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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

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hello !! if it’s not too much of a bother can you write another piece featuring Lion 🫶 maybe another angsty piece, maybe a lil lion + farah combo or something else like lion and gaz getting separated from the 141 during a mission and having to fight their way back to the extraction point (?). totally up to you !!! also thank u for keeping us well fed 🙇‍♀️

Lions and Ibexes

PAIRING: John Price x Wife!Reader 'Codename Lion'

SYNOPSIS: Impulsive was what John always called you - affectionately, of course. But he sure does worry when you disappear without him.

WORDCOUNT: 4.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, death, canon typical violence, a tiny bit of angst, fluff, banter, no connection to 'I'll Take the Night Shift' except codenames, protective!Price, suggestive jokes, etc.

A/N: I wanna give Farah a big smooch on her forehead.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“So this is the woman that the Captain won’t keep quiet about,” you smirk and place your hand into Farah Karim’s, eyes shimmering as you both share a tight grip.

“Commander,” greeting the black-haired woman, your light gear hangs off of you easily and efficiently; clean and well-taken care of.

“Lion,” she nods, smirking back. “A pleasure.”

“Please,” you huff a laugh, “I wish it could be.” Expressions dim as you instantly get to work, the hot sun and dry air sticking to your flesh like a second skin of humidity. Releasing Farah’s hand you sigh and look around the old town, skimming over the forms of other Urzikstan Liberation Force soldiers.

Farah does the same, breathing lowly.

“On that, I believe you’d be right.” Brown eyes flick to yours, looking you over before the woman nods. “Come, we have much to discuss.”

“Lead the way,” your feet push you onward, following behind the Commander as your wedding band clinks against your chest. Held on that long chain, a hand comes up to brush it carefully, letting the man who wears the mirrored piece bring you comfort even from so far away.

John was set to ship out in two days—there were some other important operations that had taken precedence. While you could have stayed behind with him, as you had wanted to do, a plea from one of the far-distant operators of One-Four-One had caught your ear. The name Farah Karim was known.

If you didn’t offer assistance, you’d never feel right with yourself. One call to Laswell and it was all set up.

“I’ll be there in two days,” John had muttered into your scalp as you both lay in bed, tight to one another; lashes fluttering. “Wait for me, yeah? No running off.”

Your smirk had made him sigh a chuckle. “No stunts of heroics, my Love? Please, do you know who you’re speaking to?”

“You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, y’know?”

“Well,” the words are uttered into his neck and John pulls you tighter into him. “I think that’s just about the most romantic thing to happen to someone.”

Smiling to yourself, you bring the ring to your lips and kiss it lightly before letting it drop. In your head, John is still in your shared flat in London, and you’ll be back by the hour. If only.

“You contacted Laswell and said you had encountered more of Barkov's remaining cells?” Your voice carries easy authority; ingrained confidence.

Farah looks back and nods firmly.

“They’ve taken over a town in the mountains, my forces can’t break the line.” She sighs aggressively and you stare with a sliding frown. “Even dead, Barkov cannot leave my people alone.”

In the back of your throat, you hum, “Well, parasites tend to be resilient.” Farah leads you into a home with maps on the tables and low talking of strategies from others. They pause when you enter and you nod politely. Many here knew your husband as the Commander did—all those years back when he was still only a Lieutenant and had broken Farah and her brother Hadir out from the Russian’s jail; labeled as prisoners of war.

John had told you about it during one of the many late nights in your joint offices. Eyes tired and his hands playing with your hair.

“What do you need me to do?” You ask genially, standing near the table and placing your hands down on it—standard M4A1 resting over your chest and your secondary weapon strapped to your thigh. Unlike most, you’d opted for lighter gear to allow you to move faster.

Fewer packs sit on your vest, and the gleam of the knife on your shoulder was a testament to your preference to close, silent, encounters. Though you liked to use your silver tongue to get out of situations, unfortunately, that wouldn’t work in this instance.

“Captain Price told me you’re one of the best undercover agents he’s seen.” You perk at this, looking over with raised brows.

“Hell,” your chuckle echoes, “when you said he couldn’t keep quiet I thought you were exaggerating.”

Farah smiles cheekily at you before pointing to the map of a mountain town surrounded by red Xs.

“My soldiers have marked off choke points all around the area. They’re the only pathways to the town, but heavily guarded.” She glances around the room and you hear her sigh heavily. “I wouldn’t have asked for assistance unless I knew I needed it. I’d prefer to leave foreign fighters out of this conflict, unlike my enemy.”

“I understand,” your head shakes. “It’s your home—I’ll go where you need me to. John should be here in two days to assist.”

Farah’s face flashes with surprise, her full brows rising on her head. “Price is coming?”

You shrug and laugh, “he’s stubborn.”

The woman chuffs before moving to fold her arms over her chest. “I think perhaps he’s more of a smitten husband, hm?” At the sheepish expression on your face and dipping eyes, Farah barks a laugh.

The band around your neck clinks into the stock of your gun as you stand to your full height.

“Is it that obvious,” you tease, tilting your head to her. You knew it was.

“I believe the simple action of asking is proof enough, Lion.” The commander looks at her work on the table, smiling easily but focusing still on her plan of attack. “But, regardless, I give my thanks for flying out on such short notice.”

“We help our own.” Resting your hands on the body of your weapon, you smile fondly. “Now, who do I need to kill?”

—

As it turns out, killing was the very baseline of what you needed to do.

Shuffling into the dark armor of the dead Russian soldier at your feet, you grunt at the slick spread of blood on the ground as you strap arm braces to your limbs.

“Heavy as all hell,” you grumble under your breath, picking up the large helmet and shoving it over your head with a puff of air.

Farah was going to lead a distraction on the far side of the western choke point while you slipped into the ranks, placing packs of C4 in some of the large-stocked weapons buildings. Easy enough for you, you admitted. You’d done things like this a million times over.

When all was said and done, slipping your knife into the new belt at your waist, you gaze down at the dead man with a huff of air; seeing the blood still pooling from the very obvious signs of a slit up the left armpit. You blink and stuff your wedding band down your shirt.

“Bad day, buddy,” grabbing his legs, you bare your heels and drag the body behind a large outcropping of rocks—long streaks of crimson left behind. “I’d hate to be you right now.”

Grunting, you drop the limp flesh with a thump like a paper-towel roll meeting the counter.

Shuffling back into the open, your feet make tracks to get you closer toward your targets. You hike the small pouch Farah gave you farther up your back without a word more.

John had always said you were quick-witted, but when he got here he’d lose that hat of his in disbelief. The truth was that you had forgotten what little of the Russian language you’d initially known, and the situation you found yourself in now was frankly not ideal.

C’mon Lion, you think to yourself, just pick up social cues and you’ll be good.

Oh, your husband was going to lose his shit.

—

“Come again?” The Captain barks. “What do you fuckin’ mean she’s in the base?!”

“I just explained it,” Farah levels, raising a brow. Blue eyes narrow with a growl until the Commander's lips flicker in a smirk. “We just had word three minutes ago. She’s fine, Captain.” Fingers find John’s nose bridge, digging deep into the flesh in large exasperation and worry.

He had caught a C17 and came here a day early after he’d gotten a bad feeling—internal wife radar going off as it usually did when you placed yourself in danger without him. Which was more often than not.

I told her not to be impulsive.

John sighs long and low, shaking his head. “Farah…you sent her in alone?”

“She is quite capable, Price.”

“I fucking…” He stops himself and puts his hands on the table in the center of the building. Men and women were snickering from the corners, sending amused glances. “I know.”

Farah sends a glance to her soldiers and they turn away to cover their smiling mouths. Enjoyment was in her tone as she grabs the walkie-talkie from the table top and clips it to her vest.

“There were more men than we anticipated—she had to be more careful when placing the charges. Captain,” John glares up at her when his eyes leave the maps. The Commander teases, “She is fine.”

As if on cue, the radio fizzles with your voice. Farah looks down with surprise and the Brit's eyes snap to it immediately; body tense.

There’s a moment of garbled static where the Captain feels his heart beating out of his chest. The panic that had snapped through him when you hadn’t come out to greet him when he’d landed was primal; genuine fear stuck in his bones like spiky grass. The bond the two of you had was closer than anything on this plane of existence. It was rare to not see one without the other.

Your voice cuts through and John’s shoulders sag under a non-existent weight.

“You should tell your men to move unless they want to be scorched, Farah!” The woman in the room smiles ferally and raises a smug brow as she looks at John.

“Copy, Lion. You have my thanks.”

“I didn’t know you could improvise Russian—it’s like the Slavic blood just entered my body!” The Brit covers his eyes with his hand and groans at the base of his throat.

“Tell her to get her arse back here before she gets bloody shot.” John takes off his bucket hat and tosses it to the table with a gloved hand, punching his hair back from his forehead. “Giving me gray hairs,” he grunts.

Farah laughs and says eagerly into the walkie, “Someone’s here to say hello.”

“...Oh, fuck.” Your panting breath clears and after a long glare at the device, John hears you say in a slow and awkward tone, “Hello, my Love!”

Farah tilts the radio closer to him and looks highly pleased.

“Get back here. Now.” John grunts out, fingers digging into his arms as he crosses them. “I told you to wait for me.”

You laugh nervously, deflecting, “...did you, Dear? I guess I misheard you.” The Brit’s jaw clenches but Farah can speak before he can.

“Lion, are all the charges set, then?” You seem thankful for the distraction, sighing over the line.

“All good over here! I just need the O.K from your men and then it’s about to get a whole lot brighter.”

“I’ll relay the news—get away, as far as you can.”

“Already on it,” your breathy chuckle exits and you pause before saying. “See you soon, Love!”

Tiny blue eyes bug, “Wait–!” The line clicks off and Farah is already tapping into the frequency for her soldiers, turning slightly away to converse in quick Arabic.

—

Evening rolls around and you jog back into the Liberation Force’s base, greeting the guards stationed with a breathless sigh; utterly sweaty but happy you’d gotten half a ride back from some locals. You’re back in your original gear, sear marks on your cheeks and hair slightly burned, but nonetheless unharmed.

Everyone welcomes you back with handshakes and pats on your shoulders—brushes to your arm as people pass. You guide yourself back to the main building with chuckles and deep smiles of achievement.

“Someone’s happy.” John’s voice freezes you halfway into the home and you cringe like a leaf. After a moment your eyebrows slide up with a cheeky smile.

“John,” you draw out his name and turn, seeing him leaning against the house with his arms crossed and legs stiff. He looks unimpressed in all of his handsome glory. “Well, don’t you look nice—did you trim your beard before coming out?”

Walking slowly towards him, you loop your hands around his waist and press kisses into his neck sweetly. The man sighs long and you feel his large palms rest on your hips heavily. You blink innocently into his orbs.

“Your silver tongue won’t work on me, Love.” The glint in his expression eggs you on as his nose tints down to touch yours. You smile brightly, seeing the wrinkles on his forehead dim as he melts into you easily.

Whispering, you utter to the air, “I’d say you like my tongue, you brute. Tell me often enough.” Not a beat is missed, but you feel his cheeks go slightly red.

“Keep it on a leash and maybe I’d like it more, yeah?” You snort loudly, head dipping only to feel his lips press into your scalp; his smile is teasing as his beard drags against you.

John breathes you in along with the scent of sand. One of his hands travels up to lock into the back of your neck, playing with the chain of your necklace. The one that mirrors his own down to the very dents and scratches.

“You alright?” The words are a murmur into your flesh. You let him play with your wedding band as your smile softens to the same sensation of warm pelts on a wooden floor.

There was no use telling you to stop your crusades, the Brit knew that. You did what you wanted and damn the consequences; John was stuck with damage control but knew you had the skills and know-how to break all odds. You still held that same fire that the woman he married wore like a crown of fangs without fail.

“Always,” you reassure him, hugging his waist tighter and staring into his eyes.

The both of you lapse into a delicate hold. John’s arms cage you in and you’d have it no other way as fingers drag over warm flesh, never mind the brutal dig of gear or the stain of blood. Neither could keep you away from the other.

“When will you stop making my heart rip out of my chest, Sweetheart?” John asks, smirking down at you. “Trying to give me a heart attack before forty, eh?”

“Oh, please,” you whisper against his lips, eyes alight with mischief as he watches you closely—pulse pounding against yours. He could never be angry at you. “We both know that if you have one, I’ll be having one too. We’ll end up being brain-dead at the same damn time, no doubt.”

He laughs against you lowly, having to pull back to shake his head at your bland confession. “You’re fuckin’ mental, Love.” He breathes in soft puffs of breath. You gaze up at him, laced with affection and care, as he rests his forehead on yours. “Ah, but that’s alright, isn’t it? We’re all a bit crazy.”

“You might be a little bit higher on the metaphorical scale,” you tease, face serious but eyes betraying you. They always would when it came to John; the only person to break through that ‘cunning nuisance’ that everyone always mentioned in your file.

“Really, now?” He blinks, smirking and rubbing at your hip absentmindedly and leaning closer—pushing your neck to the side.

“Just a bit,” you huff, not even realizing.

Before you can utter another word, firm lips capture you like a beast in iron bars, bulky forearms stuck at the curve of your spine. You chirp into John’s mouth in surprise but melt into him as his large purr resonates into your bloodstream. Singing, you bring your hands to his cheeks, digging through those bristles to feel the burn on your hands.

Humming, your husband nuzzles his nose into your cheek like a dog would, letting him take in your scent as you feel your legs go weak. You enjoy the worship he gives you; always would. Your body is tightly held against his own and you gladly would have shown him how much you enjoyed him being here if only for the small fact you needed to talk to Farah.

With one last pass of his reddened lips, you slip back and kiss his bristly cheek with a chuckle.

“Later.”

He groans into you. “Tease.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” You laugh loudly, moving out of his hold to walk into the house as he follows at your heels. John’s hands go to the top of his vest collar to rest.

He leans down and whispers, “Don’t need to, Love.”

Your face burns for him and only him as he grumbles out chuckles at your blown pupils. Huffing, you turn and roll your eyes, trying to dispel your flaming blood. Farah waits for you and with a happy glance up she comes from around the table and claps you on both shoulders. You grunt in surprise but grip her elbows with a laugh.

“Barkov’s remaining cell was wiped out—my soldiers are hunting down the remnants as we speak.” She squeezes your gear and you sigh in relief. “Thank you, Lion, for coming out when you did. The Captain was not wrong in his assessment.”

You turn your head to the side and glance back at John. “Hear that my Love, I’ve heard you talk about me. That’s so precious.”

His face goes red under his beard, and his feet shuffle as you and Farah share a joking glance. John releases under-the-breath grumbles before the Commander addresses him. The woman releases you but speaks past your person.

“Some of my younger soldiers wanted you to mentor them with the use of their weapons, do you plan on staying the night?” You and John share a look, a seeming telepathic communication going on.

He nods at you and you smile. “Only tonight, we ship out at first light. I’ll do what I’m able.”

“Then you also have my thanks. They’ll learn much, I’m sure. Lion,” John comes and gives you a kiss on the cheek before leaving. You watch him go for a moment before rubbing at your dirty neck while you listen to Farah. “Come with me, there’s fresh water on the roof.”

“Oh,” you perk, suddenly realizing the fatigue in your bones and the dryness of your throat. “Thank you, that’d be great.”

As you both ascend the stairs to the roof, there’s a still silence that falls, a calm nothingness. When you finally stand on the flat roof, you look over the vast land as Farah hands you a chilled water bottle from a mini-fridge. You take it with a small nod in thanks.

“Nice view,” you motion with the bottle before taking a long sip—downing half of it in one go.

Farah smiles and hums. “Urzikatan is a beautiful place,” you listen and wipe at your mouth; seeing people walk the streets below as the red sun grows even lower. In the wind, your nose twitches to sand and dust, with some hint of floral notes and arid cleanliness. Farah’s face seeps with a low sadness when she looks out to the land and you pause your drinking. Brows pulling in, you watch her.

“Farah?” You ask, carefully. It’s a moment before she responds.

“I…” She crosses her arms and sets her feet. “I wonder if this place will ever see its freedom. We’ve been fighting for so long already. My family has known war more than anything else.” Brown eyes drift to you from the side of her eye.

There’s a tightness in your chest. You can’t imagine what Farah feels right now, what she has felt. Years of this…and still her home is under foreign subjugation. A frown grows on your face and you put the half-full bottle to the small wooden table near the roof’s corner.

“You’ll get your sovereignty, Farah.” You try your best to speak your mind to the woman but remain truthful to your belief. Farah stares out as you sigh lowly. “Maybe not now—maybe not in this generation—but someday the sun is going to set on a free Urzikatan. You’re plenty strong enough to assure that and you’ve done a proper job so far. The frames are already set.”

The Commander hums and gazes at her soldiers below as they mull about, laughing with each other and enjoying the company of their fellow countrymen.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like?” Farah asks you, and you study her genuine interest in her own thoughts. “Who we would be if nothing ever happened to us.”

You stare for a moment, skull tilting down to gaze at the top of the roof. It’s not an easy question to answer.

“Sometimes,” your lips admit. Farch eagerly pivots to your form like you hold the greatest answer imaginable. She’s been through so much—losing her family, and her home. Humming, your eyes shift to the setting sun; blinking at it. Against all of this, your lips flinch up into a smile. “But not often.”

Farah’s eager gaze turns confused, her brows furrowing deeply with a scrunched face.

“Because right here, right now,” John walks down the street below, and your eyes fall to him as easily as a leaf dances to the ground. The expression on your face eases. “It couldn’t have happened if there were never bad days.” Your husband looks up, and you see him pause among the ranks of other fighters. You chuckle softly, head tilting to the side.

John stares at you as if you’re the only person to exist, moving one hand from his vest to jerk two fingers in a subtle greeting. Farsh watches the interaction closely, tension loosening from her body. Your head nods slowly to your husband and you say to the woman, absent-minded, “I’m right where I need to be…And the sun has never looked brighter.”

Farah huffs a laugh, eyes running back and forth between the two of you.

“He loves you,” she says, “deeply.”

“God,” your laugh echoes, “I sure hope so.” The both of you laugh.

It felt easy to speak to the Commander, truthfully. Being surrounded by four men all of the time can get catty even with such a strong bond as you had with One-Four-One.

You dare to share more.

"In my mind, John and I are still in Hertfordshire for our wedding,” The words come out of you slowly, unwrapping emotions one layer at a time as if swaddled in a dark veil of internal nostalgia. You watch John as he walks along, oddly sad but filled with something that makes you want to take him up into your arms with a wet laugh. “Sitting back on the grassy hills outside of town in my gown and him in his tux. The wind is cold…but neither of us can find it in ourselves to shiver. The sun's setting on our heads and making everything glow gold. His fingers are running through my hair…” You pause and hear Farah’s soft breath in the air, but you don’t look at her. Your eyes stay stuck on one person only. “When I die,” your words continue, “I can't ask for anything more than just a glimpse of that again. Just a flicker of that hill. Of those blue eyes looking into mine. I don't think it would be all that bad if I could live in that moment for senseless eternity. If I could live in it for only one second."

John looks back at you from over his shoulder, your form shrouded in the setting sun as he slowly walks away from you. You gaze with melted eyes, the ring around your neck shining all the brighter.

“I’m right where I need to be,” finishing, you turn your glossy eyes to Farah, who stares with a wide pull to her lids. “And you need to believe that even if you never get to see that freedom—that hill—you’ll make sure someone else can climb it just an inch farther.”

It’s a long moment before Farah answers.

“The both of you will do this until one of you dies, hm?” You blink before you shrug.

“Not one.” Your tone is easy, and John’s shadow turns a corner; out of sight. “I’d never let him go without me.”

TAGS:

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calmlb · 8 days

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It’s been clear that the Tanizakis aren’t siblings from the very beginning

here’s some evidence now that it’s been confirmed canon…

everyone who’s read irl Tanizaki’s book knew that Junichiro & Naomi weren’t siblings as soon as they introduced themselves

BUT just because the Tanizakis aren’t siblings doesn’t mean you can’t feel uncomfortable about them. if you feel uncomfortable, GOOD. that’s exactly what they want

the Tanizakis, Mori— they all use these disturbing ruses to disarm or distract people in order to protect themselves, or to accomplish their goals. this is a writing device that asagiri commonly employs as a way to parallel the irl literature (it’s actually ingenious)

there are 4 main indicators that have always made it clear to me that Junichiro & Naomi are not siblings:

1. most obviously— their character designs. Harukawa is extremely intentional with character designs, & she very intentionally made Naomi & Junichiro look nothing alike

their eye shapes are purposely different

their color palettes are contrasting

even their differing styles of clothing have meaning

this was all done so that the audience could PLAINLY see that they’re not related— so that WE know that they’re lying when they say they ARE related

2. how the people around them respond to their act.

the general reaction is “don’t question it”— which is exactly what they want. “be distracted by how uncomfortable you feel so that you look away from what we’re hiding” (this is likely a protective measure)

3. most importantly, this is meant to parallel irl Tanizaki’s book “Naomi,” where the main character Joji picks up Naomi to raise her into his ideal woman, but since she's so young (& a minor) they call each other cousins (Joji makes no sexual advances on young Naomi btw)

however, his plan backfires because when Naomi gets older & they get married, she flips the script on him & manipulates HIM so that he's under her thumb (which is why bsd Tanizaki is at a domineering Naomi's mercy). Joji let her have her way because of his masochistic tendencies

4. lastly is the emphasis that Asagiri and the Tanizakis themselves put on calling each other siblings.

over & over, it’s “my brother this” & “my sister that”

like they’re desperately trying to convince us that it’s true (“don’t let your lying eyes deceive you”)

here are just a few examples of many examples from the light novels…

again, if you’ve read “Naomi” you knew that Junichiro & Naomi weren’t siblings as soon as they introduced themselves

just like if you’ve read irl Mori’s works, it’s clear that bsd Mori isn’t a pedophile

just like if you’ve read No Longer Human you know that Dazai’s an unreliable narrator. he makes you think he’s a bad person bc he believes he’s a bad person, but those around him see him differently (btw this doesn’t mean he’s never done anything “bad,” though bsd isn’t about morality— but that’s another discussion)

anyway, i’m so excited for the Tanizakis backstory to be revealed so that we can better understand why they use this defense!!

also let this be a reminder to READ THE LITERATURE if you’re able to!! even reading synopses & analyses of the coordinating books makes bsd make much more sense 🥹

reminder that this how you’re supposed to react while reading bsd:

also, if you’re interested in a post explaining how Mori isn’t a pedo, i wrote this analysis on twt. OR you can read this document that one of my moots sent me (remember: analyzing a character does NOT mean you condone any actions they may or may not commit!)

#i hope this makes sense. i’ve had this in the drafts for months but was too scared to post it #i’m hoping now that it’s confirmed canon there won’t be as much backlash ^^’ pls be kind #darcy this is for you… i hope you like it :’)#also full disclosure i haven’t been able to read all of Naomi yet. mostly synopses & analyses. so don’t take my summary of the book as law #also hopefully now people won’t ignore the Tanizakis anymore!! not only are they so interesting. they’re also just fun characters #Naomi is so underrated & intelligent. i need more of her teaming up with Dazai #rambling about bsd again #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd meta #bsd analysis #bsd tanizaki #bsd naomi #naomi tanizaki #tanizaki junichirou #tanizaki siblings #bsd 118

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soralymystaken · 5 months

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I think a lot about Lloyd and Harumi, solely because they have one of the most unique yet complex relationship dynamics in all of Ninjago, and it’s something I don’t feel like we talk about enough.

So often I see online that their dynamic is overly simplified. I so often see people arguing between them being “true-love” or “friends to lovers to enemies,” but stating it’s just one of those is overlooking all of the complexities. Even stating it as a one-sided thing from Lloyd isn’t looking at the whole picture. Of course, there can be many interpretations of how they interact. Again, that’s the reason I adore this dynamic so much. This, however, is my personal interpretation:

Also, warning, spoilers plus some swearing.

At the beginning, we see Lloyd have the whole “love-at-first-sight” trope, and we learn that Harumi invited him into the castle. While, of course this immediately is seemed as a positive interaction, later events reveal otherwise. It continues like this: Lloyd falls deeper in love with Harumi whilst she continues manipulating him to keep him on strings. She eventually realizes his feelings, and wants plays on that, making the process work exponentially better. Finally, we learn Harumi’s motives and her reasoning, and, in the episode, Lloyd is devastated. However, I have some additions on this, but I’m gonna finish up my review of canon before getting to that. We do also know that Lloyd still has feelings, though. We primarily see thing from Lloyd still trying to save her from Garmadon’s grasp along with his sadness from her death.

The next time we see her and Lloyd’s dynamic (at least as far as I want to mention,) is Crystalized. When Lloyd is captured, he apologizes. He still clearly has feelings for Harumi, and, in a turn of events, it seems that Harumi does as well, as she convinces the Overlord to spare him and to try to get him on their side.

Okay, enough about prior knowledge, lets discuss headcanons. So, firstly, I’m 100% sure that Lloyd was tormented by Harumi’s origin story. We know how high of a standard he holds himself to, and we also know how morally-driven he is. Him learning about the real stories of the real people who he had really hurt couldn’t have been taken easily. I’ve actually written a whole fic that revolves on that fact, and how Lloyd’s lingering feelings would have amplified that feeling to oblivion. Also, for people who assume he would immediately drop his feelings when he learned Harumi’s true motives, literally just look at how he talks about Garmadon and you’ll see he can’t exactly move on that easily. Things like this take time, and, again, he has guilt because of this whole thing. Moving on from a relationship when you believe you were the reason the person tried to destroy the entire world and subsequently died isn’t the same as a high school breakup. That’s fucking devastating, and especially for someone who hasn’t had the best relationships up to that point.

However, this dynamic really starts to become cloudy when you look at Harumi. Now, look: I’m like 90% sure she only had feelings for Lloyd in S15 as fan-service, but, fan-service or not, it’s canon, and therefore I’m still gonna cover it.

So, first off, when and how did Harumi develop feelings? Personally, I think there could be three main reasons. For one, gaslighting. The whole time, she was gaslighting Lloyd into loving her. Sometimes, when you keep up a lie like that for so long and with that level of commitment, you can convince even yourself of these feelings. Do I think this is the case for Harumi? Well, it depends. If you truly do believe there is a spark between them, then no. However, if you really don’t like the fact that they were given a romantic storyline in S15, then this is a totally valid reasoning.

The second reason that comes to mind is Lloyd’s persistence. Now, just to cover all our basis, reminder that “being persistent” and “never giving up on a love that could be” are not cutesy tropes and relationship goals, and no means no. I see too much stuff online saying shit like “I never gave up on her and, even though she said no 20 times, she gave in in the end.” This is not something to romanticize. If someone rejects you, fucking respect that and move tf on. That being said, though, I think that could actually be the case in this dynamic, albeit in a much less creepy way than some fuckers online do it. Lloyd clearly, even after all of the shit Harumi pulled, still has lingering feelings: a mix of platonic and romantic. I truly believe Lloyd is someone who believes that anyone can change for the better, and applies this to Harumi. The fact that, even after all the pain Harumi caused, he still searched for her in the rubble could be the reason she developed feelings. In my opinion, this is the most likely option.

The final one is a bit colder, and is for y’all who believe Harumi is evil through-and-through. Lloyd is fucking overpowered. Harumi’s reasoning to the Overlord could be just that: the reason. I personally don’t love this one as much, but if this is something you resonate with, I would totally understand why.

All of these factors strung together make Lloyd and Harumi one of my favorite dynamics. There is so much more that I didn’t even discuss here. Is it romantic or platonic or just romantic for one of them? Did Harumi develop feelings even sooner yet denied them solely because of her hatred? Is Lloyd’s relationship with Harumi less to do with Harumi herself and more-so to do with trying to rebuild a relationship with his father through her to prove he can hold onto someone he loves? All of these are questions I’d love to dive into but simply do not have time.

Hopefully you enjoyed my little rant. I love overthinking stuff like this and also love chatting about over-the-top headcanons. If you have any thoughts on this (or other headcanons you want to share), please do!

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago headcanons #ninjago lloyd #lloyd garmadon #lloyd ninjago #ninjago harumi #princess harumi #harumi jade #harumi ninjago #llorumi

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shakespeareanwannabe · 2 months

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As You Wish, Chapter 16

Summary: When arriving at Camp Silver Star, Abby Floyd was anticipating a summer of adventure with an ocean separating her from the three people she loved most: her mom, her Uncle Bob and her Aunt Natasha. But after a run in with Charlie Seresin, an extremely familiar looking and irritating camper in a different cabin, her summer plans take a turn that neither girl ever could have expected.

Trigger Warnings: reader's children are described as being blond with green eyes because genetics are wild and Jake's genes are strong, reader is canonically Bob's sister (but biological relation is never discussed), reader goes by Buttercup and is tattooed, references to sex and sexual acts (but nothing is explicit), drinking, longing, reference to divorce, kids doing sneaky things, references to pregnancy and hormones

Jake’s Apartment, Coronado, almost 13 years ago

“Fucking rain,” Jake mumbled, navigating his truck into the closest parking spot he could to the front door of his apartment complex. Beside him, wrapped in a beach towel and soaked to the bone, Buttercup giggled, watching the rain stream down the windshield.

“It’s fine, baby.” She reached over to run a soothing hand through his damp hair. “Not even you can control the weather.”

“Maybe, but I promised you a picnic and now I’m a man who can’t keep his promises.” Jake parked the truck and looked at her. “I never break my promises, Buttercup.”

“Shh, baby, I know,” she grinned at him, gently running her nails over his scalp and the back of his neck. “But nothing says we can’t have a picnic in your apartment.”

“With what food?” Most of the food he had prepared had been opened and gotten rained on when dark clouds had moved surprisingly quickly over the ocean and released their downpour upon the unsuspecting beachgoers. “The only thing that didn’t get ruined is dessert.”

“So?” Buttercup giggled at his forlorn expression. “Our little ones are kinda craving one of Daddy’s grilled cheese sandwiches now anyway.”

At that, Jake’s expression melted. He still couldn’t believe it. Twins. He was gonna be a dad to twins, and what was even better? His Buttercup was their mom. They had found out less than a month ago, and yet everything had changed. All his extra cash was going towards finding a house for them, save for the money he had tucked away for this special occasion. He’d put in all the necessary paperwork with the top brass so that they could do their damndest not to deploy him around her due date and afterwards. Jake Seresin had never thought about being a father, but now that it was happening, he was going to do everything in his power to be the best father he possibly could be to the two little lives he and Buttercup were bringing into the world.

“Alright,” he sighed, reaching down to grab the umbrella he had stashed there. “I suppose I can do that for Mama and our nuggets.”

“Mama and our nuggets thank you, Daddy,” she grinned, moving to open her door.

“Wait, wait,” he huffed, sliding out of his truck and racing over to her side to open her door, popping the umbrella open so that she wouldn’t get any wetter than she already was. “There. Now, let’s get inside before you melt, sugar.”

Buttercup groaned. “That was terrible, baby.”

“What? I’m gonna be a dad. I’m allowed to make dad jokes.” Even six months ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead making lame jokes like Rooster or Payback, but Buttercup really had changed him.

Shaking her head, Buttercup grabbed the picnic basket and followed him into the apartment complex, leaning into his side as they rode the elevator up to his floor.

Once safe inside, both raced to get changed. Buttercup grabbed one of Jake’s Navy T-shirts and a pair of his gym shorts before going into the bathroom to change and fix her hair. Once the door closed completely, Jake took the small velvet box out of his jeans pocket and put it safely on the dresser before changing into a pair of grey sweatpants and a gym tank, then safely tucked the box into his pocket again.

“Darlin’, I’m gonna go get started on those sandwiches!” he called.

“Wait!” Buttercup emerged, looking playfully disappointed in him. “House rules, baby. You need me with you.”

He grinned and wiggled his fingers at her. “C’mon then. Those babies aren’t gonna wait all day.”

Buttercup followed him into the kitchen where he gently lifted her onto the countertop next to the stove. He kissed her once, twice, then bent to kiss the barely there bump of her abdomen, before gathering all the necessary materials to make grilled cheese.

As he cooked, they talked. About everything. The babies, work, her brother, his family, their friends. Jake couldn’t remember a time he had talked so much, laughed so much. He’d always reveled in his solitude, excepting maybe Javy, who had been with him for so long that he wasn’t an intrusion to his peace. But Buttercup made him crave her presence. He could barely make it through a day without her, and he had no clue how he would manage when he was deployed again. He wanted to be around her always, which was partially why he had that velvet box in his pocket.

Jake plated up the sandwiches and, before he could warn her, she had scooped one up and taken a big bite.

“Hot!” she screeched. “Hot, hot, hot!”

Jake couldn’t help but laugh. “Every time, darlin’. You do it every time.” He waved his hand in front of her mouth, wafting away the steam.

“And every time it’s worth it,” she grinned at him, and he felt something shift in his stomach.

“Oh yeah? What else is worth it?”

She tilted her head quizzically but shrugged. “Taking showers with you even though it takes us twice as long to get ready. Getting up with you at freaking balls a.m. so you can head to early morning flight exercises, just so I can get my morning kiss and see you before you leave for the day. Putting up with your stubborn, arrogant ass because that stubborn, arrogant ass is so damn fine.” She giggled as she spanked him lightly. “I don’t know, Jake. Everything about you and me feels pretty damn worth it.”

He swallowed down his nerves, his stomach feeling as thought he had just hit Mach speed. “Yeah? So worth it that you might want to do it forever?”

Buttercup blinked at him, tears welling in her eyes. “Are you asking?”

Hand slightly shaking, Jake pulled the velvet blue box out of his pocket and held it at her eye level. “Buttercup, I think I’ve loved you since the moment you tapped me out at the 32nd Street Naval Station four months ago. Ever since that day, you’ve made me a better man. I’m a better teammate because you taught me how to deal with people and put my ego aside. I’m a better aviator because I want to come home to you. I’m a better friend because you’ve shown me what true friendship is. And I hope I’ve become a man who deserves you not only now, but 50 years in the future when we’re both old and grey. I’m not asking you this because you’re carrying my babies. I’m asking you this because I want to spend the rest of my life making you as happy as you make me. So, darlin’, do you think it would be worth it to marry me?”

To her credit, Buttercup didn’t even look down at the glimmering diamond ring shining in the box. No, her tear-filled eyes were trained solely on him, filled with love and wonder.

“Yeah, baby,” her voice trembled. “I think marrying you, Jake Seresin, would be so worth it.”

Jake laughed, fighting back the tears that were threatening to fall. Now wasn’t the time to cry. “As you wish, darlin’.” Jake pulled the ring out of the box and fitted it onto her finger with a deep kiss, everything else fading away.

Seresin Ranch, Clifton, Texas, Now

“You want to go back?” Buttercup couldn’t keep the panic from her voice. She’d been relieved beyond a shadow of a doubt when she had discovered that Jake had retired from the Navy, that Charlie had her dad home with her 24/7/365. But he wanted to go back? She shook her head. She should have known better than to trust that he was home for good. Jake loved flying, more than anything else in the world. He only gave it up because Charlie was a baby. Now that she was older, he could go back.

“Buttercup, please…”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you wanted to go back?” she asked sharply, finally turning around to meet his stare.

Jake felt a flame alight in his chest and he shot back, “I didn’t think I owed you an explanation.”

Buttercup blinked, shrinking back from him slightly to lean against the counter. “You’re right…” she whispered. “After the divorce, you don’t owe me anything. We only owe everything to our children. Do they know?”

Jake sighed, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. “No, they don’t know. Nobody knows.”

Buttercup’s chest felt like it was going to cave in, though from grief or anger, she wasn’t sure. “Right…great…”

Jake took off his baseball cap and fiddled with the brim in an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. “Look, I didn’t mean what I said. You deserve an explanation, I just…” his voice trailed off, and Buttercup suddenly had a vision of a teenage Jake, trying and failing to get himself out of trouble with his parents. She wasn’t used to fumbling, nervous Jake. She was more used to brash, bold, arrogant Hangman. She had fallen for both sides of him, but now the shyer, quieter side of him was just in her way.

“Just what?” Buttercup tapped her foot impatiently. “You just didn’t want to tell me? You just didn’t think I’d care?”

“I never thought you’d find out!” he nearly growled, slamming his hat down on the counter and stepping towards her, not as an intimidation tactic, she realized, but so that she could see the earnestness in his eyes. “Yes, I put some feelers out to see what it would take to go back in six years. Why? Because in six years, Charlie plans to go to California to study veterinary medicine. When Charlie graduates high school, Rooster is planning on moving to Austin and opening his own restaurant. Javy’s already got college recruiters sniffing around. Not the players, but him. They want him to go coach college level ball if the Cougars keep doing well, which they will because he’s a damn good coach. Louisiana State is keeping their eye on him, and he’s pretty keen on going. Within six years, this place is gonna be empty, and it sure doesn’t need me to run it. Cathy and Cliff, our ranch managers, do a better job of running the joint than I ever could. All they need me for is signing the checks.” Jake’s chest heaved. “You’re across an ocean giving TED Talks and having your books turned into movies, and I’m sitting here on my ass, twiddling my thumbs. Flying is the only thing I could see myself doing again, so when I met General Beaumont on the golf course, I mentioned it to him. He told me to talk it out with his daughter, Savannah, and that if she thought I was worth his time, he might be willing to pull some strings and get me back in.” Jake’s eyes were wide, almost begging her to understand. “I don’t regret retiring when I did. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Hell, I’d do it sooner if I thought it meant keeping our family together. But now…I don’t know, sweetheart, when I was faced with the prospect of being an empty nester, I panicked. I don’t know if I want to go back or what I’ll do in six years, but I didn’t want you to find out until I was sure, and I sure as hell didn’t want you to find out through Simpson.” Jake met her gaze, the forest green sparkling as they revealed to her how sincere he was being. “Can you say something? Please?” he murmured, taking a step closer.

“I…”

“Mum? Dad?”

Buttercup nearly groaned in relief. Jake had just laid everything bare at her feet, and she didn’t know how to respond, though she knew that she had to, so Abby’s interruption was a welcome relief.

“Yeah, babe?” she called back, peeking around Jake’s shoulder to see her daughter standing at the French doors, Charlie a few feet behind her.

“We want to go in the pool again, but Reuben and Maryanne said we needed to ask you for permission first.”

Buttercup sighed, but it was Jake who responded. “Sure thing, kiddo. I’ll be right there to watch you.”

Abby nodded, peering at them suspiciously before closing the doors behind her.

“Jake, I—”

“It’s alright, Buttercup,” his grin wasn’t as wide or as bright as it had been in the recent days. “Just promise me we can talk about this later?” She couldn’t help but nod. “Alright. Thank you. I’ll go keep an eye on the kids, okay?”

She nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “I’ll clean up the mess we made so that nobody slips and breaks their neck.”

“Thank you.” He nodded and left, swinging the double doors closed behind him as Buttercup grabbed a towel and crouched behind the island.

Her mind was spinning, and she forced herself to take a few calming breaths, just like her yoga instructor always told them. Jake wanted to go back to the Navy…but he didn’t. He said that he would’ve gotten out of the Navy earlier if it would have kept their family together, but he hadn’t. He didn’t seem to know what he wanted, and who could blame him? They’d been forced into this situation by two blackmailing almost-12-year-old girls. It wasn’t like he had looked her up or she had searched for him. Perhaps if they had sought each other out, it would feel different, but, as it was, she didn’t know how to feel either.

Buttercup sighed and continued mopping up the remnants of their water war when she heard the double doors click open.

“…would you just slow down and talk to me?” That was Javy’s voice, more desperate than she had ever heard him.

“Talk to you about what?” Natasha’s voice was a mere hiss.

“This! Us! How you can’t even look me in the eye? How you’re so angry I’m a little surprised there’s not legit steam coming out of your ears right now? Take your pick!”

Natasha growled in frustration. “Of course, I’m angry! You fucking proposed to me while I was lying, half blind in a hospital bed!”

“I was trying to show you that I was all in!” Javy huffed. “Your career was coming to an end, we’d talked before about how scared we both were of something bad happening, and I wanted to show you that I’d stick with you, no matter what!”

Natasha scoffed. “We’d only been hooking up for like three months! What made you think that asking me to marry you was a good idea?”

Javy was quiet for a moment. “Is that all it was to you? Hooking up?”

Buttercup heard the telltale sound of Natasha’s feet shuffling on the hardwood. “Well…yeah? Because that’s what it was, right?”

Javy loosed a scornful chuckle. “Wow…sure, Phoenix. If that’s what you want to call it, then fine. We were only hooking up.”

Natasha scoffed again. “Well, what would you call it? We never went out.”

“Because we were always going out as a group.”

“Well, we never said we were exclusive.”

Buttercup could practically hear Javy roll his eyes. “We spent every moment of every day together, Phoenix. I’d say that’s pretty exclusive. And I never saw you take anyone else home with you on our night’s out.”

“What? Were you stalking me, you creep?”

“I noticed everything you did because I was so fucking in love with you that I couldn’t stand it!” Javy shouted. “And I was clearly an idiot for thinking that we were on the same page!”

Phoenix’s breath stuttered in the silence. “Y-yeah, well…if you loved me so damn much, then why did you disappear after I turned you down?”

“Oh, forgive me for taking a few days to lick my wounds,” Javy’s sarcasm bit into the air the way the floorboards were biting into Buttercup’s knees and palms. If they didn’t quit arguing soon, she was going to need to stand, and that would just lead to more questions that she didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to answer. “You said no, screamed at me to fuck off, and went AWOL the second they discharged you. You didn’t even come to Mav’s funeral. I got the message loud and clear that you wanted nothing to do with me. Besides, Jake needed a hand with Charlie, so I followed him back here, just like you followed Buttercup to London.”

Natasha went quiet for a moment before murmuring. “Bob brought me to London. I wasn’t doing too hot on my own, depressed and shit after the accident, and Bob got worried, so he dragged me to London with them. Got me and Buttercup help and helped take care of Abby.” Natasha sniffed. “I woulda called once I was feeling better, but I figured you hated me, so I never bothered.”

Javy sighed. “I get it. We can’t change the past…but do you think you can stop biting my head off?”

“Yeah…okay.”

“Thank you…” Javy’s flipflops squeaked against the floor as he started for the door. “And Buttercup, you can get up now. Jake and the girls are looking for you.” The doors clicked shut and Natasha sighed before leaning around the island and leaning down to offer her friend a hand.

It was a testament to their friendship that Natasha didn’t comment on her predicament, instead opting to ask, “You good?”

Buttercup sighed as she stretched to her full height. “No. You?”

Natasha sighed and grabbed a beer. “Fuck no. Now c’mon. Your girls want s’mores.”

Despite the earlier argument, Buttercup’s sides hurt from laughing and her cheeks hurt from smiling by the time the sun started to set, bringing with it a rain shower that sent them all running into the living room. Hondo and Cyclone bowed out then, as did Penny and Amelia, both duos having early flights home in the morning. Payback and Maryanne ushered Richard and their daughter, Peggy, back to their cabin not long after, both kids yawning their protest as their parents bade their friends goodnight.

Rooster had drifted over to the piano at some point and was playing a soothing melody that matched the peaceful ambiance of the room. Javy and Buttercup were chatting quietly in the corner, while Jake, Fanboy and Natasha had convened on the couch.

Charlie and Abby were flaked out on the floor, watching the rain lash at the windows. Things had been weird ever since their dad had come back outside to watch them in the pool. He’d seemed quieter than normal, maybe even a bit sad, and when their mom had come out, she’d acted the same way. Now, they were in separate corners of the room, and that just wouldn’t do.

Charlie elbowed her sister lightly and nodded over at Rooster. The message was clear: Follow my lead.

“Hey, Uncle Roo…”

Rooster gazed at them over the rims over his glasses. “What do you want?” It wasn’t said unkindly, but it was said in a tone that screamed, “I know you want something so spit it out”.

“What was that song you used to play to help me sleep?” Charlie smiled sweetly.

“Why?” Rooster furrowed his brows at her.

“Well…you used to play it at the Hard Deck, right?”

Rooster nodded and Abby jumped in. “Don’t you think it would be fun if you played it right now? Y’know, for old times sake?”

Rooster’s gaze flitted between them. “Whatever scheme you two are trying to pull, I ain’t buying it.”

“No scheme!” they chorused, fingers crossed behind their backs. “We just thought it would be a nice way to end the evening.”

Rooster rolled his eyes and shifted his fingers, not believing them for one second, but they were his nieces and he was their uncle. If he wasn’t willing to do stupid shit for them, who was he supposed to do it for?

He banged out a few notes with practiced ease and started to sing. “You shake my nerves, and you rattle my brain!”

The adults immediately perked up, Javy cheering as Natasha and Fanboy started to sing along. Charlie and Abby raced to the carpet, dancing to the playful melody. As they twisted in each other’s arms, they could see their father peering hopefully in their mother’s direction, but she kept her eyes resolutely on her daughters. That is until a few beats later, when Buttercup glanced over at Jake, who was cheering along with Natasha and Javy. The girls sighed again as the song began to fade to an end too soon, but Rooster clearly had the same idea they did. He finished Great Balls of Fire with a bang before transitioning into something quieter, more romantic.

Javy and Fanboy “oooohed” loudly while Natasha shot Rooster a knowing look before elbowing Jake in the ribs.

Chuckling to himself, Jake stood and strode over to Buttercup, holding his hand out to her. “C’mon darlin’,” they heard him murmur before pulling their mother to her feet. “For old times sake.”

Buttercup found herself folding into Jake’s embrace like she had never left it. They’d always fit together like two puzzle pieces, his hand feeling at home at the base of her spine and her head fitting perfectly into the space between his neck and shoulder. His breath in her ear was the white noise she had been missing from her life, and tears welled unbidden in her eyes. This is what she had always wanted for herself. A sweet man (stubborn and arrogant as all hell, but kind in his soul and always towards her), children she adored, friends who were more like family, a career she loved. She’d had it all and thrown it away, and now she was getting a taste of what life might have been like if she’d been able to keep herself together.

She felt so safe in his arms. She always had; from the moment they had met. Even when everyone around her was telling her she was moving too fast with him, it had never occurred to her to slow down or stop. She’d felt safer with him than she ever had in her life and knew he would never hurt her. And to his credit, he never had. She’d gotten pregnant so quickly and he had never balked, never once taken a step back to consider things. He had only embraced her, proposed to her, planned their life together…and she had thrown it all away. She had been the one to hurt him. And now he was holding her so tight, like she was the most precious thing in his life, so willing to open himself up to be hurt again. It made her chest ache with longing to just take that step and let herself be safe with him again. But how could she? They wouldn’t be the only ones to get hurt this time. The girls…how could she be selfish and risk potentially hurting them?

She sighed and burrowed her face into his shoulder as they swayed, feeling him tighten his grip around her waist. She could allow herself a moment of selfishness. One dance wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Damn Rooster, Buttercup thought to herself as she tossed and turned in her bed later that night. He had just had to go and play the song they had danced to on their wedding night. It hadn’t even been a song they had picked; it was just the first slow song that had played at the bar they had gone to after Elvis had declared them married. Now she was too keyed up to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Jake holding his hand out to her, asking her to dance. His face, his eyes, his smile all haunted her as she tried to rest.

They had been so happy when they got married, despite it being a shotgun wedding in Vegas. She’d been so elated to be Mrs. Seresin that she had practically floated around for weeks after. But then reality just had to set back in, and with it came deployments and work and arguments and baby appointments and then her post-partum depression, and it had fallen apart as quickly as they had built it.

Buttercup rolled over again with a groan and thumped her pillow. She was just making herself upset. She needed to calm down. Perhaps she had been in England for too long, but she felt the need for a cup of tea. Tea was good. Tea was soothing. Tea would send her to dreamland where she wouldn’t bemoan all the mistakes she had made with her ex-husband.

Buttercup slid out of bed and slipped on her slippers before treading quietly out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen, where a dim light was shining. Peeking her head in, she saw Jake rummaging around in the fridge.

“Oh,” she murmured before she could stop herself. Without Nat and Maryanne there to bust her chops about it, she could admit that she was enjoying the view of his bare sculpted torso, his ass and thighs clad in a pair of gym shorts. He hadn’t changed much in the last decade. He still had the chiseled muscles and toned arms and legs. Perhaps he was a touch softer in places from age, but Buttercup certainly wasn’t complaining. It looked good on him.

“Hey Buttercup,” Jake greeted softly, well aware that it was 3 a.m. and the rest of the house was sleeping. His eyes roamed over her softly, taking in the oversized T-shirt and boxer shorts she wore, and he gulped. How was it possible that she looked better in this sleep ensemble than she had in her bikini? That wasn’t how that was supposed to work, and yet, for her, it did. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She shook her head, crossing her arms over her torso, all too aware that she was bare under her shirt and that parts of her sagged more than they did 12 years ago. “I was gonna make myself a cup of tea.”

A chuckle escaped Jake’s lips unbidden. “You sound like a real Brit, you know that?”

She felt blood rush to her cheeks in embarrassment, but shrugged and said, “I’ve been there for over a decade, Jake. Besides, if there’s one thing that the Brit’s have gotten right, it’s that tea really does cure everything. Insomnia, bad news, a bad day, heartbreak, awkward run-ins with an ex.”

Jake nodded slowly, a small understanding smile creeping onto his lips. “I’m having a bit of insomnia myself, but I was going to use the good ol’Hangman cure instead of tea.” He showed her the stack of cheese, butter, and sliced turkey that he had gathered in his arms. “Care to join me?” He laid the products on the counter and pulled a fresh loaf of bread towards him while Buttercup stared, mouth watering. “Buttercup?” He grinned at the look on her face.

“I haven’t had a grilled cheese in…well, probably since you made one for me,” she admitted in a quiet voice, remembering how his sandwiches were one of the things she had craved most while pregnant.

“Well, now that just won’t do.” His smile was teasing as he nodded his head towards the countertop. “Why don’t you take a seat and keep me company while the master gets to work?” Buttercup moved towards one of the island stools, but Jake shook his head. “C’mon now, darlin’, you know the rules.” He patted a bare patch of countertop space next to the stove. “Gotta have you close to keep me company.”

She felt her skin go hot to the touch with hesitancy and embarrassment. “Jake…don’t you think we’re both a little old to be sitting on countertops?”

Jake looked at her with fond exasperation and patted the countertop again. “There’s nothing old about us, darlin’. Besides, you don’t want me burning our sandwiches because I keep turning around to talk to you, do you?”

“Easy fix. Don’t turn around to talk to me.” She leaned against the island and watched him roll his eyes at her, trying to figure out how to get his way. Beautiful, stubborn pain in the ass.

“How am I supposed to do that when you’re so damn beautiful in my old Top Gun shirt?” he smirked, recognizing the logo now that she wasn’t cloaked in shadow. Buttercup could have sworn her heart stopped. She hadn’t even realized that it was his old shirt. At some point in their marriage, it had become her shirt and she had never stopped using it. Not that she would admit that to him. Nor would she admit that, in the early days of being divorced, she would wear it to sleep just to feel like he was wrapped around her.

He stepped closer and held his hand out to her. “C’mon, darlin’. I don’t bite.” He gently led her to the countertop and wrapped his hands around her waist, lifting her to perch on the edge of the marble. “There. Perfect,” he murmured, those green eyes of his tracing over the plains of her face with a small, sweet grin pulling on his lips.

“Jake…” she felt like her insides were on fire, and she didn’t know if she was calling for him to put out the fire or fan it to make it hotter, brighter.

“It’s okay, darlin’.” His voice was soft and honeyed, so unlike the voice he used with his friends and family. That was a voice that had always been reserved just for her. “Relax with me, just for an hour.”

Damn her inability to say no to him. “Get to work, Masterchef.”

His grin lit up his whole face and he took a step to the left to be standing in front of the stove again. In easy, quick movements, he had six slices of fresh sourdough bread spread out on the stovetop, buttered on one side and waiting to be assembled. Buttercup couldn’t help her giggle when she realized he was using cheap plastic wrapped cheese slices, and he flashed her a grin.

“C’mon now, Buttercup,” he admonished, his long fingers deftly unwrapping the cheese. “You know this shit melts better than anything else.”

“I know,” she giggled. “It’s just funny for me to think that you’re running this million-dollar enterprise of a ranch, I’m an award-winning novelist, and we’re eating the cheapest cheese imaginable.”

He grinned, turning a dial on the stove and pulling down a frying pan from the rack overhead. “How do you know it’s a million-dollar enterprise, Buttercup? I never told you that.”

She shrugged, watching him put the first slice of bread in the pan, then a slice of cheese, two thin slices of turkey, another slice of cheese, and then another slice of bread. Quickly, the smell of burning butter and toasting bread had her stomach growling. “I may have looked it up. The girls told me you lived on a ranch, but I wasn’t expecting something so grand, so I figured you had to be making a lot. I’m an author. I’m curious about the facts. Sue me.”

He chuckled, flipping the first sandwich over and listening to it sizzle. “I would’ve told you if you asked.”

“I know. I didn’t want to sound like some sort of gold digger.”

“Is it possible to be a gold digger if you’re already divorced?”

She shrugged, eyes tracing his flexing muscles as he flipped the sandwich again. “You might’ve thought I was after child support or alimony or something stupid like that.”

“Nah, I know we’re pretty even keel on finances anyway.” He flipped the sandwich once more and murmured softly, “Grab me a plate from the cabinet behind you?”

Buttercup hopped out of her seat and opened the cabinet, grabbing a plate and holding it out for him to place the sandwich on. “You want a beer?”

Jake nodded absentmindedly as she moved behind him, a gentle hand on his back so he wouldn’t back up into her. She grabbed ketchup and a beer out of the fridge before strolling back to his side and hopping back up onto the counter. The second sandwich was sizzling away when Jake sighed contentedly. “When was the last time we did this?” he murmured, eyes casting sideways to look at her, so damn beautiful in the dim light.

“3 a.m. grilled cheeses and beer?” She held the beer out and he twisted the cap off, tossing it to the side before taking a sip and handing it back. “Jesus…” She cast her mind back, sorting through all their memories, the gleeful and the painful. “Probably when I was pregnant. Before you got deployed.”

He remembered then, the night before he got the news that he was deploying while she was pregnant. She’d woken up in the middle of the night, absolutely ravenous for both him and food. After satiating her first need in bed, they had wandered into the kitchen of their brand-new house together, where she had perched on the countertop in just his t-shirt and watched him make grilled cheese sandwiches in just his boxer-briefs. He’d sipped on a beer while she drank Ginger Ale and they laughed and talked and ate and, when they were done the sandwiches, he had taken her again over the kitchen table before they had stumbled back to the bedroom, satisfied and deliriously happy.

A wistful ache bloomed in Jake’s chest at the memory. He absentmindedly rubbed at it as he plated up the second sandwich and started on the third. “That was a good night,” he sighed. “I’m glad we had that before it all went to shit.”

Buttercup sipped their beer and nodded. “Me too.” At the time, she’d been convinced that they could live in that happy bubble for the rest of their lives. She knew better now. “It wasn’t all bad after though, was it?” She handed him the beer again.

Jake sipped thoughtfully. “No…I guess it wasn’t. We had me coming home, the twins being born, and a few good months before…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, so passed the beer bottle back to her. “But that was the beginning of the end.”

Buttercup sighed. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t?”

She shrugged. “Saying it like that makes it sound like an inevitability. I don’t think it was. If I had just kept my shit together, we probably would’ve made it.”

“It wasn’t all your fault though, Buttercup.” Jake took the beer bottle and drained it in one gulp, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. “I was an asshole. I expected you to just follow me wherever I ended up, and that wasn’t fair. You were right. You deserved to be able to follow your dreams too, and the kids needed more stability than that. I just didn’t want to admit it because that would mean admitting that the way I grew up wasn’t ideal. It was all I knew, and I was a stubborn jackass for not admitting that I was wrong.” Jake saw her gaping at him out of his peripheral and laughed. “Javy forced me to go to therapy after about six months of me trying to strong arm my way through the whole single dad thing.” He shrugged and plated up the final sandwich, clicking off the stove and turning to face her. “Who knew?”

She chuckled under her breath. “Who knew…” She picked up the fresh sandwich and took a bite.

“Careful, it’s gonna be—” Buttercup muttered a muffled curse around the bite of bread and cheese, steam billowing from her mouth. “Hot.” He couldn’t help the laughter that poured out of him. “Some things never change.” He started fanning his hand over her mouth as she chewed on the sandwich. She had never been able to resist taking a bite too soon after the sandwiches came off the stove.

“I’m okay…” Buttercup gasped as she swallowed the steaming sandwich. Jake was still laughing, the sound reverberating in her chest like the sweetest bell.

“Was it at least worth it?” he grinned, picking up one of the cooler sandwiches and leaning against the counter beside her, so close her legs were brushing his.

“You’re still the master,” she mumbled through a full mouth, bringing a bright smile to his face. “Don’t tell Rooster I said that, though.”

Jake rolled his eyes and bit into his sandwich. “Bastard would probably put grilled cheese on the menu of his restaurant just to spite me.”

“Doesn’t mean it would be as good as yours though. Nothing beats a Hangman grilled cheese and beer at 3:30 in the morning.” His answering grin was strained slightly, and she swallowed, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Jake, I’m sorry I went off on you about wanting to rejoin the Navy. It was none of my business.” As loathe as she was to admit it, it was true. It wasn’t any of her business because they weren’t together.

But Jake was already shaking his head, hand covering his mouth as he spoke through a mouthful of sandwich. “No, you were right.” He swallowed and gave her a wan grin. “You deserved to know, even if nothing was going to come out of it. You deserve to know where your daughters’ father is, even if…if we’re not together.” He had to fight back the words he truly wanted to say: Even if we’re not going to get back together.

The thought had been on his mind ever since he saw her drinking at the pool cabana, Savannah be damned. Seeing her had been a shock to his system, in the way that a defibrillator shocks your heart into working properly. And now, after a week of being in close quarters, he didn’t want it to end. He felt good around her. Better than he had in over a decade. He was happier, the girls were happier. Family dinners and pool parties and Friday night football games had all become brighter, more meaningful moments in his week. He genuinely liked being at home, working on the ranch, co-coaching with Javy when she was around. All the dull, mundane aspects of his life had taken on new meaning with his Buttercup around, but she hadn’t given him any sign that she wanted it too.

“I get why you would want to…” Buttercup tore the last sandwich in two and handed him the bigger half. “It’s not easy to think about life six years from now, when the girls will be off to college or university or whatever they want to do with their lives. But you’re more than just an aviator, or a rancher, or a football coach. You’re more than just a father too. I wish…” Buttercup swallowed nervously, but pressed on, needing him to hear her since she hadn’t been brave enough to say the words 12 years ago. “I wish you could see what I see, Jake. Beyond the stubbornness and prickish vibe you like to give off, I wish you could see the kindness. The way you care about people makes them care about you, respect you. You inspire loyalty and you make people want to follow their own dreams by showing them what bravery looks like. I…I never would have published my first book without everything I learned from you about going after what I want. I just…” She pushed past the tears clogging her throat. “I just wish that going after what I wanted hadn’t cost me you.”

Jake was there in an instant, cupping her cheeks and wiping away the few tears that had started to fall. “Hey, hey…shh, darlin’, you’re alright. You…” He sighed and let his hand slip down to rest on her neck, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his thumb. “You’re so much more than a mother, than my wife. I wish I had been able to see it, admit it, before it cost me you. If I had just pulled my head outta my ass, then maybe…maybe we’d still be together.”

Shaky hands landed on his shoulders as she rested her forehead against his. “Falling apart wasn’t inevitable…we both fucked it up. I really wish we hadn’t.”

He shifted, heartbeat quickening as his nose brushed hers. “Buttercup…” He could feel the heat of her skin under his palms, the way her heart was racing, the soft floral scent of her perfume toying with his nose, and it was overwhelming in the best way possible.

“Jake…” Her fingers toyed with the short blonde strands at the back of his neck as he pressed her closer to the cabinet, his hand dropping from her neck to her waist to tug her closer.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, nuzzling along her nose and breathing in that floral scent that had always driven him mad.

Buttercup opened her eyes slightly, taking in his golden skin and green eyes and everything that she had missed so deeply. She knew he was giving her an out, letting her walk away and protect herself, but she wanted to continue being selfish. Just for a few more minutes.

“Kiss me before we’re interrupted again, Seresin.”

A low groan rumbled through his chest as he lurched forward, lips clashing against hers in a desperate, needy thing. Years of missing her and a solid week of pent-up passion consumed him as his arm around her waist tightened, dragging her so close there wasn’t space for even air between them.

Buttercup gasped at the feel of him against her, every inch of his hard body against the softness of hers. Jake took advantage, slipping his tongue into her mouth and nearly groaning at the warmth and taste of her. Buttercup tugged his hair lightly, maneuvering his head so she could kiss him harder, deeper. His hand left her cheek and pressed against the cabinet to balance them both.

Desperation and longing and frustration poured off of them in waves as they clutched each other closer, kissed deeper, hands roaming. Buttercup couldn’t help herself as she traced a hand down his chest and abs, a thrill running through her as she touched what she had been admiring all day. Jake’s hand was just creeping beneath her shirt when she pulled away with a gasp.

“Fuck,” Jake groaned, hand on her waist pressing her closer again. “Sorry…”

“Don’t be,” she mumbled against his lips, sneaking in a small kiss before pulling away again. “Just…don’t want anyone to catch us.”

Jake moaned at the very thought and, in one move, had her bundled in his arms, her arms and legs wrapped around him as he kissed her again and carried her down the hallway to his bedroom.

Buttercup didn’t let herself think beyond one fleeting thought as Jake’s bedroom door swung closed behind them. One night of selfishness wouldn’t hurt anyone.

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dilfdemolisher · 1 month

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PERSEPHONE - CHAPTER THREE

“Persephone, queen of the underworld. Hades runs Hell, but she’s in charge of punishment.”

Series Summary: A serial killer who works with the police herself has a tumultuous past with Jack Crawford and his new profiler Will Graham. While trying to rebuild what she once broke Hannibal Lecter sticks himself in the middle of the few things she cares about - Comments and critiques are encouraged.

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, dead bodies, murder that is very female targeted, canon character death, smut, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie

Word Count: 9.5k (yes you read that right…I'm sorry)

The sterile walls of the hallway close in around you as you make your way towards the autopsy room. "Agent," a familiar voice calls out behind you.

"I'm not your 'Agent' anymore, Jack," you say, wincing as you turn to face him. You were never officially an agent; Jack only started calling you that when you began sticking your nose into his cases.

"Force of habit," he deflects, his tone unusually soft for him. "I need to talk to you."

You glare at him, hoping he'll get straight to the point. The last thing you want is for Jack to drag you into his office, which always feels like a principal's office—the prelude to a lecture you’d rather avoid.

"I'd like you to resume therapy," he says finally.

Your heart sinks. "No."

"Bloom knows a therapist in Baltimore-"

You cut him off with a bitter laugh. "Are you serious? The last time I took her advice, I ended up tied to a chair and tortured. I'll pass."

"Dr. Lecter is one of the best in his field. She recommended him when I expressed my concerns." He tries to reason.

Is he serious? "So, you discussed your concerns about me with her first instead of just asking me if I felt I needed help?"

"It's not about what you want. If you’re going to continue working on this case, you need a psychological evaluation."

Frustrated, you turn away and continue down the hallway. This is such bullshit. You don't need therapy. "I'll pass, Jack, but I appreciate your concern," you dismissively yell over your shoulder, not slowing your pace.

The moment you enter the room, everyone's eyes fall on your frame. The three in lab coats momentarily feeze while Will quickly makes eye contact before his gaze shifts to behind you and paces out of the room.

“Were you honest when you said you two never dated—hell even slept together because this is awkward.” He says in an awful attempt to break the awkward silence.

“Any close relationship that didn’t leave on a positive note can cause tension, not just romantic ones, Price.” You state.

Beverly clears her throat. “So Will thinks the killer is eating the girls. Elise's liver was removed and then put back in place; the killer did that after he realized she had liver cancer.”

“We also found metal shavings on her body,” Zeller chimes in.

You sigh. “It’s plausible. It creates a very vivid image of this man. He…cares for these girls in his own twisted way. He’d view their consumption as an act of devotion, most likely a waste if he didn't. It’s a hunter's mentality; if there's anything left of these girls, it’s most likely fragments. Hair stuffed in pillows, bones made into various things—he wouldn't waste. If he is a hunter, he most likely has a dedicated space to this, a shed, probably doesn't live in the city.” You propose.

You’re met with silence for a moment before Beverly speaks once again. “I can’t believe you were never a profiler.” She shakes her head and smiles.

"Well, I momentarily am of sorts now.” You raise your arms forward and wiggle your fingers. “Maybe I understand him so well because I am him.” You say it in an unserious tone.

She rolls her eyes playfully. "Hmm, yeah, I'm real scared.” You didn't even realize how much you missed Bev until now.

"Well, is that all?” You ask.

"Yup, that's it.” Brain tells you before grabbing something behind him. “I’ll be off then.” You smile and walk out the door.

2 YEARS EARLIER

Jack’s call came twenty minutes ago, his voice clipped and urgent. “Another one.” That was all he said, but it was enough. It wasn't just another body, not a one-off murder. He made it clear by his simple lack of words that this was connected.

During the entirety of your drive, your heart couldn't stop beating. The dull vibration filling your ears and pounding your chest overwhelmed you so much that you felt relieved at the red stop lights, giving you a moment to collect your barring's. Jack pulled up at the same time, his grim expression mirroring your own.

As he approached, his words were drowned out by your internal rhythm. But when Jack opened the door into the room, your body finally went quiet, and you finally feel like you’re alive again—living in the present.

A woman's body lay sprawled on the cheap, stained bed, blood soaking deep into the mattress. Your gaze travelled over her naked form, legs spread wide in a provocative display. Decaying vines twisted around her ankles and the bed frame, their dark, withered tendrils contrasting against her greying skin. It was a brutal, degrading spectacle.

There is a precise incision right above her pelvis, which is mostly one of the reasons why her entire torso is covered in her own blood, except her breasts. They look as if they were deliberately cleaned, the pink hue still lightly remaining on her skin.

Her mouth is slightly agape; something inside it is forcing her jaw unnaturally wide. Compelled by a mix of horror and professional detachment, your feet move towards her. You hear Jack say something but it becomes mute when you hear your heartbeat pick up again.

Your gloved hand delicately touches her jaw; now, closer, you can see her features. Up close, her traits become clearer. She’s unremarkable—plain, even. A white, brunette woman of heavy European descent with a slim build. It’s odd to think how un-special she may have been in life but now, in death, she's a spectacle.

Gently, you pry her jaw open, revealing a small, fleshy mass inside. You look towards Jack in confusion and ask, “Can I pull it out?”

Crawford gives a small nod and moves beside you. You give the object a small pull and it doesn't budge. “You hold her jaw; I’ll pull it out.” Jack says while looking at the strangulation marks on her neck.

You move your hands and the man pulls. You watch him struggle between delicately grasping it and forcefully yanking it.

You adjust your grip, one hand on her lower teeth and the other on the upper, pulling them apart. Jack pulls a bit harder; you watch as it starts to slide out, and just when you think its going to be stuck once again, Jack gives a final, forceful yank, and the object comes free.

Jack is holding the woman's uterus.

“What the fuck?” you exclaim. Momentarily forgetting you two weren't the only ones in the room. Someone behind him brings an evidence bag to Jack, where he drops the organ inside the plastic.

All eyes shift to the incision on her torso. Another forensic tech steps forward with metal forceps, his face pale but determined. He fiddles with the cut, and when he finally pries it open. You hear others gasp but you're still trying to compute the sight of the mess inside. At first, it looks like a jumble of smooth, misplaced intestines—until you recognize the pattern.

Scales. Snakes.

She’s been hollowed out, and her uterus has been replaced with dead serpents.

PRESENT DAY

It’s been days, and still nothing. The most frustrating part of working in a field that is centered around solving crimes is the cruel irony that sometimes you need more evidence to build a profile—to move forward at all. You've heard about Jack narrowing down the search by identifying the specific metal found on Elise's body, but you honestly couldn't care less.

You deluded yourself into believing that taking on this case was a selfless act, but your defenses are crumbling. You’re here for Will to glue together what was once broken. But you’ve never fucked up on this scale before, and you don’t know how to fix it. Your fingers stick together from your messy revival attempts, and the toxic fumes cloud your mind. Why did you think it was a good idea to show up at his house?

A knock at your door—your own door—in Baltimore interrupts your spiraling thoughts.

No one called to warn you of an appearance; your overactive work brain can't shut off even now, envisioning an ax murderer standing outside your home.

How comical.

"Open up, it’s Crawford." Jack’s voice is muffled but unmistakable. Not an ax murderer; that makes more sense considering it’s 10 AM and you live in an apartment building. Unless he’s here for other reasons, maybe he knows and wants to give you a chance to explain yourself before slapping handcuffs around your wrists.

Unsure how to navigate this possible confrontation, you blurt out the stupidest thing: "Why?"

“Because I need to talk to you,” he shouts impatiently.

With a sigh, you walk to the door and begin to unlock it. “That’s what my number is for. I thought showing up at my workplace was invasive, but this is—” Your words cut off as you opened the door.

“Who are you?” you ask, your eyes shifting to the unfamiliar man standing beside Jack.

"I’m Dr. Lecter. Jack has asked me to assist in this case, similar to you," he says with a polite smile, more out of courtesy than genuine pleasure.

You recognize the name from Bloom. She mentioned him plenty of times, but this isn’t how you envisioned meeting him. It reminds you of when, after the "incident," as she likes to call it, she recommended him to you and offered to call him. You declined.

"Okay." Your glare bounces between the two men. Jack's scowl deepens while the doctor’s eyes remain fixed on you. You're not sure if he’s blinked once since you opened the door.

Jack groans and begins to speak. “I want you to speak to a professional for a psychological evaluation. I already told you this.”

You’re taken aback by his intrusion. “I’m sorry, is this an intervention?” Crawford opens his mouth to speak, but you continue before he can justify himself.

“This is ridiculous. First, you begged me to help you on this case, and now you're doubting my sanity?”

You focus on maintaining eye contact with Jack, not fully seeing the doctor's face beside him, but through your blurry peripheral vision, it looks like amusement. What an asshole.

“I’m not doubting your sanity; I’m clearing this up for legal reasons.”

It’s bullshit, and you know it. “You know what I think, Jack? I think you’re scared of another fuck-up.” You bite, “You lost Miriam, and then, because of a lack of diligence on your part, you almost lost another one of your worker bees. And you just can’t handle another tragedy like that again.”

Jack opens and closes his mouth, more-so shocked by how cold you were to him than anything. You’ve been pissy before, but nothing like that.

It’s harsh and untrue; what happened to you or Miriam isn’t Jack's fault, but that’s not the point. You wanted to strike him where it hurts most. He confided in you about his guilt during the aftermath of your incident, and using it against him is cruel, but that’s what you’re going for, and it clearly worked.

Your gaze finally directs to Lecter, “I’m sorry for wasting your time, but I think it’s best you both leave.”

As you swing your door shut, you see him smile. This time, it’s genuine. His crow's feet become prominent, and his top lip slides up to reveal his pointed canines. You much prefer his disingenuous smile to the one where he looks at you like a pretty little doll who just did a party trick.

2 YEARS EARLIER

The victim, a model named Clare Greene, her once beautiful face beaten until her nose lay flat across her face. Blood pools around her head from her slashed throat, soaking into the plush carpet that her back lies on. In both of her hands rest two magazines; she’s on the front cover of both.

As you approach the body closer to snap another picture, you notice the defense wounds her wrists bore. “Who found her?” You ask, not to anyone specific; you just let the words come out of your mouth with hopes of an answer.

“Her fiancé, ma'am. Ethan Kingsley, he was supposed to meet her for breakfast; when she didn’t show up, he came here to check on her.” The officer beside her answers.

You nod, your eyes scanning the room. Broken glass glittered on the floor near the bar; an overturned chair in the corner; the place was covered in blood splatters.

“Jack!” You shout, hoping to get his attention.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. “What?” He asks.

“There's a fine mist of blood over here, most likely a result of her severed artery.” You say while motioning to your neck, “All across the back wall right there. The fatal blow happened here—then she stumbled onto the carpet, where she collapsed, and he started beating her. She was either unconscious or already dead when he started so he did it for the sake of it.” You explain.

You move closer to her. “The long, linear streaks of blood that fan out from her indicate she was also stabbed before he started beating her. The angle and distribution suggest he was standing above her—not straddling and swinging the weapon in a very vertical downward motion.”

You continue as you lead Jack towards the bar area. “These smaller, less-directed spots are all scattered around this area. I think the first attack was here, but she put her forearms up to block it and ran, leaving the droplets behind as she ran.” You say while mimicking an X with your forearms, “It also matches the shallow defensive wounds right below her elbow; it didn’t go too deep; it seems like a very light slash.”

Jack nods, quite for a moment. “Okay.”

Not satisfied with his response, you say, “This is bad, Jack; four murders and no suspects. I’m just-” You cut yourself off with a sigh, ‘“I’m not very confident in my usefulness.” Your head ducks down in your admittance.

“I’m sure many feel that way; there's no point in festering it; that’s not how things get solved.” Jack scolds.

As much as you’d rather allow Jack’s words to fall deaf on your ears, you know he's right; it’s not about you; it’s about the victims and solving what's been done to prevent more tragedies. “You’re right I’m sorry, you’re not my therapist. I don’t know why I said that.”

Jack says nothing and walks away, leaving you to stew in your own embarrassment over your unwelcome confession.

PRESENT DAY

The next day, you arrive at your momentary office in the BAU. You can’t shake off the invasive encounter given by Jack. It sits heavily in your mind as you try to focus on the case files in front of you. It feels like your head is so full of tenacity it’ll start leaking out of your ears.

Suddenly, you hear the sound of determined footsteps outside your door.

The door knobs twist and Beverly speedily walks in before you have time to adjust. Looking a bit more chipper than usual and dropping a stack of papers on your desk.

“Good morning. Any updates?” you ask, masking with a forced smile.

“Just the usual. Lab results, cross-references, the fun stuff,” she replies, giving you a teasing look. “‘Found out the specifics of the metal found on Elise’s body, which narrows things down a bit.” She smiles.

“What?” you say, picking up and flipping through the papers without really seeing them. "You've got to be shitting me, and Jack didn’t even say anything to me.”

"Well, he mentioned heading off to Baltimore to talk to you but it seemed that never happened.” She cluelessly shrugged.

Grateful for her being unaware of your awkward encounter with him and Lecter, you ask, “So what happened?”

With a smile, she turns her back and says, “Read it and talk to Jack.”

“Oh fuck you.” You say unserious; she doesn't give another response but you hear her laugh accompanied by your door closing as she leaves the quaint room.

After reading the file, you make your way towards Jack’s office, curious as to why he didn’t bring this to your attention. As you approach the door to knock, it swings open and bumps into you. “Shit.” You say under your breath, pain blossoming where the door met your toes a moment ago.

As you back away, Will immediately comes out. You both stand there staring at each other. You see his jaw open to speak before he turns and quickly walks away from you.

You figure he was going to apologize for the collision, and now all you can think is if the reason he scurried off was because of the obvious stress he was exuding and decided to book it, or if he didn’t deem you worthy of an apology.

Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you peek into Jack's partially opened door and say, “I was wondering-” You feel yourself become silenced with the notice of another person in the room, Dr. Lecter.

“Oh.” Is all you can give for an immediate response. The room is quiet, Jack looks annoyed with your uninvited presence, and the man across from him seems to be sizing you up in a clinical fashion.

They’re both waiting for you to speak, not wanting for this unbearable silence to continue for longer than you do. “My apologies; I didn’t mean to intrude.” You say before closing the door behind you.

You quickly scurry off, and as you turn into another hallway, you see a familiar figure hunched over a water fountain. You fasten your pace and Will’s eyes open suddenly from the sound of rapid footsteps. He pulls away from the fountain, water dripping off his chin that he wipes off when he brings his forearm to his face.

Within the few seconds you have before you reach him, you practice what to say and points to make speak that hopefully can de escalate his discomfort.

“I understand my presence is quite unbearable for you but I’m asking for your assistance in a professional manner. I’m being left out of the loop on plans for Nichols and I would like to be more aware. I don’t feel as if I’ve contributed much and I’d prefer to do better.” You justify your presence to him. Some parts of you feels pathetic, not because of what you are doing but because you know you would never do it for someone else.

“I’m sure I know as much as you do.”

You want him to say more to you so desperately. You’d rather him yell at you or punch you in the fucking stomach than be so reserved. You suppose it’s best; you quite literally came up here asserting it’s for professional reasons but only wish he’d deconstruct his walls and allow you in.

God, you’re so entitled.

With your shoulders slumped, you cordially respond, “I understand. Thank you for your time.” Before walking away.

As fate would have it, everything unfolded in its twisted, godly way. The call came in for another victim—a woman impaled on a stag head left to be displayed in an empty field. A stark contrast from the meticulous love of the Strike; the dissonance Jacks is unable to see is migraine-inducing.

Ding

Your phone chimes, and you really think that whatever higher-power there is is determined to rest your patience today.

The screen, annoyingly bright, stares back at you, displaying a name that’s foreign to your recent call history.

Will

No last name; you know multiple Will’s, but they’re contacts are accompanied by their last name. But not Graham’s; he’s much more deserving than that.

You feel like you’re hallucinating when you look at the words asking you to see him and where he’s staying. From any other man, this might have been a crude proposition, but not from Will. Sweet, enigmatic Will.

You’re not sure if this is meant for someone else. He would have had to search through his contacts to find you, given the long period of silence between you. He couldn't even be sure you still had the same number.

It must be meant for you. This is the opening you’ve been praying for; you’ve never been more thankful for deities you’re not sure if you even believe in.

Your legs feel like they're moving for you as you stand up, hardly fazed by the morning cold as you walk to where Will’s staying; leaving your dingy motel room just to go to his.

It feels like mere seconds from receiving the text to standing at his door; time feels so warped in the grip of anticipation.

Your knuckles gently tap the door multiple times to alert him of your presence. Flashbacks invade your brain of how awful your last encounter was, though your presence seems more welcome now.

The door opens faster than you can blink. Will’s messy hair and lack of pants make you feel like you're intruding, despite his invitation.

He cranes his neck out to look behind you. “Come inside,” he says, hushed.

You walk inside, and all you can think of is how “Will” this place is; it’s like he was meant to stay here. But that could also just be you holding him in higher regard than necessary and assuming the world revolves around him.

That very well could be it.

As he closes the door, the room becomes cloaked in darkness. “Can I—could I open a curtain?” You ask.

"Yeah, sure,” he says, waving off. As you open the curtains to see the morning sun, you see a familiar man dressed in a fitted suit walking towards the door.

You stiffen, your muscles tighten and lock as you feel Will give you a glance, expecting you to know the visitor.

“Did you invite Doctor Lecter as well?” You ask, just as confused as he is.

"No, I did not.” He huffs as he opens the door, revealing the man with his fist raised, about to knock against the wood.

“Eager.” The man outside says with a subtle, entertained smirk. “Good Morning Will”

Walking closer to the door, tilt your head to take a peek. "Morning, Doctor.” You unenthusiastically greet.

His face momentarily drops, just quick enough to show disappointment, before rearranging his facial movements to show false delight.

“Good morning to you as well.” He says politely. You can’t bother to verbally respond; this was meant to be a moment for possible reconciliation. Not interruption.

Will, who’s deep in thought, snaps back into the present and offers the doctor to step inside out of the morning chill. He accepts it happily, seemingly aware that he interrupted something but he doesn't seem to care; if anything, it seems he’s taking enjoyment in it.

“I came bearing gifts.” He says, raising the glass containers of food he’s holding. “Though my apologies, I didn’t expect you to have a guest.” He apologizes to Will.

“I don’t eat in the mornings anyway; it makes me nauseous.” You excuse.

Will gestures towards the small dining area, silently and awkwardly indicating for everyone to sit. You take a spot, sitting on a stiff wooden chair, trying to ignore the piercing gaze of Hannibal.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” Hannibal asks you as he gives Will his prepared meal as they both settle into their seats, with Will beside you and Hannibal parallel to you.

Wills eyes continue avoiding both of yours. "I needed to talk to someone who understood," he responds for you.

Hannibal, opening his container of food on the table, raises an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you need to talk about, Will?"

Will hesitates, his fingers nervously fiddling with the fork in his hand. "Cassie Boyle. The case... it’s different this time."

Hannibal leans back, looking intrigued. "Different how?"

“What is the purpose of your visit?” You redirect the conversation. This was meant to be a private conversation and you don't appreciate the way Lecter finds it appropriate to put Will on the spot.

You watch as his hand tightens the grip around the fork in his palm; he’s mastered the art of his facial control. He really is an incredible attempt at the personification of nonchalant, but he still has his tells.

“An attempt to befriend a coworker; I’d like to serve the purpose of a mediator, alleviate tension when possible, and give my insight on more grim- work related things.” He answers.

You know you shouldn’t taunt, but you can’t help it; the temptation is too grand. “What makes one worthy of a visit and what disqualifies another?”

Hannibal seems pleased by your words, oddly enough. “You are more than qualified; I figured you’d appreciate time. I understand you’re not necessarily fond of me.”

“I’d argue the only person fond of you in this room is yourself.” You bite. Hannibal says nothing in return, nor does Will. They both eat in silence as you fidget with your hands, desperate to be soothed.

Staring at the painted wall in front of you, you watch through your peripheral as Hannibal swallows a bite of food from his fork and opens his mouth to speak to Will. “I would apologize for my analytical ambush the other day, but I know I would be apologizing again.” He says, flicking his head towards you briefly in recognition. “And you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”

Quickly and harshly Will responds, “Just keep it professional.”

Hannibal responds after taking another bite of his cooking, “Or we could socialize like adults; God forbid we become friendly.”

“Where's Crawford?” You ask as soon as the thought rolls into your head.

Hannibal’s head stiffly turns to face you. “Deposed in court. The journey will be ours today.” He curtly says.

Then why did he exclusively come to Will? Why has he seemingly made no plans to properly introduce himself to you?

It’s not that you're jealous; it’s not his attention that you want; it’s just the simple need to be recognized as an equal. You’re good at what you do—great, even. And this isn’t the first time someone has disregarded you for no apparent reason. Well, you think you know why.

Standing up from your chair, you speak. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be off-”

“Why?” Will immediately asks, mouth full of chewed food.

“Gotta get ready for the day. Unfortunately, it takes more effort than just a clean shirt and brushed hair for me to be presentable. I’m sure you’d understand that, Doctor.”

The moment the words come out of your mouth, you realize the accidental insult you've just given. You didn’t even mean to insinuate that he’s someone who must put in extra effort in order to be ready for the day, but by the way his grip tightens on his fork once again and the displeasing curl of his lips, you're sure he took it that way.

“Jack gave a rental; I can drive you when you're ready?” Will offers, as pleased and equally confused you are for his sudden change of heart on your existence. You are also well aware that Lecter will most likely be hitching a ride to.

“I actually drove here. I thought it would be good for me to have some more time to sort out my thoughts.” You say, walking towards the door. “But thank you; I’ll see you both soon.” You say, as curtly as possible before twisting the handle and making your exit.

Files, files and more files are all you’ve sorted through since you arrived at your destination, the place where the Shrike most likely works.

You hear a car pull up next to the dingy little trailer of the office of the work site, the sound vibrant against the noise of ruffling papers and the secretary talking to her boss on the corded phone sitting on her desk.

The door creaks open, and as you turn around, you’re greeted by the sight of Will walking in through the door held open by Hannibal.

“I’ve sorted through these four on the left so far,” you say in reference to the seemingly never ending towers of file cabinets. “And those boxes are where I’m throwing shit that if you twist an arm and a leg, you might be able to find something slightly suspicious.”

Hannibal walks in, closing the door behind him and Will nods. “What about her?” He asks, tilting his head to the side where the secretary sits.

“Conversation with her boss, I think. One that doesn’t seem to be going very well.” You explain with a tiny humorous smirk. Her head snaps towards you as she glares, unable to verbalize any frustration so she settles for squinted eyes.

“Do you need direction?” You condescendingly ask. Hannibal, seemingly unfazed by your attitude at this point, does nothing but shake his head and say, “Not yet, no. But I’m sure you’ll give me some.” His smile contradicting his pointed words.

Moments went by, flipping through papers upon papers. The feeling of being stuck in a never ending loop is finally broken by the secretary's voice directed at the three of you.

“What did you say your names where?” She asks, standing up.

Before you or Hannibal could respond, Will does. “Garrett Jacob Hobbs?”

With a sigh, the woman answers, “He’s one of our pipe threaders. Those are all the resignation letters. ‘Plumbers Union requires ‘em whenever members finish a job.” She says, before quickly spinning around and whispering into the phone, “I’ll call you back.” And places the landline back onto the plunger.

Finished with her phone conversation, Will continues to inquire. "Uh, does Mr. Hobbs have a daughter?”

“Might have.” She says in her tired, monotone voice.

“Eighteen or nineteen, wind-chafed, um- plain but pretty. She’d have auburn hair; be about this tall.” He motions a bit below his ear.

She shrugs in response. “Maybe I don't know. I don’t keep company with these people.”

“What is it about Garrett Jacob Hobbs you find so peculiar?” Lecter's voice chimes in.

“He left a phone number, no address.” He answers, his back still facing you both.

The doctor questions Will once again, turning to face more towards him, “And therefore he has something to hide?”

Taking a short breath to breathe, Will answers, “The others all left addresses; he also missed work for days at a time.” You can see he’s slowly getting more wound up. His mind is moving and scrambling around different possibilities too fast for him to make sense of, and what he can decipher is nothing short of tasteless.

"Do you have an address for Mr. Hobbs?” You chime in an attempt to take a sliver of weight off of Will’s shoulders.

The dark haired woman rolls her eyes and silently walks toward her desk. She takes a few moments to gather her information, the sounds of a keyboard clicking and shallow- impatient breaths fill the room.

Grabbing a pen, she scribbles numbers onto the small square of paper before standing up once more to hand it to Will.

As often as it happens, you feel like you’ll never get used to the way men are consistently served first in this field. It's not Will’s fault of course, and you’re sure it wasn’t intentional on her part. But in a way that makes it worse, how habitual it is to subconsciously ignore you, woman, really anything out of the typical white male mold of an old detective movie.

You’ll never forget how Jack was so quickly disregarded in one of the first cases you accompanied him with. It was in some southern state where a series of home invasions resulted in multiple murders over a handful of months. On the way to the crime scene, the neighbourhood held lawns of homes that were decorated with not only American flags but Confederate ones as well. You watched the way the local police interacted with Crawford. The kind of people who tolerated him for his help but nothing else—aversion constantly clouded their eyes.

It's not that you haven't encountered appalling people of that sort before, but it was the moment when it clicked that no matter how remarkable your work is, if Crawford could be so quickly disregarded because prejudice, the man who was truly their saving grace for this case, what chance do you have to truly excel in your field?

“I could start loading the boxes in the trunk; can you unlock it?” You ask, not even bothering to look at the yellow Post-it note containing the address.

Looking at you with brows furrowed, he digs in his trouser pockets. “It’s manual, you have to unlock it.” He says while handing you the set of cool rigid metal.

“That's fine.” You say with a smile before heading out the door. Taking a breath of metal-scented air in an attempt to calm your nerves. Things are going okay—well, even.

Will seems to be no longer sickened by your presence, for whatever reason that may be. You're trying not to think of that, the reasoning for this sudden change of heart, and how you may already know it if it weren't for Lecter's earlier intrusion.

You're trying not to hold much disdain for him, to put it aside for the time being when there are non-metaphorical lives on the line. But it’s hard when the only thing you now personally know him for is an invasive little bastard. Not much like Bloom had described him to you before, back when you were civil. That's not fair to her, though; she’s civil—you're not. You're much too bitter now for niceties.

Moments pass by while you, Will, Hannibal and the secretary are hauling boxes out of the small office trailer into the back of the rental car. A monotonous and tedious task. One that may not seem to be fit for all though, as the doctor allows a box to stumble in hands, paper falling onto the wet ground.

Of course, Will’s the one to solve the problem, falling to his knees to scrounge the paper and telling the man not to worry. You watch as he doesn't even give a thank you in return; he just hustles back inside.

Clearly, the man doesn't have as much decorum inside of him as he presents.

Though you may not have room to speak, the moment the task was done, you grabbed the address covered note and put it into your car's GPS before telling Will just to follow you. You're sure you're contributing to his stress by being so evasive, but until you can stop being so erratic, your best bet is to stay slippery, not allowing him to get a good enough grasp on who you are before you can conceal it.

The robotic voice from your center console alerts you of the approaching destination. Turning on your turn signal a bit early to alert Will driving behind you of the driveway you are about to pull into.

You can only appreciate the home once you step out of your car. The plain suburbia of the family home becomes clearer once you get closer to the front door.

You turn to watch Will and Lecter step out of the car, Hannibal surveying the place with an analytical gaze much like your own, while Wills is unique. It’s Wills.

You're unsure if you should wait for Will and have him be the one to knock at the door. You’re defenceless; you have no gun, no badge, and no reason for someone to open the door for you alone.

The decision seems to have been made for you when the door opens. Turning to look, you are greeted by the sight of bloodied hair and body weight pushed onto you. Before being granted a moment to collect your thoughts, you feel yourself falling. The sight of a man with a knife turning away is the only distinct thing you can make out as the rest melts into a scene of blurry green and blue before you and the body on top of you hit the ground.

The moment your head hits the concrete, you know you're done for. The sound of your hard skull smacking against the ground reverberates through your spine like an echo. An uncomfortable pounding takes over all your senses as Will runs up to you. The body weight of the woman is pushed off of you. You can hear the vibrations of his voice against your eardrums but nothing more—all unintelligible in your mangled brain.

You can feel your mind quickly leave its haze as fast as it came to you, your senses returning. You pull yourself up on your forearms to try to slowly raise yourself up. “Go.” Your voice sounds weird coming out of you; it's so loud that it feels like a microphone is hiding in your throat.

An unfamiliar hand grabs the back of your skull. “I’m here; you can go, Will.” Hannibal's voice firmly says behind you.

And he does; he quickly stands, pulling out his gun and walks into the house as Lecter pulls you by your armpits to sit properly. “You’re not bleeding.” He states, moving your hair around your head softly to check.

“Bleeding.” You think. Blood. You can feel blood all over your skin. You know you’re not bleeding, you don’t feel anything leaving you. But you feel everything on you.

The woman lays beside you, face up towards the dreary sky, as the sound of a quiet pattering of blood collects in a pool below. “God.” You exclaim while attempting to push yourself up from your wobbly arms.

“Slow do-” The accented voice behind you speaks before being cut off by a series of gunshots. You feel each noise in your chest, each one causing your heart to sink further into your stomach. Ignoring the dizziness blooming in your head, you clumsily stand up. Hannibal's hands pointlessly attempt to grip you to help your stability as you quickly stumble into the Hobbs residence.

The overwhelming smell of iron invades your nostrils—you freeze. Will huddles over a limp body, you from behind as he struggles to place his hands. Jack was right, you're not ready for this. Slumped in the corner lies a man, bullet wounds decorating his chest in rows.

Will killed him.

Your mind plays the sentence over and over again on loop as you feel Dr. Lecter's eyes bore into the back of your skull. He walks over to Will, his posture so straight that it's unnerving. The way his hands steadily grip the young girl's throat to prevent more blood from spurting out mocks your shaky ones.

Will beside him looks just as shaken up as you do, sitting there frozen, watching as the girl on the floor clings to life.

“Call in.” Hannibal's voice shakes you from your thoughts. As if on autopilot, your bloody hand messily dials for an ambulance. Your words sound so foreign, entirely not yours, as you explain the scene in front of you, eyes locked on Will as he dissociates from his surroundings.

It happens so slowly and so fast. A whirl of paramedics running in. Ushering you all to leave, but you can’t. The moment you exit the door, you freeze at the woman's body in front of you.

She was murdered, died on top of you and was the last bit of warmth she felt before she went cold. You feel sad, A woman's life was brutally stolen from her far too early. You feel sad about the surrounding context of her death, but mostly you feel gross, dirty, sticky, and frustrated that she had to expel her life force all over you.

You want a shower.

After getting checked by the waiting paramedic outside, who confirmed a grade 1 concussion. You can't stop thinking about what just happened to Will's head. He just murdered a man to save a life and you know what that can do to someone—it's the exact thing that ruined you.

You’ve done it again, showing up uninvited again, only this time to his motel room and not his home. But you have to talk to him.

Some agent you never even got the name of drove you both back to your respected quarters. Neither of you were in a state to drive; you can’t for the next 48 hours and Will... God knows how Will is.

That's why your visit is needed; it’s not for your peace of mind; it's not an apology; it’s to make sure he's not alone with thoughts and has someone to help clear them.

After knocking at his door once again, he opens it. “Hi.” Your voice cracks.

“Hi.” Greets back. He sounds…tired.

“I wanna come in.” You tell him there's no point in pleasantries; he’s known why you’re here since the moment you knocked on the door.

Fortunately, that gets him to crack a small smile and say, “Sure.”

As you both walk further into his room, he closes the door behind you. The room’s dimly lit, and the curtains drawn tightly to block out the world. You can see the disarray around you—books strewn across the floor, papers piled haphazardly on the desk, and an untouched dinner plate on the nightstand.

“I brought a gift.” You say, sticking your arm out, handing him the bottle.

"Vending machine root beer, you shouldn’t have." He attempts a joke, but the effort is hollow. Everything he says only deepens your concern; he’s so quick to brush off everything that's happened and act as if everything's fine.

“You’re freaking me out, Will,” you awkwardly laugh. “I know your feeling pretty fucked up right now. You don’t have to act unbothered.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, a defensive look quickly absorbing his eyes. “Just because you couldn’t handle it doesn’t mean I can’t.” The moment the weight of the words he’s thrown at you registers, Will's face drops. His entire guarding demeanour immediately shatters the moment they come out.

"I-I’m sorry." You stutter out in shock of how his attitude is instantaneously flipped by words. "I know what happened was different; I just wanted to check up on you." Your words are met with silence, the two of you just pitifully staring at each other. The room feels colder, the silence is more suffocating.

He breathes out your name so softly that you almost don’t hear it. “I don’t know…why I sa-said that.” His hand roughly runs through his hair as he takes a step forward. “I want you to stay.” He states, uncharacteristically bold from him.

Unsure what to make of his words, you just stand there. Both your minds are reeling—Will’s for a way to apologize and yours to just disappear.

“I know I didn’t handle myself well.” You say, taking a deep breath, “I’m not saying my actions will be your own; I just wish I had someone to understand what its like to take a human life and not hate it.”

That's it—the thing you could never admit, not even to yourself. So much time was spent sprilling about why you are the way you are. Trying to convince yourself that this feeling brewing inside you is new, that it had been manually moulded.

Panicking from your admission, you quickly follow up. “I didn’t mean to project—fuck, I just don’t want you to wallow in the guilt of change like I did. What Hobbs did- who he was—was entirely irredeemable.”

Another step closer and the gap between you both becomes bridged, and his large hands rest gently on your cheeks. “I’m sorry.” He delicately whispers.

You can’t help it; you fall apart and the dam behind your eyes breaks. The tears cascade down your cheeks faster than you can blink them away as he pulls you into his chest. You can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat, the reminder that he’s real, he’s here, and he’s okay.

“I was so fucking scared when I heard those gunshots,” you whisper into his chest. His grip on you tightens, pushing you further into him. You both stay like that for God knows how long. From how heavily you’ve soaked his T-shirt with your tears and how you feel it around your brow bones and eye sockets, you’d guess it’s been a while. And with a deep sigh, you finally feel him pull away. “Are you okay?” He asks, gently looking you up and down.

“I should be asking you that.” You scoff, “Minor concussion; I’ll be fine in a couple days and a good night's sleep.”

He raises his brows in shock. “Yeah, well, good luck getting that.” You can’t help but laugh at his tone and reaction, as if you just said the most bizarre thing in the world.

A grin makes his way across his face at the sound of your laugh. “I miss you.”

You freeze. It’s what he said that took you off-gaurd, just the way he said it. The tone wasn’t sad or nostalgic; it was happy. Present tense too; he didn’t once mourn you and, over time, healed the wounds of a lost friendship. No, they’re still open, and he still misses you.

You were so caught up in your concern for him that you never had a moment to grasp the closeness between you too. Looking up, you see him. The individual hairs growing out of his chin, forming his stubble; the small scar on his cheek that he got when he was a child but doesn't remember how; and his eyes. Those blue eyes that hold so much patience, so much care and so much understanding it makes you weak to your knees. You see Will—sweet, complex, deserving Will.

His hands grip your face more firmly this time, peering into your soul like you just autopsied yours. He's drinking you in your image, like he’s been starved, dehydrated, and famished. You wouldn’t dare pull away and deny him what he wants; you’ll give him anything and if he wants your soul, you’ll bare it to him.

“The only thing I regret is everything I did to you.” It’s such a heavy admission—one that’s entirely out of left field, and he still doesn’t know the true weight of it. “Please,” The words so delicately come from you. You’re not sure what your pleading for—forgiveness? But for which of your sins? In what context are you begging for repentance?

It doesn't matter what you decide. The only thing that does is how close his lips are to yours and how it’s still not enough.

“I know.” His lips brush against yours, tentative at first, then more certain. The kiss is a soft exploration, a silent conversation filled with all the words you couldn’t bring yourselves to say. You feel his hands trembling slightly against your skin, betraying the calm exterior he’s trying to maintain.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you. He’s quiet, waiting for the moment for you to turn and run like you do, but it doesn’t come. Instead, your hand finds itself on the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his curls as you pull him in for another kiss.

Just as eager as you, he deepens the kiss, his hands moving from your cheeks to your waist, desperate to have you as close as he can. You could feel his heart beating against his chest, rhythmically in-sync with your own.

Energy intensifies, with hands greedily grabbing whatever they can, saliva coating each other's lips, feet scrambling across the floor until your back hits the crumpled sheets of the unmade motel bed.

The thin mattress creaks under your combined weight, but you barely notice—too preoccupied with catching each sound that spills from Will's mouth. His hands explore the curves and slopes of your torso with an urgency so similar to yours. Every touch, every kiss, makes your body buzz with ache, desperate to consume him from the outside-in.

He breaks away for a moment, his breath ragged, eyes dark with desire. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a rough whisper.

"Yes," you reply without hesitation, your voice as steady as you could be despite the pounding of your heart. "I’m sure."

With that, he captures your lips again, his hands slipping under your shirt, the warmth of his calloused fingertips on your ribs sending shivers within you. You lose yourself in the sensation, the world outside the room fading into oblivion.

All you can think of is Will.

Will's hands slipping off your shirt.

Will’s chest bare against yours as you slip off his.

Will’s mouth on your neck, nibbling on your collarbone.

Will looking deliciously vulnerable covered in crimson outside of the Hobbs house.

The moan that slips out of your mouth as his tongue meets your nipple is involuntary; his wet mouth lays kisses and bites along the fat of your breast as he grips the other.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark and hungry as he breathes your name out, his voice thick with lust coating his vocal cords like honey. His hands roam lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants, slowly sliding them down your hips. His kisses trail down from your sternum to your stomach, getting sloppier as his breath contrasts with the coolness of his spit.

You gasp as he reaches your underwear, his fingers teasing the fabric. "Will," you whimper, your voice a mixture of need and desperation you’ve never heard from yourself before.

He peers up at you, his silvery eyes filled with desire—desire for you. "Do you trust me?"

Without a moment of hesitation, you reply, "Yes."

With a smile both wicked and tender, he pulls your underwear down and spreads your legs, revealing you to him. His eyes roam over your body, taking in every detail, every curve, and every inch. He leans in, his breath hot against your slick center, and then his tongue flicks out, tasting you.

You arch your back, a moan escaping you as he explores you with his mouth. His fingers tease your entrance, rubbing just around it in circles while his tongue dances around your clit.

You grip the sheets tightly, your nails digging into the fabric. You’d latch your hands onto his head but you're afraid you’d rip his scalp off his head. The sensations are overwhelming, not because of the pleasure coursing through you, but because it’s Will distributing it.

Will's mouth is relentless, his tongue flicking and probing, while his fingers continue to tease.

He was devouring you, and you were more than happy to be consumed.

“Will," you moan, your voice breathy, desperate for more—anything else he’s willing to give. "Please."

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with lust, then slides two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out in a slow, steady rhythm. You cry out, your body bucking against his mouth, your hips grinding against his fingers as you feel the prickle of his facial hair on your thighs as you squeeze them tighter around his head.

“So good,” he whimpers into you, his voice a mixture of need and desperation while he works you closer to your ledge. He does nothing but continue his assault, his tongue flicking against your clit, his fingers thrusting in and out of you. You can feel the orgasm building in your stomach, the pressure mounting higher and higher as he desperately bucks into the bed for some form of friction.

"Will," you cry out, your voice louder this time, begging him for your release. He’s still so wordless—nothing but the vibrations of moans and grunts coming from him. Instead, he responds by increasing the pace of his fingers, his tongue more aggressive as you feel yourself tipping over the edge.

You feel your body move for you, sporadically convulsing as your orgasm washes over you as he drinks up release, coating his mouth and fingers. He continues his movements while you come down from your high, his hands prying your thighs open as he fucks his tongue into you, savouring your taste.

You're left panting, your body trembling, and your mind swimming in a foggy haze of pleasure when he finally pulls away from you with an expression of satisfaction. He moves up your body, his lips finding yours in a tender kiss.

You can feel your slick coating his facial hair as he kisses you, rubbing it onto you. It’s a messy and filthy action but fuck does it get you going.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice gruff but gentle.

You can’t help but smile; he’s so fucking perfect.

A grin coats your face. “Yeah.” He’s gorgeous; the light is low, the cool light of the moon peeking out the sides of the curtains. You can’t see Will in his entirety, but that’s fine. His face so close to yours, his body on top of yours—you don’t need to see him; just feel him.

He smiles a small-relieved grin. “Good,” he whispers before pulling away. You didn’t realize he removed sweats until you felt the tip of his cock teasing you. A whine escapes from your lips as he rocks his dick back and forth along your pussy, coating himself in your cum.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, his pace deliberate, giving you time to adjust. Your brain short-circuits from how deeply he’s stretching you out every time he slips himself further inside you.

He pauses, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot against your skin. “You feel so fucking good.”

You feel braindead; you've never been so pilant in your life. “More.” You manage to whisper out, your voice shaky.

He starts to move, his thrusts slow and shallow. Just the feeling of his cock repeatedly entering you makes your brain feel fuzzy. You can feel every inch of him, the way he fills you, how tightly you’re wrapped around him.

You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he picks up pace, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. “‘Missed you so fucking much,” he grumbles into your neck.

“M’sorry.” You whimper, “M’sorry, M’sorry.” You say fragmentedly, it took him nothing to fuck you dumb and yet your entire brain is filled with nothing but the repetition of his name.

The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the wetness of your bodies, and the occasional moan that escapes from either of your lips—the both of you soaking up the feeling of each other in this moment.

You can feel the pressure building up again—the familiar prickle in your abdomen. “Please, don’t fucking stop.” Your voice desperately cries out.

He doesn’t slow down; instead, he picks up pace, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more desperate. You can feel him shaking, his body trembling as he nears his climax. Not bothering the silence himself anymore, he becomes just as loud as you, no longer speaking coherent praises, just moans and grunts that slowly raise in pitch with each stroke inside you he makes.

Nothing but each other’s names spill from your lips in affirmation that you're both here, together. You cry out, your back arching off the bed in a desperate attempt to be closer as your orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clenches around him, milking him as he spills himself inside you, as he collapses on top of you. You feel his breath against your neck in ragged pants as his cock continues to twitch inside you, the last of his cum filling you up.

You wrap your arms around him, you're both spent. Bodies slick with cum and sweat, the euphoric high wearing off allowing the reality of how tired you’ve been the last couple to take hold of you.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You breathlessly ask. As sleepy as you are, you have to make an attempt to do what you came for—someone to talk to.

Head on your chest, you can feel his smile form. “I was liking how little talking we were doing.”

A laugh puffs from chest at his response, “That works too.” You say, gazing down at him. As if he could feel your stare, he raises his head to look at you, chin resting on your breast. “I’m happy.”

A small laugh now finds its way from his chest at the juvenile remark. As ridiculous as it seems, that is the best way to describe it. It doesn't need complex-flowery language, you're just glad to be in his presence, alive and healthy. You're just happy.

And he understands, his gaze softens as a sincere smile crawls on his face, “Me too.”

#PERSEPHONE #hannibal nbc #hannibal #nbc hannibal #mads mikkelsen #will graham #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #hannibal fanfiction #will graham x you #will graham fanfiction #will graham smut #mads mikkelsen x reader #hannibal x reader

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directdogman · 2 months

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(Sorry if I have bad English, I'm from Spain.)

I'm super hyperfixated on the original managers, so I have 2 questions.

1. In Dialtown, Tango/Terrence says no one called him Tango before. Assuming that in the DSaF universe he also liked that nickname, did any of the other original managers call him Tango or not?

2. A headcanon I've seen in the DSaF fandom is that Abel hated everyone BUT the real Scott Cawthon, and that Scott was the only one that tolerated Abel (some ppl even ship them). Is that close to canon? Or the og Scott Cawthon also hated Abel? I really want to know what they thought about each other.

Btw, I really love your games, I've played the DSaF trilogy many times, and the Dialtown demo (I haven't played the full version of Dialtown yet, but I've seen gameplays and I'll buy it for my birthday), thank you for making 4 incredible games <3

I don't answer many DSaF questions these days, but this one's interesting so here goes:

1)Tango's nickname is a DT invention as far as I remember. If he preferred the name in DSaF's universe, Harry would've used it for sure, given how much he liked Terrence and since he's literally using a name he doesn't believe is really 'his' because it makes him feel better. He of all people would understand.

2)Yeah, that's a pretty good way of stating it, but there's a little more nuance to it that explains a little bit more about Abel/Joe's rift.

Basically, the original Scott Cawthon was a unifying figure. He got on with every single one of the original managers and they all thought the world of him. The Phone Guy process was started in an attempt to recreate him by Abel (and the other managers at first) and you gotta consider why they'd all want to do that. He was the glue that held the group together, the only manager liked by everyone else there without exception, someone who could defuse tension and resolve conflicts amicably.

It's true that he had the most patience for Abel and never badmouthed Abel to the other managers and even defended him earnestly, knowing Abel the best of the other managers and knowing some of Abel's early life and where he came from, while the others were more willing to honestly discuss Abel's short fuse and occasionally mean nature (even Terrence to some extent!) This led Abel to develop more of a bond with him than the other managers and somewhat distrust the others.

While Abel was essentially Scott's number 2, as time went on, Joe became more and more integral to the running of their budding company, since he was a skilled accountant and managed to balance the books despite Scott's somewhat reckless spending at times (he was overgenerous to the point where it sometimes led to financial trouble for the company, a stark contrast to what Freddy's became later.) Since Joe was so blunt (and Abel's biggest critic), Abel was incredibly jealous and insecure that if the trend continued, Joe would supplant him.

This also explains why Abel was so willing to toss his other managers into the 'machine' when each of them suffered accidents. Ultimately, it wasn't just sheer cowardice, it was him trying to recreate the past - to recreate the one person who seemingly saw him as anything other than a vampire. Someone who actually wanted him around. Of course, no two snowflakes are ever exactly the same. Abel was a poor replacement as the owner of the company, Joe was barely able to keep things afloat amidst a messy and chaotic expansion and Harry wound up presiding over the company's demise.

There's a pretty widespread narrative theme in DSaF of damaged people trying to recreate something they've lost - Dave trying to turn Jack into the new Henry, Jake and his family, Harry and his former identity, the Kennedy family reuniting.

“Can’t repeat the past? Why, of course you can!”

But, the fact is, you can't recreate the past. The only way forward is to pick up the pieces and build something new.

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tkaulitzlvr · 1 year

Note

Can you maybe write 2010 toms reaction and hc's for the reader being pregnant?

UNEXPECTED - T. KAULITZ

synopsis: you have to tell tom some unexpected news, and his reaction isn’t what you had hoped for.

content: angst

a/n: thank you so much for the request, i am so bad at head canons so i just did a fic, i hope that’s okay!!

my hands shakily clutched at the test, tears rolling down my flushed cheeks as i hoped that somehow, my eyes were deceiving me. positive, the test reads, the eight letters staring back at me, reminding me over and over that they are very real, and i can’t back out of this.

tom and i were always careful, using protection every time we had sex to stop things like this from happening. we were young and foolish, as every 21 year old is, not ready to welcome a child of our own into the world, the thought of it scaring me so much, never thinking that it would become a reality so soon. it wasn’t that we didn’t ever want kids, but tom was constantly on tour, away from home for weeks and though i always went with him, it just wouldn’t be right to take a child with us. we had always discussed starting a family, both of us coming to the mutual conclusion that now just wasn’t the right time.

which is what terrified me even more, tom’s reaction worrying me as i just couldn’t guess what it would be. he was currently at the studio with the band, and he would be home any minute now, evening dawning over us as he had no idea of the news i was about to bring to him.

i sat on the couch, the test stuffed into the back pocket of my jeans, my eyes fixed on whatever was on the tv, but my mind was elsewhere, waiting for the door to open and tom to walk through it, praying that he wouldn’t freak out. there was no time left to just hope, the door handle turning as tom steps through, baggy jacket clad to his figure, reminding me just how cold it is outside. he takes his shoes off, announcing a quick “i’m home my love”, before entering the living room, a smile appearing on his face once he sees me.

he walks towards the sofa, sitting down beside me and embracing me in a hug. my body begins to shake as i can no longer hold back the tears, tom noticing and quickly pulling away, studying my face and the sorrow etched upon it.

“baby, what’s wrong?” he replies, concerned, holding my face and kissing my forehead, attempting to wipe the tears as he awaits my response.

“you promise you won’t get mad?” i manage to let out between sobs, my words almost inaudible, yet he clearly understands what i say, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“what? why would i be mad? you can tell me anything, you know that.” he says, much more composed than i am, his heart aching to see me in this state. “now what’s wrong? please, talk to me schatz.”

my eyes meet his for the first time, bloodshot and glassy, whilst his hurriedly scan my face, the worry only increasing in his own as every second passes that i don’t confess. i can’t bring myself to say the two words “i’m pregnant”, because the second i do, it will truly become real, my mind in some twisted sort of denial, telling myself that if i don’t admit it, it will somehow go away. so, instead of saying what is wrong, i decide to show him, reaching hesitantly into my back pocket and placing the pregnancy test in his hands.

he looks downwards, finally seeing the reason why i am so upset. his body tenses up, his mouth hanging open in shock the only thing he is able to do. i cant tell if he is happy, excited, or completely angry, all i know is that he cannot believe his eyes. the tears continue to spill down my cheeks, praying that he will reassure me that everything will be okay, but the twisting feeling in my stomach provides me with the terrifying realisation that i’m not going to receive that comfort.

“please say something.” i whisper, my voice shaky as he still hasn’t moved or even looked at me, his eyes fixed on the pregnancy test in his palm of his hands.

“is this real?” he mutters, refusing to look at me, his hands trembling a little.

“it’d be a pretty fucked up joke tom.” i reply, angry at his ridiculous question but not in any position to consider causing an argument, knowing that is the last thing i need right now.

“i just- i don’t know what to say. i’m not ready for this.” he confesses, finally looking upwards as his gaze meets mine, his eyes now glazed with tears, yet he isn’t sad - i see a glare within them that cannot be mistaken for anything else but anger.

“i’m not either tom, you know this. i don’t know what to do.” i put my head in my hands, sobbing even more now, my breathing fast and irregular. my mind longs for any sort of comfort from him, even a little reassurance, a half-hearted ‘it’s gonna be okay’, even though it would be a lie, it would be the most perfect one he ever told, because it would give me a million times more consolation than i am receiving right now. but he stays silent, biting his lip, almost as if he is stopping himself from truly speaking his mind.

“i can’t do this.” he finally says, standing up and walking out of the living room, exiting the house as he closes the front door behind him with a slam.

my breathing begins to quicken, my heart rate increasing as the worst possible scenario is suddenly becoming true in front of my eyes. if me finding out that i was pregnant wasn’t enough, tom leaving only placed the cherry on my cake, a sickening sense of guilt now punching me in the gut, stabbing a knife in the wound as i begin to feel nothing but completely stupid for letting this happen, blaming it all on myself. my sobs are muffled within my hands as my head rests there, my entire body trembling as i long to be in his arms, him telling me that it would be okay, that we would get through this. instead, the cold air is my only company, leaving me in it’s icy embrace, giving me the constant reminder that i am alone.

it is this reminder that sticks with me until my eyes begin to feel heavy, my body falling into a deep sleep, providing me with a temporary distraction from reality.

warm hands. two large, warm hands are what wake me from my sleep as they caress my face gently, contrasting with the coldness of the entire house.

“love?” i hear a familiar voice whisper, finally opening my eyes to see tom kneeled beside me, his own bloodshot from crying.

“why are you here?” i ask, anger quickly filling my veins, the reminder of how quickly he left, betrayed me like it was nothing, flooding my memory.

“i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have left like that. i was just so shocked, and i backed out, and i shouldn’t have. we can talk about this, if you’re ready to.” he softly says as i sit up, moving his hands off my face.

“you left me.” i mutter, the tears already threatening to fall. “i wanted your support, and you left me. you fucking left me when i needed you most! do you know how shitty that feels? all day, i’ve felt guilty, and i find the courage to tell you and then you fucking bail on me?”

“i know and i’m so sorry my love. i didn’t expect it, i reacted in the wrong way-”

“what you think i did expect it? you think i’ve been throwing up for the past two weeks and i wanted it to happen? do you know how hard it’s been to hide my suspicions, because i didn’t want to scare you until i knew for sure, and then you run away because you didn’t expect it? the one time, the one time i fucking need you here and you leave me.” i sob, my voice breaking as i shake my head, standing up and walking away, tom quickly following me to the kitchen where i stand, my front against the counter, head in my hands.

he says nothing, but wraps his arms around my waist from behind, his thumbs running along my stomach comfortingly, lips pressing small kisses on my shoulder as i slowly begin to calm down. we both stand in silence, tom never loosening his hold on me, finally speaking up once my breathing has slowed a little.

“i’m sorry. i’m so so sorry. you didn’t deserve that at all. i promise you, i’ll never leave you like that again, not for a second.” he whispers, turning me around so that my chest is flush against his, his arms securely around my waist.

“why did you do that tom? you have no idea how scared i am.” i say, my words slightly muffled as my head is buried into his t-shirt, my arms clinging onto his neck.

“ i’m so sorry. i’m sorry.” he keeps repeating, kissing my forehead over and over between his words, never once letting go of me.

“what are we going to do?” i sigh, appreciating the fact that we have made up, but knowing that it doesn’t change the situation or make the reality any easier to swallow.

“i don’t know baby, i don’t know. but whatever you decide, i’ll be right here, always. i promise, i’ll always be here.” he affirms, and the sincerity of his voice tells me that i can believe every single one of his words.

“i love you tom.” i say, the words slipping from my mouth naturally as they are the only ones that come to mind.

“i love you too.”

requests are open! keep sending them in!!

#tom kaulitz #tom kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz fluff #tokiohotel #tom kaulitz angst #tomkaulitz #kaulitz #kaulitz twins #bill kaulitz #tom kaulitz smut #tokio hotel

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redfoxwritesstuff · 2 months

Text

For Eternity, Chapter 8 (Alastor x Isa)

Alastor x Angel!Wife Oc (Isabel) Rated: Adult - this fic contains content inappropriate for minors. Chapter Warnings: Canon typical discussions of violence and murder

@impulsivethoughtsat2am Was darling enough to beta <3 Many thanks, Dearheart.

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord. And my friend runs a Hazbin Fic Community

Masterlist AO3 KoFi

Warm fingers caressed her thighs, just above her knees as he waited with his breath locked in his chest. Seconds ticked on as he continued to wait, caressing, while she trembled under his touch. There was nothing he wanted more than to chase away the storm he couldn’t read in her eyes.

“I guess that’s a valid reason to be sent to Hell,” she finally said, hand slipping from where it had rested atop his head to cradle his cheek. “I won’t pretend I understand or that I approve, that it doesn’t scare me-”

“I would have never hurt you,” Alastor was quick to soothe her fears, though he could only hope that it worked, “I would have kept you safe.”

“I believe you,” and she did, though she was terrified of this hidden side of her husband. Her mind struggled to wrap itself around the fact that her husband, soft brown eyes, fluffy hair and radiating kindness in life had been taking lives easily while she slept. Guilt washed over her. She struggled with knowing that because of her inability to bring their child into the world sucessfully, she sentenced not just herself and their child to death but countless physicians and others as he fell into a madness.

“Why did Vox know you? Why was he so obsessed with you?”

“I’m not anymore innocent here,” Alastor admitted. “Vox and I had been friendly at a time before we had a falling out of sorts. He didn’t take it well. From there, we’ve fought for territory and battled for power.”

“Territory? Power?” Such politics were not a part of life in Heaven. They were earthly concepts that were left behind.

“I hold a rather sizeable amount of both, as do he and his cohorts. The logistics don’t matter. It’s not safe for you to be here regardless, my darling. You’d have a target on your back every time you left this hotel without me.”

“I’m not going back,” tears gathered in her eyes, “I worked so hard to get here. I can’t go back, even if they would take me back. I don’t want to.”

Leaning up, he rose higher on his knees as he pulled her knees apart, slotting his torso between them. His hands inched higher, caressing the exposed skin as he pushed the shorter hem of the front of her dress higher along her thighs.

“I need you safe,” he said, closing the gap between them more and more with each breath they took. “If you’re there, you’re safe. Tonight, we’ll be together again, if you’ll have me. Then we’ll find a way for you to go back and you’ll never have to think of the sins of your husband again. You can move on.”

“Would you?” She struggled to speak around her breaking heart.

“Never,” He admitted, fingers caressing higher.

She should stop his hands. They were not in private. Someone could come out and her skirt was resting so high on her thighs. She didn’t want to stop his hands, however. It felt good to be caressed by the loving hands of her husband again, even if his hands were now claw tipped and stained black by blood.

“Then why must I?”

“Because I need you to be happy and safe,” she could feel Alastor’s breath on her as he softly spoke, “That’s all I’ve ever needed.”

“And if I can’t be?” She whispered as his hands reached her hips. She realized, when he had changed her clothes, he hadn’t granted her any undergarments to replace those Valentino dressed her in. The only thing keeping anyone from seeing the exposed skin was his arms and body.

“It’s Heaven,” Alastor was so close now, she struggled to pay attention to his words instead of thinking about what it would be like to kiss his new ever smiling face. “How could you not be happy once you let go of me? Just one more night. That’s all we need. One more night to say goodbye.”

Alastor looked down as he pulled her hips to the edge of the bench. He wanted to see her, to watch her thighs wrap around his hips as he convinced her, but something that shouldn’t have been on her thighs caught his eyes.

Yellow and green marking on her skin left by fingertips that didn’t belong to him. The air of seduction shattered as he leaned closer to look at the exposed marks, eyes no longer hot with want. The look had turned cutting and sharp. Green and yellow meant the marks were over a week old.

“How long have you been here?” He asked, voice sharper.

“Since the battle. Vox called it an extermination.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, knowing full well what he was looking at.

“These are too old.” He shoved her skirt higher, paying no mind to how he fully exposed her as he searched for more marks. “Vox didn’t do this. This didn’t happen here. What happened? Who did this to you?”

“It’s not-”

He snagged her chin in his fingers, still flaky with dried blood as he forced her to look at him. “What happened?”

“Adam- the first man, Adam.” She hated the way her eyes welled up again. It seemed too silly to cry so easily while sitting on a bench in hell. “He wanted to court me.” A bitter laugh surprised her as it fell from her lips at the words she picked. “No, he wanted to have me. There was no courting to it. I turned him down, again and again. He-”

The snarl in Alastor’s voice sent a shiver down Isabel’s spine. “Did he force himself upon you?”

“I swear, I took no one willingly to my bed.”

“Did he force himself?” The tears that fell from her eyes told him all he needed to know.

Static filled the air as he pulled the skirt of her dress down to her knees and stood to his full, imposing height. While her protests of her innocence and fear of rejection fell from her lips along with the tears from her eyes, he simply held out a hand for her. Rage burned in his red eyes.

When she failed to take his hand, he leaned down and plucked hers from where she clutched at her chest, pulling her to her feet. She stumbled as he swiftly walked with her down a path leading to what looked to be like trash and ruins.

“Where are you taking me?” This was the first time Isabel had ever felt fear in Alastor’s presence. Not even as he knelt, head down and confessing to a mountain of bodies staining his hands with blood, had she felt fear of her husband.

He took her to a wide swath of recently disturbed dirt. Yanking her, pushing her with another hand, he brought her to stand in front of him, wrapping his arms around her waist tightly.

“What is-”

Alastor cut her off, “This is where we buried the felled angels from the battle. First, the cannibals stripped the flesh from their bones and took what they wanted. What little was left, we buried here.”

“Cannibals?” She was shaking like a leaf in his arms as his dark words washed over her, spoken softly right into her ear, dripping with pride she recognized from when he’d spoken of his radio show in life.

“We gathered their weapons, of course, for our future defense- should Heaven wish to send another army. Many exorcists are buried here as well as the commander of their army. My Darling, do you know who the commander was?”

“Adam,” she breathed his name, emotions warring in her heart. “Did you-?”

“Kill him?” Alastor laughed, “Heavens no, I did battle with him for a time, however. I deeply regret having wasted time playing with him now, knowing that he touched what belongs to me and me alone, without invitation. If I could relive that battle again, I’d take great satisfaction in ending his life painfully slow, ripping his soul from his chest and playing his agonized screams on my broadcasts for anyone who dares to take what belongs to the Radio Demon.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” Isabel was terrified of voicing the question. He had said he wouldn’t have hurt her in life, but this man was in many ways someone she had never known. Never in her life had she seen Alastor’s mood so volatile. Sure, he had been a bit of a moody man, in his own way, but he generally kept in fairly good spirits.

“Never.” The venom in his voice seemed to dissipate instantly as he spun her to face him, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her to his chest. “Never will I hurt you.”

She could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest as she braced her hands against him. A hot breeze kicked up the air, ruffling his hair and her wings. Isabel realized that this was the side of Alastor she had never known in life but had always been there, hidden. This was the man that hunted men and ended their lives for reasons she couldn’t understand.

This was a man plagued by fickle madness he had somehow kept well hidden during their marriage. What did it say about her? She still loved him, of that she knew even as she struggled to understand what everything meant for her, for them.

“It appears, however,” Alastor’s tone changed again, returning to the chirpy voice she had known from his broadcasts in life, “I cannot count on Heaven to keep you safe after all. What a shame! And, as you had said, they would likely have not welcomed back an angel who left willingly, anyway. You’ll just have to stay here, with me, after all!”

It had been what she wanted and now she struggled, unsure and struggling to keep up with his decisions. “Did you enjoy killing them?” Numb lips whispered the words. She was terrified of the potential answer.

“The angels?” Alastor’s head cocked to the side, an extreme mockery of the way he had a habit of doing so in life, “Oh, very much so! They came to my territory to wreak havoc on what I have built up. I simply cannot have that! Ha! What would papers say!?”

Had she made a mistake in coming to find him? Was it better to have loved the idea of him while missing the man she had known and at the same time never know? “And before? Before you died?”

“Oh yes,” Alastor’s smile tamed some, losing the touch of madness. “My little hobby scratched a particular itch, you can say.”

Looking down at her, he took in the fear in her eyes. While death had changed him into a grotesque character of a man, it had been far kinder to his love. He caressed her hair, running the pads of his fingers over her cheek. Flakes of dried blood dotted her skin.

“Do you wish to leave me?” He asked the question that had been running rampant through his brain, “Now that you know, do you no longer want me? Do you regret waiting for me? Decades spent pining for a monster of a man?”

As her eyes filled with tears and shuttering breaths puffed from her lungs, he ran his hand down her bare arm and around her waist. The smoothe fabric, warmed by her body, felt good under his hand as he ran it over her lower back, inching up between her wings.

“Now that your idea of me has been shattered, do you wish to go back and face what heaven may have for you in Adam’s absence? Say something, my Darling.” He pleaded only to continue before she had a chance to. “Perhaps with Adam gone, you’d be safe? How could I ever trust them to protect you though, after they’ve allowed him to lay his hands on you?”

As he rambled, his hand between her shoulder blades spread, fingers curling into the plush feathers from where the dress buttoned around her wings.

“Did you kill? Back at the studio, did you kill them? Is that why your hands were bloody? You didn’t just hurt them, did you?”

“Ha! But of course,” He smoothed down the small feathers that gathered where her wings erupted from her back. “But don’t worry- their death isn’t final. They’ll reform in time.”

“Did you kill Vox?” She didn’t like the man. He had been terrifyingly obsessed with her, but that didn’t mean he needed to die, even if it was temporary.

“No,” Alastor sighed, “He ran with his cord between his legs before I could do much more than crack his screen. I didn’t wish to leave you, even if you had Angel with you. Would you like me to?”

“No!” She jerked toward him with the force of her protest.

“Very well.” Alastor said, smoothing his hand over her wings, taking in the feel of the sleek feathers over strong muscle. “So, my dear, now that you’ve given up heaven for me, do you regret it? Was it worth it?”

“Does it matter?” Isabel whispered, “I gave up everything for you, Alastor. I can’t go back. Heaven won’t take me back. I threw their gift away to be with you again. I’m not- I can’t say I’m okay with what you’ve done or still do, but I’m here, with you. I knew if I had to come here to be with you there would be something.”

Tag List: @preciousbabypeter, @catticora, @alastor-simp, @alastorthirsty, @bufaunfu

#Alastor x oc #hazbin alastor x oc #hazbin hotel alastor x oc #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x you #hazbin alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x you #dark fic #dark!fic

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rise-my-angel · 1 year

Text

Heart of the Great Wolf

3 - An Intrigue Drenched in Blood

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 8.6k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, animal death, discussions of child murder and infanticide, brothels, blood and violence, slight canon divergence

Notes: Previous Chapter Here, Things pick up from this point on, I assure you. Series Masterlist Here.

Bright and noisy was the state of Kings Landing as knights poured in from every corner of the most populous cities. All with their shiny armour and polished bravados like they were every bit of confident that they would win the winning gold and glory. They were never your kind of attraction even in your younger years here. The play fighting that so many of these men staked their life on, and of all the days to miss it was yesterdays which had the worst of action.

Not allowing the chance to even truly approach for a question, Ser Gregor Clegane otherwise known as The Mountain had speared the newly knighted Ser Hugh with a lance right through the throat. A space in his armour seemingly perfect for such an action and it felt hard to believe that it was nothing but a coincidence. Nothing in this city was a coincidence anymore it felt.

Walking towards the stands you passed by where curiously your King uncle was absent from his seat. Not a man to miss a spectacle you toyed with the ridiculous notion that he would ride in the event. Even now you could recall a time when you were thirteen and a tourney was on just like this one, you had stopped by the tent King Robert was in and admonished him for being so foolish to join.

It was easier to be comfortable with him in those days. You were sat up on a table, popping grapes into your mouth as you casually would remark that not only would no man dare hurt the King even in jest, but that the armour he was trying to fit in was about fifteen years too small. Were you not so close, he might have gotten you in trouble for such a comment. You couldn’t imagine even having a conversation with him that would allow for fun now.

The King was less miserable, and typically more reasonable and sober back then and you were still full of a youth like pep in this city. You still had the urge to explore the nearly fifty miles length of tunnels hidden about by the former dynasty and the pretty colours, bright sun, and vast diversity of lords and ladies impressed you. You still could walk into this city with a smile, unlike now. Maybe it was the loss of a childhood trait, or more realistically it was the adult understanding that this was a dangerous place and you’d be a fool to think otherwise.

You still wore the pretty dresses, and entertained the noble daughters whom were some degree of friends but the spark was gone from your eyes despite it all. This place and it’s people no longer giving you joy, instead just now a place of bloodshed and the tediousness of cleaning up after your King’s messes. No wonder your fathers scowl had deepened the lines in his forehead so much, you were beginning to think you’d return to Robb in Winterfell, stress having doubled your age on him.

Spotting Renly, he gave you a closed mouth smile of surprise as you pulled your skirt upwards to climb the steps before flattening it all out as you sat next to him. His voice was as light as ever, not that you expected much. “When you asked if I’d be here, I didn't actually expect you to show up. I thought this wasn’t your kind of thing, my dear niece.”

Tilting your head with a slight grimace you relented. “No, I can’t say I see the great appeal in cheering about men whose claims are they are young and very good at knocking men off horses with a stick.”

Nudging you with his arm, Renly smirked. “Shame, you could do with some fun in your life, shake up the terribly boring personality my brother passed onto you.” Glaring with only a flicker of your eyes to the side, you felt back a slight smirk as he just sauntered onward like nothing. “I hope for Robb Stark’s sake you aren’t such a rigid, bore in bed as well. Last thing one of those northerners need is less enthusiasm in their personal lives.”

Rolling your eyes, you took a breath before just passing him onto the truth. “I promised Shireen I’d go see a tournament, so I can write to her all about it.” You dared not look at him, knowing it was something unjustly vile about her on his tongue.

You think you could see him shrug somewhat beside you. “At least it gets you out for once, you and Lord Stark seem to be working way too hard for a King whose never going to thank you for it.”

Watching the very man approach, he nodded with an unblinking stare for just a second before sitting next to his daughter. No one thought your jobs, certainly not Hand of the King’s job was done for the sake of thanks. Not when the King had attended maybe two or three small council meetings over the course of the six years you’ve been sitting in on them to some degree.

Squinting in the bright sun, you shrugged with an otherwise flat expression. “Someone in this family should do the hard work for once, I may as well take over that mantle.”

Chuckling, Renly and yourself glanced over to the King making his own way to his seat finally, the bumbling sack of nerves and apologies that was his squire following suit with the wine. “Don’t be so harsh on our King, takes a lot of energy to fuck as many whores as he does at that age.”

The contenders next begun to ride up. Ser Gregor large and as brutish as ever on a large yet skittish black horse that seemed to be as unsettled as many felt looking at the man. On the other side, dressed in a bright and ornate armour with poise was his opponent. Curls atop his head neat and styled and a rose in his hand as he looked towards the stands near where you sat, for a subject to give it too.

Settling on the young redhead in the front stands a few rows from you, you could see the elation in Sansa’s shoulders as she gently accepted it. “Thank you, Ser Loras.”

Unnoticed to her as he took steps away, glancing up to the rows where you sat he glanced with a pointed glint in his eyes. Renly did not respond, but the words were there as there was solidarity in your silence. You would tease your uncle as he would you, but something between the dynamic you two had build up seemed to have been discussed in the men’s private affairs. Your teasing was never meant as anything but fodder for banter.

The shared look was not romantic, but they tended to stay away in public due to image. Much of the court knew about Renly, you weren’t as sure many, if any at all, outside of the small collection of whisperers, knew enough to say the same about the son of Mace Tyrell, heir to Highgarden.

In the seat below you and one above the two Starks, Lord Baelish turned with a jaunty grin. “A hundred gold dragons on the Mountain.”

Renly beside, did not hesitate. “I’ll take that bet.”

The two knights made their way to each side of the procession as the lower man begun to brag of his confidence. “Now what will I buy with a hundred gold dragons? A dozen barrels of Dornish Wine, or a girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?”

With a quirk of your eyebrow, you glanced at him. “You could even buy a friend.” The reaction was as satisfying as such a man could emote. A smile as if he knew a secret you didn’t and it only reminded you why bothering to speak to him was so grating. Lord Baelish not allowing for a moment to let another get the one up on him even in words he always felt compelled to have the final look, the final say.

The trumpets sounded out, both riders finally going towards the other as it only lasted for a mere moment. Loras’s Lance striking Ser Gregors shield and pushing him back. The large black horse fumbling in it’s steps as it fell into the wooden railings and knocking the large knight himself to the ground. The crowd cheering with delight as you felt the pride next to you.

Pride in both energy and voice as Renly shouted down smugly, “Such a shame, Littlefinger. It would've been so nice for you to have a friend.”

Standing up and turning to face you both with a quieter tone and a wider smile, you felt the creeping below your skin with a narrowing of your brows. “And tell me, Lord Renly. When will you be having your friend?”

Both of you said nothing, but the glares spoke many things all at once that the man only found amusement in as he turned back. You and Renly glancing at the other for only a moment of seriousness before you glanced back to the waving Ser Loras at the people. “Dare I ask how much gold you two are playing around with to come up with that little stunt?”

Renly laughed, the one thing about you that separated from your father is that you didn’t have to lecture to disprove. If the rich wanted to play with their money like jesting boys, you’d just let them it didn’t matter to you. Leaning in to whisper closer to your ear, “To be fair my dear niece, it wouldn’t have worked as well on any other horse. A man’s animal is only as wild as it’s owner they say.”

The next words didn’t come out of your mouth, as the sounds combined with what image flashed in the side of your vision gathered a mix of yells and stunned silence. Ser Gregor at some point having acquired his sword, took it through his horse’s neck in a single slice. The anger in him wild and untamable as he turned on his opponent, knocking Ser Loras to the ground only just missing from by strikes to his shield.

Both you and Renly standing at the action, Loras was good, but not good enough for that. Strike once twice, enough that you felt the bubbling anxiety in your chest before a growling voice came down from that of the King’s Stand to leave him be.

Striking his sword against his before each pushed away from the other, brother against brother stared the other down in a hatred that spoke more about themselves then it did defence of another. Ser Sandor Clegane, the brother of the giant Knight in front of him with half his face burned in a sear of fire for life. Half the hair on that side barley able to cover it beyond the strands coming from the top of his head that weren’t destroyed.

It wasn’t of any interest to you, nor did it matter, but you recall learning what such a mark meant and how it happened. The two now clashing swords, your eyes narrowed and your nerves grew tense in your muscles. This would get out of hand until more bloodshed arrived but only one man dared to interrupt such a commotion.

“Stop this madness in the name of your King,” The roar from the stands as King Robert stood was strong and echoing. Ser Gregor taking a final swing as the other ducked the blow with a surprising grace as he bent down to kneel, sword stabbed in the ground with a bow of his head.

You felt Renly’s own nerves ease beside you as the Mountain threw his sword to the ground with a raging huff and stormed off. The King yelling to let him go as the crowd parted in a justified terror. The Hound was not a man you enjoyed associating with, found too much pleasure in the necessary harshities of life and considered you to be as aggravating and dull as he did your father. However, he did follow around your wretched cousin for most of his days and that would make anyone angry.

The crowd cheered for Ser Loras and The man most just called The Hound as the smaller and younger raised the others hand in the air of victory, you and Renly sitting back down slowly.

Glancing at him, you could see a brightness in his eyes looking at the proclaimed Knight of the Flowers, and you couldn’t see it within you to give anymore passing jests at the matter. His new close association with the Tyrells struck you as an odd choice, and it pinged a distrust in your brain but you in no way had let it effect what a terror that would be for him.

Renly wasn’t a fighter of any kind, you weren’t even sure he had ever held something longer then a stick to play fight with and certainly had never been hit hard enough to bleed. It’s scary to imagine that you are forced to sit there and do nothing as the man you love has a blade shoved into him.

You perished the thought, you dared not let yourself imagine anything for the two faces which struck you as the scariest.

Sighing to yourself as you walked through the Red Keep you were thankful for the silence, the handmaidens appointed to you were fine girls, good at their jobs, but they were also giggly and chatty and fussed over you a bit too much. Having to tell them day after day, “I can walk myself through the castle halls my ladies, I assure you.”

When you were younger, it was either one of your fathers household guards that would keep and eye on you, or another who wasn’t sworn to serve but seemed to always know when you snuck off. Ser Barristan was in the sworn brotherhood of the Kingsguard, but he took a liking to you the day you arrived in Kings Landing. Not quite good at holding your tongue just yet, but you were still serious and respectful like your father taught you.

It was one day he had been sent by the King to fetch his niece so he could spend some time with you that he came across the most unique of sights. A wide area of Lord Stannis’s quarters had been pushed up against the wall and he stood in the middle with you, only aged thirteen, with a wooden sword in your hand.

He watched for a while, seeing the clever instruction your father was giving you. Ser Barristan knowing your lord father to be a formidable opponent and one that he would not wish to fight on the other side of a battlefield. Yet it wasn’t that style which he taught you.

You were less hacking and slashing, and more about swift movements and carefully timed slices that would cut down faster then your strength could overpower. After that, it was he who often found his way to accompany you when the King had no immediate need of him.

Days like this, you almost missed that. You didn’t want the hen chatter of girls fussing over you like you were the princess but you did miss the company of those who didn’t see fit to treat you like a dainty doll. Sometimes you had wondered if your strange mix of ladylike properness and a tendency to more lordly tasks was because of your father. He gave you and Shireen a lords education and such teachings led you to other interests.

To many you weren’t ladylike enough, but it wasn’t as if you pretended to be anything but the highborn lady you were born as. You enjoyed the company of other women, you took pride in your appearance like many, but you also spent much of your days as a teenager being kicked in the mud and hit with wooden swords by three teenage boys that had no qualms of making you feel like you were fine at being both.

However, as you heard a groan of frustration and tiny pattering of feet scampering beside you as it dodged into the hall, you were met with an amusing sight. Arya was covered in a layer of sweat and grime as well as what appeared to be scratches along her forearms when she stopped. Bending forward to rest her palms on her thighs as she caught her breathe, only flinging back up in surprise when you chuckled.

Slowly approaching, you didn’t bother hiding a smirk. “Such a ghastly state of dress for a highborn girl such as yourself, Lady Arya.” Your chuckle bellowed to a much heartier laugh at how quickly she told you to shut up.

Coming closer to you, she plopped herself down onto a small series of steps as you carefully sat down to join her. “Syrio has me catching cats. If I can be quick enough to catch them, then I’m quick enough to move around my opponents.” You smiled fondly at her, exhausted and covered in scratches that looked unseemly like looking at your once self.

Glancing up, you kept your eye on the black cat hiding around the corner. Peeking it’s one ear’d head out occasionally to eye it’s chaser. “You’re smaller then a normal target. They’re stronger but if you’re faster then them, that’s how you get them before they get you.” When she looked at you with a curious question in her eye, you shrugged looking back to the black cat. “It’s what Jon told me when he started to teach me how to swing a sword.”

Looking up with narrowed brows she asked, “I thought your father taught you?”

Nodding, your fingertips started to tap at the other in a fidget. That memory was still clear as it was when it happened. “Sort of. You were just born, you wouldn’t remember any of it. But it was one night I couldn’t sleep and I ended up wandering into the training yard. I was fooling around with one of the training swords, no idea what I was doing at all. And before I knew it, Jon had snuck up behind me and hit me in the legs with one and I just fell to the ground.”

Arya looking a bit taken back, but you laughed. “We all used to rough house a lot more back then, me and your brothers. He and Robb were around fourteen or fifteen by that point, and I was twelve. So just shy of being too old to pick on girls anymore.”

Moving to tuck her knees closer to her chest she wrapped her arms around them. “So what, he hit you and then..?”

You mimicked the same position, “At first he joked that if I was going to play with swords I should at least learn to not turn my back unguarded. But then he asked if I really wanted to know how to use one.” Feeling far away, the girl next to you disappeared as well as the castle walls around you. “I think we met up after everyone went to sleep for three weeks straight. He taught me some basics, then realized I would learn a bit better if he didn’t teach me how to fight like him, but how to fight against someone like him.”

Smiling to yourself, it was during those nights all to yourself that had done you two in. You weren’t a lady in that moment, and he wasn’t a bastard. You were just you and Jon, your best friend guiding you how to fight simply beacuse you wanted to know and he wanted to teach you. You got roughed up a lot, in the privacy of the night, Jon certainly didn’t shy away from grabbing and throwing you around when you got too cocky.

“When I returned home, my father recognized what kind of cuts and bruises they were, instantly. I never told him who did it, I was scared he’d write to Lord Stark and Jon would get in trouble. But he never got mad at me. No, he figured if I wanted to learn and I already was, then he saw no reason to not continue himself.”

Those days you think were some of the last time you and your father so easily got along. He smiled and laughed during those lessons in his quarters, proud of his daughter so keen on learning the things that helped made him the Lord he was. You hadn’t seen your father so freely smile like the did on those days in a very long time. It was the last time he felt truly like your father, and not more like your Lord.

Lost in thought for more then you assumed, Arya’s voice startled you. “Does it bother you?” Glancing down at her, but she was looking at her feet not you. “Having to act like a lady when you want to do things the boys do?”

Considering for a moment, you saw no reason to sugar the truth. “For a while it did. When I came to Kings Landing for the first time, everyone treated me like a fancy highborn lady when both on Dragonstone and in Winterfell, people just treated me more like who I was already.”

Formality of such high luxury certainly was not common on Dragonstone. Being doted on and cared for like it was a waste of your effort to lift a finger that much was not the way of your father. You didn’t have so much done for you, that you forget what it means to earn your keep through your own means.

“But, I think I had to learn that it wasn’t being a lady that I didn’t want.” Glancing down to her, who now was looking at you with wide eyes. “It was just that I didn’t want to be the kind of lady people like the Queen wanted me to be. I’m nothing like Sansa, but I’m as much a lady as she is.”

Arya looked away quickly, a flash of long hurt in her eyes that you knew stemmed from a sister who didn’t treat her well. “My father wants me to be like her.”

Not even a second hesitation did you spend, “He doesn’t.” Turning to face her properly, you called her name firmly. “Arya. Fathers will always want things for their children, things that they have no way of knowing what we’d like about it or not. He’s not a mind reader, he can’t see the future you want for yourself and sometimes accepting that it’s different then what he envisioned takes time. But he adores you, and he would never tell you to be someone you can’t be.”

Running a hand over her hair, you could feel her trying not to lean into it. Trying to look impassive instead of upset as you continued. “We’re not all going to get the future we dreamed of, but that doesn’t mean your father wouldn’t support your choices no matter how different from Sansa’s they are at the end of the day. He went out of his way to hire Syrio to teach you something he first said wasn’t for girls. He wants you happy, even if it doesn’t lead you to the future he wants or you want.”

“Like how you didn’t get the future you wanted?”

Taken back, you didn’t understand her words but there was no anger or judgment in them as she elaborated. “You didn’t get to marry who you wanted, but every time I see you writing or opening a letter Robb sent you, you still smile in the same way my father does at my mother.”

Not in these open walls would you broach that. Not sure of what she knows or suspected or if you were just projecting onto her. You smiled, and your next words echoed the very thing Jon told you would be what was in store for you. “I’ve known Robb since I was eight. He’s easy to fall in love with.”

Your lips remembering his, and how easy it was to let his touch and his deep words make you lose yourself in him. But also the boyish grins whenever he teased you, the lack of worry you had knowing you could say anything to him and there’d be only support. Even before.

Somewhere in your heart was something far different that needed not thinking of now, or even if you had to think long enough to be real with yourself. But it was locked away for a reason. You couldn’t take that feeling with you, you had to let it go in order to give Robb who you really were. Not just pretend.

That part of your heart, had been captured protectively by the other. That part of your heart now sat heavy alongside that of the wolf who took it with him. That part of love was tucked away safely at the Wall with the one who insisted you not take it with you. You were with Robb now, and no matter what one part of you said, the other part of you yearned to see Robb and actually be happy. You did want it.

“Sometimes the things we want, aren’t the things we originally asked for. But that’s part of duty, how to be just and firm in our choices. Whatever your duty becomes, you have to learn to want it. Otherwise it’ll just eat away at you.”

Glancing up, you saw the little tomcat start to inch away down a stairwell, pulling a smirk as you nodded your chin over to it. “I hope you really want that cat, Arya because he’s about to bolt.”

Her head whipping up, you watched her leap to her feet sprinting down the hall as the little black cat sprinted off faster. As Arya grumbled loudly, you laughed freely.

Much true of words, you didn’t come here wanting to be wrapped in the tendrils of liars and spiders, but as you entered Lord Stark’s room? The very spider sat in the seat across from him, his face somewhat less apprehensive as it was you who entered, not one of mistrust. “My lady.”

“Lord Varys.” You did not sit int he seat beside him, coming to the end of Lord Stark’s desk and leaning back against the wall closest to it, arms crossed as you and him shared a look. His eyes steady and serious as you nodded. “Am I interrupting?”

Cordial and showing no intent, yet he never fooled you. “Not at all, in fact it makes it easier to share such sensitive information while you both are here.”

Lord Stark stared intently at the man, trying to gauge just as you. “Lord Varys seems to think the Kings life is in danger.”

“Oh I don’t think, Lord Stark. I’m afraid I know.”

Your posture couldn’t be more uptight and rigid as your stoned face, but you found no patience in playing nice as Lord Varys did. “Are you speaking of the same kind of danger that killed Jon Arryn?”

A slow nod, his voice was even as if none of this effected him. Despite his very presence and confidence of truth saying otherwise. “If you suspect Lord Arryn was poisoned, it would need to be one that was fast and utterly incapacitating if given the proper dose.”

“If we suspect?” Your emphasis on the doubt of we as in you and Lord Stark had Varys raise an eyebrow to you.

“I assure you my Lady, I don’t act on questions or doubts.” Glancing between you and Lord Stark he settled on what appeared to be the one who relaxed his trust more. “The tears of Lys, they call it. A rare and costly thing, as clear and tasteless as water. It leaves no trace.”

Lord Stark rose, pacing in thought towards the open air of his balcony. Your jaw clenching in consideration of the idea. What Grand Maester Pycelle had said, he seemed confident at first it must have been natural causes. If he didn’t sense a foul attribute then this ran deeply, did it not?

Asking who would give it to him, his voice was muffled as he still looked out to the city. Lord Varys playing such a game that irritated you. Telling you what you already know, but in a riddle to avoid any prying listeners to the subject. Never close to a man who says what he means. “Some dear friend, no doubt. But which one, there were so many. Lord Arryn was a kind and trusting man. There was one boy, all he was he owed to Jon Arryn.”

Squire to Knight upon his masters death, and yet once the master was dead soon was the squire turned knight. Something was tying up it’s loose ends but the ends of what? Lord Varys only saying whoever paid Ser Hugh would’ve been someone able to afford such a price.

His hands pressed against the top of his chair, the same yarns spun in Lord Starks head. You looked from him to Lord Varys. “Jon Arryn was Hand for over twenty years, why kill him now?”

Leaning forward, he spoke of something he knew the answer to and yet still forced you and Lord Stark to form more of that very thing on your own. “He started asking questions.”

There was no way of knowing how haunting this meeting would be to you one day.

The ferocity of your Uncle as he called a meeting of the small council himself told everyone whom didn’t already know the newest update, that something was about to explode. King Robert was the most blatant example of the fury of a Baratheon as any of you living now.

Something akin to madness was in his eyes as you watched him arrive, there was a calmness in both Lord Varys and Renly, a curiousness in Grand Maester Pycelle as he arrived and a difficult to read Lord Baelish who was the only other one present then Pycelle who didn’t know. As Lord Stark finally arrived, walking in you wondered how much of a unified front it appeared to be.

Niece and brother on both sides of the King Baratheon and a horrific message displayed. The only time your King uncle did not mince words, was now. Drenched in anger and vengeance that did not sit comfortably in your stomach. He looked at Lord Stark with all the vitriol he could, spitting out in anger “The whore is pregnant.”

Lord Stark hardly finding it in him to care for hiding his disgust but they fell on the Kings deaf rage.

It was like he didn’t even hear the man speak. “I warned you with would happen. Back in the North, I warned you but you didn’t care to hear. Well hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and that fool Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead.”

You hadn’t been born until two years after the rebellion ended, you’d never seen him in a place that wasn’t in times of peace and yet he ranted and raved as if all three of them were armed and blooded at the gates. This was not a man you recognized, this was a man who spoke of an unborn child with the same he did of Rhaegar Targaryean.

Lord Stark’s tone was deep, cracking with a shocked twinge at who this man was. “You will dishonour yourself forever if you do this.”

The fury grew louder as he spoke. “Honour? I’ve got seven kingdoms to run. One king, seven kingdoms. Do you think honour keeps them in line? Do you think it’s honour that’s keeping the peace? It’s fear. Fear and blood.”

Your father had a similar idea but never in a lifetime would it be in a manner like this. Lord Stannis felt that if people don’t fear you they won’t follow you. That if you can’t scare the wicked away then the good will not stick around to be picked off by what you refuse to pluck out. If you don’t pull the weeds out by their roots with determined force, then they will overtake the garden and nothing good will stay to grow between the rot.

Your voice was rough, as if your throat was scratched in need of water but it was hissed out without much care for hiding the feeling building. “Fear and blood isn’t far from fire, now is it?”

The King turned to his left to look at you, but you did not flinch back at the rage nor the spitting words from his mouth as he said your name. “Careful now. You’re my niece but you watch that.”

“You’re chasing shadows twenty years removed, shadows you can’t even be sure are real.”

Lord Varys far calmer then the other member still glaring your way. “My lady, you wrong me. Would I bring lies to the king and his council?” You both stared at one another, and in just a brief moment so quick you could’ve imagined it, there was a flash of something in his eyes.

Something like what he found in yours unsettled him. The way you know for a fact, he had looked at Lord Stannis many times over. Lord Stark asked who even provided the information. The spider’s answer did nothing but leave the wolf and little stag unconvinced. Or you supposed, given the calm manner which Renly refused to challenge and the true fury in the other?

Perhaps the two unconvinced members of this council, were indeed two wolves.

“Jorah Mormont. He is serving as advisor the Targaryeans.” You huffed a breath of disbelieving laughter at such a spy. As Lord Stark looked as unimpressed, he himself having much more direct reason to press to them that he wasn’t to be relied on.

“Mormont? You bring us the whispers of a traitor half a world away and call it fact?” Lord Baelish trying to reason that being a slaver is not the same as a traitor and yet only traitors would betray their loyal family and flee across the sea to escape whatever sentence justice demanded from him. You took no part in entertaining slave traders.

“And if he’s right?”

Glaring once more at your king, “And if she miscarries, if the child dies in infancy? We do not plan murders based on a whispers of what if, your grace.” Your name spat once more but you did not hear. “You mean to fear someone who doesn’t even exist yet so much, that you’d murder it in their mothers womb and call that anything but that of a coward?”

King Roberts face almost red from fury as he once again hissed your name. “I told you to watch yourself or have you forgotten who is king here?”

You stared at him as still as possible, not recognizing this as your uncle. This King was a stranger.

“No, your grace. Have you?”

Lord Stark speaking up before the King took a chance to raise his voice so loud it booms through the seven kingdoms. “The Narrow Sea still lies between us. I’ll fear a Targaryean child the day the Dothraki teach their horses to run on water.”

Looking in shock between you both, he yelled at the others to talk sense into you two.

Lord Varys took his chance, looking to Lord Stark notably as opposed to you both. “I understand your misgivings, my Lord. It brings me no joy delivering this news to the council. It is a terrible thing we must consider, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule, must do vile things for the good of the realm, however much it pains us.”

Grand Maester Pycelle took his reasoning, a rational approach to a fruitless endeavour. “I bear this girl no ill will, but should the Dothraki invade, how many innocents will die? How many towns will burn? Is it not wiser, kinder even, that she should die now to tens of thousands live?”

Tell that to the unborn child you refuse to give a chance, you thought to yourself.

Renly finally spoke, and you felt that weight in your chest plummet down and slam you hard into the floor. “We should have had them both killed years ago.”

Your eyes blazed as you looked at him, across the table. His were with no guilt even. Of course, the brother handed everything he did not earn nor deserve by the brother he now sat beside advocating for what he sees as the least amount of effort for the most unfair of results. Lord Baelish spoke somewhere to your left but you did not break your eyes from Renly.

“When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, best close your eyes and get it over with. Cut her throat, be done with it.”

The men here all sickened you but none as vile as Lord Baelish. Not even King Robert’s rage made you feel as if you were covered in the slime from a swamp from his voice alone.

Lord Stark looked his old friend right in the eye. “I followed you into war, twice. Without doubts, without second thoughts, but I will not follow you now. The Robert I grew up with didn’t tremble at the shadow of an unborn child. I will have no part in it.”

“You’re the Kings Hand, Lord Stark. You’ll do as I command or I’ll find me a hand who will.”

Lord Stark’s only action, was to look his friend in the eye as he pulled off the pin of his position, and tossed it onto the table as it landed with a clunk. “And good luck to him. I thought you were a better man.”

The yelling went on for some time. Not a single one of you with the capability to have him calm his fury and the unravelling of what once made him a King fell before your eyes. As some finally begun to leave, you sat in your seat before projecting loudly. “Your grace? A word?”

Room emptied out, he turned to you. His voice quieter but not without it’s rage. “You have a lot of gall to speak to your king like that, girl.”

Not moving an inch your eyes blazed towards him with a narrowed brow. “Speak to you like what? Like you’re a coward afraid of an unborn infant?”

“A coward-”

Slowly pushing yourself up, you braced your palms on the long table. “Tell me, your grace. What happened the last time a half Targaryean babe was murdered along with their mother? How well did that serve us in the long run, or I am I just supposed to assume that House Martell has forgiven all of that?”

King Robert stormed closer, leaning his fists much like you did your palms. With a tilt of his head you felt as if he somehow still towered over you. “They were that son of a bitch’s own children or did you forget that too? You’d have them alive now and walking around doing gods know what just beacuse doing what needs to be done isn’t honourable?”

“This isn’t about honour,” Your own voice finally rose to a proper shout and your uncles head jolted back as his eyes widened for a moment. “I’m talking about justice. You aren’t an honourable King for doing this, but you’re certainly not giving Lyanna justice by murdering women and children who’ve done nothing.”

“She hasn’t been done right by until every member of that family is dead-”

He leaned forward and so did you. “You served her justice. You killed Prince Rhaegar at the Trident, you were the jury and executioner for his crimes and blaming those who weren’t even there or alive for it has nothing to do with Lyanna and you can’t serve a just sentence for something that isn’t even close to have happened yet.”

You weren’t fool to think you got through to him, but he was lost in thought for just long enough for you to find the limit of your handling be reached. “Don’t do anything to people who haven’t proved a harm to you. That unborn child is someone you’ve never met, you have no idea what they could grow up to become, uncle.”

Passing by, he was simmering down as you were when you stopped beside him. “I’m not even telling you what to do about the girl. You choose to kill her, and just her I will not argue. But you cannot punish an infant just beacuse they have drops of Targaryean blood somewhere in their veins. You have no idea what that child could turn into, and if they are a threat? Then we serve out that justice. But only when justice is required.”

You got to the door before he spoke, voice raised to catch the distance as he turned to look at you.

“It doesn’t matter what you two do. If I won’t give it to him, I won’t give it to you.”

You shook your head, a sad sigh breathing from your lips. “I wasn’t asking for it, your grace. And with all due respect, I’m not just your niece. I’m his daughter. Not yours. I wasn’t raised to think you were ever in the right towards him.”

The door which closed behind you sealed you and Lord Stark inside. You have to admit, there was nothing more of a bizarre shock to the day this had been, then being told Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis had visited this brothel together. You father alone being here was enough to conjure an image of him that you wondered how rigid and emotionless you came across to these woman as he likely did.

Lord Baelish had urged you and Lord Stark to visit his establishment, to see the last person Jon Arryn visited before his death.

The girl in front of you, her name Mhaegen, was little more then a child. Younger then you, but you doubted with your heart that were you to ask Lord Baelish how old she was, that he’d give you an honest answer. In her arms, was a stunning baby girl.

Bright green eyes, already the makings of a strong face of dark hair and once more a ping inside you clung. Two actually, but the first one was how much of a Baratheon this little girl was. “She looks like him, don’t she, My lady? She has his nose, his black hair?”

You stood slightly in front of Lord Stark, running your finger down the girl’s cheek. She looked so much like Shireen did at that age, you wondered if you held her, would she yank at a stand of your hair until your head was leaning cuddled against hers. Something your new baby sister had loved to do when you could still hold her at that time.

But this baby wasn’t just a reminder of your sister, it wasn’t even a clue of mystery about how this all connected to Lord Arryns death. No, you were looking at this baby girl, your raging Uncle’s bastard daughter and you were stunned by this was your cousin.

This small girl was your cousin like Joffery was, and yet this girl smiled weakly as you tickled the side of her neck with a coo and a smile. How many of them were in this city alone? How many of them didn’t have a clue that they belonged to a family that could give them life outside of the poverty of flea bottom?

Lord Stark stepped up beside you, as the no doubt teenage girl looked to him. “I named her Barra. Tell him when you see him, my lord. If it pleases you, tell him how beautiful she is?”

Lord Stark said he would, but you both knew it would not matter. The King barley had any love in his heart shown towards his own children, for as many faults as Queen Cersei had no one could doubt the love for her children was a real as her hair was blonde.

Children, babies, that meant nothing to the man your uncle had become.

“And tell him I’ve been with no one else. I swear it my lord. By the old gods and the new. I don’t want no jewels or nothing, just him. The King was always good to me.”

The gods have mercy what a web of lies King Robert had played this girl up to, to think he’d ever entertain her as more then something to warm his bed and little Barra as anything but a bastard to cast out beacuse highborns like the King had no use for anything that didn’t bear his name or his house’s titles.

Perhaps becoming a Stark was the final nail hammered in that deemed you not one of him anymore.

Lord Stark asked what it was Jon Arryn wanted, and to the only amusement you found that day, she looked almost worried she painted the wrong idea of him. “He wasn’t that sort of man, my lord. He just wanted to know if the child was happy. And healthy.”

He looked at the glee on the young mothers face at her babe, the longing and tragedy deep within your eyes barley hidden by a steel mask that weight you down. He ran his hand over the baby’s foot gently as he spoke, “She looks healthy enough to me. She’ll want for nothing.”

He didn’t have to pull you physically, but it seemed like tearing away from the girl was a cruel task. Just an infant who had a lifetime of poverty and neglect in front of her all beacuse your King Uncle had no taste for self decency. You thought too of the one in the armoury, Gendry. How learning of who his father was, would come as no comfort considering the sort of man Robert Baratheon was proving himself to be.

No child deserved to grow up fatherless, but perhaps knowing who they are could hurt or disappoint then thinking they were just a no one. Joining Lord Stark into the next room where Lord Baelish looked as relaxed as ever and you felt as rigid as ever.

It wasn’t such a place that bothered you, but it certainly was the eyes and ears of who owned it and for what. You wondered if there was even any women in this establishment who didn’t fuck just to fill Lord Baelish’s need for information.

“What do you know about King Robert’s bastards?” Lord Stark had asked him.

With a sly grin, it was impossible to tell which he looked at more. The proper Stark, or you. “Well, he has more then you for a start.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you pushed it down as far as it could go.

“How many?”

Lord Baelish glanced at you with no doubt this time, before sliding them back to Lord Stark. “Does it matter? If you fuck enough women, some of them will give you presents.”

Presents being children who will never feel like their apart of a world that respects them.

Lord Baelish gave you no answer as he walked slowly to you, Lord Stark, and the accompanying Jory to the door. Something inside you was screeching and yelling, like it had the answer to something you weren’t quite at yet. It made your heart pound, but it also set your blood alight like it burned. You didn’t know why, and yet what arrived outside for you was it’s own present that intended to ruin.

Members of the Lannister guard surrounded the area, standing two to one of the Stark’s own household guard their spears at the ready. All three of you slowly wandering into the streets slowly, your lips parted as galloping came forth until a horse with Jaime Lannister sat atop came by. “Such a small pack of wolves.”

He was not a foe you could beat, nor were you prepared for such at all kind of fight. Not truly. Jory using a calm reason to such aggression. “Stand back, Ser. This is the Hand of the King.”

The eyes on him were glinting with smugness but anger. “Was the Hand of the King. Now I’m not sure what he is, Lord of somewhere very far away.” Climbing off the horse, he paced every so slowly with a bravado only a true dangerous fighter could pull off like he could. “I’m looking for my brother. You remember my brother, Lord Stark? Blond hair, sharp tongue, short man.”

Lord Stark steady and calm as you were with a heart that wanted to strangle your lungs from within, “I remember him well.”

Looking to the side at nothing, there was as smirk that seemed to think the northerners cared to play such a game, or you for that matter. “It seems he had some trouble on the road. You wouldn’t know what happened to him, would you?”

He had done none of that, but Lord Stark did not go against his wife’s actions even for a single second as he declared, “He was taken at my command. To answer for his crimes.”

Lannister men shaking their amour as some reached for a better hold on their weapons as the lion pulled his. “Come, Stark. I’d rather see you die sword in hand.”

Moment of anger, or naivety, or just a helpless love you stepped forward with sharp narrowed eyes, “If you threaten my lord again-”

Lord Stark held a hand out, gently keeping you in place and by his side despite the lion pointing his sword with a smirk. “Threaten? As in, I’m going to open your lord from balls to brains and see what Stark’s are made of?”

“You kill me, your brother’s a dead man.”

It all happened so fast, Jaime turning to his own, “Take them both alive, kill his men.”

You had little on you, a small blade that you pulled from a pocket that fit in the palm of your hand almost. You sliced it at the weak softness on the Lannister armour of the one who approached you, crying out as blood split from the cut and you ducked to avoid his counter.

You were fast but it was against too many and a woman whom had no armour, only a dress, and no real weapons to speak off as the Stark guardsmen were taken out most by surprise. As you moved, almost punching into the neck of a Lannister one it punctured a wound enough to have him sputter up and fall to the side as Jaime Lannister shoved a small dagger of his own into Jory’s eye.

Stood in shock for just long enough that the rest were overwhelmed until it was them against the two of you. Lord Stark pulling his own sword, you were suddenly hauled backwards by two arms which didn’t feel like armour was behind them.

Lord Baelish’s voice in your ear as you fought against him was a whisper, “You’re far more useful alive then dead, my dear.”

You were not strong, something Jon, Robb and your father all trained to to keep in mind. Even a man like Lord Baelish could keep you as long as he tried harder then your muscles did, but you couldn’t. You watched the two men clash swords, Jaime confident and Lord Stark desperate. You had hardly seen the Lannister fight in person, but he must have been quite good as for the briefest of seconds?

Lord Starks sword pushing him backwards, his eyes flickered between the man and the weapon worried that there might be a possibility that he loses. Just as Jaime lost the upper hand, one of the Lannister guards stepped forward.

With a harsh push, stabbed his spear into Lord Stark’s leg bringing him to his knees. Already shaking, you gasped with what little breath remained as the hold keeping you from the fight loosened. Enough to slip your arm just enough to lunge back into the middle of his chest.

Jaime standing back in hesitation, watching as you rushed to his side, uncaring of the sweat and blood staining your arms and dress as you grabbed Lord Stark to keep him from collapsing entirely. He shook from the pain and blood loss, you shook from the shock and pathetic cry of how useless you were in a place like this gods forsaken city.

Jaime Lannister climbed atop his horse, turning in place as he gave you both one last look that radiated of both anger and something like a sympathy that you wished you could snatch away and shove down his throat until it choked him. “My brother, Lord Stark. I want him back.”

The City Watch had found you like that, a barley conscious Eddard Stark with a spear in his leg as you looked to the dead around you. Killed for what? In retribution of a man who tried to have a ten year old boy murdered twice?

The weakening look in Lord Stark’s eyes as he grew weaker, your lungs did not breathe nor did it feel like your heart ever stopped threatening to explode from your chest.

For a reason you could not explain, the sight or the light and angle making his appearance remind you so close to that of his son, you for a brief second imagined Robb in his place.

You didn’t understand why your mind conjured such an image, but you knew it horrified you all the same.

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