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bunnyreaper · 25 days ago

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𝓷𝓸𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂 𝓭𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓭𝓸 𝒶 𝒿𝑜𝒽𝓃 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈

𝓅𝓉 3 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒

wc - 4.2k warnings - 18+/nsfw, cheating (not from reader or john), older male younger female, future daddy kink) notes - hello darkness my old friend. i'm back! i have no idea what i'm doing or if it's even good but here we are!! also on ao3! ♥

With John gone, you stand in the open doorway for longer than you probably should, your thoughts overwhelming your ability to just turn around and walk inside. There's an unfamiliarity to seeing him off on your own, without James by your side, but honestly, the moment felt all the better for it.

Eventually, you head inside, heading to the kitchen for a cuppa before you'll probably find your way back to bed. Tea always has a way of making you sleepy, somehow, which is good because it's coming up on 4:30 am, and the last thing you want is to be in John's home on a dark morning, without the man himself.

Atop the kitchen island sits a handwritten letter, some cash, a house key, and an emergency number should you need anything.

You pick up the letter, noting John's scrawl—it's not the first time you've seen it by any means, Christmas cards, birthday cards, the post-it notes stuck to his fridge—but it's neater than usual, his all block letter filling out most of the page.

[Y/N],

If I can trust anyone to not burn my house down whilst I'm gone, it's you. Please stay away from the sharps, though love. No Nurse Price to help patch you up when I'm gone.

Bins go out on a Wednesday, next week is grey recycling. Try not to put it out too early the night before, or the nosey neighbours will have a fit. Window cleaner is due Thursday, and it's £35. He just put the price up, bastard.

Feel free to use my ensuite, the pressure in the rain shower is way better, but fair warning, it'll ruin the main bathroom for you.

If you need anything, use the money I left, and if you need any more, I'll square you up when I get back.

See you soon, love, don't get into any trouble.

John.

——-

The letter makes you smile, both that John took the time and that it reads like an overly cautious parent leaving their kid at home for the first time. He truly is a mother hen in a gruff man's body. You pick up the key, putting it in the pocket of your joggers so you can attach it to your keyring later.

The two of you, or rather, you and James, have a copy of it at your house, but this one is all yours.

John letting you stay in the house at all is a sign of trust, but doubly so when he's away. Strangely, you feel less turmoil upon his departure when you're surrounded by everything him. His furniture, his record collection, the throw blanket you crocheted for him that you know he uses frequently. Framed pictures line the walls, every room smells like him, his cupboards are filled with cheesy mugs that have clearly been forced upon him over the years.

It makes the sudden emptiness of this somewhat unfamiliar place a little more bearable.

You make your tea, reaching into the cupboard for a mug. The Sports Direct one is tempting, but there's no way you're getting through that much tea before drifting off again. Instead, you grab one of the aforementioned cheesy mugs—one that's fairly plain beside the "GRUMPY OLD GIT" printed on the side. It warms you from the inside out, thinking of John's expression every time he sees those words, especially since the mug was likely from his squad and was intentionally picked just to irritate him.

With a steaming mug in hand, you head back to the guest room and snuggle back into bed. Desperate to take your mind off of John, you watch some video essay on your phone and sip at your tea until you're finally ready to drift off to sleep.

—-

Days pass by, mostly in a haze. The post-breakup limbo you're in is strange. It's been so long since you've been without James that even though you're glad it's over, it's weird to be apart.

Your sleep is much better now without him coming into bed late, making a racket, waking up early, and making a racket all over again. Your heart is lighter, not filled with worry and second-guessing—at least until his late-night texts come and disturb your peace. Despite muting the pop-up notifications, the number on your messages app ticks up every day, making you squirm with discomfort at the reminder of James and the little red circle that lingers. You don't hear from John, which never feels great when he's away, but at least keeps you from seeing glimpses of James' vitriol.

Your newfound state of suspension is all the more complex by being in John's house.

Admittedly, you hadn't thought much of what would happen if and when you and James broke up. You thought you'd be headed home, and you suppose you still might, but you didn't expect refuge in John's home along the way.

You still sit with the sin of coming between father and son, no matter how much James' actions are to blame for this whole mess. Even more than that, you feel decidedly wrong for holding onto your relationship with John with both hands, for being closer to him than his own blood.

John doesn't belong to you, never has and never will, but there's something safe and comforting and familiar about him you know you'll hate to let go of, more than James and more than the life you're leaving behind.

Guilt twists in you further, for you finally admit to yourself that you've craved this closeness with John the entire time. From the moment you two met, there's been a connection, a simple bond of kindred spirits, an unspoken natural enjoyment of the other's company—and perhaps there's more to it than you thought.

The feeling sits uncomfortably in your stomach, the realisation that you're interested in John Price as a man, separate from his relationship with his son.

Creeping into his room almost feels illegal, but he did offer up his bathroom for your usage.

You've been in here before, but only ever briefly, and in John or James' company. Now you're unaccompanied. The texture of his soft pile carpet feels unfamiliar under your feet despite being the same one in the guest room. It's lived in, it's his, but it's still tidy in a way you'd expect from a man in the military. The bed is perfectly made, and everything's in its own place.

You make your way through to the ensuite, delighted to see, just like John said, a room even more lavish than the main bathroom. The rain shower beckons you in, and the shelves are filled with a surprising amount of gels and creams.

Turning on the shower, you begin to strip down, ready to bathe under the steaming cascade of water—yet a sense of unease washes over you.

John isn't in the room, isn't even in the house or the country, so why does being naked in his bathroom feel so... forbidden?

You catch yourself in the mirror, entirely bare, on display only for your eyes. How many times has John stood in this very spot, getting the same view of himself? Your cheeks flush at the image of his bare chest, an undoubtedly hairy trail downward... and you try hastily to push away such inappropriate thoughts. No longer able to face yourself in the mirror, you step into the spray, the temperature of the water rivalling the heat building in your body.

It doesn't help you any as a scent, uniquely John swirls in the air, his body wash and shampoo emanating from the bottles on the shelves and the loofah that now sits drenched near the taps.

Usually, you'd just feel a sense of safety, but now, something else entirely builds inside you. It's likely just a misplaced sense of wishing for John's return, missing him, as anyone who knew him would. It's likely not helped by your lack of physical intimacy for months now and the neglect you've suffered from for so long.

The thoughts you were having earlier, of being interested in John as a person, grow corrupted with each passing second. Could it be that you're interested in John in a baser sense? Or is it just an unfortunate combination of other factors?

You swallow thickly as you turn the temperature lower, hoping to douse the flames of your inappropriate thoughts.

——

After several days of sitting around rotting, the urge to actually do something works its way into every fiber of your being. You've already sorted through the suitcase and bags you brought over to John's, though it likely won't be long until you need to repack again. You've also performed every self-care act known to man, and religiously checked Rightmove in the hopes of finding somewhere to rent on your own. You're in the middle of singing, dancing, and deep cleaning John's kitchen when your phone lights up, the man himself calling.

"Hi John." You greet sunnily, beyond pleased to see him safe and sound and smiling too.

"Hello, love."

Even through the speaker, his voice is soothing and warm.

"Ooh, is that the wifey?" A Scottish brogue fills your ears as a head pops into view, before a loud shushing and the slam of a door. You can't help but chuckle, only knowing Soap by reputation and feeling warm at finally getting to witness the man firsthand.

Even if what he said is mortifying. Isn't wifey a term for any woman in Scotland, anyway?

"Was that Soap?" Hopefully John doesn't hear the waver in your voice.

"Sure was. How are you, darling? Keeping well?" John smiles in that way he always does, tight-lipped and only just meeting his eyes.

"Not so bad, you've caught me at a bad time actually." You look at yourself in the small preview of what John sees—messy hair, dressed in barely there pyjamas, and definitely looking a little worse for wear. Shit.

"That's usually my line." His chuckle is faint, but then he seems to notice your appearance too, and the disarray behind you. "What are you doing?"

"Just some chores. I cleaned your oven, and now I'm about to get rid of all the expired stuff in the fridge." There's a proud smile on your face as you explain—a small subconscious part of you hoping it pleases him, that it shows you're earning your keep.

John sighs, his brows furrowing. "Woman, I can empty my own bloody fridge."

There's equal amounts playfulness and reservation in his tone, the perfect balance to make you want to tease him. "And yet, you neglected to, so here I am."

"What would I do without you, hmm?"

"Come back to mold in your fridge?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

You grimace before setting up the phone and turning back to the open fridge, picking up a half-open bottle of wine that sits in the door. It was probably there the last time you visited. You pull it out, taking a quick smell of the alcohol before your stomach lurches in protest. "I mean, how long has this actually been here?"

"A while, but it's expensive wine, love."

Feeling brave, especially despite the smell, you take a quick swig of the wine, downing as much as you can in one go. Not all of it makes it to your mouth, and you wipe your lips with the back of your hand before you show the bottle to John once more. There's still a bit left, but the guilt of wasting it isn't enough to make you suffer through more of the taste.

"It's going down the drain." You shrug, setting it down on the counter next to the sink.

John's eyes twinkle with amusement, but he purposely tries to keep his expression flat. "Fine, least you're keeping busy, 'spose."

"I am!" You smile brightly, focusing your attention on John and coming closer to the phone.

Upon closer inspection, you take in his surroundings. It's a surprise to get a call from him, although a pleasant one. He seems to be in a building instead of some tent or the middle of some desert, which comes as a welcome change. Despite the more hospitable surroundings, John looks just as tired as you'd expect, the lines on his forehead seeming deeper.

"How are you, anyway?" You ask. "Didn't expect you to be in some office."

"Not that cushy, the bloody AC is broken, but I'm taking advantage of the WiFi while I have it."

He finally gets the chance to get in touch with normal civilisation, and he uses the opportunity to call you.

The mere thought sets something in you aflame, a warmth that radiates outward from your chest and heats you until you feel your cheeks flush.

You take a step away from the phone, fiddling with something off camera so your reaction is your own little secret.

"Did Soap have to show you how to use FaceTime?" You tease, hoping to deflect with humour.

"Very funny, love." John rolls his eyes and fights the smile that lurks on his lips. "Think you'd have still been watching CBeebies when I got my first iPhone."

Incorrect, but a horrid thought regardless.

"Okay, I take it back. You're not that old, and I'm not that young!" You protest, a desperate voice inside you screaming to assert the need to not have John see you as a child.

"I'm well aware, missy." He purrs, something imperceptible in his tone that makes you feel far from innocent. John's demeanor shifts quickly, and whatever was there before now hidden behind a mirage of stoicism. "How's the house?"

"Fine, nothing disastrous happened. I waited for it to get dark before I took the bin out, paid the window cleaner his extortionate price even though he was a prick."

"What'd he do?" John frowns.

For a moment, you hesitate, wondering if you should even tell him. While you're certain you're not making a big deal of nothing, you don't mean to sour his opinion of his competent-yet-arsehole-ish window cleaner.

"Just called me your 'midlife crisis' and then asked if I could help him with his." Your features crinkle in disgust, entirely at the idea of being that man's anything.

"Arsehole." John huffs, his jaw clenching.

"I think he was just trying to be funny, but I just wanted to shut the door in his face."

"Wouldn't have blamed you, love."

You shrug, hoping to brush off what was an unfortunate but fleeting encounter. "Oh well, at least when he comes next month, I probably won't be here."

John stills. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, I can't stay here forever."

"Maybe not, but you can stay as long as you like."

There's no question in his tone, and you should know better than to argue with the man, but that feeling of something untoward still fizzles in your veins. "I don't want to get under your feet."

"Darling, you're doing me and that house a world of good. Don't make me tell you again." Despite his words, his features are soft, his eyes almost pleading for you to drop the subject and agree with him.

You can't resist the look on his face.

"Fine." You sigh, accepting your defeat.

You watch as John repositions himself, the relaxed posture he held before now stiffening as he leans into his desk. "You heard from him?"

You nod solemnly, actually thinking of James for the first time that day. "He keeps blowing up my phone, deleting messages, and then doing the same all over again."

John's jaw tightens, his rage clear. "Block him."

Another command, but one you know you can't obey.

"I would, but I need to organise a day to move all my stuff out." You explain, hoping it's clear to John that you're already counting down the hours until you can do exactly what he asked. "We let the landlord know we're moving out, so I'll need all the furniture out too by the end of the lease."

John nods understandingly. "We'll get you sorted when I'm back."

There's a knock at the door, a creak of a hinge, and a gruff voice on the other side—Ghost, you suspect. "Captain, you're needed."

"Roger." John calls out. He picks up the phone and offers you a sad smile.

"Duty calls." You say, forcing a smile onto your face for his sake. You pick up the phone also, and the two of you are closer for a moment.

"So it does. Talk to you soon, love."

Your chest tightens, entirely unfairly. It's only the end of a call, and you get to go back to lounging around John's home while he goes off to get his hands dirty. "Stay safe, John."

You give him one last smile as you wait for him to end the call, unable to press that little red button yourself.

—-

Just a few more days, each dragging longer than the last, and finally John's coming home. When he sends you that fateful text, you rush to tidy the house all over again and plan a meal for his arrival home.

He should get back to base at 9 pm and be home a little while after. The hours feel like days, the time not even seeming to speed up as you cook him an indulgent dinner and put on the record player. Alone, waiting for him to come home pathetically, for a moment, it feels reminiscent of your nights with James. You're waiting for him to come over so the dread can be over, though at least with John, it's not caused by the man himself. At least with John, everything will be alright as soon as he crosses the threshold.

By the time eleven rolls around, you turn down the music, waiting for any sound of his arrival. As soon as you hear his truck coming down the street, you're on your feet, rushing to unlock the door and pick up where you left off.

He seems surprised when he climbs out of the car and sees you silhouetted in the doorframe, yet a tired smile shows from behind his beard, his eyes crinkling in delight. A few steps bring him closer to you, your breath stuttering before he drops his bag and pulls you into him.

His large arms wrap around your waist as yours slip around his neck. His hands grip you tight, his face sinks into your shoulder, and he holds you like he's never going to let go.

Safety. Connection. Electricity.

Your body shivers—whether due to the cold air of the night or the feeling of him pressed against you, you don't know. In John's arms, you know you'll never fall, you know he has you.

John pulls away, his eyes staring into yours, an unknown emotion within. "Darling girl, what are you doing awake?"

"Couldn't sleep until I knew you were back." You almost go to reach for his bag, but you know he'd have none of it. You lead the way inside and immediately fall into a decidedly domestic role. "Cuppa?"

"Go on then."

John says very little, clearly exhausted in every which way—still, there's a twinkle behind the tiredness in his eyes that lets you know he's happy to be home. You get to work with the kettle whilst John shucks off his coat and boots.

"I've got dinner ready for you, just needs reheating." You reach for the nicest mugs in the cupboard.

John sinks onto a stool at the kitchen island and takes a deep breath—tension seeps from his body as he watches you. "You're an angel, love."

"Figured you'd be hungry, and I know you love coming back to a home-cooked meal." You explain as you start to mess with the microwave, ready to reheat the food you prepared for him earlier.

"And the heating on." He smiles softly.

"Perks of a house sitter, hmm?" You muse, before turning your attention back to the tea. You pour the hot water on the teabags before adding a single sugar and a splash of milk for John. After squeezing out and discarding the teabag, you stir John's tea before setting it down before him, and taking a seat too.

Under the soft glow of the dimmed kitchen lights, you finally get a chance to take in John—the deepening of his crow's feet, the length of his beard, and the ruddiness and freckles splashed across his cheeks.

"You've got a tan!" You exclaim, your teasing half genuine and half kittenish.

"Don't start." He fixes you with a look, but you know there's nothing behind it.

"But—" You start to protest, but fall silent when he raises a finger to shush you. Your mouth falls shut on instinct.

"'There's no such thing as a safe tan', I know, I know. You're about 30 years late to tell me that."

You sigh, relenting on giving him The Speech, despite how much you care. You look over him once more, taking him in. The freckles give him a boyish quality that you wouldn't usually associate with the older man, and the tan only accentuates his dark hair and bright eyes.

"I hate that it suits you, actually. Brings out your eyes."

Handsome, even more so than before, you muse. If such a thing were even possible.

The microwave beeps, saving you from saying more than you should.

"Cheers, love." John offers in return, and you can tell from his tone that he doesn't take such sweet words to heart.

You focus on serving up, ensuring everything is perfect before you set the plate before him.

"You didn't have to cook for me." He says, but his eyes betray his appreciation.

"I wanted to." You shrug, thinking little of it. It only seemed right. He goes out to god knows where doing god knows what—he deserves a hot, home-cooked meal. Add to that the way he's caring for you by letting you live with him, the way he's always cared for you—it makes perfect sense that you want to repay him in kind.

"Right." He nods before he dives into his food, barely blowing on it before he shovels it into his mouth.

You'd already eaten hours before. You wished you could've held out to share a meal with him, but your appetite and blood sugar were having none of it. You're more than happy to watch him enjoy the food all on his own.

As John eats, lost in his thoughts, you blow at your tea before taking quick sips, trying hard not to burn your mouth while still quenching your thirst. T.Rex keeps you both company as the minutes pass.

"Sorry that I'm not better company. Heads elsewhere, I'm afraid."

"A particularly tough mission this time?" You ask, just as concerned as always.

"Wasn't easy, but don't you worry about that." The smile he offers you doesn't quite reach his eyes.

You reach out without thinking, a hand settling on his arm as you feel the need to connect with him. "You're back in one piece, that's all that matters."

His smile seems a little more real this time. Your touch lingers for as long as you can stand before you worry you've overstepped, and you withdraw.

John devours the rest of his meal, a satisfied hum bursting forth from him with the final bites. He turns to you with a sense of purpose. "I know it's late, but fancy a drive?"

"Sure." You nod. Admittedly, you're ready for bed, but if John wants some company, you'd do anything to indulge him. "... Though I have a confession."

"Go on." His brow lifts, his eyes set upon you tenderly.

"Country lanes on a night freak me out."

He barks out a laugh before his features settle into a soft look. "Tell you what then, I'll take you down the A49 as a treat."

"What a gent."

John makes his way to the cupboard, pulling out a thermos for your tea. He drinks his own in quick gulps before he ushers you to the door.

He holds out his jacket for you to wear like its nothing—your own not yet present on the coat rack for you to grab. His scent wraps around you, and the approving look in his eyes only makes the comfort of the sherpa all the sweeter.

——-

From then on, the two of you enjoy each other's company in relative silence. Once in the truck, John whacks on his driving playlist and pulls out of the drive with ease.

You're more than content to just watch him, satisfied enough just having him there, before you, safe and sound. Every time he looks over at you, sparing a glance before he focuses on the road once more, you find comfort washing over you more and more.

The warmth of the AC and his soft singing lull you to sleep as you look out upon the stars.

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price #captain john price #john price #call of duty x reader #nobody does it like you do #call of duty fanfiction #bunny writes #only a year and a bit late lol

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followingthebutterflies7 · 6 days ago

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Sweeter Than Honey | Part Six: From The Ashes

Mob Boss!Spencer Agnew x FBI!Reader

Word Count: 7k

Series Summary: You were sent undercover to infiltrate the world of the most dangerous mob boss on the FBI’s list, Spencer Agnew. But the more you find out about him, the more you lose yourself.

Series Warnings: Mature themes that include emotional manipulation, psychological tension, dubious consent, morally grey relationships, violence, organized crime, and mild language.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

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

Part Six: From The Ashes

It had been a year.

A full year since the mission collapsed. Since the fire, the betrayal, the heartbreak. Since your name was erased from every Bureau record and your life as you knew it was scorched down to ash.

You had changed your name to something forgettable.

Something soft, something with no sharp edges. Something that wouldn’t flag any system or trigger any watchlist. Something quiet.

There was no more Agent Dahlia. No more Elise Hawthorne. Just you and a simple name. The kind of name no one remembers.

That was the point.

You were a ghost now, even while breathing.

The town you now lived in was barely on the map. A forgotten patch of road where time moved slower, where no one asked questions, and nothing important ever happened.

There was one main road that went right through the center of the town, two stop lights that only worked half the time, and a single corner diner that had terrible coffee and was closed on Sundays. The town was so small that if you blinked, you would miss it.

You worked at the only bookstore. The only one for fifty miles. It was always filled floor to ceiling with used books. It smelled like mildew and history and the faint perfume of mothballs that never quite left the walls. You liked it. Or at least, you didn’t hate it.

You volunteered to work the night shifts. Your boss, who might have been ninety or two hundred, happily gave them to you.

You would come in a couple hours before closing, help your boss tidy up, and then close the store by yourself. You interacted with the least amount of people this way, and that is just how you liked it. After closing, you would pass time by wiping down the counter, sweeping the already spotless floor, and reshelving the same books that no one had touched in years.

No one bothered you.

No one recognized you.

That, too, was the point.

After work, you would walk home along the cracked sidewalk, one hand on the pepper spray in your coat pocket. Old habits died harder than you thought.

Your government-assigned apartment was small. You lived above a nearly abandoned antique shop that hadn’t had a customer since you moved in. The landlord was nearly deaf, which suited you just fine. When you cried at night, he never heard.

He knew something was wrong, but he would never press for information. He would just look at you with big, sad eyes, and would bring you homemade soup once a week. He never questioned why you were there, and never asked why your rent came from a bank in a different state.

You had neighbors too. Just a very sweet older couple who lived across the hall. They were kind, always smiling and waving when they saw you. You thought that you might remind them of their granddaughter.

They would bring you cookies on holidays and asked nothing in return. You were grateful for them. You just couldn’t make yourself accept kindness. Not anymore.

You were polite. Smiling when necessary. They were the only people you would speak to, if only briefly.

But they didn’t know your name. No one did. Not your real one. Not the ones that came before.

They never would.

You hadn’t spoken to anyone else in over twelve months. No one from your mission. No one from the Bureau. Not even Marlowe.

Your security clearance was burned. Your credentials were void. Your name, once feared, now didn’t even register on the system.

You had disappeared.

And the world had let you.

The bracelet was the only thing that kept you grounded. The slender gold chain with its shine half-faded from wear. It lived on your wrist like a second skin.

You touched it often. It was a lifeline back to a world you couldn’t prove had ever really existed.

Sometimes, you thought you made it all up. The missions. The lies. The love.

Him.

Spencer.

You didn’t speak his name aloud anymore. Not even in dreams.

But his voice, his eyes. They never left you.

Every night you would collapse into your bed after working in the bookstore, lose the fight with sleep, and the nightmares would come without your consent.

Every night.

He would haunt you.

He would just look at you.

With those eyes.

The ones that looked at you like a weapon, a lover, a betrayal.

The ones that flinched when he realized what you were.

The ones that couldn’t look at you when you finally told him the truth.

The nightmares were worst in the beginning.

You were strapped to the chair again. Blood-soaked and suffocating. Screaming for Spencer. He would just stand at the door. Watching. Then turning away.

You’d wake up clawing at your throat, sweat soaking the sheets. The scar on your shoulder would throb like a pulse.

Then the dreams shifted.

Softer. Slower. Crueler.

Still a nightmare.

You were in his bed again. His arms around you. His breath warm against your neck. He’d whisper your name, your real name, and you’d cry into his shoulder, because for a few fleeting moments, you believed it.

You believed he was still yours.

And then you’d wake up.

Alone.

Those were the worst.

Because they didn’t feel like dreams.

They felt like loss.

You told yourself they were nothing. Leftover grief.

But the ache didn’t go away.

Not during daylight. Not when you looked in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back.

You stopped sleeping at all after a while. Just lay there, eyes open, waiting for the sun to rise so you could put yourself back in motion.

You expected the nightmares to break you. They didn’t. The waking did.

It started small.

You glanced up in the bookstore and swore you saw someone in a dark coat. A flash of curls. A shadow lingering just a second too long. You had looked away before realizing what you had seen.

Your heart jumped. Your head turned, hope blooming in your chest.

But when you looked again, they were gone.

That fleeting hope shattered to pieces.

You told yourself it was nothing. Sleep deprivation. Nightmares. Wishful thinking. Ghosts.

Until it happened again.

And again.

In the grocery store. You passed an aisle, seeing the all too familiar slope of his shoulders. You would spin around on the spot, dash back to where you saw him in the corner of your eye, only to be met by an empty store and rows of canned vegetables.

Walking across the street. You would glance up on your walk home, seeing a figure standing under the flickering street lamp. You would pick up your pace, wanting to run to him, only to find the spot empty when you arrived.

In the mirror. You washed your face in the bathroom after waking from a nightmare. Your face had been wet, stained with tears you didn’t know you had been shedding. You pulled back from the sink to see him. You looked around only for no one to be there.

Every time it happened, your pulse would stutter. Every time, your heart would ache with a hope you hated yourself for.

Until one night, it nearly undid you.

You were nearly finished with your late night shift in the bookstore. You were shelving books. The shop was quiet. Too quiet. And then-

Footsteps.

Soft. Steady. Familiar.

You turned. Unable to still the thumping of your heart.

He was there.

Spencer.

Standing just inside the door, looking exactly how you remembered him. His dark hair curled gently across his forehead. He was in a black fitted suit, not a single wrinkle across the fabric. His hands were loose at his sides, unmoving.

His eyes were tired, but they were looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

The books you were holding tumbled from your hands.

You didn’t care.

Tears sprang to your eyes.

He was here.

Here.

Spencer.

Your Spencer.

You didn’t think.

You just ran.

“Spencer, I-”

But when your arms warped around him, there was no body.

No breath.

No warmth.

Just air.

Just… nothing.

Spencer wasn’t here.

You hit the floor hard, bruising your knees. You didn’t notice the pain.

It was nothing compared to the gaping hole in your heart.

You wept.

You curled into yourself, sobbing, arms shaking from where they’d reached for someone who wasn’t there. You stayed there until the lights clicked off overhead.

You told yourself that was the last time.

You were losing your mind.

You had to stop.

You had to stop looking for him.

But the next night, when you passed the bakery window and saw his reflection, you still turned.

Still hoping.

Still grieving.

Still in love.

And every night, when you made it home, when the door was locked and the lights off, you’d sit by your window with the bracelet pinched between your fingers.

You’d close your eyes and force yourself to remember the truth. To remember what really happened.

You remembered the gun in his hand. And how he pointed it at you.

He was going to shoot you. Kill you.

But then he walked away.

Why had he hesitated?

You thought that had meant he cared for you. That he didn’t want you dead.

But he had left you alone in that room with Alex. And Alex had been about to kill you on Spencer’s behalf.

You told yourself each night that it meant Spencer didn’t love you. That hesitating truly didn’t mean anything. That if Spencer had truly cared, he would’ve come back to save you.

Some nights, you convinced yourself you should go find him. You wanted to track him down. Finish what you started. Hear from his lips that he did not love you. But you never did. Because every time you almost believed in him- You remembered the explosion.

You remembered waking up in a Bureau hospital, your file with the final word: DISCHARGED.

And you remembered what Marlowe said: He left you.He ran.He left you to burn.

So you stayed.

Alone.

In a town with no noise, no danger, and no love.

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

That night, you sat in the shower with your clothes still on. The water ran cold long before you moved.

You’re losing it.

He’s not coming.

You stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Eyes hollow, jaw tight, hair stuck to your skin in tangled strands. You touched the bracelet on your wrist like it might explain the hallucination, like maybe it had summoned him, conjured him from grief.

The next morning, you told yourself it really was the last time. You wouldn’t chase shadows anymore. You wouldn’t mistake memory for presence. You wouldn’t let yourself hope.

He wasn’t coming.

Spencer Agnew did not love you. He never had.

You were sure now.

So you buried your memories of Spencer. Somewhere deep and dark in the corner of your mind. Buried it beneath routine, beneath silence, beneath your own aching denial.

You got up. Went to work. Smiled politely. Took inventory. Pushed forward.

But still something lingered…

You tried to ignore it at first.

Just a flicker in your periphery. A prickle on the back of your neck. A rustle of leaves where there shouldn't be. The scuff of a boot against pavement just a beat too late behind your own.

Nothing.

Right?

You were tired. Fragile. Still healing.

Just trauma, you told yourself. Just leftover nerves.

But that didn’t explain the car.

A beat-up black sedan rolled down your street slowly, engine low and steady. You watched it through the blinds, every nerve in your body alert. The glass of your window trembled faintly under your palm. The car didn’t stop.

Not that time.

Three days later, it did.

It parked at the corner across from your apartment. Always just out of reach. You stared through the peephole in your door for a full five minutes. Waiting for movement.

No one came out of the car.

It sat there for over an hour. Just... idling.

You paced your apartment, twitchy and unsettled. You made your rounds in your home, making sure the doors and the windows were locked. Twice. When you finally checked again, the car was gone.

But the feeling wasn’t.

The next night, it happened again.

Same car. Same parking spot. Same silence.

Then a shape inside the bookstore.

A man would stand at the philosophy shelf for twenty minutes without touching a single title. He never made eye contact. Bought nothing. Said nothing.

You were sweeping the floors, keeping track of him out of the corner of your eye, when he would suddenly start in your direction.

You raised the broom, gripping the handle like a weapon. But he was already out the door, the bell announcing his exit.

The next day you bumped into someone on the sidewalk, a stranger in a baseball cap. When you turned to apologize, he was already gone.

Just… gone.

You’d try to shake it off. You’d laugh under your breath, bitter and breathless, you’re just being paranoid. Your mind is playing tricks, your trauma is manifesting in new shapes.

Sometimes you even said it aloud just to hear one voice in the room. Just to ground yourself in something real.

But the pit in your stomach never eased.

You knew better than most: when your instincts whispered, you listened. You knew what surveillance looked like. What a soft tail felt like. This wasn’t a coincidence.

You took precautions. The bookstore didn’t feel safe anymore. You rearranged the furniture near the front register so your back was never to the door, and you would have a clear exit.

You walked home on different routes each night. Switched up your hours. Kept a box cutter in your coat pocket instead of the usual pepper spray. Slept with your door locked and a kitchen knife on your bedside table.

But the feeling didn’t go away. That buzz. That sixth sense you never could shut off. And that was when you knew:

Someone was watching you.

And even though you were scared, a part of you felt something else too. Something cold and aching, like anticipation.

You were trained for this.

So you waited. Waited for the stalker to make a move.

And when it came, it didn’t come as a person.

It came as a message.

You found it four days later.

You were coming home from the bookstore, dusk already falling. The light was gold and sharp and strange. The kind that made the world feel suspended in amber.

You climbed the cracked concrete stairs to your apartment, keys already in hand, when your eye caught something on the floor just outside your door.

A small, matte black envelope.

Your breath caught.

It was just resting on your welcome mat like a curse.

Your pulse quickened. You glanced down the hallway. Empty. Silent. The light above flickered once and then steadied.

You stared at it for a long time. It didn’t disappear. With trembling fingers, you picked it up.

It was thick. Expensive. No stamp. No return address.

Just one faint symbol embossed in glossy ink on the seal.

A knight chess piece.

Your blood ran cold.

Hands trembling, you tore the envelope open.

Inside was a single card. No threats. No explanations.

There were only four words, written in clean, deliberate script:

He never stopped looking.

Your heart stopped.

You didn’t need a signature. You didn’t need a return address. You knew that handwriting. Knew it like you knew fear.

Alex Tran.

You stood frozen on your doorstep, the card clutched in your fist. For a full minute, you didn’t breathe. Then you turned and bolted inside, slamming the door behind you. You locked it. Deadbolt. Chain. Every latch.

Your heart was thunder in your ears.

It couldn’t be real.

You stared at the card again, reading the words over and over like they might vanish.

Alex knew where you were.

You sank to the floor, spine pressed against the wood.

Alex was here.

And in that moment, you knew, you weren’t paranoid.

You were found.

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

You didn’t sleep that night. You didn’t even try.

The envelope never left your side. You read it so many times you started to see the words even with your eyes closed. The knight chess piece stamped into the card stared back like it knew something you didn’t.

He never stopped looking.

Your thoughts and mind were clouded with smoke. You wandered burning buildings. Walked empty halls. Heard voices echoing around you. Sometimes it was Marlowe, whispering traitor. Sometimes it was Spencer, whispering I’m sorry.

By morning, your knuckles were white around your coffee mug. You didn’t eat. Couldn’t.

You considered leaving. Just packing a bag and disappearing into the world again. To be anywhere but here. Because if Alex had found you, who else could?

But you didn’t run. Not this time.

You were tired of running.

So you stayed.

And waited.

It happened three nights later.

You came home after a double shift at the bookstore, rainwater soaking your coat, your fingers numb from gripping the box cutter in your coat pocket too tightly. You were so tired your eyes burned. You didn’t bother locking the door behind you when you stepped inside.

You should have.

There was no knock. No warning. Just a subtle change in the air. You were in the kitchen, staring blankly at the kettle you were willing yourself to turn on, when your instincts flared. The air changed, and got heavier.

Then the smell hit: leather and cologne. Not Spencer’s. But familiar.

You turned slowly. The room behind you was silent. Still.

And then a voice from the shadows:

“You look like shit.”

You spun fast, already reaching for the knife block, when he stepped forward into the sliver of light from the hallway.

Alex.

In the flesh. Standing in your apartment. Like he belonged there. Dressed in black. Hands clasped in front of him. Relaxed, but only in that terrifying way snakes rest before striking.

“I’d put that down if I were you,” Alex noticed the butcher’s knife clenched in your fist.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. You just stared at him like he was a mirage.

He looked the same. Same sharp eyes, same guarded expression, same unflinching cold, but there was something else now. Something heavier in the way he carried himself. A tension he didn’t bother to hide.

You took one step back.

“Get out,” you said.

Alex didn’t move.

“Not until you hear me out.”

“No.”

“You owe me that.”

You scoffed. “I owe you nothing.”

He took a measured step toward you. “You’re wrong.”

“What do you want?” You raised the knife.

He tilted his head. “To talk.”

“Liar.”

He smiled. Slight. Unkind. “You always were sharp. No wonder he loved you.”

You stiffened. “Don’t say that.”

Alex studied you like you were an enemy behind glass. But then something shifted in his eyes. Something almost like regret.

“It’s the truth.”

And that was it.

Whatever had been holding your heart together, gave way.

The dam burst.

You exploded.

“You think showing up here is some kind of twisted kindness?” Your voice cracked, raw and aching. “You think dropping a damn note on my doorstep makes up for what you did?”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t kill you.”

“No. You just drugged me, shot me, and left me in a building wired to explode.” You advanced on him, tears burning hot in your eyes and the knife gleaming in the evening light. “And then you let him think I was dead.”

“He already thought you were.”

You stopped. Your heart lurched.

“What?”

Alex held your gaze. “He thought you were dead before I ever pulled the trigger.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“No. He ordered my execution,” you said quietly. “He knew what he was doing. I was in the room. I saw him turn his back.”

“He did, I will admit that.” Alex shrugged. “But he considered the woman he loved to be dead the moment he read your file. He was going to kill you. But he hesitated.”

You laughed bitterly. “Wow. What a romantic gesture.”

“I’ve seen him kill people for less, you know that,” Alex snapped. “But with you? He broke the second you confessed to him in his office. He looked at you like you ruined him. Because you did.”

Your breath hitched.

“He didn’t come back.” you spat, trying to regain control of the conversation.

“I didn’t let him.”

Your blood ran cold.

“What?”

“I made your death a reality. It was the only way to get him out.” Alex’s voice was steady now. Low. Controlled. “I told him we had to go. That the building wasn’t safe. That if he went back, he’d die too.”

Your knees weakened, but you didn’t sit.

“He wouldn’t have left you otherwise,” Alex added, almost gently. “You know that. And he listened. For once, he listened. But he never forgave me for it.”

You blinked. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Alex took something from his coat pocket. The envelope. Another one. Same black paper. Same seal.

He held it out.

You didn’t take it.

“He’s different now,” Alex said. “Changed. We all are. But he never stopped looking for you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

You stepped back. “Is that what this is? Some second-chance recruitment pitch? You want to drag me back into the fire and watch me burn for real this time?”

“No,” he said. “Spencer doesn’t know I’m here.”

That hit you like a slap.

“I don’t understand.”

“I found you on my own,” Alex said. “I needed to know if there was anything left of you. If I’d made the right choice leaving you behind.”

“And?”

His face didn’t change.

“You’re still standing.”

You turned away from him. Your hands shook. You put the knife down on the kitchen table.

“I don’t want this,” you whispered. “I don’t want you here. And I don’t want him.”

“You’re lying.”

You spun back around. “You don’t get to tell me what I feel.”

“I know what you feel.” His tone was flat. “I watched you tell me. That night. In the chair.”

Silence.

He stepped forward again. “I didn’t believe you then. But I do now.”

Your breath caught.

Alex looked at you. Really looked. The way you imagined Spencer used to.

You stared at him, heart pounding. Alex just placed the envelope down on your kitchen table, on top of your discarded butcher’s knife.

“I’m not giving you an invitation,” Alex said, stepping past you toward the door. “I’m giving you the choice.”

“I don’t trust you,” you said. “I don’t trust any of you.”

“I wouldn’t either,” he said quietly. “But I had to try.”

Alex opened the door halfway, then paused.

“I didn’t like you. I still don’t.” He looked back over his shoulder. “But he did. More than anyone.

And then he left. Alex was gone.

You stood alone in your kitchen, staring at the door long after it shut.

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

Days passed.

You didn’t open the envelope.

You thought about burning it. You thought about opening it. You thought about throwing it in the river that sliced through the edge of town.

Instead, you left it on your kitchen table, like a wound you refused to clean.

The dreams got worse.

Not violent, not loud. Just aching. Spencer in the passenger seat. Spencer leaning against your doorway. Spencer laughing at something you said and looking at you like you were the last good thing in a world full of rot.

And then, always: flames. Smoke. A bullet ripping through your shoulder. Spencer’s voice, calling your name, but always too late.

You stopped trying to sleep. You had to get away from the dreams.

Your neighbors asked if you were okay. You lied.

You always lied.

Until you couldn’t.

The breaking point came on a Thursday. You were nursing a now cold cup of tea, just staring at the black envelope. It was covered in crumbs and coffee stains.

You couldn’t find the strength to get rid of it.

It seemed to be calling you.

A sweet melodic sound, begging you to open it.

You couldn’t resist the siren song.

You put down your cup, reaching for the black paper. You had to know what was inside. Was it a trap? Alex had put something inside to finish the job? Or had he been telling the truth? Giving you a one-way ticket back to the man you loved.

You tore open the paper, finding a card similar to the one you had received days ago. But this time there wasn’t a message.

There was just a date.

Today.

No time. No address. No signature. Just the knowledge in your bones that you were meant to return somewhere. And you knew exactly where to go.

You called in sick to work. You packed a bag, barely packed anything. Just your coat, the bracelet still on your wrist.

And just like that, you left the little town behind and drove toward the wreckage of your former life.

You didn’t know exactly what you headed towards.

But something inside you knew it was time.

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

It had been a year. Since the fire. Since your confession. Since Spencer.

The building was still there. Or what was left of it. The old Agnew Syndicate base had been reduced to scorched concrete and shattered rebar. A few charred beams still jutted up from the rubble like ribs of a broken beast. The security systems gutted, and there was no trace of the men who once guarded it.

And in the middle of it all: silence.

Just like your apartment.

You stepped out of the car slowly, each step crunching glass and ash beneath your boots. The air smelled faintly of soot and damp earth. You pulled your coat tighter around your body and stepped into the graveyard of your past.

The foundation of the building still held its shape, like a skeleton trying to remember its body. You passed through the ghost of the main entrance, your eyes catching on the scorched frame of a doorway, the twisted remains of the entrance to Spencer’s basement office.

You let your hand brush a wall that no longer stood.

Images flooded back. Shards of memory sharp enough to bleed:

Spencer standing in his office, leaning against his desk, watching you with a smile he gave no one else.

The chair where you were restrained. The gun in his hand. The moment he let you go.

And the moment he didn’t come back.

You swallowed hard. The ache bloomed in your chest like it always did.

There was nothing here.

Just smoke, memory, and your own foolishness.

Still, you didn’t leave.

You continued to walk the ruins, finding exactly where the interrogation chamber had been. The room had once been hidden behind reinforced steel and cement. Now it was open sky.

You stopped, looking down into the pit. You closed your eyes, letting it all return to you.

His voice. His eyes. The pain in his expression when he realized what you were. The heartbreak when he believed you were dead.

He didn’t come back.

He didn’t save you.

You opened your eyes and whispered, “I forgive you.”

The wind stirred. You let it carry the words. You meant them. You had to.

And then you turned to leave.

And stopped.

A man stood at the edge of the wreckage.

A figure in a dark coat. A shadow against the setting sun. Standing silent and still, like a shadow cut from the past.

You froze.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. No. Not again.

Not another hallucination.

Not here.

You blinked hard. “No, no, no…”

He didn’t vanish.

You took a step forward. Then another.

He was tall. Solid. Alive.

But your brain had betrayed you before. It had conjured Spencer in your apartment, in the bookstore, in your dreams, in the corners of rooms that were never full. It was always your imagination. Always a lie.

“Go away,” you whispered to yourself, eyes burning. “You’re not real.”

The figure stayed. But he didn’t speak. Just stood there. Still. Watching you.

You walked forward slowly.

Step by step. Dust crunching beneath your boots.

The figure didn’t move.

Not until you were a few feet away.

Then… he stepped forward.

Slowly. Carefully. Like you were a deer about to bolt.

His coat billowed in the breeze. His eyes, dark and wide, locked on yours with something between disbelief and devastation.

“...You’re alive,” he said.

You didn’t breathe.

“Spencer?” You could barely whisper his name.

He took another step. “I-” His voice broke. “I can’t believe it.”

You flinched backward, hands trembling. “No. No, you’re not real.”

“I’m real.”

“You left me.” Your voice cracked. “You left me to die.”

Spencer’s face crumpled. Not in confusion. Not in anger.

In guilt. Real, raw, bone-deep guilt.

“I thought you were dead,” he said. His voice broke on the last word.

“You pointed a gun at me.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“But you didn’t stop Alex.”

“I came back.”

“You left.”

Silence fell again, deafening.

You were shaking now. Tears gathered in your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You had dreamed of this moment. You had rehearsed this confrontation in your head every night for a year. You had pictured yelling, violence, fury.

You hadn’t expected… this.

Spencer stepped forward. Slowly.

You flinched.

He stopped. Slowly and gently, Spencer reached out, offering his hand like he was taming something feral.

“Touch me,” he said softly. “I swear, I’m real.”

You stared at his hand. It was the same. The same hand you had been longing to hold. Then, with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, you reached forward.

You waited for your hand to go through his. For his fingers to give way to air. For you to blink and he would disappear forever.

Your fingers touched his.

Warm. Solid. Steady.

Real.

He was real.

You choked on a sob. You yanked your hand back like it burned.

And then-

-you hit him.

Your fist slammed into his chest with no real force, just grief. Then another. And another. Your hands pounded into Spencer’s skin like rain thundering across a roof. He didn’t stop you.

And then you collapsed into him, sobbing like a dam had broken inside your chest.

He caught you immediately. Pulled you in and held you like a man who had lost everything and just gotten it back.

“You didn’t believe me,” you choked. “After everything we shared. Everything we became. You didn’t believe me.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said, quietly. Honestly. “I am so sorry.”

You let out a fresh round of tears.

“I looked for you,” he whispered into your hair. “Everywhere. I didn’t stop.”

“You should’ve come back,” you cried. “You should’ve taken me out of that room.”

“I tried. They told me you were dead. Alex said-” He stopped. Shook his head. “I broke when I thought I lost you. I burned it all down. But I never stopped trying.”

You looked up at him, trembling. “You didn’t believe me. Not when I told you the truth.”

Spencer’s eyes welled with unshed tears. “I was afraid. I thought you were playing me. And then I realized... you weren’t. But I was too late.”

“And now?” you asked.

“Now I know,” he said. “Truly, I had always known. But I was blinded. I was scared.”

You scoffed through your tears.

“What could Spencer Agnew possibly be scared of?” You asked, sarcasm dripping like venom.

Spencer opened his mouth. Then he closed it.

You stared at each other. Every unspoken word hanging in the air between you.

And then… finally…

“Love.” He said. “I love you.”

Not a whisper. Not a mutter. A confession. A surrender.

You closed your eyes and wept again. Not from sorrow. From relief.

He loved you. He said it outloud. Confessed it to you and to the world. Something you had only dreamed of.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it. To say it,” Spencer apologized again. “But I didn’t think I would ever get the chance after what I had done. I am so sorry, my darling.”

You stared up at him. And that was what filled the gaping hole in your heart.

Not the apology.

But the look in his eyes. The way he saw you. The way he always had.

Then you kissed him.

He kissed you back.

It wasn’t like the first time. Not full of heat or hunger. But full of grief. Full of survival. Full of love too long denied.

When you parted, you just stayed there. In each other’s arms. Together once again.

“Darling, I have something for you. If you will accept it.” Spencer reached into his coat and pulled something from his inner pocket.

The gold queen pin.

“I never let it go,” he said. “Even when I thought you were gone. I knew I’d give it back. Someday.”

“I thought it had been destroyed in the explosion.” You confessed, looking at the pin in Spencer’s hand.

“I never want to lose you again,” Spencer confessed, his voice choking with emotion. “I love you, and I want you by my side. For as long as you want to be there.”

You cupped his face in your hands, looking him in the eyes.

“Spencer, you have never lost me. I have always been yours.”

The smile on Spencer’s face could have blinded the sun. He looked at you like he always did. And now you knew that when Spencer had been seeing you, looking at you, it had always been with love.

It was everything you needed.

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

Three days later, you stood at the threshold of a new world.

The air was crisp, the morning fog clinging to the treetops. Before you loomed a fortress of glass and steel, silent and impenetrable. Spencer Agnew’s new stronghold. The building was angular, elegant, and terrifying in its quiet power. Nothing remained of the old compound. That world had been reduced to ash. What stood now had risen from its grave like something reborn.

The past was gone.

But he had made space for the future.

Your future.

A sleek, silent car had brought you here, tires crunching down the forest road with careful precision. At the final bend, the iron gates opened before you like a curtain to a stage.

Just inside the gates, stood a man in a charcoal grey suit. He held up a hand, commanding the car to stop. He walked up and pulled open the sedan door opposite of you.

Alex slid into the seat.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The rumble of the car tires on the gravel was the only sound. Then Alex nodded once.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said. He didn’t smile. He just looked at you like a man who had watched too many people disappear and was still surprised when one came back.

“I’m surprised you didn’t make sure of it,” you answered dryly.

He huffed a breath. “Spencer would’ve killed me.”

“Maybe he should’ve.”

The edge of his mouth twitched, almost like a smile. Alex didn’t argue. But he didn’t apologize either.

The sedan rolled to a stop at the front of the compound. You went to open your door and get out of the car, but Alex stopped you, placing his hand briefly on yours.

You looked at him, confused. He slipped from his seat, walked around to your side, and opened your door for you.

Alex offered a hand.

You hesitated.

But then you took it.

His grip was steady. Warmer than you expected. He helped you out of the car like a knight would his queen. Alex escorted you up the steps to the compound, and through the large, heavy front doors.

Inside the compound, everything thrummed with quiet authority.

It wasn’t chaos like the last operation. No frantic energy. No brittle alliances. This was sleek, unified. You passed by security stations, modern war rooms, glass-walled strategy cells. Everyone moved with silent purpose. Weapons at their side, files in hand, eyes always watching.

And then… they saw you.

Some stared outright. Some faltered mid-step. One woman you passed nearly dropped her tablet. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t need to.

Your presence was enough.

The hallway opened into a wide corridor of obsidian tile and steel support beams, leading to a pair of dark double doors. Alex stopped just before them and turned toward you.

“He’s inside,” he said. “He’s different now,” he said. “More vicious. More dangerous.”

“So am I,” you replied.

Alex gave a quiet nod. No more suspicion. No more walls. Just respect. Maybe even… reverence.

He opened the doors.

You stepped in.

And there he was.

Spencer Agnew.

He stood at the head of a long table made of dark, polished stone. The walls were lined with screens showing live feeds, encrypted code, and territory maps. His inner circle of lietenants sat around the table, whispering in low voices.

But he wasn’t looking at any of them.

He was looking at you.

And for a moment, the room fell away.

The table. The lieutenants. The empire he had built in your absence.

All of it vanished beneath the weight of his eyes.

He stepped forward slowly, like you were something sacred.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

You walked toward him with measured steps. One beat. Then another.

He reached for you, fingers brushing yours, and you let him. His hand was steady. Warm. Real.

You laced your fingers with his, finally whole again.

At the table, whispers rippled like wind through glass.

“Is that-?”

“She’s alive?”

“I thought she-”

Spencer turned back to them.

“I trust you all remember her,” Spencer said smoothly.

A few nodded stiffly. One paled.

“This,” he said, his voice loud and clear, “is my partner.”

A ripple of unease spread across the room. Most straightened in their seats. A few looked uneasy. One lieutenant, younger, green around the edges, leaned forward slightly, his brow drawn in a frown.

“With all due respect, sir, how do we know she won’t betray you again?”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut bone.

Spencer didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

Alex stepped forward instinctively, gun already half-raised.

But you held up your hand.

Alex stopped.

You stepped forward.

No raised voice. No theatrics. Just you. Steady, centered, and unafraid.

You didn’t look at the lieutenant right away. You looked around the room, at the faces that still didn’t know what to make of you. Let them wonder.

Then, at last, you met the lieutenant’s eyes.

“I didn’t come back for your approval,” you said softly.

Not a threat. Not a plea.

Just the truth.

You let the words settle. Let him feel their weight.

“I don’t need to prove myself. Not to you.”

The lieutenant shifted, uncomfortable but silent.

“I’ve walked through worse than your doubts and came back standing.”

The lieutenant opened his mouth.

You raised a single brow.

“Try me.”

He shut it again.

Alex lowered his gun.

“You all know who I am. Don’t forget.”

Across the room, Spencer smiled. He didn’t need to say anything. But he did, anyway.

“And if you don’t,” Spencer added, “you’ll learn.”

A few chuckled nervously. Others didn’t dare.

You turned to Spencer, walked back to his side. Spencer watched you with something unreadable behind his eyes, something caught between awe and devastation.

He stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t carry past the two of you.

“I never should’ve doubted you,” he murmured. “You’ve always known how to hold your own.”

You glanced up at him, heat rising behind your calm expression. “Took you long enough.”

He huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

Then, gently, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out the queen pin.

It had been polished. Preserved. Protected.

Spencer held it up, then pinned it carefully to your lapel, his fingers brushing against the fabric near your heart.

“You came back sharper,” he said softly.

“I came back real,” you replied.

His hand lingered on the pin for a moment longer.

Your eyes found his. The same eyes that once held doubt and hurt. Now they were filled with something else entirely.

Love.

“Still sweet, though,” he added quietly. “Underneath all that fire.”

You met his gaze evenly. “Only for you.”

The corner of his mouth pulled into the faintest smile. He leaned in, his lips brushing just behind your ear. “Sweeter than honey.”

You felt that warmth bloom in your chest again, slow and heady and unmistakably his.

You squeezed his hand once, grounding yourself in his presence.

Then you both turned back to the room.

Spencer looked to you. “After you, darling.”

You stepped forward. Your voice rang out, clear and absolute.

“Let’s begin.”

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

A/N:

Surprise! Just when you thought the story was over… one last twist.

This is the real final part, and I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading, loving, and sticking with me on this wild, emotional journey. Your support, comments, and love have meant more than I can say.

I poured everything into this series, and getting to share it with you all has been such a gift.

Thank you for every like, reblog, message, and moment.

With all my love,

Lauren💛

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

Tag List: @tenderhornynihilist @sbrewer21 @happyclifford @65percentleg @mazzyowl @spennininomenon @superstinkychimp @and-claudia

#spencer agnew x reader #spencer agnew #smosh #smosh fanfiction #smosh fic #smosh x reader #alex tran #mob boss #mob boss au

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urhoneycombwitch · 1 year ago

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wanna make you feel better

roommate!Eddie Munson x roommate!Reader your roommate is always there for you.

froeword: based on this anon 💞

cw: allusions to/discussions about bad sex, Eddie fools around with someone who’s got a sort-of partner, R experiences light post-sex dissociation, mutual pining

wc: 1.3k

It takes a few minutes for your limbs to unwind, to come back into your body after sex- and in those few minutes, Adam has already hastily dressed, kissed you quick and chaste on the forehead, and left your bedroom with a casual “see ya” tossed over his retreating shoulder.

Fuzzily, from your staring-at-the-ceiling vantage point, you hear the front door of your apartment close. Then some quiet voices in the hall- first the familiar low tones of Eddie, followed by a higher-pitched lilt of… Mary? Margot?- and the front door shuts again.

You sigh, long and deep, wiggling your fingers and toes back to life. As if moving through molasses you push yourself to sit up, then to gather your clothes strewn around the floor- underwear first, one leg at a time. Secondhand t-shirt that hits your knees, the band logo nearing a total fade from all the wash cycles Eddie had put it through before it ended up in your laundry.

A knock at your door, and Eddie peeks around the frame, dark curls frizzing and cartoonishly tall in the back- “Hey. You want Oreos or Bugles this time?”

“Uhm.” You pause halfway to putting on your second sock, trying to blink through the brain fog and connect with your stomach, which quickly sours in response- “Neither, I think. Maybe some water.”

Eddie’s rings click against the wood of the doorframe as he taps in acknowledgement. When he turns to leave for the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of bare torso, grey sweatpants slung around bony, boxer-less hips.

Slut, you think, fondly, pulling on your soft sock the rest of the way and padding out into the living room.

The record player in the corner is calling your name, so you kneel to flip through the milk carton stuffed full of yours and Eddie’s combined collection.

“Nothing maudlin,” Eddie calls from the attached kitchen, cabinets banging shut in punctuation. “We have a strict No Wallowing After Bad Sex rule in this house and we’re goddamn sticking to it.”

“Apartment,” you amend, ignoring his instruction and pulling Blue from its sheath. “And wallowing can be therapeutic, y’know.”

With the drop of a needle, Joni Mitchell starts crooning about traveling a lonely road, and Eddie sighs, long and deep, a mirror of yours from earlier.

There’s a clinking of porcelain on glass, and you turn to watch as Eddie sets out bowls of snacks and tall glasses of water- one of them iced the way you like- onto the coffee table.

“Eat up. The midday meal of champs- or losers, depending on your preference.” He collapses with a dramatic huff against the couch, then leans over to dig around in the bowl of Bugles.

I wanna be strong, I wanna laugh along, I wanna belong to the living…

You crawl the short distance it takes to settle your back against the couch, side pressed into Eddie’s leg. There’s an acidic taste at the back of your throat, a mixture of Adam’s release and your own sickened stomach in a nauseating combination; you sip at the cold water, attempting to wash the taste away.

“Here. Doctor’s orders.” Eddie’s hand comes into view- each finger topped with a curved chip.

A giggle works its way out as you tilt your head to pull a Bugle off his finger with your teeth, crunching into the familiar corn flavor- it certainly works to get the lingering taste of shame out of your mouth.

“Don’t get used to seeing Margaret around, by the way- sounds like she’s gonna patch things up with her boyfriend.” Eddie’s hand draws back, a subsequent crunching noise before he speaks around a mouthful of chips- “I know you’ll miss all those scintillating hallway conversations.”

You snort, unsure if he’s referring to the fact that you’ve snooped via ear-pressed-to-door whenever they used to argue, or the handful of times that you and Margaret have politely and coolly interacted due to the one-bathroom setup.

“Well, good for her.” Unable to keep the irritation out of your voice (on Eddie’s behalf, since you’re such good friends and it’s hard to see him treated this way, not because you’re jealous), you dig into the snack bowl, fishing for an Oreo. “Hope Margaret and her weirdo on-and-off again boyfriend with that pedo mustache are very happy together.”

Eddie laughs, a melodic, genuine one that has him doubling over to bump playfully into your side. “Goddammit. That Ed Rooney-looking motherfucker…”

The bite of Oreo goes down smooth and sweet; you lick at the crumbs left behind on your thumb before saying, “And, lucky for our bathroom usage, Adam won’t be around anymore either.”

Eddie groans. “I think that guy uses more hair product than me and Harrington combined, and that’s saying something.”

He seems pleased when you chuckle, taking the warmth of his body previously pressed into your side away as he settles back into the couch. “What was wrong with this one, couldn’t get your rocks off with Ol’ Mister Hairspray?”

“Got my rocks off just fine, thank you very much,” you say, faux-primly, focusing your attention on the glass of water in front of you.

Condensation slips down the side. Your voice gains a gravelly tone that feels dangerously close to preceding tears when you say, “I just… every time we hook up, I end up feeling lonelier than ever afterwards. And I’m kinda sick of it.”

Do you see, do you see, do you see how you hurt me, baby? So I hurt you too, then we both get so blue…

Eddie’s warm palm (not the one covered in Bugle crumbs) comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb digging gently but firm into the tense muscle at the nape of your neck. A hum purrs from your throat, eyes shutting involuntarily as he manages to zero in on the spot that needs the most care.

“C’mere,” Eddie says, softly, hand sliding off and away as you unfold your limbs to stand. Once you’re sharing the couch cushion, he goes to pull you in closer but stops when he sees you bite back a smile- “What?”

“Your hair is… insane. In the back. If you haven’t noticed- wait!”

Eddie’s hand freezes halfway to his head with your alert, and you knock it out of the air, chastising- “Gonna have a head full of Bugle crumbs. Let me.”

“Bugle Head. New band name, I call it.” Eddie’s eyes are half-lidded, reminiscent of a cat getting groomed as you smooth down the out-of-place strands, hands cradling the back of his skull briefly before you pull away.

“Didn’t even bother looking in the mirror after going at it like rabbits with your not-girlfriend?” You accentuate your tease with a solid finger-poke to his bare ribs.

Eddie’s hands drop to your waist, pinch just-shy of mean against your hips. “Watch it, pot. And this kettle’s not fucking like a rabbit… more like a semi-interested turtle. With a semi-”

He gets shoved, for that comment, but drops down flat on the couch a bit too easily, pulling you with him.

With your ear pressed to Eddie’s chest, you can hear the whooshing of his blood, the steady thump of it against your cheek. He slips an arm around your lower back while yours encircle his torso, his sweatpantsed-legs twining with your bare ones.

“Why do we keep sleeping with such losers?” you muse aloud, breath unconsciously stalling to match Eddie’s much slower rhythm.

“Dunno.” His hand strokes down the length of your back, likely covering you in snack crumbs, but you find you don’t really mind right now. “Glad I have you to commiserate with, though. They say not all who wander are lost…”

You frown against the smooth skin below your cheek, sensing a trap. “…is that a Tolkein reference?”

“Nope. Shakespeare. Hamlet, if I recall correctly.”

He lets you laugh into his chest, squeezing gently at the soft flesh of your upper arm, like he’s trying to hold on to you and the moment at the same time.

You settle, again, breaths joining again. Joni croons on.

Wanna write you a love letter, I wanna make you feel better, I wanna make you feel free…

___

for more roommate!Eddie content: masterlist

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #roommate!eddie munson #roommate!eddie munson x reader

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pedroschka · 11 months ago

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Bat Signal

Eddie Munson x reader

A/n I did NOT write this! all credits go to my dear friend (sweetest little bean) who wrote this for me but wants to stay anonymous. I asked if I could post it because it's just too sweet not to share it

🦇

The plush bat feels soft in Eddie's hands as he turns it over, studying the fuzzy fabric. Its beady eyes stare back at him, little felt fangs peeking out from the stitched mouth. He smooths down the grey fur, fingers lingering on the velvety ears. It's cute, in an ugly sort of way. Just like him.

Sounds of Metallica blast from the stereo speakers behind him, the noise a familiar comfort in the cluttered trailer he reluctantly calls home these days. A half-eaten slice of pizza sits forgotten on the table, grease staining the cardboard box a darker shade of brown. He'd tried to tidy up earlier, shoving dirty laundry and empty beer cans out of sight, but the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and weed remains, clinging to the stained couch cushions.

Eddie sets the bat down, reaching for the fresh pack of cigs in his frayed denim vest pocket. Mentally rehearses what he's going to say when he sees you.

"Hey, I saw this and thought of you," he mumbles around the cigarette, free hand tucking a stray piece of long brown hair behind his ear. "Figured you might like it, since you're into all that goth shit, you know?" He drops his voice, trying to sound cooler, more casual. "I mean, if you want it."

Fuck, that sounds stupid. Eddie sighs, smoke curling from his nostrils. He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray on the end table, pushing to his feet. His reflection in the cracked mirror by the door stares back at him, all pale skin and dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes. The denim vest hangs off his thin frame, metal band patches and spikes doing little to hide the prominent collarbones beneath his faded Dio t-shirt.

"You look like shit, Munson," he tells himself, lips twisting wryly.

Still, he's got no choice. He's already late and he doesn't want to risk you giving up on him showing. Grabbing the plush bat, he heads out to the van, Corroded Coffin spray-painted in dripping white letters on the side. It takes three tries before the engine sputters to life.

🦇

You’re leaning against the brick wall outside the record store when he pulls up, combat boots tapping restlessly against the sidewalk. Your ripped fishnet stockings gleam beneath the streetlights, eyes finding his as he shifts the van into park.

"Starting to think you weren't gonna show," you say when he approaches. You don't sound mad though, just resigned. Like you expected him to let you down.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Eddie says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I, uh, got held up with something."

You hum noncommittally, gaze dropping to the stuffed animal in his other hand. One pierced eyebrow arches. "What's with the bat? Planning on doing some late night birdwatching?"

Eddie blinks, glancing down like he'd forgotten he was holding it. "What? No, this..." He clears his throat, thrusting it towards you. "This is for you, actually."

Your kohl-rimmed eyes widen fractionally as you take it from him, chipped black nails sinking into the plush fur. You hold it up, examining it in the dim light. A slow smile spreads across your face and Eddie's heart skips a beat in his chest.

"For me, huh?" you murmur, looking up at him from beneath heavy lashes. "Any particular reason?"

Eddie shrugs one shoulder, feigning nonchalance even as his palms grow clammy. "Thought you might like it. Y'know, 'cause it's all spooky and shit. Like you."

You smirk, cradling the bat against your chest possessively. "You saying I'm spooky, Munson?"

"No! I mean, yeah, but like...in a good way," Eddie stammers, feeling his face flush. He scuffs the toe of his scuffed boot against the sidewalk. "Spooky's cool."

You laugh, the sound throaty and warm. It makes something flutter in Eddie's chest, chasing away the cold emptiness that's taken root there. "Well, I guess that makes two of us then."

You tuck the bat under one arm, jerking your head towards the record store behind you. "C'mon, let's go dig through the stacks. I'm in dire need of some new tunes."

"Lead the way," Eddie says, falling into step beside you as you head inside. His shoulder brushes against yours and he feels lighter than he has in weeks, the plush bat a comforting presence between the two of you.

Maybe, just maybe, he's finally found someone who gets it. Someone who looks at him and sees more than just a freak, a burnout, a waste of space.

Someone who makes him feel alive again, like he matters.

Like he's not alone anymore.

🦇

He lets you drag him through the aisles, watching as you flip through the rows of vinyl with deft fingers. You keep the bat tucked in the crook of your elbow the entire time, its beady eyes peering out at the world.

"This little dude's gonna be my new mascot," you declare, holding up a battered copy of Black Sabbath's self-titled album. "He can perch on my bedpost, keep watch over my room."

"Yeah?" Eddie grins, something warm unfurling in his chest at the thought of his gift watching over you. "Guess that means you gotta give him a totally epic name then."

You purse your lips, considering. "Hmm. How about...Ozzy?"

Eddie snorts. "Ozzy the bat? Seriously?"

"What? It's perfect!" You hold the plush up next to the album cover, as if comparing the two. "Look, they've even got the same spaced out expression."

Eddie shakes his head, still grinning. "Whatever you say, weirdo."

"You love it," you counter, bumping your hip against his.

He looks at you, taking in the smudged eyeliner and chipped polish, the ratty Misfits shirt and torn jeans. You are a beautiful mess, just like him.

"Yeah," he murmurs, throat suddenly tight. "I really fucking do."

🦇

#get yourself a friend who writes fanfiction for you to make you feel better 🥹🥹#I never felt so loved ❤️#so talented!!#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #🦇

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dognonsense · 5 months ago

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dec 28 2024 new age doom show at grey lab in vancouver bc. Got to scream sing the for the last song which was fun :)! the drummer is eric, my producer whos helping me record my album., hes great at the bottom you can see the patches i made of him that were for sale at the show.

i danced the night away to them as well as doing a life drawing study just like the night before. my practice from the night before helped me get an understanding of the composition and shapes so it was easier :)

and thank you to sasha, yvrpunks from instagram for the videos and photos of me that nite :D

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6ixtoru · 3 months ago

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SINFUL WATCHERS | 06

pairing // s. geto x fem! reader // w.c 2.8k

synopsis: Geto Suguru, moulded by the hefty hands of the Lord himself, and his brazen suggestion for him and distant friend/classmate L/n Y/n (Satan's favourite poem and existence opposed by heaven's residents) to anonymously post a video of their lewd entanglement on twitter proves to be more hazardous than one would think. Who knew one viral video could overturn God's plan?

warnings: 18+, heavy smut, modern!uni/alternative!AU, forbidden romance (?), fwb, angst, uploading of NSFW content by characters (basically Twitter p0rn stars), blasphemy, religious imagery/symbolism

a/n: the smut yall been waiting for, it only get's filthier from here

series m // chapter 05 // chapter 07

WICKEDNESS DEVOURED RESIDENTS brainwashed by the normality of videoing moments when a man and woman indulged in cannibalism (an effortless kiss that triggered a feast of sensual consumption).

Geto himself couldn't rebut his curiosity revolving around footage of venereal performances committed between the two parties who shared an intense commitment to debauchery, which ultimately led to a blinding luminesce pooled around her bedroom. Such bright illumination scintillated her dim figure kneeled in front of Geto, and his nude body relaxed against her heather grey headboard.

A handsome canvas blessed with a celestial facade was now ruined by smeared scarlet streaks of ignoble feelings – a masterpiece graffitied upon.

Strangled streams of concupiscence formed intrigue whenever pinned by the lustrous presence of his classmate. That foolish curiosity he formed resulted in his sighs of anticipation, carelessly prancing around the borders of her secluded bedroom.

Imprisoned by the defamatory flames of hell, Geto was supposed to be Y/n's saviour by portraying the water produced within the holy domain above, formulated to drown her self-destruction into ashes. But alas, he failed to perform such a task when lured by her mellifluous dialect spoken with ease and the significant liquid dried preparatory to caressing her blotchy skin; his purpose to purify others fell short.

He craved a taste of the lecherous freedom she boldly flaunted under the glinting canopy consisting of cosmic elements displayed outside, which stimulated their sexual climb and reflected in their drive to achieve spews of white.

Delving into her unholy persuasion concluded their flirtatious gameplay.

"C’mon," Geto gulped down the bundle of despair, attempting to ascend from the walls of his parched throat, "just mouth fuck me.".

Y/n's widened irises brimmed with feigned innocence and nearly tricked Geto into thinking she was the epitome of such. The mischief blanketed beneath obtained a timer which was soon to end.

Before reaching the current scenario of Geto slouched and Y/n languidly trailing her soothing palms up his bare thighs, applying more pressure the further she advanced – thrill had surged throughout the desperate male once peeling her undergarments away, handling the bra he adored and its resemblance to a melancholic skyline with extra caution; afterwards marvelling at the navy patch infused with her translucent arousal saturating her thong before ridding of them too.

Yellow blotches swarmed Y/n's already hazy vision; the harsh flash that belonged to his phone was roaring to capture such lewd acts below the female's eye level. Their secrecy was intoxicating for the lens to record.

Her partner's throbbing cock prodded her jutted bottom lip and failed at a forced attempt to feel relief upon her slippery tongue. Her sensual eyes bored into his shadowed gaze, cloaking the usual glum skies assembled around his stygian pupils.

The decreasing distance between her mouth embracing the spotlight and his bulbous tip weeping to be attended to was a juxtaposition to their distance in public; physical contact was out of the question when surrounded by nosy citizens.

An airy blow of her shallow breath engulfing him forwarded a hair-raising shudder down his spine and briefly jostled the camera's focus.

"You just had to enjoy torturing me," His slender fingers softly gripped a tuft upon her head to direct her mouth where he needed her – another dire try for her teasing lips to surrender and invite the entirety of his cock in as she finally settled a lingering kiss against the base of his shaft, initiating a route that left a few pecks against the few veins dancing along the surface.

"You have to earn rewards in this world," she prefaced, discarding a wet stripe against the side of his stiff dick, "I could be treating you much worse.".

"Patience is a virtue," she added as every remark he uttered earned him her tricky tides of riddling lines, ramming into his bloodline from how she purred with sophistication.

Geto permitted his head to tip back slightly, the crushed velvet supporting him of no comfort for the ache swelling within his lower half, anticipating more. The urgency to feel the Heavens of her mischievous tongue curl around him was painfully evident as his slit steadily frothed from her foreplay.

Scanning the demure male through half-lidded eyes, Y/n brushed against his flushed tip and relished the salty tang of his pre-cum trickling from the frustrated head.

A heavy sigh deflated his shoulders when she utilised her warm mouth to tease him. Barely grazing the head of his stiff manhood with a ball of saliva bubbled at the start of her tongue made him nearly unravel too soon.

"Thatt'ss ittt." He stretched his gratification and glowed crimson, bewildered by the sudden beguiling rose garden within her mouth, slurping around his girth.

A guttural groan escaped, savouring how her mouth satisfied his cock with inviting warmth which was contradictory to the glacial chill from refusal to blanket him moments ago; the differing actions and ignited dominance submerged him deep beneath a flood of active lava cocooning his tanned body and gifting him a sheer sheen of cherry blossoms dusted across.

Visualising strangers aroused by their public acts of immoral deeds, had Y/n's thighs tense before she temporarily canted into her sex with her free palm to alleviate the heightening ache in her core as the other felt content resting against Geto's thigh. Geto, for the most part, retained a steady composure, knowing Y/n was more than capable without his help and used his thumb to caress her cheek dented with the bulge of his cock.

"Just a bit more sweetheart," he warmly encouraged her of the last two inches awaiting to be moistened by her excessive drool to facilitate his member's visit.

Y/n's mouth was just about capable of handling him by itself, the corners of her swollen lips stinging from the abrupt stretch of its perimeters being tested by the ongoing travel of his slickened shaft. Her tongue applied pressure to the underside before the tip of her nose was squashed against his pubic area; his faint cologne merged with the light scent of his sweat, deliciously overwhelming her senses as Geto forced her head still for a few moments and jutted his hips forward, her gag a riveting feature he needed to hear more of.

Thus, Geto began to batter the back of her oral cavity by bucking his hips, her throaty hum convincing him to claim his release whilst claw marks prettied his tensed thighs.

Momentarily screwing his eyes shut, Geto rasped at the abrupt, overwhelming sensation of having his dick trapped between the narrow enclosure of Y/n's throat. His eyes widened at her brief truce for a few necessary inhales before she snuck a glance of resolute and resumed suckling on the slick length.

"J-just like that Pretty—! Your mouth feels so good, meant for me." he sputtered with knitted brows and a crinkled nose when the invasion of her tongue dove between the thin slit.

Having him surrender was effortlessly achievable as Y/n knew when certain gestures should occur. For example, when to suck harshly, when to hollow her cheeks and when to pump the base of his dense cock as an alternative to her tongue's tormenting tactics.

"Go on then, let loose." She cooed before unannounced ropes of obscenity purged the heart of her mouth. Undoubtedly, she gulped down every drop, fuelling her tragically sweet soul and flashed her empty tongue; his aftermath flushed away.

Y/n insisted she remained perched above by shoving him back down against her headboard, now accustomed to his weight embracing the material against his back – her oral performance not enough to satisfy the missed opportunities of creating memories together during the break.

She nipped on the tip of his thumb to prevent a honeyed whine via their private areas conversing and every grind of her eager hips whilst Geto studied how her desperate pussy rubbed against his erection awaiting its owner's permission to initiate damage.

Minuscule glimmers assembled within her eyes, which he witnessed; each star bundled into the next as they cramped her vision every time she whimpered his name - those escorting the sphere above, covetous.

Although determined to scorch inklings of misdeed onto her smooth skin, Geto delayed himself on account of craving a second longer to appreciate the erotic aura enveloping her limbs and summoned the duo into a whirlwind of temporal rapture.

He guided her delicate hands onto his muscular chest littered with lavender petals as preparation before welcoming his stiff cock.

Geto wasn't typically a man who indulged in kinks involving severe violence; his romantic persona, masked from others' sight, emerged in bed, which was evident in both his actions and comments.

Geto throbbed, witnessing her splashed with an amorous aroma, cheeks puffed and dulcet drool smothered across her chin courtesy of her tongue's prior meddling.

Y/n's orbs bared the hidden speckles of moon dust usually veiled by the intense deluge of neutrality as he shoved his pulsating tip against her pretty clit.

A timid sigh stroked her punctured lips once her hips fully sank and consumed the whole of Geto's yearning cock; the ringed muscles of her entrance stretched as the taut flesh of her inner walls was invaded by an inch-by-inch process. She steadily rose and gracefully slid down only once Geto crammed the entirety of himself into the hilt.

"God, you're always so tight. Do you enjoy being utterly broken?" he huffed, and the latter offered a shaky chuckle.

"You're sounding like a hypocrite," she rebuked with the ghost of a smirk loitering above her chapped lips.

Geto restrained a faint moan, tight-lipped and verbalising a single noise of acknowledgement before inhaling deeply, "far from it, " he paused, assuring her, "far from it.".

Both his hands settled upon her waist as he began to guide her riding him, her own hands now flat against his chest as she established a steady pace. However, Geto's patience soon wore thin and expectedly, he desired far more.

Rectangular indents unwillingly engraved themselves onto her bottom lip again. Her manicured nails dug into Geto's shoulder blades as the breathy mantra of his name (which he had informed her beforehand would be edited out after if either of their identities were mentioned) managed to slither up her throat and beyond each taste bud still engrossed with his fluid she'd hungrily swallowed beforehand.

He suffocated her bouncing breasts littered with identical blooms of bruises, palm slyly rubbing her nipple as his other returned to her hip, a tight grasp to keep her steady as his cock invaded her homely interior, eager he settle within her permanently.

These lewd moments were considered Geto's personalised utopia, their bodies doused with the swarm of her sweetly dipped moans, and his low grunts; poems written with rogue ink sheltered beneath their flushed cheeks emerged.

His relenting cock twitched within her sheathing warmth, never not silky and wet when clasped around him as squelching added to their vocalised rhapsody.

Devotion regarding Y/n's awareness of how to please him never fizzled.

Geto pulled himself up and nuzzled his head into the nook of her craned neck as she peaked down to study his cock vanish within her, the pair foreseeing their climaxes soon to commence.

The heated skin-on-skin contact melted any remaining dominance within her; Geto's chest lightly squished against hers in desperation to be one entity and briefly awakened his hidden zeal for clinginess.

Y/n endured an all too familiar sensation within her gut when the exhilarating rush of ecstasy invading Geto's narrow veins corrupted each of his blood cells, victims of their licentious behaviour – his only getaway was through retracing bruised clouds imprinted upon her mounds, the piece gracing her chest no prestige gallery could ever possess.

The warmth of his saliva settled against her clammy complexion as his pouted lips contorted into open-mouthed kisses, allowing curses past his loose tongue. In return, her fingers wove themselves through his inky threads as her head threw itself back, a gentle tug on his roots strengthening the flow of their synchronised movements.

The ingrained behaviour surrounding Geto's dirty mind swayed the reins on his manoeuvres. He hissed, delivering a sharp squeeze to her round ass, which seized a strangled moan out of the breathless female; eyes rolled and back arched from brazen delectation.

"Tell me you missed me," he requested, savouring the way her blissful expression snapped to meet his once he subconsciously reached between her sore thighs and pinched her sensitive clit.

"Show me you felt the same way first," She replied with a devious remark and an even more devious simper.

Geto jolted at her temerity to defy his plea. He launched another soft spank onto her ass as an indication of accepting her requisition.

Y/n enticed him into a steamy kiss as a distraction from him urgently rubbing her clit at her behest, their mouths moving in a heated tandem until Geto's free hand mushed her cheeks, infused with crumpled rose petals, together; her objection another musical component added to his personal symphony composed of her mellifluous moans.

Y/n hummed at his momentary attachment to her nipple; a familiar sting pained her puffy mouth as his teeth softly pierced the bud, calming the temporary infliction by flattening his tongue around the entire area before awarding the same treatment to the other breast.

"Feel so...so good..." she confirmed, rolling her hips that he mimicked in order to greet her thrusts before she successfully caught his lips in a weak kiss.

"Squeeze 'round me, Love," he gently commanded with the deliberate brutality of his thrust, his actions displaying less affection than his tone as the natural behaviour of his sensual mind took over, mercilessly pounding her needy hole with one arm securely hooked around her waist, dragging her with each erratic movement; consistency crumbling the nearer he reached whilst her hands steadied themselves upon his shoulders once more.

Impactful slapping of skin corrupted any remaining purity within the air. The phone, by now was caged between their abdomens, capturing every impactful plunge and Y/n's concupiscent cries that mirrored the opaque sobs coaxed around Geto's cock, his evidence of sin apparent as a gooey blanche halo veiled him and thickened at his base. Once milked, his thrusts gradually halted, allowing Y/n to recline so she could present the delicate threads sprawled not only within her worn insides but strung between her fatigued thighs.

His exhale of euphoric release pecked her ears.

A cheeky grin befriended his ragged breaths, his hands unable to break contact from her figure still crushed hotly against him whilst her walls classified him as a detainee within.

Her talented fingers smoothed back a few strands matted against his forehead as he noted her knotted hair, predictably no different from his own, and cautiously laid Y/n back once flipping their positions, her walls gingerly letting go, although his absence wouldn't be for long.

Breathing vents installed in her system were clogged from undulated tides of his complicated fervour whenever he towered over her in moments of salacity like these.

"You did good, Sweetheart," he quietly praised once freed of her compelling gaze and tossed his phone aside, uncaring of its' landing. "Think you can handle me again?".

"You know I can handle you. " Y/n replied sincerely and pecked his cheek, almost so lightly it could be regarded as imaginary.

Geto hissed into her sweat-patted hair and smoothly eased into her entrance that had quickly regained its usual shape due to elasticity; aware she was extremely sensitive although acceptant of his swift return.

"But do you deserve to? Is the question, L/n." His tone was endearing as he allocated her pulse point and stationed his provoking words beside it, a feathery kiss to confirm his usual intimacy had taken precedence.

"'Deserve' doesn't work in a situation where the questioner wants it just as much as the respondent." She replied as his fingers cradled her warm cheek, the tips of their noses skimming and lips scarcely circumventing commitment.

Those exemplary from engaging in meaningless carnality certified she was mischievous and assembled entirely from the rubble of corruption, but to Geto, she was beyond phenomenal.

Her polished nails tattooed his unadorned back with moon-crescent stamps, honouring the other appearance of the planet aligned against the soulful backdrop outside her window.

"I want you. Say you want me too, 'Sugu," She moaned under the influence of devoted infatuation as said male pursued a second round.

"Of course I want you," he grunted in response, both their tattles meaningless the morning after.

At this point, Y/n was uncertain if the string of curses slipped from her, Geto, or his fan club, which consisted of the deceased gossiping above, unsurprisingly appalled with nauseating glares.

Regardless, their reactions lacked credibility because as they scrutinised Y/n and Geto, discreetly sprouting beside their inoperative hearts was envy as the scandalous duo shone under compelling misdeeds.

tags: @ikaiower @d3stin7 @iweirdthingsblog @dandelionskyes @nsfwinami @cookiemonsterboss @kasellan @anonymous-3846 @violetflowersstuff @tlostwizardinhsong @ddelly @babybluegirl99 @lillianadreams @kazuuhali @dizzzymango @iluvmusicxoxo @diamxndwht-blog @x0lunaaaa @s3niz3ro @nightingale1989 @shorty-jordie @adequate-binch @cockslayer420 @shikiyoshiro @satsattoru @ash-ate @naeiss @loboszia @nexiv23 @walq-chan @pinkycloudzkk @satorusprites @genelvsmitski @user888unknown @goldenbbean @tatiishere @ditzybunnie @the-great-fairy-04 @ffushiquro @randoemltehe58 @kirkhamslut @violetflowersstuff @junsfairyx

#jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk #geto suguru #getou suguru x reader #geto x reader #jjk x reader #geto smut #jjk geto #suguru geto smut #jujutsu kaisen suguru #jjk suguru #jjk fanfic #anime fanfic #fanfiction

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mentally-gone002 · 10 months ago

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is it too early to love you? - part 4

(moodboard made by moi)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

summary: readers ex boyfriend is an asshole… so much so that he makes readers night a little harder. but reader calls spencer, and he makes it alright.

warnings: blood

a/n: ehehehehehe this is my fav part!!!!! also this was all written in one go (part 1, pt 2, pt 3 and pt 4) so gimme like a few hours, a monster energy drink and some sour patch kids and i’ll pump another part out😜😜😜

————————————————————————

when the case ended i went back home. james was kind enough to return my key, which surprised me, but im glad he wasn’t petty enough to steal it.

or at least i thought he wasn’t petty.

he might not have been petty enough to lock me out of my apartment but he was petty enough to trash the place.

when i got home my dishes were smashed on the floor, a few of my paperback books were torn up and my tv was gone.

“jesus.” i murmured through an exhausted sigh.

i decided to call him.

“why are you calling me?”

“i just got home and my place is a mess. disaster would be a better word actually.” i told him.

he laughed lightly on the other end. “what the hell are you talking about?”

i scoffed, crossing one arm over my chest. “you know damn right what i’m talking about, so don’t play dumb.” i stepped carefully over the glass pieces that used to be my dishes. i stared at one of my books on the floor, the cover of it was torn in half. “why’d you do this? i haven’t given you a reason to be this much of an asshole.”

james said something to someone on his end of the phone. “i have my own reasons.”

“what reason is that?”

“why do you want to know?”

“so that i can determine weather or not to call the police on you for vandalism.”

james sputtered out a laugh. “vandalism? please! you wouldn’t call the cops on me.” i swallowed thickly because he was right. “i got you.” he said in a sing-song tone i hated.

i hung up on him. he didn’t deserve a goodbye, or to be able to contact me again. i blocked his number and deleted it.

i took some time to breathe and process my surroundings before my phone was once again pressed to my ear.

“hello?” spencer sounded cheerful. and i hated to be calling about this, because i knew he wasn’t going to stay happy. “you there?”

“yeah, i’m here.” i nodded. i had no idea why i called him if i’m being honest.

“you okay?” he already knew. his tone changed.

i closed my eyes and sighed. “i’m great spencer.” i almost said it through my teeth, walking back to my kitchen to find a broom. “i’m just- ow, shit!” my food came down on a large piece of what used to be a drinking glass.

“what happened?” spencer’s voice was faint as i tried to balance on one foot in the middle of a floor filled with glass.

i looked around for a safe path away from the mess. “i stepped in a piece of glass.” i answered him, carefully limping over to my couch and flipped over the back to lay against the cushions. i whimpered when i bumped my injured foot with my unharmed one.

spencer shuffled around on his end of the phone. i heard keys jingling and his door opening. “i’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

“spence, no, im fine, it’s just…” i looked at my foot from where its propped up on my knee and pulled a face. “it’s fine, i’ll be fine.” i assured him though it was meant more for myself.

“i’m still coming over.” he replied. “don’t touch the glass.”

the line went quiet and i knew he hung up.

i groaned in pain, watching my blood soak through my sock and drip onto my light grey rug. “shit.” i leaned back into the cushions in pain and exhaustion.

i can replace the rug.

spencer got to my place is record time, coming in the already open door because i forgot to close it.

“what happened?” his voice had me sitting up in shock, whipping my head around to look at him. i shot him a look, silently asking ‘why ask if you already know?’ spencer frowned as he carefully walked across the apartment to me. when he saw the glass in my food he pulled a face similar to the one i did when i first saw it.

“before you ask if i was watching where i was going, i wasn’t.” i laughed with pain laced in my voice. he didn’t laugh. “it’s not that bad.”

he sat beside me carefully and leaned toward my foot to look at it better. “do you have a medical kit?” his eyes studied how the glass stabbed into me as he asked.

“surprisingly yes.” i gestured back to my bedroom. “i have one under the bathroom sink, it’s in the back on the left.”

spencer stood up to retrieve the kit in less than thirty seconds. he set the contents of the kit on the coffee table before looking at me. “i’m gonna have to pull it out.”

i nodded, already knowing that. i sat up a little. “okay. let’s get it over with.” i breathed heavily in and out while spencer put on latex gloves that were in the kit. he barely touched the glass and i winced.

“sorry.” he muttered softly while grabbing the glass between his index and thumb. i screwed my eyes shut and squeezed the couch cushions in my hands. “i’m gonna count-“

“don’t fucking count, just do it.” i laughed due to anxiety, eyes still closed.

spencer breathed deeply and then there was a sharp pain that made me lurch forward, humming in pain.

i opened my eyes to watch as spencer quickly grabbed a piece of gauze to press it against my foot. he held it there with one hand as he met my eyes, sighing deeply. “thanks for taking care of me, doc.” i joked.

he smiled at me, shaking his head. “don’t thank me yet, i’m not done.”

“do you think i’ll need stitches?” i nodded at my foot. i leaned forward once the pain went down a little.

spencer shrugged and reached for the shard that used to be in my foot. he held it up for me to see. half of it was covered in blood and the other half was a pretty shade of light green.

i frowned. “i really liked that cup.”

spencer laughed slightly, setting the glass back down. “you might need stitches.” he answered my initial question. “but i can do that for you. i know you don’t like hospitals.”

i smiled at his words, surprised that he remembered that. but, he remembers everything.

“thank you.”

“i told you not to thank me.” he reminded.

my eyes rolled. “too bad, i’m thanking you anyway. get over it.”

he laughed again, just a short huff of air through his nose as he pulled the gauze away from my foot.

he took some scissors and cut my sock off my foot, which i protested because i really like these socks, but he told me he’d replace them. when he saw the extent of the damage he determined stitches would be best prior to disinfecting the wound and getting some thread and a needle.

“this is gonna hurt.”

“well no shit.” i sunk into my couch, just ready for this to be over. i looked at spencer while he held the needle in one hand while looking at me in confusion. “sorry… i’m ready to not be doing this anymore.”

“i’ll be done really quick, i promise.” he nodded at me. “it’s only a half inch long and a quarter inch deep-“

“stop talking, i love you, but stop talking.” i dropped my head back with closed eyes.

spencer cleared his throat, processing my words as best he could before starting with the stitches. it really didn’t take that long but it did hurt like hell.

“okay, i’m done.” spencer wrapped gauze around my foot before taking off his latex gloves, gathering everything with my blood on it and threw it away in my garbage can.

“thank god.” i sighed, standing up to limp into the kitchen behind him, careful to avoid every fragment of glass on the floor this time.

spencer watched me pull a broom out of the space between my fridge and the wall. “let me sweep.” he held out a hand for me to give up the broom. i glared at him. “don’t fight me on this.” he had a warning tone.

i gave it up and decided to clean all my destroyed books. i carefully picked up all the pages that were ripped out so harshly.

“this one was my favorite.” i was just talking to myself but spencer stopped what he was doing to look at me. i felt his eyes on me so i smiled up at him before flipping through the worn book. i looked for the page in the front with the author’s signature on it but that was missing. my eyes scanned the floor frantically for the missing page, looking for the signature in deep blue ink i’ve looked at so many times.

“what’re you looking for?” spencer stopped sweeping again.

i glanced at him briefly, crawling over the floor, flipping pages over and looking through the stack of them i’d made, just in case i skipped over it. “i’m looking for a page.”

“what page?” spencer joined me on the floor.

i shook my head. “the autographed page from this one.” i tapped the halved cover of the book. “it’s a front page, one of the blank ones.” i explained.

“he ripped up an autographed copy?”

i nodded, hearing the hurt in his voice. “yeah.”

spencer helped me look. the room went quiet apart from the occasional rustling of paper.

“found it.” spencer called to me from where he was kneeling between the couch and coffee table. he held up the page and i sighed in relief, walking on my knees across the floor to him and taking the page into my hands. “it has your blood on it.” he noted.

i stared at the handwriting and then at a small red soaked part of a corner. i didn’t care that it had my blood on it, i cared that it wasn’t destroyed. “i don’t think he knew this was my favorite book, or he would’ve done way worse.” i muttered, again just thinking out loud.

“can i say something?” spencer asked. i nodded at him, studying his facial expression before he said, “i never liked him.” i laughed slightly. “im serious. the way he acted with you in public, not really paying attention to you. you’d tell me about things he’d do or say and i’d just feel mad… or upset at him.” i pursed my lips. “he didn’t deserve you.”

that feeling of heartache swelled in my chest as i smoothed my thumbs over the book page in my hands. i couldn’t look at him. not after he said that. he was right, like always. “we should keep cleaning.” i stood up, being mindful of my foot as i did. i placed the book page on my coffee table and went back to picking up all of my ruined books, taking mental notes of which ones i had to replace. spencer stood up off the floor and finished sweeping up the glass on the floor. he’d look at me every few minutes, i could feel it. his eyes made my skin prickle sometimes. he was the only person who’s eyes made me react like that.

“are all of your dishes broken?”

i hummed in unknowing, gently placing my trashed books into the garbage and then went to my cabinets, opening them to stare at a few dishes that survived james’s wrath. “thankfully, no.” i looked back at him with a relieved smile. “i am gonna go get new sets anyway though. i need a refresh for the whole place.”

spencer hummed in response while putting the broom back from where he watched me grab it from earlier. “want me to help?”

i shrugged. “if you want to hang out with me in ikea for like four hours then sure.”

he smiled. “you know me, i never have plans.”

“i do know you.” i smiled back, now facing him with my back to the near empty cabinets.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid scenario #doctor spencer reid #fluff #is it too early to love you series

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shares-a-vest · 1 year ago

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Prompt: Family Heirloom and Starry Night (Discord Drabble) Two prompts in 24hrs, the drabblers are spoiled today. It's Lex's birthday! @thefreakandthehair I'm so sorry that my Frankenstien prompt for your b'day is also Steve Sad Boy™ hours. But it has a light-hearted end!!! 🏈🏈🏈 tw: death of a grandparent (way in the past)

"Why would mom mail this to me?" Steve finally mutters from his position at the kitchen bench.

Eddie shimmies upright on the couch and rubs at his eyes, long glazed over from forcing himself to pretend to pay attention to tonight's game. He'd flipped it over a good half an hour ago as the space he had given Steve started to linger on a little too long for his liking.

He just wasn't supposed to almost fall asleep while waiting for Steve to join and watch his favourite team win all those... points? touchdowns?

It doesn't matter nearly as much as the package that was delivered late in the afternoon – one that has left Steve glued to his kitchen stool.

A heavy but small and thin box with 'FRAGILE' and 'DO NOT BEND' emblazoned all over it, the red warnings leaving just enough space for their address and the return label.

Steve has opened it, Eddie realises, looking over his partner's impossibly hunched shoulders when he reaches him.

"I don't remember ever seeing that in your house, sweetheart," he says, standing close and snaking his arms around Steve's middle.

He frowns at the small framed print of Vincent Van Gough's Starry Night painting and rests his chin on Steve's shoulder.

"Mom hated it," Steve explains, "Refused to hang it anywhere in the house after my Grandpa passed. He left it to her."

Eddie hums in the affirmative.

The gold and gaudy frame doesn't exactly scream Mrs Harrington's taste in decor...

"Should I call her?" Steve rasps, setting the print down to pinch his nose, "What if something's wrong and that's why she is sending it to me?"

Eddie can feel his lip quivering.

"Maybe we should talk first, hmm?" he suggests, giving Steve a reassuring squeeze.

"Or..." Steve continues, his tone becoming bitter, "She's sending it now to make it official. That I'm no longer..."

He cuts himself off with a shaky exhale and looks around their relatively new (but technically very old and rundown) apartment. A quiet little spot in Indy they'd scored without too much searching.

One that they soon filled with their records and clothes, Eddie's amp and guitar and Steve's old trophies. Too many knickknacks they'd thrifted with the help of Robin and a lot of second-hand furniture Wayne found.

An apartment they are still in the process of making their own as they work themselves out together.

Their place in the world. Their home.

Eddie looks over to a patch of blank wall by the phone.

A spot that could use something...

"Do you like it, the painting?" he whispers, pressing a kiss to Steve's ear.

Steve grips the frame, his knuckles quickly turning white as he tenses up. He nods his head vigorously and sniffles.

"My grandpa..."

"Starry, starry night," Eddie sings low, "Paint your palette blue and grey..."

He reaches out to place his hands over Steve's and feels them relax in his touch.

"Look out on a summer's day..." Steve continues wetly, "Yeah..."

He sighs and closes his eyes, shifting his weight back onto Eddie.

"Looks like a pretty good heirloom to me," he says, swaying them just enough to leave Steve humming contentedly without threatening his position on the rickety kitchen stool.

Eddie continues humming the song, a favourite of Wayne's that he only ever passively listened to enough to pick up on the opening line and tune.

"Wanna watch the game with me?" he asks, nodding back to the television as he finishes the song.

Steve giggles, his shoulders gradually shaking them both.

"Baby, I watched that game two Sundays ago."

"But it's your favourite," Eddie argues, jostling their conjoined form, "The Cubs!"

"Eds, that's baseball!"

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #lilys drabbles #stwgdailyprompt #steddie ficlet #steve harrington angst #tw death of a grandparent #steve harrington's parents #harrington family TM

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glassartpeasants · 1 year ago

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The Fire Will Pass

Trafalgar Law x F!Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, hurt to comfort i think, spoilers for Law's backstory, mentions of death and blood, not edited cause my computer was DYING

A/N: Alright so i already posted the first part of this a hot second ago but i deleted it so i could write the rest of it cause i ended up loving it to much to let it not be finished. @mandiemegatron here is the gift. its the amber lead reader story i said i was gonna do centuries ago.

~~~

“Why is everyone avoiding that girl? Is she sick or something?”

“Don’t go near her! She’s contagious!”

Once again, here you were, treated like some sort of plague. Like something to be feared. New town, same reaction. No matter how hard you try to convince people, no one will listen. Even if there had been books and research about the disease you’ve been cursed with, they all see you as a walking sickness.

You supposed you did look contagious. Patches of white cover your body, and burns cover your already marked body. What happened that day that caused all your grief replays in your mind like a broken record.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Wake up!” The smell of smoke invades your lungs as your eyes flutter open. The scene of your frantic mother shaking you awake was the only thing you saw.

“Mom? What’s…what’s going on?” You were ripped from your bed as your mother held you in her arms—something she hadn’t done in years.

“Mom! Wh-”

“Shush! Baby, we need to be quiet.” The hushed whisper of your mother sent shivers down your spine. Never in your life have you heard your mother sound like that. And when you looked into her eyes, all you saw was fear.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Your mother hid your head in her shoulder as she rushed down the stairs. The only thing you managed to see your childhood home was the bright light of flames. Its heat burned your lungs as you let out a cough.

Opening the door, your mother ran out of the house quickly. Dry coughs slipped past her lips as you held onto her tight.

“Mom…I’m scared….” You whisper into her ear as your body begins to tremble.

“It’s okay, baby, everything will be okay.” Petting your hair, your mom held you tighter.

Looking up, all you saw was a black, smoky sky. Your eyes darted from place to place as the horror of everything going on around you began to sink in. Flames ate away at the buildings around you, and what you could only begin to realize were the lifeless bodies of your friends and neighbors, lying along the cold ground with patches of white dancing along their skin.

You were speechless as your eyes widened, seeing flames eat away at everything you’ve ever known.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Tears rim your eyes as you struggle not to sob. Why was this happening? What was happening? Why was the sky a mucky grey and the streets a ruthless red? It was a sunny and beautiful day earlier. People talked with happiness, but now those same people were lying lifeless on the street, their voices forever silenced.

You desperately looked along the streets for a certain boy with a funky hat, yet you couldn’t see anything through the flames. The flames burned brighter as ashes fell from the sky, each one you feared would be the remnants of the home of your only friend.

As the buildings collapse from the fires eating away at them, you try to pinpoint where exactly you are. But as more buildings fall, everything seems the same until a red cross catches your attention. Your eyes widen as you see your mother, and you get closer to the hospital where you knew the boy’s parents worked at. A sense of hope filled your being as you stopped almost in front of the hospital. Opening your mouth to scream out and pray that he heard you, you were cut short as an explosion from inside the hospital caused the fire to burst out all windows, the glass shattering.

“Their….dead…” Your voice barely came out as it felt like the air was stolen from your lungs. The world spins as the heat of the blaze fans your face as you look on in horror. All of them gone, yet here you were, alive as your mother ran down the dark streets of Flevance.

The cold water of the new world licked at your feet as you dangled them over the edge of the wooden dock. Patches of white decorated your skin, even though you wished the water would wash away the painful reminder of how alone you would forever be. Not a soul to call your friend, let alone love.

Why were you alive? Based on what research you were able to do and what you saw, you were supposed to die as a child. Why were you 23 and only a month away from 24? How dare you live while the rest of everyone you ever knew decay and rot away.

You look out to the sea and wonder that maybe, just maybe, there was another. Someone else like you. Another soul that survived the massacre thirteen years ago. Maybe they were immune just like you.

You didn’t know how or why, but despite showing the physical changes the amber lead did to your body, you’ve never had any symptoms. No weakness, coughing, just nothing. The one thing that showed you were a survivor of the disease was the white blotches that stained your skin.

“Hey! You!” Your body went rigid as you heard a voice call out to you. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you turn your head to look over your shoulder. A million things you were expecting, but a waving polar bear was not one of them. You rub your eyes to make sure you aren’t seeing things.

“You! You're the sick girl, right?” A frown worked its way on your face. Even though you’ve heard it countless times, it still didn’t make it easier to hear.

“What’s it to you? Come to mock me?”

The polar bear shakes his head. “No! Not at all! I just wanted to let you know that my captain can probably help you!”

“What I have can't be cured. So it’d be useless to try.”

“Come on! What do you have to lose?”

“Mom, please, we’re almost there!” You whisper as you try to drag her faster. Yet, with every step you take, your mom gets slower. Using both your hands, you grab your mom's as tears rim your eyes. Trying your best, you start pulling even harder.

You turn your head to talk to your mom. “Mom, we have to-” The words stop short as you see your mom's once white shirt splotched with ever-growing red. Time seems to stop as you try to comprehend what you're seeing.

Stumbling, your mom turns you around. “Run baby. Run and don’t stop till the smoke is no more.” Tears stream down your face as everything seems to stop.

“No! I won’t leave without you!” You cry as you try to turn around, but your mom keeps her grip tight.

“Please, baby, you have to go on without me. You need to live. Live for the ones that couldn’t make it. Live for me, baby.” Your mother presses a kiss on your head as her grip turns light. A final gasp escapes her lips as you hear her collapse behind you as you begin to run through the flames.

“Live for Flevance.”

“Alright. I’ll go. Show me the way.”

The polar bear smiles before grabbing your hand. “You won’t regret this!” He exclaimed as he started to pull you to another end of the dock. The action making your eyes widen and pang shoot through your chest. His ‘hand’ was in yours even though you were obviously sick.

How many years had it been since your hand has been held? Since youve felt the touch of a living person?

“Your not scared of getting sick?” A whisper escapes from your lips.

“Nope!”

“Oh…” The sound of your footsteps hitting the wooden dock did nothing to calm the rapid beating of your heart.

“It’s just up ahead!” The polar bear grinned as he ran faster. His happiness was contagious as you couldn’t help the smile spread on your face. For some reason, this time felt different. Like hope had filled you once again after all these years.

The closer you got, the more you see what he was dragging you too. A yellow submarine with black markings along it. Odd shapes but you kept yoru mouth closed. Now wasn’t the time to insult or question. But you notice that you feel an overwhelming pull to it. Like your heart was trying to jump out of your chest to it.

The polar bear stopped in front of the submarine. “Here we are! The Polar Tang!”

“The Polar Tang?”

“Yep! Now come on!” You watch as the bear climbs up and opens a hatch before motioning you to follow. With an exhale of breath, you follow. The cold metal making a shiver run down your spine. The ladder felt shaky even though it was simply yourself as you begin to grow nervous.

Finally stepping on teh metal ground the bear once again motions you to follow. As you walk with him, you realize you never caught his name.

“Um, you never told me your name?”

The bear looked over his shoulder. “Oh, I didn’t? Sorry! But my names Bepo! Yours?”

“(Y/N). (L/N) (Y/N).”

“Perfect. I’ll let the captain know.” With a hum,you follow the bear to an office around the corner. You watch as teh bear knocks on the door.

“Captain! Are you busy? We really need you!” You hear a sigh from behind the door before the doorknob turns.

“Bepo I’m really busy, what do you-” The captain stood quiet as he looked at you. A look of horror and shock in his eyes. Your heart beat against your ribs as time seemed to stop. With your eyes scanning the captain, your eyes stop at his hat. It looked so familiar…

“Bepo leave.”

“What? But captain-”

“Go!” He points away from him before turning back to you. “You stay.”

You watch as Bepo leaves and you can’t help but feel like your being crushed. The air seemed tense between you and him. But before a word left your lips, a cold hand grabs yoru wrist and pulls you into his office. Locking the door behind him, he begins to pace.

“This isn’t possible…this has to be some sort of nightmare….” Taking off his hat, he runs his fingers through his hair. Soon he turns to you, a bewildered look in his eyes.

“That’s amber lead disease isn’t it? The white patches…” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you respond.

“Yes.” Your answer only seemed to make it worse.

“Thats not possible! No one was supposed to survive after the government…” He trails off and you can’t help but feel tears gloss your eyes. Clutching your hands into fists, you look down.

Suddenly, you feel him grip your shoulder. “No one was supposed to live to see fifteen! So how are you alive?” His voice desperate.

“I don’t know.” You spoke with a soft voice as the tear begin to slip down your cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“Did you eat a devil fruit?” While still frantic, his voice was much more gentle.

“No. I’ve never even seen one in my life.” There was a few seconds of silence as you watch teh gears turn in his head. “How do you know so much about Flevance?” You asked as you looked into his eyes. His golden orbs almost hypnotizing.

“I’m from Flevance.”

“What?”

“I’m from Flevance.” Your body seems to shake as you gently place yoru hands on his arms. The world seemed to spin as your eyes look into his own, trying to see for any lies.

“What’s your name?” He looks hesitant for a second before answering.

“Trafalgar Law.” Your hands fly to your mouth as it all begnis to make sense. The familiar hat, the pull you felt when you neared the sub, his eyes. All the pieces fit together. The boy you once thought was gone, now stood in front of you all grown up. Your heart jumped in yoru chest as what used to be tears of pain, were now tears of joy.

“Your alive…I can’t believe your alive!” A huge smile lays across yoru face as you grip his arms tighter. “I thought you died all those years ago but you didn’t! Your here with me!” Law looks at you intensely before his eyes widen.

“(Y/N)?” You nod and let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah.”

Without second to spare, Law pulls you into a tight hug. Wrapping his arms around you like you’d disappear if he so much as lighten his grip. You wrap your own arms around him and begin to sob uncontrollably. Despite his cold touch, knowing that he was alive gave you an unbelievable warmth.

After spending years alone, wandering around the world, you finally had someone. The feeling of behind hugged for the first time in thirteen years was overwhelming as you criedd into Law’s shoulder. You can hear him crying as he cried into your hair. Both your bodies trembling as the combined sobs echo in his office. Cries of pain and the finally ending loneliness slipping down your cheeks.

“I thought i was all alone. That i was the only one left.” You whisper into Law’s shoulder. Law said nothing and only gripped you tighter. His sobs echo in your ears as the two of you subconsciously begin to sway side to side.

“How did you get out? They had everything fenced in and guarded. How did you escape?”

You ran as fast as you could along the bloody flame ridden streets. Everywhere was a dead end or was guarded by the government who wanted you dead. It seemed like you were stuck in an endless loop as you went in circles trying to find an escape.

As you ran forward, a big wall of burning hot flames raged before you. Yet, beyond the flames, you could see the port. The water reflecting the horror that is your crumbling home. This could be your only shot.

Looking at the wall of flames, you took a breath before running into the heat, determined to get to the other side.

“I managed to hide in a crate on a navy ship. And the next stop they went to after Flevance I got off.” Looking you at him, you sniffle. “What about you? How did you escape?” You watch as Law grows silent and clings to your shirt.

“If you don’t wanna say it’s okay. We’re already been through enough.” Rubbing his back, you try to soothe him.

“It’s been so long since I’ve been hugged, thank you Law.” You’ve never felt so calm since you were a child. Such safety in his arms.

“I don’t understand though, how did you survive the Amber Lead?”

Law lets out a shaky breath.”It’s a long story, but to keep it simple, I ate a devil fruit.” You pull your head from his shoulder and look at him with shock before stars appear in your eyes.

“You have devil fruit powers?! Really?! You must show me!” Law looked at you, a smile on your face. He can see the tired look in your eyes and the heavy burden you bear with teh more noticeable spots then his own.

It intrigued him: how you could still have such prominent spots that look like you're still fresh with the disease, but you're still healthy, walking fine, and showing no signs other than the spots. Could you have truly been immune?

Law goes to say something but he watches in shock as you examine his office before standing in front of his doctors licsence.

A shock gasped leaves your lips as you turn back to Law. “Is this real?! Did you really become a doctor?!”

“Yeah.” A chuckle leaves his lips before a silence falls between he two of you. Suddenly a sigh leaves your lips.

“I’m sorry if this is awkward. I just…I didn’t think I’d ever met someone from Flevance who was still alive and lived to tell the tale.” You say with a shaky tone. “And I know I’ve already said this….” With a trembling lip, you run up and pull law into another hug.

“I’m so happy your alive!” You wail as your legs grow weak. The inside of your head pounded like a drum as you struggle to breath through your sobs. With your legs finally giving up, your knees hit the ground taking Law with you.

Law’s heart hits against his ribs at your words. After years of feeling so alone and hiding what truly happened that night, there felt a bright warm feeling in his chest.

“Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me stay with you.” Law hears your sniffles as you cry into his shoulder.

He hadn’t about that. What would happen now? By the looks of it and what you’ve said, people still treat Amber Lead like they did all those years ago. Medicine has advanced so much, and yet you were still stuck with a painful reminder of what you’ve lost.

“Of course, don’t worry.”

“Hello Mrs. Trafalgar! Is Law available?” The sound of your voice breaks through Law’s study session. Knowing his mom would let you in the house with no questions asked, he began to panic. He looked around his room and saw the slight mess that it was. Jumping from his seat, he begin to pick up the dirty clothes and quickly make his bed.

A few knocks reach a Law’s ears. “Law? Can I come in?” Your voice echoes in his room. Whipping his head around to check his room to see any mess, he pulls off his hat to straighten out his hair before throwing it on his bed.

“Yeah!” Law hit his head as he critizes himself for sounding too excited but quickly straightens himself out as you enter.

“Oh wow, your room is so clean!” You say as you look around before turning to him. “Hey, where’s your hat?”

“I just took off for a second.” Law says with a nervous chuckle. He watches as you spot his hat on his bed before grabbing it.

Going up to him, you put it back on his head. “There we go. Much better.” Your smile made his heart beat heavily as he swallows.

“How’s your studying going? I heard from your mom that if your not hanging out with me, your studying. Am i just that awesome?” Your teasing and smug smile makes his heart beat even faster.

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about!” Law exclaims as his face feels hot. “She’s making things up!”

“Alright calm down. I’m just teasing!” Grumbling, Law looks away.

“Whatever.”

You laugh before moving towards his desk after something caught your eye. Once your eyes finally got a good look, you squeal.

“Is that the new Sora: Warrior of the Sea book?! Why didn’t you tell me you got the new volume?!”

“I was walking for you to come over…” Law whispered.

“Huh?”

“I forgot. Lucky for you, I haven’t read it yet so you get the privilege to read it with me.” Crossing his arms, Law tries his best to exclude confidence. Not wanting to show just how excited he was to read with you.

“Well what are we waiting for?! Let’s read it!” Grabbing the book, you sit on teh bed before patting the spot next to you. With a leap of his heart, he goes to sit next to you.

“Law?” Your soft voice in his ear pulls him from his memories and back to the present.

“Hmm?” He feels you pull back from teh hug, eyes bloodshot from tears as some still streamed down your cheeks.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any Sora comics would you? Do you still like Sora?”

Law’s heart beats even faster at yoru question. “I probably have some somewhere, why?” He didn’t want to tell you just yet that he had every single volume in his room safely stored in a book case. Along with many, many action figures.

“Well, we, or I, have never finished reading that volume or have read them since. Do you think we can read them together again? Like we used to?”

“I’d like that.”

#one piece x reader #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #tw death #tw blood

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jon-sedai · 8 months ago

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I rarely speculate on Patchface’s seemingly prophetic jingles because, unless they refer to past events, it’s always a challenging exercise to parse out what they might mean. However, a few things stuck out to me as I was revisiting the ACoK prologue, especially when considering how this chapter works as a narrative mirror to Dany X, the AGoT prologue, and other chapters that come later in the series.

ACoK’s prologue takes place in Dragonstone, where Maester Cressen looks at the red comet in the sky and considers it an omen—"prophesies in the sky", as he calls it. This in itself isn’t particularly remarkable, as most characters who see the comet interpret it as a sign of something supernatural. Then, Shireen and her bizarre fool, Patchface, enter.

Shireen wants to see the raven that recently arrived from the Citadel—a white raven that marks the end of the longest summer in recorded memory. This, Cressen acknowledges, is certainly noteworthy.

And yet . . . and yet . . . the comet burned even by day now, while pale grey steam rose from the hot vents of Dragonmont behind the castle, and yestermorn a white raven had brought word from the Citadel itself, word long-expected but no less fearful for all that, word of summer’s end. Omens, all. Too many to deny. What does it all mean? he wanted to cry.

And Cressen is right; all of these are omens connected to prophecy. According to prophecy, the end of a long summer precedes the rise of a hero destined to wake dragons from stone and fight the darkness.

“In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.” Davos I, ACoK

It is written in prophecy as well. When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. The bleeding star has come and gone, and Dragonstone is the place of smoke and salt. Davos III, ASoS

“He is not dead. Stannis is the Lord’s chosen, destined to lead the fight against the dark. I have seen it in the flames, read of it in ancient prophecy. When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. Dragon-stone is the place of smoke and salt.” Jon X, ADWD

The omens that unsettle old Master Cressen foretell the birth of a hero of fire. Daenerys Targaryen, in the chapter that directly precedes this prologue (Dany X, AGoT), became that hero when she emerged from Drogo's pyre as "the Unburnt" and "the Mother of Dragons".

It is important to note that Dany X is a direct narrative parallel to the AGoT prologue, where creature of ice were seen again. The return of ice demanded the birth of fire, as all things must remain in balance. And Maester Cressen makes note of this as well,

The smallfolk said that a long summer meant an even longer winter […]

As a mirror to the AGoT prologue and Dany X, the ACoK prologue is full of references to Azor Ahai and the Long Night—too many to ignore. What’s particularly interesting is how this prologue circles back to a motif first introduced in Dany X: the birth of dragons. This comes to the forefront when Patchface utters his first prophecy in the series, which leads to an intriguing conversation between Cressen and Shireen about dragons coming to life; this conversation is occasionally interrupted by more cryptic jingles from the fool.

The fool turned his patched and piebald head to watch Pylos climb the steep iron steps to the rookery. His bells rang with the motion. “Under the sea, the birds have scales for feathers,” he said, clang-a-langing. “I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”

Before I proceed, I want to address my thoughts on the phrase "under the sea". I subscribe to the theory that Patchface's prophetic ability was awakened because he drowned and was brought back to life. After his "death" at sea, he became an emissary of the Drowned God.

The boy washed up on the third day. Maester Cressen had come down with the rest, to help put names to the dead. When they found the fool he was naked, his skin white and wrinkled and powdered with wet sand. Cressen had thought him another corpse, but when Jommy grabbed his ankles to drag him off to the burial wagon, the boy coughed water and sat up. To his dying day, Jommy had sworn that Patchface’s flesh was clammy cold. No one ever explained those two days the fool had been lost in the sea. The fisherfolk liked to say a mermaid had taught him to breathe water in return for his seed.

Thus, “under the sea” could refer to the process of dying and being reborn; note that this phrase often appears narratively as an accompaniment to talk of death. More generally, "under the sea" could represent a state in which suspended life is reanimated. Keeping this in mind, the image of birds having scales for feathers “under the sea” refers to dragons, which exist as suspended life forms encased in stone until they are brought to life

The conversation between Cressen and Shireen that directly follows Patchface’s first jingle continues the theme of stone dragons coming to life.

“Sit with me, child.” Cressen beckoned her closer. “This is early to come calling, scarce past dawn. You should be snug in your bed.” “I had bad dreams,” Shireen told him. “About the dragons. They were coming to eat me.”

Though Cressen tries to assuage her fears by telling her that dragons carved from stone cannot be brought to life, Shireen aptly remarks on the significance of the comet in the sky.

“What about the thing in the sky? Dalla and Matrice were talking by the well, and Dalla said she heard the red woman tell Mother that it was dragonsbreath. If the dragons are breathing, doesn’t that mean they are coming to life?”

Dany X proved that stone dragons have indeed been born. But Daenerys is the least of Shireen's worries. While her dragon-related nightmares are tied to Azor Ahai and the prophecy of his coming, it is her own father she must truly fear.

What’s truly puzzling, however, is Patchface’s next jingle, uttered as Cressen and Shireen turn their discussion toward the end of the long summer.

Patchface rang his bells. “It is always summer under the sea,” he intoned. “The merwives wear nennymoans in their hair and weave gowns of silver seaweed. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”

In a word, this is nonsense. "Nennymoans" don’t exist and are never mentioned again after this chapter. The term doesn’t refer to anything in the real world either. So, what exactly is Patchface talking about? I’ll have to take some liberties here to try and tease out the meaning behind this.

"Nennymoans," as a few fans have suggested, could refer to anemones. An anemone could be one of two things: a multicolored flower in the buttercup family that blooms in spring or fall, or a multicolored sea creature that resembles these flowers and grows in the depths of the ocean. Given that this chapter centers on the Long Night and dragons, this jingle likely plays into those themes.

Anemones, in whatever form, are tied to the cycle of life and death:

Greek legends say that Anemos, the Wind, sends his namesakes the Anemones in the earliest spring days as the heralds of his coming. […] Greek myth gives the anemone two meanings, the arrival of spring breezes and the loss of a loved one to death […] (Flower Meanings: Anemone)

This cycle of life and death is central to the Ironborn belief: “What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger”. With spring winds—or flowers—in their hair, the mermaids become agents of this process.

This cycle of life and death is also closely related to the waking of dragons:

She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Dany was showered with ash and cinders. And something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling, to land at her feet; a chunk of curved rock, pale and veined with gold, broken and smoking. The roaring filled the world, yet dimly through the firefall Dany heard women shriek and children cry out in wonder. Only death can pay for life. Dany X, AGoT

Dragons are also tied to the Lands of the Long Summer, which mirror the Lands of Always Winter—a place of death. Ice versus fire, death versus life, dragons or Others. This is the essence of the Long Night.

Other clues in the text help us understand the mermaids’ silver gowns:

On the crown of the hill four-and-forty monstrous stone ribs rose from the earth like the trunks of great pale trees. The sight made Aeron’s heart beat faster. Nagga had been the first sea dragon, the mightiest ever to rise from the waves. She fed on krakens and leviathans and drowned whole islands in her wrath, yet the Grey King had slain her and the Drowned God had changed her bones to stone so that men might never cease to wonder at the courage of the first of kings. Nagga’s ribs became the beams and pillars of his longhall, just as her jaws became his throne. For a thousand years and seven he reigned here, Aeron recalled. Here he took his mermaid wife and planned his wars against the Storm God. From here he ruled both stone and salt, wearing robes of woven seaweed and a tall pale crown made from Nagga’s teeth. The Drowned Man, AFFC

The only other time seaweed is woven into cloth is in Aeron’s thoughts, as he reflects on the Grey King, the legendary figure who slew the fire-breathing sea dragon Nagga. The Grey King wore gowns of seaweed and decorated his hall in a similar fashion. This was where his warriors feasted:

But that was in the dawn of days, when mighty men still dwelt on earth and sea. The hall had been warmed by Nagga’s living fire, which the Grey King had made his thrall. On its walls hung tapestries woven from silver seaweed most pleasing to the eyes. The Grey King’s warriors had feasted on the bounty of the sea at a table in the shape of a great starfish, whilst seated upon thrones carved from mother-of-pearl. Gone, all the glory gone. Men were smaller now. Their lives had grown short. The Storm God drowned Nagga’s fire after the Grey King’s death, the chairs and tapestries had been stolen, the roof and walls had rotted away. Even the Grey King’s great throne of fangs had been swallowed by the sea. Only Nagga’s bones endured to remind the ironborn of all the wonder that had been. The Drowned Man, AFFC

Aeron believes that those who serve the Drowned God will be taken to feast in his halls when they die (The Prophet, AFFC; The Foresaken, TWoW). This evokes imagery of Valhalla and its inhabitants, the Einherjar—dead warriors who are destined to be reborn to fight in the final battle during Ragnarok. The Valkyries, who take the dead to Valhalla, parallel the mermaids mentioned in Patchface’s jingle. Both partake in the cycle of life and death, acting as agents of an apocalypse.

If we associate “under the sea” with the cycle of death and rebirth, then gowns of silver seaweed might symbolize either armor or the more spectral funerary garments worn by the dead (or ghosts). The latter seems more likely, given Shireen’s next line:

Shireen giggled. “I should like a gown of silver seaweed.”

This is a child’s innocent wish—but tragically, it will come true. Shireen will receive her silver gown, her funerary garment, soon. The next line seals her fate and is what inspired this post in the first place:

“Under the sea, it snows up,” said the fool, “and the rain is dry as bone. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”

It puzzled me for quite some time what Patchface was referring to here. But given that this chapter focuses on the Long Night and dragons, this jingle is clearly referencing the latter—especially considering it directly follows Shireen’s unwitting prophecy of her impending death for the sake of a dragon.

On the surface, this third jingle doesn’t seem connected to the birth of dragons at all. However, remember that Azor Ahai will be born after a long summer, amidst “smoke and salt". And remember, this prologue is set on Dragonstone, which sits on the Dragonmount—a volcano where dragons once lay, where ash and smoke billow up (this detail will be important later). The jingle seems to describe the conditions that breed dragons! “Snow falls up… rain [is] dry as bone” clearly refers to “smoke and salt".

Up until this point, you’d likely think this jingle refers to Dany and her dragons—and you’d be right, but only partially. From this point forward, we see that Patchface’s jingles align closely with another character who is being positioned as Azor Ahai—Jon Snow.

Let’s revisit the second jingle about mermaids with “nennymoans” in their hair. It’s noteworthy that although Patchface often uses the sea as the backdrop for his prophecies, mermaids only appear twice in the entire series. The first instance is in this prologue, where they seem to evoke imagery of life after death. The second instance occurs just before a pivotal moment—before a Targaryen prince, a dragon, is put to sleep.

Patchface jumped up. “I will lead it!” His bells rang merrily. “We will march into the sea and out again. Under the waves we will ride seahorses, and mermaids will blow seashells to announce our coming, oh, oh, oh.” Jon XIII, ADWD

For context, this prophecy follows Jon’s announcement of his intent to lead the ranging beyond the Wall—a ranging that would surely lead him and his men to death’s door. Patchface’s assertion that “[they] will march into the sea and out again” could symbolize the process of wight-ification—a perverse form of new life springing forth after death.

The mention of seahorses is also intriguing. It could refer to serpentine sea creatures, which ties into the broader theme of dragons and their role in the cycle of life and death. Dragons serve as vehicles for new life after a period of death, a theme that is mirrored in Daenerys’s campaign in Slaver’s Bay. However, I’m also inclined to think of Kelpies—grey or white sea-horses that lure men and women to their death under the sea. The imagery of grey or white sea-horses calls to mind part of Patchface’s second jingle, where mermaids wove gowns of silver seaweed.

While I won’t speculate too much on the point about riding seahorses, it’s worth noting how Patchface’s third jingle relates to Jon Snow. This particular jingle, which references snow falling up, has two narrative parallels—and they complicate things quite a bit. The first parallel comes later in this prologue, just before Cressen meets his end:

Patchface sprawled half on top of him, motley fool’s face pressed close to his own. He had lost his tin helm with its antlers and bells. “Under the sea, you fall up,” he declared. “I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.” Giggling, the fool rolled off, bounded to his feet, and did a little dance.

The dichotomy here is fascinating. If the first mention of snow relates to the “smoke and salt” that provide the necessary elements for the birth of dragons, what does it mean when the focus shifts to Cressen himself? “You fall up” evokes the image of a person being lifted from the ground—resurrected. Where the first instance of snow falling up might reference the birth of dragons, this second instance could refer to the rise of their natural enemies, the wights.

That this second instance of “falling up” refers to the creation of wights—perversions of life after death—is further reinforced by the unsettling tune Patchface sings in the preceding paragraph.

Over the clatter of knife and plate and the low mutter of table talk, he heard Patchface singing, “… dance, my lord, dance my lord,” to the accompaniment of jangling cowbells. The same dreadful song he’d sung this morning. “The shadows come to stay, my lord, stay my lord, stay my lord.”

But this isn’t the first time Patchface sings this. When Shireen finally sees the white raven, Patchface unleashes his prophecy:

“Clever bird, clever man, clever clever fool,” said Patchface, jangling. “Oh, clever clever clever fool.” He began to sing. “The shadows come to dance, my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord,” he sang, hopping from one foot to the other and back again. “The shadows come to stay, my lord, stay my lord, stay my lord.” He jerked his head with each word, the bells in his antlers sending up a clangor.

I think it’s clear that the shadows Patchface refers to are the Others, who are often described as “white shadows” throughout the text. Remember, this chapter mirrors the AGoT prologue, which featured Waymar Royce’s confrontation with an Other—“dance with me, then", Waymar challenged. That was just before he died at the hands of the Other and rose as a wight. Shireen also states that Patchface began signing this tune only recently—perhaps once the comet became visible in the sky.

Jon Snow, a narrative parallel to Waymar, begins his twelfth chapter of ADWD fighting the dead atop the Wall. Though his dream and its immediate aftermath suggest he will be victorious, the specter of death follows him until the next chapter, when he is assassinated by his own brothers. This sense of death lingers as he meets with Queen Selyse, Shireen, and Patchface in Jon XIII.

They found Her Grace sewing by the fire, whilst her fool danced about to music only he could hear, the cowbells on his antlers clanging. “The crow, the crow,” Patchface cried when he saw Jon. “Under the sea the crows are white as snow, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.” Princess Shireen was curled up in a window seat, her hood drawn up to hide the worst of the greyscale that had disfigured her face. Jon XIII, ADWD

Other than the ACoK prologue, this is the only time snow is mentioned in Patchface’s prophecies. And this second instance is even more puzzling than the first. What does it mean for Jon, the crow, to be “white as snow”? If the first instance says “snow falls up", does that mean Jon, who is the snow, will rise?

The entirety of ADWD is centered around Jon’s impending death.

You are wrong. I have dreamed of your Wall, Jon Snow. Great was the lore that raised it, and great the spells locked beneath its ice. We walk beneath one of the hinges of the world.” Melisandre gazed up at it, her breath a warm moist cloud in the air. “This is my place as it is yours, and soon enough you may have grave need of me. Do not refuse my friendship, Jon. I have seen you in the storm, hard-pressed, with enemies on every side. You have so many enemies. Shall I tell you their names?” “I know their names.” “Do not be so certain.” The ruby at Melisandre’s throat gleamed red. “It is not the foes who curse you to your face that you must fear, but those who smile when you are looking and sharpen their knives when you turn your back. You would do well to keep your wolf close beside you. Ice, I see, and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel. It was very cold.” Jon I, ADWD

But, a key point is that Jon will return, for Melisandre has seen it in her flames.

Death, thought Melisandre. The skulls are death. The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain. Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again. Mel I, ADWD

But what’s interesting is that the language surrounding Jon’s death and rebirth mirrors the birth of dragons—“smoke and salt”, “snow fall[ing] up”, and “rain dry as bone” mirror the “ashes and cinders” in Mel’s visions of the boy.

And keep him away from the red woman. She knows who he is. She sees things in her fires.” Arya, he thought, hoping it was so. “Ashes and cinders.” “Kings and dragons.” Dragons again. For a moment Jon could almost see them too, coiling in the night, their dark wings outlined against a sea of flame. Jon VIII, ADWD

Mel is the first and only person in the series to recite the prophecy of Azor Ahai being born amidst salt and smoke to wake dragons. In fact, she always precedes it with “I have seen it in the flames”. Though Daenerys fulfilled those requirements in her last AGoT chapter, it’s still noteworthy that the narrative continues to present this prophecy as something that is yet to reach full completion. From a Doylist perspective, you don’t repeat a motif if it is no longer relevant to the ongoing narrative, especially when it is presented in a particular context; in this case, as it’s continuously presented in Jon’s Dance arc.

Mel is the primary person in the current timeline who links the waking of dragons to Azor Ahai, and every time she looks for this hero, she sees Jon!

Yet now she could not even seem to find her king. I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R’hllor shows me only Snow. Mel I, ADWD

It’s striking that the last time the idea of dragons waking as part of Azor Ahai’s rise comes up in Jon X, just three chapters before his death.

Melisandre’s face darkened. “That creature is dangerous. Many a time I have glimpsed him in my flames. Sometimes there are skulls about him, and his lips are red with blood.” A wonder you haven’t had the poor man burned. All it would take was a word in the queen’s ear, and Patchface would feed her fires. “You see fools in your fire, but no hint of Stannis?” “When I search for him all I see is snow.” The same useless answer. […] “Would you know if the king was dead?” Jon asked the red priestess. “He is not dead. Stannis is the Lord’s chosen, destined to lead the fight against the dark. I have seen it in the flames, read of it in ancient prophecy. When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. Dragonstone is the place of smoke and salt.” Jon had heard all this before. “Stannis Baratheon was the Lord of Dragonstone, but he was not born there. He was born at Storm’s End, like his brothers.” He frowned. “And what of Mance? Is he lost as well? What do your fires show?” “The same, I fear. Only snow.” Snow. […] “You are seeing cinders dancing in the updraft.” “I am seeing skulls. And you. I see your face every time I look into the flames. The danger that I warned you of grows very close now.” “Daggers in the dark […]” Jon X, ADWD

This passage not only foreshadows Jon’s impending death, but once again, we see “cinders dancing in the updraft”—a phrase that echoes “snow falls up, and the rain is dry as bone". Both the ACoK prologue and this chapter discuss the waking of dragons, and in both, “snow” is linked to the conditions necessary for such an event. This raises interesting questions about Melisandre’s visions of “smoke and salt”—what exactly did she see?

Regardless, Jon is quite firmly wrapped up in the mysteries surrounding Azor Ahai and the waking of dragons. Not just in this chapter, but a common motif that comes up in his Dance arc is the aspect of sacrifice to wake dragons.

Burning dead children had ceased to trouble Jon Snow; live ones were another matter. Two kings to wake the dragon. The father first and then the son, so both die kings. The words had been murmured by one of the queen’s men as Maester Aemon had cleaned his wounds. Jon had tried to dismiss them as his fever talking. Aemon had demurred. “There is power in a king’s blood,” the old maester had warned, “and better men than Stannis have done worse things than this.” The king can be harsh and unforgiving, aye, but a babe still on the breast? Only a monster would give a living child to the flames. Jon I, ADWD

Much of this revolves around the sacrifice of a living child. Jon sends Mance’s son away with Gilly, believing he’s bypassed such a tragedy. But GRRM has confirmed that Stannis will sacrifice his own daughter, reinforcing the theme of royal blood as a powerful magical catalyst. The prophecies set in stone in the ACoK prologue through Patchface and Shireen are thus mirrored in Jon’s Dance arc.

What’s particularly interesting is how the idea of burning dead children to wake dragons is paralleled by Dany X, when Rhaego was placed in Drogo’s pyre, bringing dragons into the world and “rebirthing” Daenerys as Azor Ahai. Dany had her dragon eggs waiting to be brought to life, but at the Wall, there are no such eggs. So where will the dragon come from? Jon himself questions this:

“That I would speak to Stannis, though I doubt my words will sway him. A king’s first duty is to defend the realm, and Mance attacked it. His Grace is not like to forget that. My father used to say that Stannis Baratheon was a just man. No one has ever said he was forgiving.” Jon paused, frowning. “I would sooner take off Mance’s head myself. He was a man of the Night’s Watch, once. By rights, his life belongs to us.” “Pyp says that Lady Melisandre means to give him to the flames, to work some sorcery.” “Pyp should learn to hold his tongue. I have heard the same from others. King’s blood, to wake a dragon. Where Melisandre thinks to find a sleeping dragon, no one is quite sure. It’s nonsense. Mance’s blood is no more royal than mine own. He has never worn a crown nor sat a throne. He’s a brigand, nothing more. There’s no power in brigand’s blood.” Sam I, AFFC

As of Jon XIII, ADWD, there are no dragon eggs at the Wall. But what we do have is a Targaryen prince—Jon Snow—bleeding out in the snow, growing hard with cold as all memory of warmth flees from him (Bran III, AGoT). Jon himself is the dragon waiting to be woken, a “sleeping dragon” not of stone, but of blood and prophecy. Exactly how he will be woken remains a mystery, but we see a fascinating thread running from ACoK through ADWD regarding Jon’s role in the series’ central conflict.

In the ACoK prologue, Patchface sang of mermaids with spring in their hair, weaving funerary gowns. In ADWD, he sings of these same mermaids blowing seashells to announce the coming of those who have descended into the sea’s depths and emerged alive once more. How intriguing that both of these jingles are framed by discussions of dragons.

“A grey girl on a dying horse. Daggers in the dark. A promised prince, born in smoke and salt. It seems to me that you make nothing but mistakes, my lady. Where is Stannis? What of Rattleshirt and his spearwives? Where is my sister?” “All your questions shall be answered. Look to the skies, Lord Snow. And when you have your answers, send to me. Winter is almost upon us now. I am your only hope.” Jon XIII, ADWD

The first two prophecies have already come to pass. The third, however, still looms over the narrative. Yet, it too will soon reach completion. A crow has now become white as snow—dead. But as in Patchface’s prophecy, he will emerge from under the sea—a dragon reborn, the promised prince who will save his realm.

#this was really only gonna be a one pager that was like: isn't it interesting how patchface's acok prophecies mirror jon in dance?#and then it just spiraled out of control 🫠#anyway its finally out of my hands rfnruifne;ndxwioux #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #patchface #maester cressen #shireen baratheon #the long night #dragons #azor ahai #jon snow #daenerys targaryen #melisandre of asshai

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jocelynscrazyideas · 1 year ago

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Right here? Right now? | Jack Hughes x Reader

Warnings: SMUT!!! Language, breeding kinks, unprotected, alcohol.

Summary: Jack has this incredible idea to have some extra fun at Jesper’s house at a party.

A:N- idk if this has been done, but I thought it was fun!!! Lmk if you’ve seen something similar (sorry)

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

Today is December 31, New Year’s Eve. Jesper decided to throw a party to celebrate with the team. Some of us couldn’t make it, but we did party all night. Most of the couples came, and Nico, Luke, and John came as solos.

“We should hit body shots!” Nico insists, obviously I back away from the conversation. I’m wearing a red lacy thong underneath my black leggings, I have a matching bralette lying in between my skin and Jack’s grey navy hoodie. Not to mention the fact I’m like the most insecure person on the room.

I step back into the couch that sits in Nicole’s and Bratter’s living room. I lay on my back lying flat across a piece of the white couch. “You gonna try?” John walks over to me. He sets his cup of beer onto the coffee table in the middle of the sitting area. He scooches over to me and lets me rest my head on his lap.

“No. I’m really tired.” I announce as I rest my hands and let John play with my hair. “You coming baby?” Jack walks over to us.

“no. I’m exhausted from our day today.” I responded to jacks question.

John and I have known eachother from our days in Pittsburg. I’ve followed him down to Jersey, he’s like a brother to me.

If he hurts you, y/n, I’ll make sure he’ll know not to do it again.

I mean that’s what John said the first time I told him that Jack and I are going out.

“Please! I want to body shot. I don’t what to do it with Nico, or Luke. Sure as hell not John.” Jack says as he points around the kitchen towards the guys. John picks my head up and walks over to the group of boys.

“Now it’s just you and me.” Jack whined. “You can say it. Just tell me if you don’t want to do it. Just letting you know, it’s gonna look wierd if we don’t do it.” Jack jolts at me. I sit up letting his head resting on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around his back and I lift my legs to cross them over his legs.

I kiss jacks cheek, “well if it makes you happy, I can get up there and do it.” I let go of jacks body and start over to the counter.

I hope ontop of the cold granite and lay flat on my back. Jack walks over and pushes through the crowd and rolls down my leggings. He reveals my belly button and he sets a small lemon ontop of my belly, he pushed my top up until you can see my bra.

Luke hands him a bag of leftover crushed jolly rancher mixed with sour patch kids smashed together. Jack sprinkled a little bit in between my breast. My cleavage slips jacks fingers inside letting him spread a bit. He sets a fireball in my mouth and he backs up, looking at his masterpiece from afar.

The party goes silent as people turn down the music and record. “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5-“

The count down starts for the new year! Jack walks up to me. He rolls his sleeves up from his own hoodie and sets his hat down. “-3-2-“

Jack takes the small lemon from my bellybutton and squeezes it into his mouth. He licks my abdomen from any crumbs that spilt on my torso. His warm wet tounge slips between my breasts and he takes all of the candy onto his tounge. The sourness hits him as he clings to me shoulder. With no hands, Jack takes the fireball from my mouth and takes the shot into his own.

He grabs me to pull me up. He walks over to where he set his beer last. He sips on his cooled drink and hands it to Nico.

“Yeah, goodluck trying tonight! She’s not letting you get anywhere near her. Especially at Bratters house.” Nico chirps at Jack. Jack smiles and walks away.

“I know, and I still am gonna try.” Jack holds his eye contact on my boobs as I pull down my hoodie from our fun event.

I laugh out, maybe I should let him try to buy me in. “Okay, go ahead.” I say and I hold jacks chin, and pull his mouth to my ear letting him whisper into me. He kisses my check before starting.

“I got like really- like really hard, I’m horny- I’m like REALLY , really turned on. Y/n please. Don’t make me beg.” Jack holds my left ass check in his right hand and he holds my back- right under my shoulder blades with his left hand.

He swaddles me in his hold for a minute as he prances around the room. We dance to the music, “it’s a new year anyway, we can celebrate!” Jack convinces me. He slides his right hand into my leggings discreetly and he pulls at my thong. He lets go as he lets it slap into my skin.

“Baby, I can’t wait any longer.” Jack pulls away from our hug that lasted like five-ish minutes. He runs towards Jesper.

“hey, um- I’m gonna need that guest room okay? And don’t let other people walk in, me and y/n are going through it. She’s really tired and I wanna stay so keep the music loud enough where you can’t hear us aguribg.” Jack sets our story up. Knowing Jesper, he already knows that Jack is trying to get in my pants. Jack walks around with his dick pressing against his pants whenever he sees me.

I whisper in his ear before he runs away with me, “seriously? Right here?” I judge him, he doesn’t care.

He takes my hand and runs into the room Jesper sets up for the party people- well Jack requested one, he always does this.

Jack throws me onto the bed, “legs.” He commands, I’m the only WAG that’s not wearing a sexy dress. I don’t need to impress anyone, Jack is the only one who’s seen me, and will probably be getting it.

I slides off my leggings and let him take off the rest of my clothes. He leaves my bra on, he takes my legs and sets them up. He moves my thing to the side. I’m already really wet.

“Wow, either you peed, or you really are horny.” Jack devilishly looks up from my pussy.

“No, you’re the one who’s horny, I just got off of my period.” I correct him. He’s never right, and I’m never wrong. “Fine, so that means your ovulating? Right?” Jack giggles as he stuffs a finger into my hole. He gets up licks his finger and locks the door.

He comes back and I’m already dry.

“You took to long.” I angrily reply to Jacks confused face. Jack jumps down onto his knees as I scorch up to the head of the bed. I hid a pillow between the wall and the headboard. I open my legs and throw off my underwear.

I unclip my bra and Jack tears it off my chest. He beds me down, my ass in his face, he lays down on his back as I sit ontop of this face. He moans as he takes me in. I start to jump on him. I feel like I’m going to cum, so I get up from him sucking inside of me, the suction form his mouth and my pussy breaks and I turn around.

Climbing into Jack, I face his hard dick, and he faces my very wet cunt again. “Again?” Jack gets annoyed. “Yes, you’re getting special treatment as well.” I pull onto his dick.

I play with his balls bad start taking his tip into my mouth. He lifts his hips up, the bdeige of his back lifted, my naked body lying on his bare skin. He licks my pussy out, cleaning every droplet of cum, and creating more. I do the same, except jack dumps everything at the same time.

“Excited, hey?” I tease him, Jack hits his nose into my bud. I realse more than ever and white juice spill onto jacks face. I get up finishing Jack.

~jacks pov~

Liftibg my hips, my shaft still in her mouth I thrust my dick into her throat, almost feeling her tonsils. I feel her tounge massaging every bit of my skin. My tip almost reaching to her stomach at this point I cum. I can feel her swallowing, impressive.

I pull a special on her as I hide my nose into her pussy, what a slut, a slut only for me.

She arrives and finishes on my face, dumping every ounce of fluid onto my face. I make her lick me clean and I lick her creases dry, leaving her actual holes wet, awaiting for her king to touch her.

“Baby, you can take it can’t you?” I ask her, out of breath already I stand up, I push her down onto her back, in missionary I fall into her. Spreading her legs I grab one and throw it over my shoulder.

Grabbing an extra pillow, I fold it stuffing it under her hips, allowing me to hit her G-Spot. She moan out, the music draining all of her cry’s. She ccleched her pussy onto my dick, closing all of the possible gaps. No air is filling her holes, noting but our cums bonding together, and my cock filling her vagina.

~ur pov~

He stuffs every inch of his cock into me. Jack talks me through it:

“Breathe for me.”

“Come for me, I can’t keep hitting you.”

“You’ve taken it before.”

“You’re such as little whore.”

“Slut”

“I love you.”

“You feel so good”

“You so tight.”

*moaning*

Jack is a horny person, and that’s his personality, I love him for it. He grips I to me and finally finishes his love for me. He pulls out belong up with the inside of his hoodie.

He slides his clothes back on and helps me up, he clings to my side as we head back to the party. My hair is frizzy, the perfect curls that I trwiled in a hot tool for hours are ruined, my shirt is crinkled. My makeup is messy, and I have red bits makes everywhere. Jack just seems out of breathe. But he’s a pretty boy, and he’ll get anything he wants.

We pretend like nothing happened. The party ended when John decided to body shot on Nico- not licking his abs, or taking the shot class for his mouth but performing a dance for us and eating a lemon with eachother. I drove John home and made sure he got to bed alright, by the time we got home Jack was sleeping and Luke had to help me carrru him in the house.

I guess there is no part two to our fun tonight.

#jocelynscrazyideas #hockey #nhl #new jersey devils #jack hughes #jack rowden hughes #jack hughes x reader #smut #nhl fic #hockey blurb #🍇🍇🍇

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