papers suddenly feeling far too heavy.

She didn’t know why her heart was beating so fast.

The road was empty, bathed in quiet darkness, save for the dim hum of Y/N’s headlights cutting through the mist that clung low to the trees. She wasn’t in a rush—just tired, her shift at the church potluck cleanup running later than expected. The leftovers were boxed in the back seat, her mother’s prized cherry pie wrapped carefully in foil for Sunday service.

The blue and red lights in her rearview mirror came out of nowhere.

Her heart jumped.

She pulled to the side quickly, hands shaking slightly as she rolled down the window. She already knew who it would be. She knew.

Boots approached slowly on gravel. Purposeful. Then the tap of knuckles against the window.

“Evenin’, Miss Y/L/N.”

She looked up into Officer Wolfe’s face. Calm. Professional. Smiling.

“H-hi, Officer. Is...is something wrong?”

“You were movin’ a little fast back there.” He shone his flashlight inside the car. “Mind telling me where you’re headed so late?”

“I was just driving home from the church, sir. We had cleanup after the potluck.”

He leaned in a little, sniffed the air exaggeratedly. “Been drinking?”

Her eyes widened. “No. Of course not.”

He tilted his head. “Mm. Step out of the car for me.”

“Officer, I—”

“Now,” he said, more firmly.

Her pulse roared in her ears. But she obeyed.

She stepped out slowly, the gravel cold beneath her flats. The night felt far too quiet, the two of them alone on that stretch of road. His flashlight skimmed over her body in a way that made her arms fold tightly around herself.

“Stand straight. Feet together. Hands by your sides.”

She complied, trembling.

He circled her slowly, voice low and deliberate. “You know, I’ve pulled you over three times this year. You think maybe you’re distracted when you drive? Or maybe just nervous around me?”

“I didn’t mean to do anything wrong, sir,” she whispered.

“No, I don’t imagine you meant to,” he said softly, stepping behind her. “But you’re such a little thing. Shaky hands. Flushed cheeks. Someone might think you were guilty of something.”

His hand landed on her waist—firm, possessive.

She froze.

“Officer—”

“Shh. Just making sure you’re steady,” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath hot against her ear. “That’s what I’m here for. To make sure you’re safe. To keep you in line.”

His fingers skimmed lower, brushing the curve of her hip, the swell beneath her blouse. Her stomach turned, but her body locked in place. Powerless.

“You ever get lonely in that house?” he whispered. “Ever wish someone’d come knockin’? You’d open that door in your nightgown and realize you didn’t have to be alone anymore?”

Her throat constricted. She couldn’t speak.

He held her there for a second longer—his hand pressing just a little too low, his breath ghosting down her neck—then stepped back, slowly, letting the air shift between them.

“Alright,” he said suddenly, all professionalism again. “Everything checks out. But do be careful. Wouldn’t want anything happening to you out here alone at night.”

Y/N didn’t move.

He tipped his hat, smile returning. “Can’t wait for that pie on Sunday, sweetheart.”

Then he turned, walked back to his cruiser, and drove off—leaving her standing in the dark, shaking, her skin crawling.

The house was full of soft music, laughter, and the smell of pot roast and candles. Her mother was glowing, seated at the head of the table surrounded by neighbors and cousins, beaming at the simple beauty of her birthday dinner.

Y/N moved quietly through the kitchen, refilling glasses and bringing out slices of cake. It was warm, loud with chatter, and usually this kind of night would’ve brought her comfort. But her stomach twisted when she heard the knock at the door.

“I’ll get it!” she called automatically, wiping her hands on her apron and crossing the living room.

She opened the door—and froze.

There he was.

Officer Grayson Wolfe, in casual clothes that somehow looked more dangerous on him than his uniform. Jeans, dark button-up, sleeves rolled. His eyes dropped immediately to her apron, then up to her face.

“Evenin’, Miss Y/L/N,” he said smoothly. “Heard it was your mother’s birthday. Figured I’d stop by with something sweet.” He held up a small bakery box.

Her lips parted. “I—thank you. That’s… very kind.”

Before she could protest, he stepped inside. Just like that. Familiar. At home.

“Officer Wolfe!” her mother’s voice called from the dining room. “Grayson! You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, moving through the house like it was already his. “Town treasure like you? Deserves a proper celebration.”

Y/N stood rooted, heart pounding. Her hands trembled as she reached for the box he’d brought—but her fingers slipped, knocking over a full glass of tea on the counter.

It shattered on the floor with a loud crack.

“Y/N!” her mother gasped. “Are you alright?”

“I—yes, I’m sorry,” she muttered, already kneeling, her face hot with embarrassment.

“Let me help with that,” Grayson said, crouching beside her.

“No, it’s fine,” she said too quickly.

But he was already reaching for the broken pieces, his large hand brushing hers—then lingering. His fingers curled around her wrist, firm, steady.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, close enough for her to smell his cologne. “Careful, sweetheart. You’ll cut yourself.”

She tried to pull back, but he didn’t let go—not right away. His eyes dropped to the curve of her chest where her blouse gaped ever so slightly, then to the way her skirt rode up as she knelt. His gaze lingered there far too long.

“You wear these skirts on purpose, don’t you?” he murmured under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “Pretending not to know how soft you look crawling on your knees.”

Her breath hitched.

“Such a little thing,” he whispered, his voice low and hot at her ear. “You keep trembling like that, and I’ll have to come check on you tonight. Make sure you sleep alright.”

She jerked away finally, grabbing a towel and mumbling something about more napkins. She stood quickly, trying to hide her panic behind a forced smile.

Grayson rose too, slow and calm, wiping his hands like nothing had happened.

He turned toward her mother with that practiced grin. “All cleaned up. No harm done.”

Y/N slipped into the kitchen, heart thudding against her ribs, hands gripping the counter as if it might ground her.

From the other room, she heard her mother laugh softly.

“You’re always so helpful, Grayson.”

He chuckled back, voice like honey.

“I just like taking care of what’s mine.”

It had been a week since she last saw him.

Seven days of shallow sleep, nervous glances through the window, flinching at the sound of tires on gravel. A full seven days of pretending everything was normal—teaching spelling words, grading worksheets, hugging little arms during recess.

She thought maybe, just maybe, he had let it go.

But then Career Day came.

The children were buzzing with excitement, squirming in their seats as they took turns listening to local professionals—farmers, nurses, mechanics—talk about what they did. Y/N stood at the door with her clipboard, scanning the list. There were three slots reserved for the local sheriff’s department. Three officers. Three chances.

She prayed it wouldn’t be him.

When the cruiser pulled up, her stomach dropped.

He stepped out slowly, in full uniform, mirrored sunglasses on, badge gleaming under the spring sun. A few parents outside waved at him cheerfully. Some clapped him on the back. He smiled like he hadn’t crushed her under the weight of his hands a week ago.

She had hoped for anyone else.

But he chose her classroom.

Officer Grayson Wolfe strode in like he owned the building. The children gasped in awe, thrilled by the presence of a real police officer. Y/N stood stiffly to the side, arms crossed in front of her, heart thudding with every step he took closer to her desk.

“Well, hello there,” he greeted the class. “Heard there were some bright young minds in here. I’m Officer Wolfe, and I keep our town safe.”

The children clapped.

One little boy raised his hand. “Do you get to use your gun?”

Grayson chuckled. “Only when I have to. I try to use my words first. Most problems can be solved if you look someone in the eyes and speak slow.”

His eyes flicked to Y/N. She felt her blood run cold.

Another hand shot up. “Do you arrest bad guys?”

“All the time,” he said. “But not everyone who does bad things looks like a bad guy. Sometimes they smile real pretty. Sometimes they pretend to be sweet. But I see right through that.”

The kids giggled, but Y/N’s stomach turned.

Then a little girl near the front raised her hand and asked innocently, “Do you know Miss Y/N?”

He smiled wide—too wide.

“Oh, I know Miss Y/N very well,” he said slowly, letting the words roll out like molasses. “We go way back. She’s someone I keep an extra close eye on.”

The kids laughed, confused but delighted.

“Why?” another asked.

He chuckled low. “Because sometimes the people who look the softest... hide the most trouble.”

Y/N’s heart stopped. Her mouth went dry.

“But don’t worry,” he added, kneeling dramatically beside the girl who asked. “It’s my job to protect people. Especially the ones who don’t know they need it.”

He stood and looked right at Y/N, gaze unblinking. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Right, Miss Y/N?”

She swallowed hard and forced a tight nod.

“R-right.”

Grayson winked. “Told you I’d make it to class someday.”

The children clapped again.

And she smiled for them—because she had to—but behind her back, her hands were shaking.

The children’s laughter still echoed in the room as he made his exit, tipping his hat like some old-fashioned gentleman. He was halfway down the hall when she slipped out behind him, her steps fast, hushed—barely louder than the rush of her own heartbeat.

“Officer Wolfe,” she whispered, catching up to him.

He stopped without turning, his body still, but she could feel the tension in the air as if he’d been expecting this.

“Please…” her voice cracked. “Please stop.”

He turned then—slowly, eyes scanning her face with clinical calm.

“Stop what, sweetheart?”

Her lips trembled. She kept her voice low, afraid to be overheard. “The stops. The comments. The way you… the things you said in there.” Her voice tightened. “This isn’t right.”

He stepped forward, and she instinctively backed up until her spine met the cool cement of the wall. He followed, not quite touching—but close enough for his breath to fan across her cheek.

“I am the law,” he said, voice low and sharp. “You don’t get to tell me what’s right.”

His hand came up slowly, brushing her hair from her face in a mockingly gentle gesture. “You think I don’t see how you flinch? How you run off and shake behind closed doors? You think you’re hiding it?” He leaned in, his mouth near her ear. “I could press you against this wall right now and no one would stop me. You’d cry, sure. You’d sob like a little girl. But in the end? You’d be mine. You already are.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, her mouth opening in a silent gasp.

Then—

“Officer Wolfe!”

A cheerful voice rang out from the other end of the hall. Mr. Delaney, the P.E. teacher, strode toward them with a clipboard in hand, utterly oblivious.

Grayson’s hand dropped instantly. He took a casual step back, his whole posture shifting like a light switch flipped—from predator to polite.

“Hey there, Delaney,” he greeted smoothly, like he hadn’t just whispered filth into a trembling woman’s ear. “Good to see you, man.”

Y/N quickly turned her head, blinking hard, willing the tears not to fall. Her hands were still clenched at her sides.

Mr. Delaney gave her a bright smile. “Miss Y/L/N, you okay? You look a little pale.”

She nodded, too fast. “I’m fine. Just—long day.”

Grayson clapped a hand on Delaney’s shoulder with a soft chuckle. “She’s a hard worker. That’s why we all keep an eye out for her.”

Delaney laughed, distracted by a question on his clipboard.

But Grayson turned just slightly, just enough to murmur one last thing before walking off—

“Keep pushing me, sweetheart. See what happens when I stop being polite.”

Then he was gone, whistling as he walked, like nothing had happened at all.

Sunday morning came with soft bells and sunlight streaking through stained glass. Y/N sat stiffly in the pew beside her mother, hands folded in her lap, the Bible untouched. Her heart wasn’t in the sermon. It hadn’t been for weeks. Not since him.

Officer Wolfe sat just a few rows ahead, as he always did—his broad frame taking up space like a shadow. He laughed when the pastor made a joke, nodded at each verse like he believed it. When the congregation rose to sing, he tilted his head toward Y/N’s mother and offered a small, respectful nod.

Her mother smiled back, completely unaware of the ice that ran down Y/N’s spine.

After the service ended and people slowly filed out, shaking hands and offering hugs, Y/N slipped from her mother’s side and made her way to the front, where Pastor Lawrence stood shaking hands by the altar.

“Pastor?” she said softly.

He turned with a warm smile. “Miss Y/N. Always good to see you. How’s your mother feeling?”

“She’s well, thank you. I—I was wondering if I could speak with you. In private.”

The pastor's brows lifted slightly in surprise, but he gestured toward a bench by the side wall. “Of course.”

They sat. Y/N kept her voice low, her fingers twisting in her lap.

“It’s about Officer Wolfe,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t watching.

Pastor Lawrence’s smile didn’t falter. “What about him?”

“He’s been… following me. Saying things. Pulling me over for no reason. I think he’s—” she hesitated, throat tightening, “—I think he’s watching me. And I don’t know what to do.”

The pastor listened, but his expression didn’t change. He sighed softly, placing a gentle hand on hers.

“I know Grayson can be...intense,” he said kindly. “But he’s a good man. A little lonely since his divorce, maybe, but he’s been nothing but respectful to me and my family. He’s served this town for almost two decades.”

Y/N blinked. “I’m telling you he’s—he’s touching me. Whispering things. He makes me feel unsafe.”

Lawrence’s face grew tighter, more patronizing. “Sometimes when a man has lost as much as Grayson has, he doesn’t always know how to express himself. I’m not excusing anything, but maybe give him grace. The Lord asks that we show compassion.”

Her chest tightened. “But—”

“I’ll say a prayer for your heart, Miss Y/N,” he said gently, already standing. “You’re a strong girl. Don’t let misunderstandings trouble your spirit.”

Y/N stood too, the weight in her chest heavier than before.

Outside, her mother waited near the car, chatting with a neighbor. Y/N walked up slowly, eyes down.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” her mother asked as they got inside.

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Can we… talk? About something?”

Her mother buckled her seatbelt, not catching the shake in her daughter’s voice. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Y/N stared at her hands. “It’s about Officer Wolfe.”

Her mother looked over with a raised brow. “Grayson?”

Y/N nodded. “He’s been… acting strange. Saying things to me. Pulling me over. He—he’s making me uncomfortable.”

Her mother’s lips thinned in confusion. “But he’s always been kind to us. He brought me that pie on my birthday. And didn’t he help you clean up after that mess in the kitchen?”

“That’s not what it was,” Y/N said quickly, voice cracking. “He’s… he’s scaring me.”

There was a pause. Then, gently:

“Honey,” her mother said, “I think you’re just stressed. You’ve been working so hard lately. Maybe you’re reading into things. Grayson’s a good man. Maybe a little forward, sure, but men like him don’t come around often.”

Y/N turned to the window, biting her lip to keep from crying.

And in the mirror of the church across the lot—she saw him again.

Standing at his cruiser. Watching.

Smiling.

Later That Evening

The house was too quiet.

Y/N sat curled on the couch, blanket wrapped tightly around her legs, a cup of tea long since gone cold between her palms. The TV played softly in the background, but she wasn’t watching. Her eyes were fixed on the door. The deadbolt was locked. She’d checked it three times.

Her mother’s words rang in her head like poison.

“Grayson’s a good man.” “Men like him don’t come around often.” “You’re just stressed.”

She’d almost screamed. Almost begged.

Instead, she just nodded.

Because it was pointless. He had them all. The town. The church. Her mother.

And now she was alone with the truth no one would believe.

A sudden knock shattered the silence.

Y/N jumped, her tea spilling onto her lap. She clutched the cup tightly, frozen.

Three more knocks. Slow. Measured.

She stood, legs trembling, and approached the door quietly. She didn’t need to ask who it was.

“Open the door, sweetheart,” came the low voice through the wood. “You know it’s me.”

Her breath hitched. She didn’t move.

“Come on now. I was real patient all week. Didn't even call. Didn't come by. Just watched. I thought you'd appreciate that.”

Her fingers hovered near the lock.

“I just want to talk,” he said, voice softer now. “You said you didn’t feel safe. I’m here to make you feel safe.”

Y/N swallowed, backing away from the door. “Please go home.”

A pause.

Then the handle rattled. Hard.

“You don’t tell me to go home,” he growled. “You’re home. This is where you stay. Where I’ll keep you. Because no one else sees what I do.”

There was a sound—a loud, metallic scrape—as if something ran down the door. Her heart dropped.

And then… silence.

She waited five minutes before she could even breathe again. Then twenty more before she finally opened the door a crack.

The porch was empty.

But on the doormat sat a small pie tin, still warm.

On top of it, a note scrawled in neat, all-caps print:

“I WANT TO BE INSIDE WHEN YOU BAKE THE NEXT ONE.”

The Field Trip – Thursday Morning

The sun was bright, too cheerful for how heavy Y/N’s chest felt.

She stood among a swarm of second graders waiting to board the buses for their field trip to the local nature preserve. The kids were buzzing with excitement, backpacks stuffed with juice boxes and hand wipes, teachers organizing roll calls and laminated name tags.

Y/N tried to smile as she crouched to tie a loose shoelace.

She didn’t see the cruiser until it pulled into the parking lot.

Her body stiffened.

Officer Wolfe stepped out, dressed down in his county-issued polo and cargo pants, sunglasses hiding his eyes. His badge was still clipped to his belt, gun at his hip. He looked casual. Approachable. And when the principal waved him over, he offered that same easy grin that fooled them all.

“Just here to help supervise,” he told the staff. “Keep an eye on things.”

Y/N felt cold all over.

They boarded the buses, and of course, Grayson chose hers. He sat toward the front, but his presence filled the small space like smoke—inescapable. Every time she looked up, his eyes were on her.

At the preserve, the kids scattered toward the nature trail in pairs, teachers trying to herd them like cats.

Y/N stayed near the back, gently guiding stragglers forward—until she felt it.

A hand on her lower back.

She froze.

“Careful,” came his voice beside her, too close. “Trail’s a little uneven. Wouldn’t want you twisting an ankle.”

She moved away, mumbling something about needing to help a student.

But it didn’t stop.

At the bird-watching post, his hand brushed her hip as he “reached” past her for the guide pamphlet. At the pond, he stepped too close behind her, his breath ghosting over her neck as he asked about the curriculum. At the narrow trail bridge, she slipped on the damp wood—just slightly—and he caught her.

Both arms around her waist.

She gasped, her palms pressing against his chest as she tried to push off. But he didn’t let go immediately. His hands lingered. One thumb brushed over her ribs, slow, calculated.

“Easy there,” he murmured, low in her ear. “I’ve got you.”

Her cheeks burned as she stepped away, murmuring thanks, the kids nearby unaware.

But others noticed. Just not in the way she feared.

Later, as the group sat on picnic blankets for lunch, a couple of fellow teachers sidled over to her, smiling like they’d just uncovered a juicy secret.

“Y/N…” “Girl, he caught you like a movie scene.” “Is something going on there? That man’s been hovering around you all day.”

Y/N forced a laugh, brushing it off. “No, it’s nothing. He’s just… being helpful.”

But her sandwich sat untouched in her lap. Her hands shook.

Grayson, a few yards away, leaned against a tree, sipping from a water bottle, eyes locked on her.

He smiled when she looked up.

And mouthed something only she could see:

“You belong to me.”

Back at School – That Afternoon

The sun was already sinking low by the time the buses rolled back into the school parking lot. The kids were loud and exhausted, the kind of chaos that usually made Y/N smile.

But not today.

Her nerves were frayed from the constant grazing touches. From the way he’d watched her—all day—like he was waiting for the exact moment she'd break.

She hurried her class inside, gently herding them to their desks with instructions to start their quiet drawings. She just wanted a moment. Five minutes to breathe. Five minutes to feel alone.

She turned to reach for a stack of papers on her desk when the door eased shut behind her with a soft click.

Her breath caught.

“I was hoping we could talk,” Officer Wolfe said from across the room, voice smooth, as if he belonged there. “Privately.”

She turned slowly. “Now’s not a good time. The kids—”

“I won’t be long,” he said, already closing the distance. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t—”

“You have,” he said, stepping closer. “But that’s alright. I understand. You’re scared.”

She backed slightly, her desk pressing into the back of her thighs.

“I have to get back to the students, Officer Wolfe—”

“Grayson,” he corrected softly. “Say it.”

She didn’t.

He sighed, mock disappointment curling the corners of his lips. “You know, most women would be grateful for the kind of attention I’ve given you. But you... you’re special, aren’t you? So good. So soft. You don’t even know how badly I want to ruin that.”

His hand reached out, brushing her arm—barely, but it lit her skin on fire.

She flinched.

He leaned in slowly, not touching her face, not forcing anything overt—but his lips pressed firmly, deliberately against her temple. A long, claiming kiss that burned.

“Mine,” he whispered against her skin.

The doorknob rattled.

He stepped back instantly.

A teacher—Ms. Crane—opened the door, pausing when she saw them.

“Oh,” she blinked, smiling awkwardly. “Everything alright?”

Grayson gave her a charming grin. “Just checking in. Making sure Miss Y/L/N here’s got everything she needs after the trip. She's a real trooper.”

Y/N's voice didn’t work, but she nodded, eyes wide.

Ms. Crane didn’t question it.

Grayson tipped his head. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

He left, boots thudding quietly down the hall.

Ms. Crane lingered only a moment before disappearing too.

Y/N shut the door behind them with trembling hands, her heart hammering. She leaned against it, trying to slow her breathing, eyes stinging.

No one said anything.

No one ever said anything.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks, forced a deep breath, and smoothed down her skirt.

Then she walked back to her class, smiling gently as if nothing had happened.

Sunday Morning – The Party

By Sunday morning, the whispers had already started.

The women at the bakery counter spoke behind cupped hands. Parents at the school drop-off gave her knowing looks. Even the pastor’s wife paused too long when shaking Y/N’s hand after service, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

They didn’t say it outright—but she heard it in the tone. The way her name came attached to his.

“I heard Officer Wolfe’s been spending time with Miss Y/N.” “Well, she is of age.” “He’s such a gentleman. Maybe she needs someone like that. Older. Stable.” “Bit strange, though... isn’t it?”

Y/N tried to smile through it all. Pretended she didn’t hear. Pretended she didn’t feel the eyes.

It only got worse by the time the town’s spring celebration rolled around that afternoon. It was tradition—live music, homemade food, and decorations strung between trees in the community square. Y/N hadn’t wanted to go. She told her mother she wasn’t feeling well.

But her mother had already picked out the dress.

“It’ll cheer you up,” she said. “Besides, I worked hard on it.”

So Y/N came.

The dress was lovely—soft lavender, fitted just right, flowing at the hem like a petal when she walked. Her mother had curled her hair that morning, humming with pride as she pinned a silver clip behind her ear.

Y/N smiled because she had to.

But the moment they arrived, she felt it—that shift in the air.

People were watching.

Not cruelly, not yet. But with that curiosity. That hungry little flicker of interest small towns never failed to fan into flame.

She tried to blend in. Helped serve punch. Sat beside her mother during the raffle.

But then—she felt it.

That stare.

Her eyes snapped up—and there he was.

Grayson Wolfe.

Across the square, standing near the band, dressed sharply in a deep navy shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His badge wasn’t pinned tonight, but he didn’t need it. He carried the same heavy air of control. The same cool charm.

And he was staring straight at her.

Not blinking. Not smiling.

Just watching.

She looked away quickly, heart climbing into her throat.

Her mother nudged her lightly. “He cleans up well, doesn’t he?”

Y/N forced a laugh. “I suppose.”

“You could do worse,” her mother murmured. “A man like that would keep you safe.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

She excused herself soon after, slipping behind the tents to try and breathe. The dress clung to her skin with heat. The curls felt too heavy on her neck.

But even back there—beneath the string lights and laughter—she felt it again.

He was coming.

Behind the Tent – During the Party

The laughter and chatter of the crowd faded as Y/N slipped behind the tent lined with paper lanterns and folding chairs. The space was quiet—mostly storage, crates of leftover drinks, a few balloons still tied to a beam. She exhaled, trying to press a hand to her chest and force her heart to still.

“Run out of smiles?”

The voice came like a blade across silk—familiar, sharp, low.

She froze.

Grayson stepped into view slowly, hands in his pockets, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, a picture of false ease. He looked so perfectly composed. So handsome. No one else saw the storm behind his smile.

“I just needed a moment,” she said quietly, already inching toward the side opening.

He stepped in her path.

“Mm. I’ve been patient all day, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You wore that little dress. Curled your hair. And then you ignored me like I’m nothing.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” His voice hardened. “You let them talk. Let them whisper about us like it’s a joke. Like you haven’t been the one crawling under my skin since the day I saw you walk out of that damn school.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. “Please, someone might—”

“No one’s listening.” He took another step, and the backs of her thighs brushed the tent wall. “They see a man trying to be good. Trying to give a lonely girl a future. But you?” His hand rose, fingers trailing the edge of her neckline, thumb grazing her collarbone. “You keep making me into something I’m trying so damn hard not to be.”

She whimpered, shoulders pressed back, her body trembling beneath his touch.

“You’re gonna be mine anyway,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”

Then—just as quickly as he stepped in—he stepped away.

Straightened his collar.

And disappeared around the side of the tent as if nothing happened at all.

Y/N stood frozen, trying to will the heat from her cheeks, her skin crawling where he’d touched her. She wiped her face, steadied her breath, and returned to the crowd just before her absence was noticed.

End of the Party – Dusk

The celebration wound down slowly. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in deep pinks and golds. Children were picked up by tired parents, the band packed their instruments, and neighbors waved their goodbyes with leftover desserts wrapped in foil.

Y/N was gathering her mother’s purse and a few paper decorations when his voice came again.

“I’ll walk you both home.”

Grayson was already beside them, smiling wide, looking like a savior to anyone watching.

Her mother smiled. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“No, that’s not—” Y/N started.

But her mother was already nodding, tucking her arm around Grayson’s as they started walking.

Y/N had no choice but to follow.

The walk was quiet, deceptively peaceful. Her mother chatted with him about the town, the food, the music. Grayson played the part well—nodding, laughing, glancing back at Y/N with that sick satisfaction when her mother wasn’t looking.

At the front porch, her mother turned to open the door.

“I’ll let you two say goodnight,” she said, unaware of the iron in Y/N’s spine as she froze on the steps.

Grayson turned to her, eyes heavy with intent.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he murmured. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted me to watch you.”

“I didn’t,” she said quickly, quietly.

He leaned in close—far too close—pressing a kiss just beneath her ear. “Lie to me again, sweetheart.”

Then he stepped back, smiled toward the door, and called out: “Goodnight, ma’am.”

He disappeared into the dark like a ghost—leaving Y/N trembling on her porch, trying not to cry as her mother called her inside.

Monday Afternoon – The Sheriff’s Office

Y/N stood outside the sheriff’s station with clammy hands and a heart beating out of rhythm. The sun was bright overhead, but it felt too cold inside her chest. She hadn’t told her mother. She hadn’t told anyone. This—this—was her last card to play.

She stepped inside the station, her flats scuffing against the worn linoleum. The front desk deputy glanced up.

“Help you?”

“I… I need to speak with Sheriff Daly. Privately. Please.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You got an appointment?”

“No. But it’s important. It’s about Officer Wolfe.”

That made him pause. Then he muttered something under his breath and nodded her toward the hall.

She followed the long corridor to the office at the end and knocked with shaking fingers.

“Come in,” said the familiar, tired voice.

Sheriff Jim Daly sat behind his cluttered desk, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, paperwork spread in lazy stacks. He looked up when she entered, brows lifting in mild surprise.

“Well, Miss Y/L/N. Haven’t seen you in a while. Everything alright?”

“No, sir,” she said, voice cracking. “That’s why I’m here.”

She told him everything.

Not all the details—she couldn’t find the words for the worst of it—but enough. The traffic stops. The touching. The way he followed her, whispered things, cornered her when no one was looking. Her voice broke halfway through, but she kept going. She had to.

Daly didn’t interrupt. Just watched her the entire time, lips pressed into a tired line.

When she finished, there was a heavy pause.

Then he sighed.

“Y/N… I believe you feel scared. I do. And I’m sorry for that.”

Her heart dropped. “But?”

“But,” he said, leaning back, “Grayson Wolfe’s served this department for nearly two decades. I’ve never once had a formal complaint. He’s respected, connected, and next in line once I retire. Which—” he motioned toward a plaque on the wall, “—is in three weeks. You understand?”

Her breath hitched. “You’re not going to do anything?”

“I’m saying… maybe this is just a misunderstanding. Maybe he’s being too forward, sure. But men like Grayson?” He shrugged. “They don’t just snap. They’re measured. Thoughtful. If there was something real here, I’d have heard about it from more than one nervous schoolteacher.”

Y/N’s face crumpled. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said quickly. “But if this is a situation you can handle quietly, I’d strongly suggest doing so. No need to stir up trouble that could follow you around this town.”

She stood there, blinking hard. “You’re letting him take everything from me.”

“No one’s taking anything. You’re still safe, still working. Still whole.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a tissue box, and slid it across the desk. “And Wolfe? He’s a good man. But I’ll remind him to stay professional. That should ease things up for you.”

She didn’t take the tissue.

She turned and left, tears falling silently down her cheeks as she exited the building and stepped into the sun that now felt so far away.

Inside the Sheriff’s Office – Moments Later

Sheriff Daly waited until the front door clicked shut behind her.

Then he picked up the desk phone and dialed.

“Yeah. It’s done.” He scratched his chin. “She came in. Shook up, real upset. You’ll want to get a handle on your situation before it gets messy.”

A pause.

“Don’t worry,” Daly added, glancing at the retirement plaque again. “It’s all yours soon anyway.”

The sky was dimming by the time Y/N pulled into the driveway, her trunk full of groceries, her bones aching with exhaustion. Her visit to the sheriff had left her raw, exposed—like she’d peeled back a wound and been told to keep quiet about the bleeding.

She killed the engine, grabbed the first few bags, and forced herself up the front steps. Just one evening. One evening to herself. That’s all she needed.

As she unlocked the front door, she heard it—the low crunch of tires on gravel.

Her heart dropped.

She turned her head slowly, dread blooming fast and thick in her chest.

Officer Grayson Wolfe’s cruiser came to a stop just a few feet from her house. He stepped out casually, as if this was normal. Expected.

Her fingers clutched the paper bags tighter.

“Evenin’, sweetheart,” he called, walking up the path like it was his own.

She turned quickly toward the door, fumbling with her keys. “I’m fine, Officer Wolfe. Just getting groceries in. Thank you.”

He was at the steps now.

“Let me help with those.”

“No—thank you,” she said too fast. “I’ve got it.”

“I insist.”

His voice was soft, but there was an edge beneath it. A warning.

She opened the door and stepped inside, hoping—praying—he would stay on the porch.

But he followed.

No invitation.

No hesitation.

The door clicked shut behind him.

She turned around slowly, groceries still in hand, trying to keep her breathing even.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He tilted his head slightly, stepping further into her space. “I shouldn’t be? That’s a funny way to talk to someone who just wants to take care of you.”

“You’re scaring me,” she whispered.

His smile disappeared.

“Good.”

She blinked, stepping back.

Grayson moved in closer, reaching for the bags in her arms—not gently, but with a sudden jerk that made her gasp. He set them on the counter too hard, one nearly tipping over.

“You went to Sheriff Daly today.”

Her blood ran cold.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped, low and sharp. “You went there, you told him stories, you cried to him about how the big bad cop touched you.” He stepped closer. “And do you know what he did?”

Her silence was answer enough.

“He called me. Told me to handle it. Told me to keep my little problem quiet.” He leaned in, brushing her hair back with the back of his knuckles. “So here I am. Handling it.”

She flinched away, but his hand snapped forward, grabbing her by the jaw.

“I was gentle with you,” he hissed. “I gave you time. I played nice. But you don’t want nice, do you?”

Her eyes filled with tears, lips trembling under the pressure of his grip.

“You want truth, sweetheart? Fine.”

He shoved her backward—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her stumble against the kitchen counter. He stalked toward her, a dark gleam in his eyes.

“No more playing house. No more smiling and waving like we’re strangers. You are mine. You’ve always been mine. And if you ever even think about going to someone else again—”

He grabbed her wrist, twisting it until she let out a soft cry.

“—I’ll break something. Something that won’t heal right.”

Tears slipped from her eyes.

Grayson stared down at her, his chest heaving, face flushed with quiet rage.

Then—like flipping a switch—he let go.

His fingers trailed down her arm slowly. “But you’re gonna be good from now on, right? No more trouble.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

He leaned in, kissed her cheek so slowly it felt like a brand. Then another kiss, lower, along her jaw, hovering near her lips without touching them.

“Clean yourself up,” he whispered. “Someone might stop by and think you’ve been crying.”

And just like that, he turned.

Strolled back out the door like nothing had happened. Like he didn’t leave her standing in her kitchen, cradling her wrist, shoulders shaking, silent sobs breaking loose as soon as she heard his cruiser disappear into the distance.

Two Days Later –

It was a bright, windy afternoon. The sound of children laughing and screaming on the playground filtered in through the open windows, their voices rising and falling like waves. Y/N stood by her desk, sorting spelling tests and trying to breathe through the ache that never quite left her chest anymore.

Then came the knock. Three slow, deliberate raps on the classroom door.

Her stomach turned.

Grayson Wolfe stepped in, dressed in a casual button-up and his duty belt, smiling wide as he held up two takeout bags and a tray of drinks.

“Brought lunch for the teachers,” he said cheerfully. “Thought you all could use a treat. Recess duty’s no joke.”

Y/N forced a smile. “That’s… thoughtful. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he replied. “But I saved yours for last. Figured we could eat together.”

She hesitated. “I have some things to grade—”

“Y/N,” he said, voice dipping just enough to make her freeze. “Please. I brought your favorite.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He was already setting down the food at her desk, pulling out her chair for her like it was some kind of date.

She sat, slowly. Trembling on the inside.

He pulled his chair close. Too close. Their knees brushed beneath the table.

He handed her a sandwich, unwrapped hers, and began to eat, relaxed like they did this every day. He talked between bites—about the school, the upcoming festival, the weather. But it all shifted when his gaze wandered to the window.

To the children.

He stopped mid-chew, a strange softness spreading across his face.

“You ever think about it?” he asked, his voice lower now. “Kids?”

She blinked. “I… I teach them every day.”

“No, I mean yours. Ours.”

She froze.

Grayson smiled, watching the children tumble across the grass.

“Little girl with your eyes. Little boy with my jaw. They’d be perfect. You’d be a beautiful mother.”

She gripped her sandwich tighter, her appetite gone.

“Grayson, I don’t—”

“You’d raise them right. Gentle, but firm. You’ve got that in you. That warmth.” He looked at her, his expression more serious now. “I think about it all the time, you know. Waking up to you. Coffee brewing. Kids in pajamas running around.”

Y/N’s breath shook.

She didn’t know what compelled her—defiance, fear, desperation—but she whispered, “What about your first wife?”

His jaw tensed.

The entire mood of the room changed. Like a storm sweeping in too fast to run from.

Grayson leaned back slightly, chewing slowly. “What about her?”

“I just… I don’t understand what happened. She left so suddenly.”

He was silent.

The sound of children outside continued, oblivious to the tension flooding the room.

Then he smiled—but it was all teeth.

“She didn’t appreciate what she had. Thought she could find better.” He leaned in again, close enough that his breath brushed her lips. “She disrespected me. Lied. Shamed me in front of people who owed me respect.”

Y/N tried to look away, but he gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“She forgot her place.”

Her pulse raced. His hand tightened ever so slightly before he let go.

“I’m not worried about you doing the same,” he added, voice soft again. “You’re smarter than she ever was.”

She nodded, mechanically, just to get him to stop.

He kissed her temple—slow, deliberate—and then stood, tossing his sandwich wrapper in the trash.

“Next time, I’ll bring pie,” he said casually. “We’ll talk names.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving Y/N alone in her classroom, still holding a sandwich she couldn’t bring herself to eat, the taste of ash in her mouth.

Spring Dance – Two Weeks Later

The community hall glowed beneath string lights and paper lanterns, the scent of fried dough, sweet cider, and blooming lilacs filling the warm spring air. It was supposed to be a celebration—Sheriff Daly’s retirement, the end of the season, a chance for the town to gather and laugh before the summer heat rolled in.

Y/N had been working since dawn.

She and her mother had cooked nearly everything on the buffet table—apple pies, cornbread, baked chicken, deviled eggs stacked in glass dishes. A few other church ladies had helped, but it was Y/N who’d set the centerpieces, folded the napkins just right. She hadn’t planned to stay long, just long enough to serve and smile politely, then slip out quietly.

But the music was loud, the mood festive, and everyone kept pulling her back in.

“You’re glowing, dear,” her mother said, adjusting a curl that had fallen from her updo. “Now, when was the last time you danced?”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Oh, nonsense. Go have a little fun. Just one.”

And that’s when he asked.

A young man—maybe in his late twenties, familiar but not close—offered his hand. “Would you?”

She hesitated, but the crowd around her cheered.

“Go on!” “Don’t be shy!” “You deserve it, Y/N!”

Peer pressure. Kind smiles. And a yearning in her chest she tried to ignore.

She took his hand.

And for a moment, just a moment, she smiled.

They moved in a slow circle beneath the lights, the fiddle music lilting around them. He was respectful, hands careful, conversation light. She laughed once—softly—when he made a joke about burnt cornbread.

She didn’t know Officer Wolfe had arrived.

Didn’t see the way he stood at the edge of the crowd, his jaw tight, eyes locked on her. His fists clenched at his sides as he watched her laugh, watched her dance, watched another man’s hands resting—however innocently—on his girl.

The moment the music ended, Y/N thanked her partner, smiled, and excused herself to the bathroom.

She never made it back to her mother.

The hallway behind the dance floor was dimmer, quieter. The sound of music faded behind closed doors as Y/N stepped into the small bathroom and splashed water on her neck to cool herself.

When she opened the door to leave, she didn’t get two steps before she ran straight into him.

Grayson.

He was waiting.

His hand closed around her upper arm before she could react, guiding—shoving—her back inside the bathroom.

The door slammed shut behind them.

“Having fun?” he asked, voice low and venomous.

“Grayson—please—”

“You think I wouldn’t hear about it? You think I wouldn’t see it? You, smiling like a little flirt, dancing around like you're free?”

“I didn’t—he just asked—and people—”

“People?” he snapped, his hand tightening. “People think you’re mine. Because you are. And now they’re going to think you’re loose. That you’re looking.”

He backed her up until she hit the sink.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were. And you liked it.” His voice dropped. “You liked having him touch you. Liked being looked at.”

Her chest heaved. “I just wanted to feel normal.”

His expression darkened.

“You don’t get normal anymore, sweetheart. You get me.”

He grabbed her jaw then—firm, painful—and leaned in close. His breath was hot and heavy with anger. “And I hope you danced real pretty, because it’s the last damn time you ever do it.”

He kissed her then—not with tenderness, but with punishment. A hard press of his mouth to hers, forcing her still.

When he pulled away, her lips burned, and her eyes were wet.

He stared at her for a long moment. Breathing heavily.

Then—soft again, suddenly—he brushed a tear from her cheek with a mock-gentle touch.

“Fix your face,” he said. “And go back out there before your mother starts asking questions.”

He turned to the door. Paused.

“Oh—and tell that boy if he ever touches you again, I’ll break every bone in his hand.”

Then he left.

Y/N slid down against the wall, clutching her stomach with trembling arms, the music beyond the door now feeling like a cruel, distant dream.

Her fingers couldn’t move fast enough.

Y/N had rushed home straight from the spring dance, skipping the goodbyes, ignoring her mother’s calls. Her skin still burned from his touch, her lips throbbed where he’d kissed her like punishment. The moment she stepped inside, she locked the door and flew up the stairs to her room.

She grabbed the old duffel bag from her closet—the one she hadn’t used since college—and started throwing in clothes: sweaters, socks, a pair of flats. No plan, just go. She didn’t know where, only that she needed to leave before morning. Before he came back.

But it was already too late.

Grayson Wolfe had noticed the moment she vanished from the dance floor. When her car was gone from the parking lot, he knew. Something in his gut twisted into rage, deep and dangerous. By the time he pulled into her driveway, he was seething.

And he didn’t bother knocking.

The door creaked open slowly.

Y/N didn’t hear it at first. She was in her room, heart pounding, stuffing her phone charger into the side pocket of her bag. But then—footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Purposeful.

She froze.

A slow creak on the bottom step.

Then—

“Going somewhere?”

His voice slithered up the stairs before he did.

She turned, pale and breathless, just as he stepped into the doorway of her bedroom.

Grayson’s face was unreadable at first. Just cold. Silent.

Then he saw the bag on the bed.

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered. “Please—just let me go.”

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“You think you can just run?” he asked, his voice low and deadly. “After everything I’ve done for you? Everything I’ve planned?”

Her hands trembled. “I’m not safe with you.”

He laughed—just once. A bitter, humorless sound.

“You were never safer than you are with me,” he said. “I protected you. From the world. From men like that little boy you danced with. You think he could’ve kept you safe? He couldn’t even keep your attention for ten minutes.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I never asked for any of this.”

“You didn’t have to,” he snapped, moving fast.

He reached the bed, grabbed the duffel, and threw it against the wall. It hit with a dull thud, the zipper busting halfway open.

“You don’t get to leave me.”

She backed up, but he was already there—pinning her between the dresser and his towering frame.

“You belong here,” he hissed. “In this house. In my life. And if you ever try to run again—” he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up, “—I swear to God, I’ll make sure you can’t.”

Her voice came out in a broken whisper. “You’re hurting me.”

“Good,” he said, his face twisted with betrayal. “Because you hurt me the moment you even thought about walking away.”

His hand slid down to her throat—not squeezing, but cradling it, thumb brushing under her jaw.

“But I’m not going to lose you,” he whispered. “Not to fear. Not to stupidity. Not to anyone.”

His lips pressed against her temple, almost gentle—but it wasn’t comfort. It was claiming.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said softly. “And if I have to break you to keep you... then so be it.”

He finally pulled away, breathing hard, and looked around the room like he was deciding what to do next.

“Unpack the bag,” he ordered.

She didn’t move.

He grabbed her wrist, hard this time, and dragged her toward the bed.

“Unpack. It. Now.”

Y/N stared at the bag crumpled against the floor, her breath coming in shaky gasps. Her body wouldn’t move. Her limbs had gone numb. Grayson stood over her, eyes dark with fury, his presence filling the entire room like a cage.

“Unpack it,” he said again, slower now. “Or I will.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her knees buckled as she slowly sank to the floor. With trembling hands, she crawled toward the duffel and began to pull her clothes out—one by one. A shirt. Socks. The small framed photo she’d packed of her and her father fell out last.

She paused.

Her throat burned as she reached for it.

“Please,” she whispered, cradling the photo to her chest. “Please let me go. I’ll disappear. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t ruin your life—just let me go.”

Grayson knelt behind her.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched her.

Then, slowly, he reached forward and took the picture from her hands. Studied it for a moment.

Without a word, he placed it gently back in the bag.

“I told you,” he said softly, dangerously. “You don’t get to leave. You don’t ask to leave.”

His hand slid down her arm—mockingly tender—before curling around her waist and dragging her upright, against him.

“You made me like this.”

She shook her head, sobbing now. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he snapped, gripping her face again. “Every time you looked away. Every time you smiled at someone else. You made me starve for you.”

He kissed her then—not gently, not lovingly. A hard, possessive press of lips meant to punish.

When he pulled back, his hands moved lower, down her sides, gripping her hips.

“You want to run?” he growled. “Then run now. Go on. Try.”

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He smirked.

“That’s what I thought.”

He stepped back slightly, hands still on her waist.

“Take it off.”

She blinked in confusion, breath catching. “W-what?”

“Your dress,” he said, voice low and commanding. “Take it off.”

Her heart stopped.

“No,” she whispered.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t strike.

He just stepped closer.

His fingers moved to the zipper at her back, slow, deliberate. “Then I will.”

She reached behind her in a panic, trying to stop him, but he grabbed her wrists and yanked them forward, pinning them against her chest.

“I said,” he murmured in her ear, “we do this my way now.”

He dragged the zipper down.

Her dress slipped slightly off her shoulder.

“Good girl,” he whispered, breathing heavy. “Let me see what’s mine.”

The zipper whispered down her spine like a blade.

Y/N stood frozen, the room spinning as her dress slipped from one shoulder, then the other, the fabric loose around her waist but still clinging—like it, too, didn’t want to fall. She trembled beneath his stare, her arms slowly rising to cover herself.

Grayson didn’t let her.

He gripped her wrists and gently—so gently it made her sick—pulled them down.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said, voice a low, shaking breath. “You don’t get to pretend you’re not mine.”

Tears streamed silently down her face. She didn’t sob. Didn’t scream. She just stood there—barely breathing—as he looked at her like something sacred he was about to desecrate.

“I waited,” he murmured, running his fingers along the curve of her shoulder, down her arm. “I was good. I gave you time. Patience. I let you dance and cry and run... but now?”

His hand slipped around to her lower back, pressing her closer, their bodies flush.

“Now I take what’s mine.”

Her lip trembled. “Please don’t.”

He kissed her. Not her mouth—but her cheek, wet with tears. His lips dragged slowly down to her jaw, then her neck.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her body shook beneath his hands, her knees weak. She felt like she might collapse—but he held her upright, firm and steady.

When he pulled back, her dress fell to the floor in a hush of fabric.

And then—

He began to unbuckle his belt.

She watched through blurred vision, her face pale, lips parted in silent shock as the leather slid through the loops with a hiss. Her entire body locked. The sound was too loud in the stillness. Too final.

Grayson watched her as he worked—his expression unreadable now. Almost reverent.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said, eyes dragging down her figure. “This is the part where you finally stop running. Where you let go.”

She whispered something—maybe no, maybe please—but her voice was too small, too broken to matter.

He dropped the belt to the floor with a heavy thud.

Then stepped forward, lifting her chin with two fingers, forcing her to look him in the eye.

“Look at me,” he breathed. “I want your eyes on mine when I make you understand.”

And in the silence of that room, surrounded by shattered hope and a ruined duffel bag, Y/N stared into the eyes of the man who had been allowed to own her world—and knew there was no one coming to stop him.

Grayson watched her, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. He looked calm. Certain. Like every inch of her had already been signed over and sealed.

“Lie back,” he murmured.

She didn’t move.

His hand—warm, heavy—pressed against her chest, not rough, but firm. Not allowing resistance. He guided her backward, until her shoulders touched the mattress, until the world tilted above her, swallowed in shadow.

She tried to speak. Tried to say no again. But her voice wouldn’t come. Only a dry sound, broken and small.

He leaned over her, and kissed her.

Not her lips.

Her neck. Her collarbone. Lower.

His hands were moving now—slow, intentional—touching places they never should have touched. Fingers grazing her inner thigh, pressing gently until her legs shifted without meaning to. Until she was laid bare beneath him, and he sighed like she was something he’d earned.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered, his voice thick with hunger. “I could keep you like this forever.”

She turned her face away as he touched her—beneath the hem of what was left, over the curves of her chest, trailing down her ribs. His hands were everywhere, pressing, exploring, taking. Her body flinched under him, but he didn’t stop.

He only groaned softly. “That’s it… you feel it too, don’t you?”

She shook her head, tears rolling silently to the pillow.

But he didn’t care.

His hips settled between hers.

The moment stretched thin—horrible, quiet, and shaking with her silent refusal.

Then—

He pressed his forehead to hers. His breath heavy. His hands holding her wrists to the bed as he whispered:

“This is the part where you stop pretending. Where you let me make you mine.”

She closed her eyes.

And everything went still.

Grayson hovered over her, his body heavy between her thighs, her wrists pinned above her head like offerings.

“Sweet little thing,” he whispered against her skin. “All that innocence wrapped in silence. All mine now.”

His hand moved between them, slow and deliberate. She felt pressure—an intrusion, terrible and inevitable. Her breath caught as he pushed closer, pressing against her like he had every right to be there.

She turned her face away, tears slipping freely now. Her legs trembled, but his hand slid around one thigh, curling it around his hip like it belonged there.

“That’s it,” he murmured, breath hot against her throat. “Knew you’d hold me. Knew you’d feel good like this.”

He guided her other leg up with forceful tenderness, locking her beneath him. Her legs were around him now—not by desire, but because he put them there, tangled and helpless.

“Perfect little fit,” he breathed. “Tight and soft. God, you were made for this.”

His hips rolled against hers, and she whimpered—quiet, broken, like a sound she didn’t mean to let escape. He kissed her then, muffling the noise, stealing her voice with his mouth.

“You’re gonna take it,” he said, rougher now. “Take all of me. Because you’re mine.”

One hand moved to her chest, groping her roughly, possessively, like he was molding her into something that had never belonged to herself. He thumbed the sensitive skin with no care for her whimpering, only focused on what pleased him.

“God, you’re sweet,” he growled. “Sweeter than I dreamed.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in like a drug, groaning as his rhythm deepened, his grip bruising now.

“So tight, baby,” he gasped. “You’ll remember this. Every time you look in the mirror. Every time you feel me dripping out of you.”

Her eyes filled again, her body shaking.

And then—with a deep, guttural sound—he buried himself against her and shuddered. His whole body went rigid.

She felt him still, panting, his weight pressing her down like stone.

He stayed there for a long moment, his hand moving gently over her ribs, brushing her hair back.

“You were perfect,” he murmured. “So good for me. So sweet.”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

The Next Morning

Y/N stirred slowly.

Her body ached in ways that didn’t feel real. Her limbs felt too heavy. Her skin too thin. Everything between her legs throbbed with a dull, violating heat. She didn’t remember falling asleep—only the dark, the weight of him, the way her body had finally gone still under his.

She blinked awake at the soft clink of metal.

His belt.

He was dressing.

The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet, pale light just beginning to leak through her curtains. Grayson stood by the edge of the bed, sliding the leather strap through the loops of his uniform pants. His back was to her at first.

Then he turned.

Smiling.

“Well, good morning, sweetheart,” he said in a voice too warm, too soft. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Y/N slowly sat up, the blanket falling from her bare shoulders. Her lips—bruised, cracked—parted with shallow breaths. Her arms instinctively pulled the sheet tighter around her.

Grayson’s eyes dragged over her like a slow hand.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Still shaking.”

He stepped closer, reaching down to brush a finger along her jaw.

“You should see yourself,” he said with something like awe. “Covered in me. Bruises on your hips. That mouth all swollen. God, you’re beautiful when you’re used.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to cry, scream, vomit—but she stayed quiet. Still.

He leaned down and kissed her lips, gentle but unyielding. She didn’t kiss back.

“Still sore, huh?” he whispered against her mouth. “Good.”

He pulled back and ran a hand through his hair, fixing it before grabbing his badge and keys.

“I’ll see you at work later,” he said cheerfully. “Thought I’d stop by and bring your favorite lunch—those little lemon bars you love. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

He didn’t need her to.

As he reached the door, he glanced back over his shoulder—eyes roaming her bare form beneath the blanket.

“Maybe next time, I won’t let you sleep so much after.”

Then he left.

The door shut behind him with a soft, final click.

Y/N stared at the wall for a long time.

And only then did the tears come—slow, silent, and without end.

That Morning – At School

The halls of the elementary school were alive with morning chatter—children unzipping backpacks, sneakers squeaking across the linoleum, and the familiar chime of the bell echoing through the building.

Y/N walked in slowly, her steps careful, too careful.

She smiled when people said hello.

She nodded when the receptionist asked how her weekend was.

She even laughed—once—when another teacher made a joke by the coffee station.

But it didn’t reach her eyes.

She wore long sleeves today. A sweater that went down to her wrists, even though it was nearly 70 degrees. Her skirt brushed her calves, conservative and stiff. The neckline of her blouse sat high on her collarbone, where a faint bruise peeked just under the fabric.

She’d woken up early to put on more makeup than usual.

Foundation layered until the discoloration around her mouth was nearly hidden. Concealer under her eyes to mask the shadows carved there. Mascara to make her lashes look alive.

But nothing could cover the way her hand trembled when she picked up her clipboard.

Or how she winced when one of the kids hugged her waist.

“Miss Y/N?” one of the students asked during morning circle. “Are you sad?”

She blinked.

“I—no, sweetheart,” she said softly, forcing a smile. “Just tired today.”

But she could feel it—eyes watching her.

From the staff table during lunch. From the teacher down the hall who’d always been warm but now tilted her head with quiet concern.

Even the janitor, Mr. Hale, paused longer than usual when he greeted her, his brow furrowing as he looked her over.

Still, no one asked.

No one said the words out loud.

She moved like a ghost through her day—smiling when needed, laughing too softly, flinching too easily. Every time the front doors opened, she froze, expecting him to walk in. To drop off those lemon bars he’d promised. To wave at her like nothing had changed.

Her phone buzzed in her desk drawer during planning period.

1 New Message – Grayson “You looked beautiful walking in today. That skirt is cute. I love when you cover up just for me. Can’t wait to see you later. Smile more, okay?”

She locked the screen without replying.

And when the bell rang for dismissal, Y/N kept her head down, voice soft, her eyes flicking toward every shadow.

School – Lunch Period

She should’ve known he’d keep his promise.

Y/N sat in the teacher’s lounge, lunch untouched. Her fingers barely wrapped around the plastic fork in her salad. She wasn’t hungry—her stomach was too tight, too sick. Her eyes flicked to the clock.

12:27.

The door creaked open behind her.

Her blood turned to ice.

Grayson entered, still in uniform, holding a white bakery box and two lemon bars tucked neatly on a napkin. He smiled like they were just old friends meeting on a sunny afternoon.

“Figured you could use something sweet,” he said warmly.

A few of the teachers turned, smiled at him, nodded.

Y/N forced her lips to curl. “That’s… thoughtful.”

“You’ve earned it,” he said.

His voice was light, but when he leaned down to place the treat on the table, his fingers grazed her thigh beneath the table. He squeezed—quick, hard. A quiet warning masked as affection.

“You wore my favorite color,” he murmured close to her ear. “God, you’re good to me.”

She sat still, her pulse thudding in her throat.

He stood upright, smiling at the room. “Y’all take care of her, now.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The door closed.

She couldn’t move.

Her legs were shaking. Her palms were slick. Her entire body buzzed with the aftershock of his presence—his touch still burning on her skin through the fabric.

The room spun.

Five Minutes Later – Girls’ Bathroom

Y/N didn’t make it back to her classroom.

She slipped into the staff bathroom down the hall, locked herself in the farthest stall, and crumpled onto the closed toilet lid, one hand pressed over her mouth to stifle the sobs.

Her body shook uncontrollably.

Her blouse still smelled faintly like him. Her inner thighs still ached from the marks he’d left over the weekend. Her mind kept replaying his voice—soft and cruel all at once—reminding her that no one would believe her. That this was what love looked like now.

She didn’t hear the door open.

“Y/N?”

A voice. Soft. Female. Concerned.

Footsteps.

“Sweetheart… are you okay?”

It was Ms. Rivera—third grade.

Y/N didn’t respond.

Then the knock came, gentle against the stall. “I saw you run in here. You’re crying.”

Silence.

“I—I’m not prying,” she continued quietly. “But… if something’s wrong… you don’t have to say anything. You just need to know someone sees you.”

Y/N’s shoulders crumpled, her face buried in her hands. Her breath hitched, and the tears kept falling.

Ms. Rivera didn’t ask again. She just sat down on the bathroom floor on the other side of the door and said nothing—only stayed.

And for the first time in weeks… Y/N didn’t feel completely alone.

After School – Ms. Rivera’s Classroom

The final bell had rung. The halls were mostly empty now, just a few teachers tidying up, a janitor humming faintly as he swept.

Y/N stood outside Ms. Rivera’s door, her hands clutched tightly around the strap of her bag. She looked like a ghost in modest clothing—exhausted, washed out, but trying to breathe.

The door opened before she knocked.

“Come in,” Ms. Rivera said softly, stepping aside.

Y/N entered slowly, eyes scanning the quiet classroom. Ms. Rivera had dimmed the lights, left only a small lamp on by her desk. The room felt safe. Warm. Almost untouched by the outside world.

“Sit wherever you like,” she offered, pulling two chairs to face each other.

Y/N sat down and twisted her fingers in her lap.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ms. Rivera leaned forward. “You don’t have to tell me everything. You don’t have to name names. But whatever you say stays between us. I promise.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. Her voice came out in a whisper. “It’s Officer Wolfe.”

Ms. Rivera didn’t flinch.

Y/N’s eyes welled up. “He’s been following me. Showing up everywhere. At my house. At school. He touches me. He… forces things.”

Ms. Rivera’s gaze didn’t waver. She reached over, gently covered Y/N’s shaking hand with hers.

Y/N looked down at the contact. “And no one will listen. Not the sheriff. Not even my own mother. They all love him. They say he’s good. That he’s… respectable.”

Ms. Rivera was quiet for a long moment.

Then she said something Y/N didn’t expect.

“I know.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“I know what he is,” Ms. Rivera said, her voice low. “And I know what he did to his wife.”

Y/N’s mouth went dry.

“She didn’t leave town like they all said. That was the story—she cheated and disappeared.” Ms. Rivera gave a hollow laugh. “But I saw her. I was there. I knew her.”

“What happened to her?” Y/N asked, voice cracking.

“She tried to run too,” Ms. Rivera whispered. “Just like you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her chest.

“She got as far as her sister’s house in the next county. He found her. Took her back.” Ms. Rivera swallowed. “A month later, she was dead. Car accident, they said. But I saw the bruises before they buried her.”

A cold silence fell over the room.

Y/N’s body went stiff.

Ms. Rivera looked at her, eyes serious, shadowed with something deeper. “You’re not the first. But you might be the last if you don’t get out.”

Y/N’s voice shook. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because no one would’ve believed me then either,” she said. “I was a teacher. A woman. And he was already being groomed for promotion. You see how this town works.”

Y/N nodded slowly, the truth sinking into her bones.

“But I believe you,” Ms. Rivera said gently. “And if you really want to escape, I’ll help you.”

Y/N’s lips trembled. “How?”

Ms. Rivera’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You leave everything behind. No phone. No bank cards. Nothing he can trace. We fake something. Make him think you broke. Then, when he’s looking the other way…”

She paused.

“…you vanish.”

Two Days Later – The Plan

Ms. Rivera laid it out carefully.

They would wait. Watch. Keep pretending.

“You need to let him think he’s still winning,” she said softly, sitting beside Y/N in the back corner of her classroom, where no cameras watched. “Smile. Nod. Let him believe you're breaking on your own.”

Y/N nodded. Her hands were clenched in her lap, but her eyes were hollow with determination.

“We’ll time it with the promotion ceremony. Everyone will be distracted. He’ll be surrounded by cameras, press, half the town. That’s when we’ll slip the first message.”

“A message?” Y/N asked.

“To someone who matters outside this town.”

Saturday Night – Grayson's Promotion Party

The town hall was transformed into a glittering celebration. String lights draped from the ceiling. Tables were loaded with catered food. A banner stretched across the back wall:

Congratulations Sheriff Wolfe.

Y/N stood stiff in a modest navy dress her mother picked out, sleeves to her wrists, neckline high. Her makeup was perfect. Her smile had edges.

Grayson had his hand on her lower back the entire evening.

He looked the part of a rising man—sharp suit, polished boots, and the whole room orbiting around him. People hugged him. Toasted him. Called him “the future.”

And Y/N? She floated from conversation to conversation like a ghost.

Every now and then, she met Ms. Rivera’s gaze across the room. And each time, the older woman gave her a slow, subtle nod.

Hold steady.

Play along.

And then—Grayson tapped his glass.

The chatter in the room died.

“I want to thank you all,” he said, standing beside the podium, Y/N just behind him. “This town raised me. Gave me purpose. Gave me family.”

He smiled at the crowd, then turned slightly.

“But there’s someone else I want to thank. Someone who’s stood by me through everything. Someone who reminds me what I’m fighting for.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Grayson reached into his coat pocket.

Pulled out a small velvet box.

The room gasped as he turned, got down on one knee—grinning—and opened the box to reveal a glittering, oval-cut diamond set in platinum.

“Y/N,” he said, voice warm and full of command. “Marry me.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

All eyes on her.

Y/N’s breath caught in her chest. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

Then—from the front row—her mother wiped a tear, smiling proudly.

“He came to me first,” she said. “Asked for my blessing. I told him yes.”

Y/N felt everything tilt.

She looked at Rivera.

Rivera nodded once.

Y/N turned back to Grayson, her mouth trembling.

“Yes,” she said softly. “The ring is stunning.”

The crowd erupted in applause.

He slid the ring onto her shaking finger.

Kissed her hand.

Whispered, “Told you we’d get here.”

And Y/N smiled.

Because it was the only thing she could do.

But inside, she was already packing her second bag.

A/N: I AM making a tag post if you wish to be tag in future stories, please respond here <-

#yandere #fantasy #x reader #sfw noncom #power dynamics #tw noncon #dark romance #age g4p #dark fantasy #breeding k1nk #police officer #small town au #twistedheartsclub

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skarletta-arts · 2 months ago

Text

A Brief Introduction to the AU Story of “Hazbin Hotel” - “Valley of Forgotten Voices”

I realized that it’s worth writing a short article with some lore regarding this AU. The lore part is quite extensive, and without explanations, it would be completely unclear what’s happening and what the differences are from the main storyline known from the series so far.

Let’s start with the two main characters of the AU:

Alastor Hartfelt and Anna Cliff.

Let’s begin with the one who is more familiar to people, namely Alastor.

Alastor Hartfelt:

1897 - 1930 (33 years old)

In the AU plot, he is quite a… specific character.

To begin with, Alastor had mixed roots, which was considered unethical at the beginning of the 20th century, resulting in prejudice towards him from an early age.

A tyrant father and a loving mother - two extremes of the family that pursued Alastor from birth, forcing him to realize at a young age that there was no such thing as justice.

One of his small hobbies was setting ants on fire and dissecting frogs to distract himself from the domestic scandals.

Almost every day, when young Alastor returned from his walks, he was met at home by his mother’s screams, his father’s anger, and constant accusations that she had given birth to an abomination.

While this affected Alastor somewhat at the age of 7, by the age of 10 it had become an ordinary reality. After all, there is a wonderful expression: one can get used to anything. And so he got used to it.

When his father was not at home, Alastor could spend time with his beloved mother, who not only tried to raise her son to be a true gentleman but also, as much as she could afford, educated him and instilled in the boy a love for cultural foundations from her side.

And perhaps everything would have continued in its own way until 1907, when foreigners moved into a long-forgotten house on their small street.

A short woman of quite advanced age, and with her a little girl, about 4-6 years old.

It was from this moment that the differences in the formation of Alastor’s personality began.

Differences:

Due to Anna’s presence in his life, Alastor developed a sense of responsibility for another person’s life and pedagogical skills, since Anna barely knew English when grandmother Pelageya brought her to New Orleans. (The part about Anna will clarify why she did this.)

Alastor learns to be more agile and protect not only himself but also Anna. They were something of outsiders in the area where their homes were. A Creole and a Russian fugitive - it sounded more like some kind of anecdote, but that was their reality.

From the age of 13, Alastor becomes deeply involved in Voodoo culture and often resorts to it throughout his life, having faith in the supernatural and having witnessed such things.

At the age of 17, Alastor kills his father, planning it for a year. The boy manages to play on all his parent’s sins and make it seem that no one even suspects him. However, he was sure until the end of his days that his mother knew perfectly well that the father did not disappear without a trace, but her own son had a hand in it.

Until the age of 20, Alastor persistently tries to establish authority, perfect his speech, simultaneously helping Anna find herself, considering the girl as a younger sister for whom he is responsible. This attitude towards the girl will persist until his death.

When the man manages to break into radio broadcasts and become a rising radio host, gaining popularity at an excellent pace, thanks not only to his pleasant timbre and accent, show presentation, but also his appearance - he manipulates to get Anna a position as his assistant to be sure that the girl will always be nearby, in sight, and not get into trouble with her kind heart.

Alastor is a true gentleman. He never raises his voice at ladies, no matter how much they provoke him or annoy him with their presence. The only exception was Anna behind closed doors, and even then, more for educational purposes rather than actually trying to offend the girl.

To some extent, he could be called an avenger. He tried never to kill girls, and 90% of his victims were men. However, if it involved child abuse or some particularly cruel acts, he wouldn’t hesitate to commit such killings. This code of his was formed over years of observing how cruel life actually is and how there really is no such thing as justice in it.

Throughout all the years, he only had a couple of mistakes. In one of those instances, Anna learned the truth about the “Night Avenger.” However, despite all the tears and attempts to persuade her friend to stop doing this… she accepted his point of view and stepped back. At the same time, Alastor began to notice a strange and not particularly friendly sparkle in his “sister’s” eyes, but he never really paid attention to it.

Alastor did everything to ensure that his mother and Anna, after the death of the latter’s grandmother, lacked nothing, trying to give them the maximum benefits he could afford. He also tried to protect his family from gossip and attacks by journalists who repeatedly tried to dig up dirt on him first and foremost.

On the day of his death, Alastor made a mistake. He wasn’t too careful and deviated from his usual, safe route to check a recent body he had buried at the junction of a swampy area and a dense forest. That’s how he got a bullet in the forehead when a sloppy, slightly drunk hunter mistook him for a deer in the twilight and shot him. Anna took Alastor’s broken glasses, keeping them with her always until her own death.

Alastor made a deal in this AU as well, but not with Rosie, but directly with the Loa spirits. Rosie, in this AU, is his close friend, just like Anna.

Alastor, having entered Hell and taking advantage of the fact that he was already quite powerful, having gathered some powers and souls during his lifetime, tried to quickly secure a significant place for himself in order to protect himself.

His new demonic appearance constantly causes him trouble - from reactions to sounds, smells, and other things, to a constant state of terror deep within his soul. His perpetual, forced smile helps to hide these details well. When Niffty came under his command, he personally asked her to sew his smile shut with bright green thread, like a doll's, so that even when he was terribly scared and in pain, he could still smile. Niffty keeps this secret deep within her heart, although Alastor believes she has forgotten about it over the years.

Due to a strange turn of events (explained in the Anna section), Alastor did not recognize Anna when he met her in Hell, although he did recognize Mimi. For a long time, he mistook the girl for just another careless soul who wanted his protection in exchange for their own soul. He did give her that protection, but there were times when he would lash out at her. He learned the truth about this situation under very unpleasant circumstances and felt an immense sense of guilt towards his friend, as well as feelings of resentment and anger towards Rosie, since she knew the truth.

At the moment, this is the main list of differences from the main storyline regarding Alastor. I believe that any new element has a butterfly effect. In this AU, Anna and her grandmother appear in his life, which, accordingly, made some changes to his life, personality, and choices.

Anna Cliff:

1901 - 1938 (37 years old)

Let's begin with Anna herself.

The girl barely remembers her childhood in Russia, as her grandmother took her to New Orleans at the age of 6, but she never forgot her native language. This later developed into a rather interesting and peculiar accent, which she could control with age, but each time she did so, she felt like she was hiding a part of herself.

Anna does not use her real surname. Cliff is the name she was given when moving to another country. At birth, she was Anna Pavlovna Volkova. During her lifetime, only her grandmother, Alastor, and his mother knew her real surname, for which the first one sometimes laughed and called the little girl a careless little wolf cub.

Anna's grandmother took the girl away 10 years before the great revolution in the Russian Empire, as the woman believed in the supernatural (receiving certain signs that something very bad was about to happen) and was not foolish herself. Being at the head of her branch of the court, she understood perfectly well that, sooner or later, despite the good deeds of the tsar, something very large and bad would happen.

With her granddaughter in tow, Pelageya organized an arson of the estate, preparing for it for quite a long time, and then fled to New Orleans, taking the little girl with her. For everyone in Russia, they were dead, as bodies were planted in the burned buildings, in their private rooms.

Anna herself grew up... an interesting girl.

When she first met Alastor in their new place... she understood almost nothing. She just stood there, blinking and smiling broadly, trying to hide her embarrassment at her lack of understanding. She only had basic knowledge of French, as the little noblewoman had been taught since the age of three. As for English... it was a wilderness.

Alastor was surprisingly keen to kill time anywhere but at home while his father was there. So he took it upon himself to teach the girl English as best as he could.

Over the years, their casual acquaintance developed into a strong friendship, even resembling that of close family members. The girl, albeit talented yet shy and embarrassed, showed good progress in her understanding of the arts, reading, and dancing. However, she was kept away from the arts altogether, not only because she was a foreigner but also because she was a girl.

As a result, Anna focused more on any work she could find, from volunteering in medical institutions to any part-time job she could get. Her workaholism and desperate desire to help both her grandmother and her friend pushed her to become stronger, exhibit discipline towards herself, and so on.

Her rare mutation, specifically the rapid loss of melanin in her hair structure, became especially noticeable as she aged, with prominent gray strands appearing against her chestnut hair, adding a touch of exoticism to her appearance.

By the age of 24 or 25, Anna learned Alastor's secret. Her close friend had been committing murders for many years, targeting those he believed were polluting the lives of ordinary people.

All attempts to dissuade her friend and instill in him the importance of compassion, that this was not the way, yielded no results. However, during rare evening conversations about this topic, Anna increasingly found herself thinking that... she agreed with her friend.

This realization settled deep within her when Anna was about 27 years old. That evening, in an alley, she was nearly raped by two men. She was already prepared to pray to all the gods to protect her body from disgrace, but that very evening, by a stroke of luck, Alastor happened to meet her on her way home. He barely made it in time.

Seeing what condition Anna was in after the altercation—the trickle of crimson blood from her broken nose and the spark that flashed in her friend's eyes—Alastor could only swear in that moment that deep inside Anna was hiding "it." That very feeling of cruelty mixed with a desire for justice.

Unfortunately, this incident was forgotten within a few weeks when life returned to its mundane course.

For the next few years, until Alastor's death, everything was relatively quiet but stable. A normal life with work, secrets, dinner parties, stacks of paperwork, and helping her friend prepare for his shows.

However, everything changed when... Alastor was accidentally killed.

At that moment, Anna's false sense of justice shattered completely. Even though a thought crossed her mind that perhaps this was punishment for Alastor from fate itself for how he had used his life, skills, and voodoo magic, that thought faded when she learned who the negligent hunter was.

One of the city's big shots, who, for fun, could drunkenly shoot his own subordinates, break their bones, and inflict deep wounds with a hunting knife. The one who constantly raised his hand against his own wife and children. The one who was dishonest in every way possible.

At that moment, Anna broke. Her morals, her past values, her former principles—all of it collapsed like a house of cards that she had built over many years.

Anna transformed as a person quite rapidly and in fits and starts. First, she took on the responsibility of looking after Alastor's mother (in this AU, she survives her son), tending to her as if she were her own. Second, Anna did everything she could to keep Alastor's secret hidden—that the avenger, the serial killer, was indeed him. (The truth would only be revealed after Anna's own death when her diaries, personal belongings of some victims, and remnants of voodoo magic paraphernalia used by Alastor would be discovered in her home.)

Additionally, the girl... decided to seek revenge. To take revenge on that very hunter. The preparation for revenge took just over a year.

Since the girl herself was familiar with weapons, traps, and the principles of hunting from childhood, thanks to a friend, she had no trouble in just a few months thoroughly studying the area of the forest where the hunter appeared most frequently during the season.

Further on... it got more complicated. The girl devised a system of markings on the traps so that she wouldn’t accidentally get caught in them. She personally had to check all of them, almost injuring her legs in the iron jaws a couple of times. From there, things escalated.

Anna often appeared at the library and, under the pretense of working on another article, discreetly collected information about poisons, researching how various substances could affect living organisms, bit by bit.

Small experiments on animals and rodents yielded results - a toxin capable of causing paralysis while leaving the sensation of touch intact. A side effect was the rapid clotting of blood, which proved to be only an advantage for Anna.

On the fateful day, Anna was ready. Completely. And she waited. Patiently waited for the cry of pain. It happened after a few hours.

The hunter lay on the ground while two of his dogs ran around barking desperately. Anna, wearing a mask of sympathy and pretending she had stumbled upon the scene by chance, acted as though she was going to help him. However, she was merely inching closer to the rifle, intending to mercilessly shoot the barking dogs and strike the suffering man with the butt of the gun.

It took her about half an hour to drag him a little further away, closer to the marshy area where she would carry out her revenge.

Forcefully, she poured the poison down the man's throat and brought him back to consciousness. Then she tortured him. She tormented him until he finally breathed his last. Everything from minor cuts to the severing of ears and finger phalanges was employed. Until the empty eyes of the man stared ahead, and the body stopped even writhing under the whistle of his fading breath.

That day, Anna fully understood that she no longer believed in fairness in this world. And she would never believe in it again.

Three years later, Alastor's mother passed away. Anna was the only one to see her off on her final journey. The woman fell victim to illness and a deepening depression after the loss of her son.

For the rest of her days, Anna engaged in... not entirely legal activities, trying to make do as a con artist.

Until one day, retribution caught up with her.

The children of that very hunter grew up and, through a chain of connections, found the murderer of their father - Anna. And they dealt with her brutally.

That evening, Anna was returning home in her favorite fox fur coat - not particularly thick, with an elegant color, which contrasted beautifully with her now fully gray hair.

The tired girl had been losing her caution more and more over the past year. And she cursed herself more for her own actions.

She was pulled from her deep thoughts when she felt something splashed on her too suddenly. And then - heat.

Unbearable heat that spread throughout her body made her scream in agony and try to extinguish the flames in any way possible. However... all her attempts were in vain. The last thing Anna remembered before her death... was excruciating pain and the faces of a young man and woman, looking at her just as she had looked at the hunter years ago - with a gaze of satisfaction borne of vengeance.

Upon arriving in Hell, Anna was struck by a few things.

First - Hell exists.

Second - in the seven years of her life in the world of the living, Alastor had managed to establish a significant position among the Overlords, gaining influence and... changing. The way he was described, his actions, and how ruthlessly he killed other Overlords to climb the ladder of influence was nothing like the person Anna knew. And that frightened her.

But she also didn’t particularly want to interfere in his new life, a life after death. Therefore, she made the decision to avoid crossing paths with him under any circumstances for as long as possible. Anna took the name "Silvana," lived not in luxury, but rather scraped by from one menial job to another among the souls of the damned, until the next cancerous day came a few years later.

Valentino noticed the little, attractive fox who could persuade and seduce customers in a small bar. Despite the fact that the sinner often wore a mask, and her tone of voice frequently changed from her persona, the moth thought that such a specimen would be a nice addition to his growing "crew" of prostitutes. He encourages the girl's replacement to set her up—by breaking expensive bottles, blaming it on Anna, and forcing her to seek help. However, the replacement didn't stop at just breaking bottles; he also looted the cash register and expensive liquor.

Anna finds herself in trouble when she truly needs protection. Complete protection.

The boss threatened her, stating that he would kill her as many times as necessary until the "pathetic girl" reimbursed the losses.

At that time, Valentino appears. Both directly and through his people, he tries to deceive and persuade Anna into a contract, but the girl's intuition, coupled with the knowledge that free cheese is only found in a mousetrap, pushes her towards a difficult decision—she decides to find Alastor.

Valentino's attempts to coax her continue, while Anna desperately searches for a place where the radio demon might be. Following a lead, she learns that he is a frequent visitor in the Cannibal city. That's where she heads.

She only needs a few days to wait for him, to catch him off guard with her sudden appearance and ask for help.

Alastor, after some persuasion, agrees to help. But only through a deal for a soul, not even suspecting whose soul he is about to claim.

A clarifying point—within this AU, Alastor does not make deals with a direct contract, as his powers and their nature have changed. Thus, in the case of Angel and Valentino, Alastor could not discover Anna's true name, which will play a role later on.

For many years, Alastor was haunted by a strange feeling when he was near this girl. As if an unseen ghost from the past. However, he could not think of Anna herself—he sincerely believed that such a pure soul as his childhood friend could never end up in Hell, unaware of how his death had truly broken her and turned her inside out.

So, you have just been introduced to the primary and main storyline of this AU. I will try to share further events and other content in different formats—small text sketches, comics, and artworks.

If you've read this to the end, I would be very grateful and happy to hear your feedback on this lore article. Thank you for reading!

English version of the AU text. If you find any mistakes or anything else - please tell me!

#hazbinhotel #alastor #hazbin #fanart #hazbinhotelart #hazbinhotelfanart #hazbin hotel au

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