#this is my self-indulgent fanfiction and i will take all the time i need to make it right goddamnit

[fraugwinska]

DoubleTrouble No. 2 - Missionary Impossible

Yes, we did Team up again - the wonderful @macabr3-barbi3 and my humble self wrote another DoubleTrouble fic, based of a hilarious FranticFanfic game result (If you are a writer and have some friends who also indulge in fanfiction, check the game out: www.franaticfanfic.com - Your throat will hate you but the laughter makes it worth it!)

This time we give all of you Vox Lovers a real Treat! Mine is the Readers POV, while Barbie provided Vox's POV - get the TV's dirty version right here.

And now, without further ado:

Explicit Sexual content - Minors DNI - 18+ - 6.5k words

You had to admit: Breaking into Lucifer’s personal vault was your boldest and most impressive job yet. You had your concerns - normally you didn’t take jobs that seemed too shady or downright wrong to you - but you didn’t steal anything powerful, just a bottle of his vanished wife’s perfume. You shake your head at the memory. Most certainly one of her many, still very active superfans, kind of icky to be honest. But money talks, and boy did that client talk.

The only downside had been that for the first time, the 666 Evening News had a picture of you.

Granted, blurry, obstructed and absolutely not usable at all - but it still irked you to no end. They didn’t call you the ‘Traceless Thief’ for nothing.

But even though no one was more the wiser about your identity, even though Lucifer begrudgingly stopped looking for witnesses, even though the gossip on the streets about speculations who the Traceless Thief could’ve been died down - ever since that night, you felt like you were being watched.

The next jobs you take go without news coverage and media attention, and yet, you grow more and more paranoid. Hell has many eyes - figuratively and literally - and you feel them all on you. But there is work to be done and a living to be earned - and the tiny alibi antique bookshop you keep definitely doesn’t provide. No one sane wants old shit in hell - and the rare specimens that do and visit the dingy little space under your apartment come and go, disappointed in the stock you barely keep.

Which is fine by you - you only really need it for one thing. The PO Box.

The wonderfully boring, uninteresting PO Box of the ‘Dusty Pages’ bookshop was your portal to the real money. Hell had become a lot better the day you mastered the powers the underworld granted you: No physical barrier could contain you. Being intangible granted you freedom, and to return to the profession you were best in: Stealing Shit.

Of course, noble causes like overturning corrupt governments by breaking into officials homes and publishing their many crimes was still stealing, if you ask heaven that is, and it landed you in hell. You gave up being salty about it, and made the best out of the situation.

“Hey Frankie. How’s the wife?” The post office clerk, a grumpy looking crocodile in an ill-fitting checkered suit huffs.

“Still fucking annoying, as always. Each day I’m getting closer to bribing an exterminator to kill the bitch just to shut her up for good.”

You chuckled, leaning on the counter and tapping your fingers on the scratched wood.

“Aw, did you burn the meatloaf again? You know Alice hates that.” Frankie gives you an exasperated look, which you meet with a mocking grin.

“You want something? Except for getting on my nerves?”

You shrug, twirling a tiny key on a string around your finger. Frankie, and by proxy Alice too, were parts of your harmless, boring, inconspicuous appearance. Just a normal young sinner, just a normal errand to run, keeping normal small talk with the clerks.

“Just checking my PO Box. I’m waiting on a few rare books I ordered to restock.”

“Uh-huh. Tell someone who gives a shit.”

The crocodile turns away, adjusting his small, round reading glasses and eager to ignore you. Perfect.

“Always nice to chat with you, Frankie.” you say and saunter over to the little door with the number 13. The quiet click always sounds satisfyingly like a little exclamation of joy and like cashflow, and under the ‘Old Crap & Thingamajigs’ catalog you found what you were hoping for. A thick envelope and a letter - new jetstream-bathtub, here you come.

God, why were the VoxTech maintenance uniforms so fucking skimpy?

You grumble silently, cursing yourself that you haven’t grabbed the male one. But that would’ve been suspicious, and you couldn’t afford to be suspicious today. Not if you want to get the job done and live to tell the tale. 

The Vee Tower is full of cameras, hundreds of tiny, red blinking lights next to crystal clear lenses, and dead spots were hard to find and a rare occasion. So, when you couldn’t shift through the walls, you had to look like you belonged. And apparently, a fucking laced, black mini-skirt and a top with puffy sleeves that looked more like a fetish bralette was what it took to ‘belong’. The whole point was blending in, not being remembered - and all the female employees from cleanup and maintenance looked the exact same as you. So, unless one was walking around with a bag full of personnel files on hand, you looked like anyone else on this floor.

You stepped into the elevator, the keycard your client had sent you along with the money and initial job offer in hand. Wherever that person got those precious credentials, you were grateful for them because it gave you an easy way to bypass all the layers of security that VoxTech imposed. All that hassle for an incriminating photo.

You sighed when you pressed the button to floor 66, where the CEO of VoxTech enterprises had his private apartment. Vox.

The name was even more intimidating than Lucifer's to you. While the king of hell was aloof, inactive, disinterested in the ongoings of hell, Vox was the absolute opposite. He knew every little secret. VoxTech had millions of eyes and ears. It was a well known fact that he kept his all-seeing spycams on the whole pentagram and his pliant audience in his steely grasp. Always on top of the times, on top of the news, on top of the sales and on top of any business, shady or not, in hell. In the eyes of the citizens of the Pride Ring, Vox and his partners Valentino and Vevette owned practically everything. He had the largest audience in the history of hell, the sharpest wit and the keenest, calculating eye on the prize - a charming manipulator that was considered very much dangerous and not to be underestimated. Which is why you had to plan your gig for a time you were certain he wasn't around.

A shame really - you couldn’t deny, despite his ruthlessness and questionable business practices with which he had built his empire, you kind of admired the self-made TV-demon that rose to overlord status and made quite a big name for himself in stellar time. That, and he was nice to look at too, even with a flatscreen for a head. Oh well.

The ding of the elevator brought you back to the job at hand, and with confident steps, you glanced up and down the corridor. There were a few cameras pointed to the apartment door, but you found a dead spot not far off, and with a content smile, you walked over as if to inspect the carpet, just to shift as you were out of the camera's angle, your body transpiring through the wall, and with a quiet thud, you were inside.

That was the moment the lights went out.

A power outage was the last thing you had expected - in the Vee Tower of all places. The one place in hell that burst with electricity, and you would laugh at the irony if you weren't so tense. The timing is suspicious,and with a beating heart you shuffle forward, trying to phase through the nearest wall.

What the fuck?

You furrow your brows and huff, irritated. The wall is - well, a wall, and while that was a normal state for others, for you? Unimaginable. Your hands are resting against the concrete and steel, normally easy peasy to walk through. But you feel the hardness under your fingertips, much more intense than it should and almost stinging.

Conventional route it is, then, you think begrudgingly and slowly make your way through the corridor, listening into the stillness of the apartment. The corridor led into a spacious living room - flat, modern couches that screamed money and luxury arranged in a half circle, surrounded by various screens, all turned off. In the middle you see the outlines of a metallic, lavish coffee table, empty and clean like in a catalog. It was the kind of space that wasn’t really meant to be lived in, but to show just how much you had that you didn’t really need. A show.

You scanned the room. There was an open arch leading into a kitchen - also polished and top notch empty, not the cluttered mess you had in your apartment - and a closed, narrow door, likely a storage room. But at the opposite end of it, you see a faint, blue stripe of light, teal blue, luring you towards it. A night light maybe, or some indirect mood lighting shit that was all the rage since LED’s hit the Pentagram a few years ago, shining through a cracked door. Intentionally inconspicuous, your brain whispers, but anything was better than the dim darkness you were stumbling in now. 

When you reach the glowing gap and peek cautiously into the adjacent room, one hand almost on the handle, a groan makes you freeze before you could register what you are looking at.

Oh satan.

Vox.

A LOT of Vox.

The overlord was fucking home, and not just that. In his bedroom - your target location - naked, an impressive and glowing cock in hand, working himself in a way he would definitely not appreciate anyone seeing him in. You felt your neck and cheeks flush with heat - another thing you did not expect nor calculate for. But you can’t look away - as surreal and absolutely dangerous this situation is - his deliciously large hands and the sheer sight of his luminous length glistening with precum as he strokes himself cuts your breath short with highly inappropriate lust. The screen in front of him was bright, and for a moment, you were so enraptured with him that you didn’t recognize the silhouette he was pumping himself to.

You.

It’s you.

In this ridiculous maid costume that was unconsciously riding up your ass, sneaking through the corridor, not even half a minute ago. With growing horror you watch yourself taking tentative steps through the living room, the you on the screen hesitating before deciding to move to the left, one arm reaching out to a cracked open door.

“Fuck, yes.”

The words were barely said when your brain kickstarts.

Fuck, no.

He knew. He knew you were here.

In a flight of panic, you bolted for the corridor, back to the door, back to the safety of not-fucking-here, but you couldn’t even make four steps before your wrists were bound by cables shooting out of the walls surrounding you. You ready yourself to slip through them, but again, your powers leave you high and dry again. Helpless, you back away into the nearest wall, and the door opens fully, with the TV demon standing in the frame. Tall, intimidating even butt-fucking-naked, and a cocky smile on his HD face.

“Hello, my dear,” he almost coos and takes a few steps towards you as you writhe in the restrictions, desperately trying to slip out and get the fuck away. “I’m so glad you got my invitation!”

“Invitation?” That makes you still against the cables, your eyes darting over his face, confused. What the hell does that mean? You weren’t invited, you had a job to... Oh. Oh shit.

“You’re the client?”

His face was answer enough, and you would have slapped yourself for your stupidity if he hadn't had you in an iron grip. A loud game-show ding startles you back into the here and now, he was so much closer than before…

“Sure thing, doll! How else was I supposed to catch a slippery little thing like you without scaring you off?”

He traces his fingers down your cheek, his tips sparking with static electricity. How fucked up are you that this turns you on? Not being able to suppress the need to glance at his still shining and ripped cock again, you swallow hard. Where is your sense of self-preservation? Apparently left outside of this apartment, along with your usual foresight and dignity.

Cables wrap around your thighs and with a yelp you feel yourself getting lifted, legs parted by the wires. You almost topple over but are caught by his hands on your arms and faced with a smirk when you press your back into the wall, stabilizing yourself with a reddened face.

“Those didn’t come with the uniform,” He has the audacity to wink at you, nudging to the black lace panties you wear - excuse a girl for not wearing granny panties in the workplace - and you want to retort something snarky to him, when he looks at you that way. 

Within a moment, you realize two things.

Firstly, with the way he was roaming your body, his eyes lingering not only on your face, but your tits and the flimsy underwear concealing your very obvious wet arousal - you were fucked one way or the other. Which should’ve terrified you. Emphasis on ‘should’.

Because the other thing was, that even though he had bound you, even though you were at the mercy of this powerful sinner who tricked and trapped you here, rendering your power useless with whatever-the-fuck… he didn’t seem malicious, but rather… curious? Fascinated? Playful? You can’t really pinpoint it, but something tells you that - if you play your cards right - you might get more out of this make-pretend job than a jetstream-bathtub and hopefully all your limbs intact. And most importantly - you have nothing to lose.

“They're from my personal collection - lucky coincidence that they match the overall vibe of your staff's... uniform." It takes a lot to steady your voice as you talk, with the way his clawed hands run along the insides of your legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

He cocks his brow, as if he's pleasantly surprised, and licks his lips before he answers, his voice sultry and dripping of sexual tension.

"Mh... Luck favors the prepared, I always say. Oh, and speaking of slippery and prepared, sweetheart..."

You gasp as you feel the soft fabric being pushed aside and long fingers running lightly through your drenched folds. Fuck, you can already tell just how skilled those fingers must be. How great they'd feel deep inside you. Involuntarily, you buck your hips to guide them to where you wanted them most - onto your clit and burrowed to his knuckles - the desperation just dripping from you as he chuckles and lets his thumb glide over the throbbing pearl teasingly teasingly as he pushes one of his digits in. Your head rolls against the wall behind you with a needy moan escaping your lips and you have to bite them to stay focussed for what you were about to do.

"What a sight. You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment, doll, seeing you all desperate and fucking..."

The rest of his sentence died in his throat, replaced by a low, long and stuttering moan. Half shocked, half aroused, he looked down to his throbbing cock, then his head snapped up to you, grinning down on him. You moved your hips again, grinding down on his unmoving fingers, frozen in place at his confusion, confirming your suspicion that he didn't know about your other power. Not as strong as your intangibility, sure, but strong enough for him to feel - and see - the ghostly hand you envisioned around his dick, continuing what he started, pumping him in leisurely, slow strokes. 

"Didn't know about that move, doll." His hand comes alive again, and even though his voice glitches a bit he adds another one, much more tenderly and almost softly, properly prepping you. And judging by the circumference of the cock you feel through your spectral hand, it was more than precaution, but nothing less than a mercy. Mercy you were ready to beg for, given his thumb would continue the delicious circles it drew, just the right pressure, just the right pace to push you near the edge without tipping you over it.

"You're just a whole mystery, huh?"

Now fairly certain your head wouldn't roll at the end of this encounter, you let your last reservations slide. It has been too long since you were in the hands of a skilled lover, one that didn't disappoint, that didn't come too soon or drilled amateurishly into you in search for the g-spot they never found. This one knew what he was doing, finally, and by satan you wouldn't waste this opportunity. Make it a night to remember, and who knows? If you fuck his brains out, maybe he'd be knocked out long enough after for you to make a quick and easy exit. You imagined the spectre hand to twist, its thumb mapping the soft ridges around the crown. That seems to do the trick for Vox, and the look he shoots you deeply satisfies. "Fuck me, that's good."

Playing into this sentiment, you didn’t stifle the moans his damn fingers stroke out of you, the way they glide in and out, pressure on all the right marks without fail is too good to hold back. Your skin felt on fire, even without him touching anything but your pussy, and you felt no energy left to care that your clothes - if you would call them that - seemed to fall apart on your body, skirt pushed up to your waist, top loose around your shoulders and almost down enough to let your boobs fall out. You must look a mess, but then again the overlord didn’t seem to mind - quite the contrary. He looked outright hungry, eyes glitching occasionally with a particular squeeze of your hand or a poignant lustful moan from your lips.

“Do you have to concentrate to do that?”

“A little.”

His fingers hitting that one sweet spot inside you, cutting any other, more elaborate explanation short. Fucking hell, that you had to get tricked and trapped by an overlord to find a man that doesn’t think ‘foreplay’ is the interview before a soccer game was a fucking travesty. Grateful for that fact you withdraw from your own pleasure and decided to reward him, regaining your concentration enough to imagine a second hand to pay attention to the firm, very plump balls of his, rolling them in its palm and giving them a gentle, tentative squeeze.

“Cool party trick though, isn’t it?”

As if you challenged him, there’s a subtle change in his demeanor - his eyes more inquisitive, his fingers more eager and fervent, and a third one joined the others, stretching you oh-so-deliciously. For a moment you think you’d lose control, the ghost hands flickering before you got a grip on them again, determined to not tip the scales so soon. But you had to admit - it was tempting, to give into this implied command: Submit, let me take care of you, let me fuck you dumb.  

Little did he know, you were all about equality - or nothing at all. And if he was allowed to plow you with three fingers, surely he couldn’t protest against a third hand.

You weren’t sure how you’d manage it… the power was new, still waiting to be mastered, but you willed a third hand into reality, joining the one on his balls, softly working their way down and massaging his perineum. It strained you to no end, operating the conjured hands while Vox was adamant to make you cum on his fingers alone, but with how the cables shook and loosened around you, you were fairly certain it was enough to show him you meant business, your message clear: If anything, baby, we will fuck each other dumb. 

You watch with almost painful arousal how his screen flashes from the three-way-stimulation, his teeth slightly baring from the sensation but without losing his cocky smirk, as if to show his resilience.

"You'd be the life of any party I know, sugar, if you can pull shit like this out your sleeve."

With a wince from you, he pulled his fingers out, leaving you gaping, empty and fucking whining at the loss, eyes sharp and with a dangerous glint in them. "But you're not the only one with a few secret talents."

He kneels down then, opens his mouth, and you can't believe your eyes as a thick, long, very analog blue tongue unfolds and licks his lips hungrily and almost impatiently. A hand around each thigh spreading you almost impossibly wide, the hot breath feels chilling against your slick opening, and a brush of the tip of his tongue on your swollen clit makes your toes curl and your muscles tense with expectation. Your gaze, locked with his, breaks only when your head throws back and you moan out his name as he truly begins to eat you out. 

No teasing or games, no building up the tension - it's unmerciful, frenetic, his tongue alternately flickering on your clit with its pointed tip and pushing deep into your core with an almost unbearable thickness until there was no space left to be filled, tasting every little centimeter inside. Instinctively, your real hands twitch in their restraints, wanting to reach out, grab his head, the frame of his screen, fucking anything really just to have something of him to hold onto and push. Your hips can't hold still, but he made sure not to lose an inch as his hands gripped your ass down and into him as if he heard your thoughts, drawing you deeper into his maw as he devours you. Your spirit hands fade in and out, your mind unable to keep them steadily corporeal - he was too good, his tongue was too good, not once did his rhythm falter nor the damn thing slow down, giving you no chance to collect yourself.

Finally - oh god finally - his cables loosened enough for you to dart your hands towards him, finding a saving anchor on his arms. You literally felt like you were drowning - wet and out of breath, senses fogged by that wonderfully violent tongue swiping and licking and prodding and fucking pulsing. When he hummed into your cunt, all dams broke, and you could only stutter “fuck, cumming - oh my God-” before you snapped and you fell into the depths of your orgasm.

Whatever prick, mouth or fingers you had on and in you before - this erased them all. Never before felt your head so light, your cunt so heavy and hell so divine.

His relentless licks make you mewl with every stroke as he rides you through your high, but he just doesn’t stop. Greedy, rawing your abused cunt to a point where moans turn into almost pained whimpers and your body twitches and squirms, begging for him to relent.

Mercifully he understands, and when he stands up, you only passingly realize with a pang of bad conscience that your spectre limbs have dissipated somewhere along the line, leaving him high and dry - only metaphorically, because his cock was soaked in leaking cum.

He hooks your legs over his arm, his other snaking around your waist to lift you from the wall, and you made no motion to resist it, being that the prospect of his soft sheets on his bed were much more preferable than color-coated concrete on your back. The short walk over feels like the eye of the storm - a short illusion of a safe space, and you use it to assess the damage.

For one - the ‘clothes’ you wore were useless now, they did nothing clothes were supposed to do - The sleeves were half-ripped from the bralette, hanging by a thread, and the top itself so far down your tits were fully out, nipples dark and flushed, while the skirt was nothing more than a drape at this point, hiding the mess on your thighs and reddened, puffed lips.

Then you look up through your lashes, up to the best lay you ever had, down below as well as up above. You should plan your escape, should use the time you had now to calculate what to do to get the fuck out while you could - Instead your horny little fucked-up brain was busy imagining how you could draw this out, make him so pussydrunk he’d send another decoy job weekly, just so you could return to that magic tongue again and again.

You were right. The sheets felt soft and obscenely expensive. You spread your fingers, the only real motion you were still able to make for now, taking his roaming gaze and the appreciative expression on his screen as a badge of honor. Your senses tingled, and you blinked one, two times, listening into your powers. The walls of his apartment were prepped by him to prevent you from leaving - electricity most likely, something intangible itself - but the ceiling and floors weren’t.

“Got another round in you, baby?”

You look up to him as he wraps your legs around his waist,lining himself up to you, tip ready and loaded. But he doesn’t push in. He waits, and you could cry as he does so.

Fucking hell, the ruthless media overlord half of hell fears to the point they piss themselves is waiting for your consent.

It’s this unexpected, contradictory duality that draws your lips into a smile. Trapping you in his territory, able to kill you with his goddamn pinkie, and yet the only thing he does is make you cum on his mouth and wait for a ‘yes’ to fuck you mindless - how could you not fall for that? Even more, how could you not test your luck with that?

With regained strength you reach for his dick, fingers wrapping firmly around his girthy base. His body follows your gentle guidance, and he lets himself glide into your ready heat with a groan that sends a shiver down your spine - such an earnest sound it makes you want to return the favor tenfold. And you just knew the way you could.

“You don’t need to worry about my stamina,” Voice like honey, you refocus your mind, visualizing the wicked idea that had entered your mind.

A soft hand. Long, flexible fingers, slick and smooth and ready. It formed as you thought it, stroking the cleft of his ass, halting at the tight ring of muscle it found, testing his reaction with a teasing, light press against his opening.

The reaction was priceless. Face glitching, hips jerking violently forward into you as its fingers pass his entrance and slide into him, coming to a halt at that one, very sensitive spot. His breath is ragged and eyes fucking wild, but the way he bends down, gripping your hands to entangle them with yours and pressing as much midnight-blue skin against yours tells you that he doesn’t exactly hate it.

“Worry about your own,” you whisper against the skin of his chest, grinning at the way he shudders at the sultry tone of your voice and the challenging eyes of yours, hilted in your pussy still, taking the ghostly fingers like a good boy.

“Whatever you did to your apartment, you only did it to the walls - the floor is fair game - ah fuck-”

He found some of his senses back, his thrust surprising your nerves with a sudden jolt of electricity - added by him or imagined by you, you can’t tell. He fills you so perfectly, as if molded just for you, big and hard and absolutely sublime, and when he brings his knees up more and bends you at the waist he manages to push in even deeper, pounding almost at your cervix with increasingly feverish, tough thrusts. Again, he wanted to break your concentration, but this time, you were prepared. You let your body do what you trained it to do - it goes hazy, misty, almost translucent in a blue-ish hue, revealing the vision of his buried prick deep inside you, teal glow in navy mist, before you solidify again and find the strength to grin up at him.

“If you cum before I do, I’m out of here.”

There was a wicked glint on that screen of his, and he upped the pace of his snapping hips, pressing you deeper into the mattress.

"Guess you'll have to move in then, baby." His voice sounds almost distorted, his body starts to spark with fizzing bolts of electric energy, and when he grips the headboard with one hand to gain more momentum to fuck even faster and stronger into you, you almost want to take him up on that quip, convinced his apartment was equipped with more than just a boring jetstream hot tub.

Your spirit fingers stroke in a come-hither motion over his prostate, over and over, varying in pressure, intensity and speed, and each swipe makes him moan a little louder, driving his dick a little deeper into you. It's becoming a race towards a finish line none of you wanted to get to in the first place, a fight of wills and bodies, pushing you to your limits judging by the way your oversensitive pussy clenches, begging for release once more. But by Satan himself you did not intend to lose without a good fight, your fingers raking over his lithe back and the sharp edges of his body, lingering, scraping, writing wordless praises into his skin in red streaks.

“In fact, sweetheart,” he says as he pounds you and your pants become out even louder, “I’ll make you cum so hard you don’t want to leave - you’ll scream my name so loud they’ll hear you down in Wrath, know exactly where you’ll be living from now on.”

Vox, too, is close, you can see it, hear it, most importantly feel it. One hand remaining on the headboard, the other scoops you up by your neck, pulling you onto his face in a kiss so breathtaking and fierce you almost pass out. It's sloppy and lustful, it's lips against lips and tongue on tongue, and your ability to use either becomes redundant when you and him both simultaneously cry out, orgasms overlap and intertwine, you cunt clenching tightly around his pulsating length, sending spurt after spurt of hot cum into you as your own release drips onto the soaked sheets below. Your eyes roll back, the fingers buried inside his tightened ass vanish and your muscles relax. With his hand still on your neck, claws digging into your skin, he slowly brings you back onto the mattress to let you fall together with him.

Silence settles for a second. A brief moment of stillness and clarity, sweat cooling your skin, hearts slowing down and breathing returning to normalcy. You feel the aftermath of his touches everywhere. His marks litter you from top to bottom: Your wrists and thighs are covered in red streaks from the tightness of his cable bondage. Your whole skin tingles from the waves of his inherent electric current. But most telling of all was the pooling mess inside of you, already leaking.

You let yourself feel the weight of his body on yours - it's an intoxicating feeling, the heat radiating off his dark blue skin, and the subtle charge beneath, a hidden hum underneath your fingertips, telling of the immense power of an Overlord you just let fuck you senseless. Now would be the time to run - his screen was completely blue, turned off while he recovered his breath - if you wanted, you could disappear, and he wouldn't be able to stop you or track you down. But when you searched the depths of your mind and body for regret and the sense of danger it brought - there was none. Only satiated warmth, an afterglow you could bathe in, like a warm, healing balm, easing your aching bones and bruised skin.

And just in that moment of resolve, Vox’s screen returned to show his face, and he lifted his head slightly to look at you with eyes as bright and vivid as the neon signs lighting up the streets of the entertainment district outside his windows.

One Month Later

“Thanks babes, I was about to lose my shit when Velma and Kelly fucking quit on me. Bunch of pussies, those two, seriously.”

You shoot Velvette a smile over your shoulder, adjusting the last couple of details on six of her girls, ghostly blue hands hovering around them - clipping a collar here, buckling a shoe there. You pity the two foolish girls - the runway show had Velvette occupied tonight, but tomorrow - well, you were sure Vel was about to annihilate their sorry stylist asses for blowing her off last minute… and not just with a snarky post on Sinstagram.

“No problem, Vel, that’s what I’m here for.”

The small woman laughs sarcastically, but not in the usual mean way, but a playful one, a friendly one. That was one of the things you could pride yourself on - That Velvette, social media queen and judge of what’s hot and not, fell in love with you almost as fast and hard as Vox did.

“Darling, we both know that no one really knows what exactly Vox hired you for. What was the job description he pulled out of his flat ass again?” she raises a cocky brow, sipping obnoxiously on her iced coffee to go in her hands, holding out another, identical one for you. “Ah, yes, ‘ASS’.”

You take the drink from her, smiling mischievously back at her. When Vox came up with that title, he didn’t even notice the ambiguity of its abbreviation, and you let him stew over it for almost a day before you told him, silently convinced your fingers left a memorable impression. “It’s ‘Administrative Services Specialist', and what can I say? My resumee was very convincing.”

Velvette snorts into her vanilla foam. “Funny name for your cunt love, but you do you. Now shoo. Didn’t you and flatface have a date tonight?”

You wave her a quick goodbye, sipping up the cold drink in one gulp and throwing it into the trash as you bypass it, hurrying down the hall and plucking the private keycard from your back pocket. You scan it at the elevators, noticing the other employees backing away from you, and you couldn’t hide the grin that flashed your face. No one dared to ride in that elevator with you, a very badly kept secret that it sent you one way straight to Vox’s apartment, and every one of them would rather chew glass than be caught by whatever awaited the opening elevator doors.

And Vel was right - you had a date with Vox, a special one at that.

Barely three weeks ago you actually did move in - call it a whim of insanity, call it fate - and since that, your days were filled with a job in the Vee Tower that you actually liked (no one shed a tear at the ‘Dusty Pages’ closure notice) and the nights were spent naked, sweaty and blissfully explicit under, on top and any other possible way with Vox in his bed. You learned something new about yourself - with the right partner, you were almost insatiable. Another thing you learned was that Vox seemed to feel just the same. Lucky coincidences indeed.

But date night was something special. Giving up the alibi bookshop was easy enough - but you were adamant that you still wanted to do your other jobs.

Not because of the money - Vox provided generously, and wouldn’t take a cent from you (although you managed to convince him to let you buy him at least snacks and small gifts, an exception you abused to the absolute limit). No, you actually liked to sneak through the night, liked the thrill of moving in the shadows and shifting through secured buildings. Liked the excited arousal you felt after a completed heist.

To preserve your secret, you and Vox decided that you wouldn’t reveal your main power to the others at Vee Tower, the only other people who knew were Velvette and Valentino.

The latter wasn’t your biggest fan, and who could blame him, giving that you were living with  and fucking his ex-lover, but he had his own flings and things to take care of, and after a few occasions where you stepped in to help him out at shoots and with his scripts, he at least became cordial towards you.

But date night was where you went out to do a job, secured through Vox for one of his many business partners, and the pool of people the TV demon had on hands that needed or wanted something of value was a bottomless pit from which you could choose the ones you liked the best. And your digital lover not only organized your gigs - he became your eyes and ears, your literal partner in crime.

The doors open, and Vox stands waiting, leaning, in the doorway, arms crossed and a grin on his face.

“You’re late, doll.”

“I know I know, but Vel needed some helping hands - you know I can’t leave her hanging.”

“Oh, I saw.”, he chuckles, his screen switching from his face to images of you from the security cameras on Velvettes floor, close ups of your face, your tits and ass sprinkled in between. ”You know I can never see enough of you, gotta keep those cameras on.”

You scoffed, but did so with a smile before you kissed him and ran off into the closet, undressing quickly while he followed you, letting himself fall down on his bed and watching you intensely as you peeled your clothes from your body and slipped into your signature skintight suit. By the time you were changed his cock was hard, straining his pants which you acknowledged with an appreciative smile.

You both exchange longing looks, but time is ticking. You put the newest addition to your equipment in your ear - a tiny, wireless headset, directly connected to Vox, bend over the bed, your tongue running over the warm line of his lower lip and sigh as he groans with want.

“I know it’s usually payment upfront, baby, but we’re already behind schedule.”

You can’t seem to tear yourself from him with those big hands on your ass squeezing tightly and that goddamn tongue in your mouth, your mind half decided to tell your client to fuck off and fuck the demon in front of you senseless. But he gently pulls away, his eyes burning not only with need, but also with pride. A look you loved to see on him.

“And besides, you are so much more voracious after a job well done.”

He slaps your ass as you pass him, and you shift through the wall, now almost as eager to steal that stupid looking red duck from some dingy, rundown hotel as you were to return to his waiting cock to cash in your salary.

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

10 Jikook Fanfictions Part 1

I said I'd make a list before the end of the year and I kept my promise. Now, it's difficult to choose, especially when I have more than 300 bookmarks and unfortunately I also started doing that some year and a half ago. Safe to say, there's probably plenty of good fics I read that are now lost. Anyway, enough with the boring chit chat, here's 10 random jikook fics in no particular order and most likely, several other parts will follow, probably next year 😉

1. Dead in the Water

It's been a couple of years since I read this and honestly, I barely remember much, but what I do know it's that it had an impact on me. Usually fics that have death as a central theme end up resonating with me, but perhaps it's because I've always been attracted to more darker fiction. This one is gritty and there's a lot of pain and I must have cried a lot (those tend to stick in my head)

2. we're holding hands beneath the silver screen

I think this story is taking place in the 90s (you'll see that a lot of the fics I recommend are taking place in the past). I think I ended up reading everything ChimneyCricket wrote, but this one remained a favorite. Coming of age during a summer in Jeju in the 90s. Apart from the theme, it's the writing that made me stick with it.

I'm not the biggest fan of young adult stories. Or better yet, it's not something that I'd go to as a preference. When I do, it's more of an indulgence and thankfully, I found some writers (like this one) who can do a really good job with the genre.

3. Stockwell

Another writer that I've become a big fan of after reading one fic of theirs. And I think it might have been Stockwell that did it for me. I like that it's fanfiction with adult themes for an adult audience. And I also resonate with a lot of the cultural references and themes. I will also admit that this fic leaning into the enemies to lovers trope was a selling point because I'm a sucker for it. I can't help myself.

4. Burn for You

This is a complete self indulgence for me and I embrace it. Just like watching Bridgerton is a guilty pleasure for which I don't actually feel guilty (and the inspo for this fic). This story has everything and I must say the combination of lust, fear of revealing feelings, rumors, proper behavior and hidden romance is a lethal combination!

5. Light of a century

I might have recommended this story before, but it being inspired by Up on Poppy Hill is not just due to the plot, but the writing is able to evoke that studio Ghibli mood. This fic is to be read on a hot weekend afternoon.

6. Map of the Soul

This might be one of the most complex fanfictions I read due to the amount of research needed, but also in the depiction of political contexts and identity politics. Most of all, I like it because as much as relationships are a vital part of the story, there is an entire world surrounding the main characters. Events and other people that have also room to develop and not just remain props that advance the story.

7. Proceed with Caution

I don't know what snatchim did with this fic, but it's the only one I ever reread multiple times and I'll probably do it again in the future. I don't even reread books from my library, let alone fanfics. But Proceed with Caution did it for me. Perhaps it's because of the process of Jungkook inevitably falling for Jimin and even though it's a bad thing considering the context, it's so good. Maybe it's the image of Jimin with a bellybutton ring or maybe because the picture of hot Californian days in the 70s is so vivid, it feels like a nostalgic Paul Thomas Anderson movie.

8. Dishwater World They Said Was Lemonade

The description does not do this story justice because it's so much more than that. It's a canon compliant thriller with really complicated and complex characters and once again, a story meant for adults who understand that it's fiction. Unfortunately, judging by the comment section, a lot of people cannot distinguish betweem real people and characters. For those of you who might be fans of Korean thrillers, this story might be the one for you. It's also one of my favorite jikook fics as well.

9. souvlaki

Need I say more, considering the description? This is a self indulgence as well, but of a different kind. If I happily read tropey fics, I also like the ones that can sound like a uni course. Set during the 1997 FMI crisis in SK, any reader will get familiar with a socioeconomic and political perspective of that time through the eyes of the main characters. If you're only looking for romance, this one is not for you.

10. you wouldn't remember

I think littleflumes might be currently my favorite writer of canon compliant jikook. I think the author really captured their dynamic in its essence and the room left for fiction perfectly fills in the holes left in the last 2 years and up until the present. But what did it for me, not only with this story, but the others in the series as well, is that it's concentrated almost entirely on the two main characters, almost living in a bubble of their own in which their relationship can be explored.

[eliashirsch]

God Tier Top Gun Fanfictions. A Masterlist. (4/3)

More Top Gun fic recs:)) Different pairings ahead.

Winner Categories:

1. Best of the Best Authors (1/3)

2. Best of the Best Series (2/3)

3. Best of the Best Fics (3/3)

4. Honorary Mentions (4/3)

REMINDER! READ THE AUTHORS' TAGS AND WARNINGS!!!

Honorary Mentions

gold rush by gamerring @asimmutableasgravity

All his life, Jake Seresin has wanted to live his life as loud as possible. So that when he dies, people can place flowers on his casket. When the light hits him, sunbaked and smiling and grinning. He's whole and happy and everything he could ever want. He bites down on his teeth. Later, he hunches over the porcelain, petals falling out of his mouth, and is already one step in his grave. - Flowers, fighter pilots and the true fatality of your feelings spilling out.

Jake angst:)) And here’s another one from gamerring:

it's nice to have a friend by gamerring

"Will you marry me?" Ice is on his knees. His posture screams military, but his face is genuine. His eyebrows are furrowed in worry and a hesitant smile plays at his lips. The ring sits in a green velvet box. The band is gold and shiny, with a diamond inlaid in the middle. The rock seems to glow under the sunset, and Maverick's heart starts beating against his chest. This- it's spectacular. It's breathtaking. It's not for him. He bites his cheek for a microsecond, and then forces a smile."That's great. She can't say no to that." And a traitorous part of his soul hopes she does. - Three times Maverick should have said something, and the one time he did.

Just read the summary:) (This is canon.)

Lessons in pushing boundaries by will_thewisp

Maverick never needed lessons in pushing boundaries. Not if those boundaries are about going faster, further or screwing up on an ever increasing scale, because he'd run off the edge of the world before he'd let a thought that scared him shitless take root in his mind. It was enough that it was already in his heart. Or Maverick crashes the Darkstar and needs a very long time to learn that there's things that can and should be fixed. And that he's always had the tools to do it.

Don’t forget a tissue when reading this!

Amen by demiclar @demiclar

"What do you want done with your body when you die?" Pete Mitchell grieves his best friend.

Can you tell I love Mav angst?:)

Vanilla Milk by Specter_Ross

After the mission, Rooster is struggling to sleep so Maverick pulls some old methods out from when Bradley was a kid, in hopes of helping him.

I never get tired of reading MavDad and Bradley:)

A Perch Built for Two by chase_acow @cowsalot

Rooster is well known for keeping his own company, but between Maverick's reemergence and the suicide mission, Hangman manages to weasel his way into Bradley's attention. He's never let an alpha so close to him before, but Hangman might be the best choice - experienced and unlikely to ask for more than Bradley was willing to give. Unfortunately for him, it's Bradley who wants more, and he has no idea how to ask for it.

Another win for Hangster!

A Little Unconventional by McDanno50

Maverick didn’t know how he ended up here a month after the mission – on his back with his legs spread for not one, but two, hungry alphas. These alphas wanted Maverick so much that they no longer fought but worked together all in the name of mutual pleasure. It felt too good to be true, like a fevered dream conjured up by a broken mind. But even if he couldn’t believe his eyes, he had four other senses to rely on. A self-indulgent fic in which Omega!Maverick gets fucked by Alpha!Bradley and Alpha!Jake. That's literally it.

Mav/Bradley/Jake:)))))

Not Clamorous For Pardon by Arsenic @arsenicjade33

Okay, but what if the Navy didn't outlaw flogging as a punishment in 1896? Asking for a friend.

Another one of my favorite tropes: Mav being bullied by the Navy:(

still dangerous by cygnettine

Where was he? Jake was to his right, Bradley in front of him, the girls between their dads. Someone was missing. He was missing. Why was he missing? He was supposed to be there; that was a family dinner and he was family, he was his whole soul, why wasn’t he there? *** Maverick loses himself and wanders helplessly in his own mind until someone finally comes to his rescue.

Mav has Alzheimer's Disease:(

take a chance on the edge of life by Lacerta

It was a suicide mission. Of course they didn't succeed on their first try. - When Maverick dies, he loops back to the morning before.

An Edge of Tomorrow AU. Love this one. 

you've got the win in your bag by discosleaze @paulmezcal

“I’m going to go in and get something pierced, and if you’re a good boy, it’ll be my nipple. If you’re not, it’ll be my tongue.” Speaking of tongues, Bradley just about swallows his. “Why would that be a bad thing?” he croaks out, not enjoying how amused Jake is, mocking, even. “Well, Bradshaw, because I wouldn’t be able to blow you for weeks afterwards.” Jake contemplates a second piercing, Bradley contemplates nothing.

asdfghfghjkjhgfdsadfg. This one’s too hot for me.

How Big? by thenofutureshoe

"Most people would have had to give themselves a pep-talk, most people would have been nervous or unsure of the whole thing, Maverick Mitchell was not most people. He was a fucking power bottom and proud of it. This was not his first rodeo, pun intended. And he always got his man." Once Maverick hears the story behind Slider's callsign, it sounds more like a challenge than anything else.

This one… I never thought their difference in size could be this hot…

a dream of crashing by thefireplanet

Maverick buys a plane. Somehow, this becomes Iceman’s problem.

THIS ONE’S NOT COMPLETED! But it’s still so fun to read and the characterization is spot on!

and the bunny goes 𝒽𝑜𝓅, 𝒽𝑜𝓅, 𝒽𝑜𝓅 by Meadow_Wanderer

Contrary to expectation, he rarely measures time by the number of years he's lived without his father. Instead, he appraises in happenings. Every birthday, school graduation, and precious firsts; every milestone passing as the memory of his father becomes fainter and fainter until finally he reaches the last occasion where the end and the beginning meet, the son and the sire a breath's width apart, like reaching to touch one's reflection in the mirror. The very same one he'll face in just shy of a few hours.

Weird and fun!

you are not alone (i watch over you) by redwithlove

“Bradley, do you remember the time when you were eight and you wouldn't let me near your Pops for two days?” “What, really? Why?” “Yeah, for two whole days, can you believe it? And it all started over a can of Pringles.” Or—Bradley with Ice and Maverick over the years.

Mav and Ice and Bradley being family:) My favorite genre of topgun fics:))

PHEW! That's all the fics I've got! Thanks for reading until the end! Don't forget to leave a comment on these fics if you enjoyed them!

Here's my google doc for all four categories! >> God Tier Top Gun Fanfictions: A Masterlist

[romanarose]

Come to Bed, Love

Steven Grant x writer!reader x Marc Spector x Jake Lockley

Masterlist Join my taglis

Summary: Steven gets tired of waiting for his fanfiction writer girlfriend to come to bed.

Warnings: none! so fluffy

A/N: Self indulgent bullshit

Italics is Marc

Bold is Steven

Red is Jake

***************

Steven stirred at the scoot of your chair in the next room. He had always been a light sleeper.

What time was it? Steven glanced over to the clock and his eyebrows shot up.

Christ, 3 am?

What's going on, Steven? Marc was suddenly awake and alert, and Steven could feel Jake cofronting too.

It's 3 am and she hasn't come to bed yet.

You went to bed without her?

Not intentionally! I laid down and she said she'd be to bed in a moment and I just fell asleep.

Well go get her, Steven.

He was already on his way, opening the bedroom door to find you typing away on your laptop, curled away on the couch with your favorite throw blanket strung across your lap.

"Darling? What are you still doing up?" He asked, softly appraoching you.

When you looked up, the crappy light of the tableside lamp illuminating harshly off you. He still thought you were beautiful, of course, simply tired.

"Can't." You mumble. "I promised a new chapter weeks ago."

"I think your readers can wait one more day. Come to bed, love."

You pout up at him. "Noooooo! I gotta get this out!"

Steven sat beside you.

Steven, don't sit with her, drag her to bed!

"Which series are you working on? The Last of us or The Star Wars one."

"The Last of Us."

Marc took over fronting. He was not as indulgent as Steven, not when it came to you. You needed rest. You deserved it.

Hey!

Careful not to shut it on your fingers, Marc closed the lap top.

"Steven!" You turn to him, only to realize it was the other love of your life. "Marc! Marc I need to work on this I've been putting it off forever!"

He moved the laptop away from you. "And you can work on it tomorrow, I promise."

"But-"

"Baby." Marc gave you a pointed look. "I know you are a fantastic writer, but at 3 AM and exhausted, you are not putting in your best effort. I think your fans will-"

"They aren't my fans Marcy Marc, they are my readers."

"I think your fans will appreciate you getting some rest and coming back with a fresh eye."

Marc was logical, and looking into his beautiful, pleeding eyes, your were about to give in.

Steven was sweet, Marc was practical, but Jake was impatient.. "That's it." Jake stood up, taking you with him.

"JAKEY!" Squeeling, you cling to your lover as he began to carry to your bedroom.

"Te vienes a la cama, te quste o no."

You can't help but giggle as you are tossed on the bed, Jake pulling the blanket over you. "Fine, but I'm finishing up tomorrow."

"You can do whatever you want tomorrow, just shut the fuck up and go to sleep, mi vida." Jake pulled you in close, cuddling up with you. His arms were wrapped tight around you. You weren't going anywhere.

*************

Thank you all! I love you all v much!

Please consider reblogging, it's the only way to spread works! Likes are nice, but don't spread it arond the way it might via tik tok or insta

Good night, and all you fanfic writers better get some good rest!

@fandxmslxt69 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @whatthefishh @k-ra @eyelessfaces @steven-grants-world @campingwiththecharmings @ahookedheroespureheart @littlenosoul @runa-falls @missdictatorme @ivystoryweaver

[kivino]

FANTASY AU WITH VALERIA!

Word Counter - ~900 words.

Summary – self-indulgent thoughts with Rogue!Valeria in a fantasy setting!

Tags/Warnings – very much Dragon Age coded, reader is a mage/healer, mentions of blood and injury, this is very corny™, gn!reader.

A/n – wrote it almost in one go, very sorry if someone already did something like this! I originally planned for my first writing post to be Graves fanfiction that I’m working on right now, but I just couldn’t contain myself, lololol

Rogue!Valeria who stumbles into your clinic one moonlit night while running away from the city guard, hands clawing at her side, blood seeping through the delicate fabric of her shirt and vest, slipping in and out of consciousness, as she tries to hold onto the cold walls that smelled of medicine and herbs.

Rogue!Valeria who made so much noise and racket downstairs that it woke you up better than any of your assistants could. You fly out of your bed, covers and colorful duvets trailing behind you in a stream of fabric, long forgotten on the floor of your bedroom as you run down the stairs, in fear that somebody broke into your clinic, no patients of yours were staying overnight today. Any words that could’ve been said evaporate as you see a woman, bleeding out on the floor, back propped up against the counter, and…are those daggers she is carrying?

Rogue!Valeria who wakes up the next morning in someone else’s bed, her wound freshly bandaged, hot breakfast already prepared for her. And at that moment she thinks she must’ve died and gone to the Fade. Where else would she see a spirit as beautiful as you?

Rogue!Valeria who tried her best to leave this quiet haven, full of smells, colors, and so many things unknown to her (she’s no mage after all), but she just can’t, throbbing pain in her abdomen stopping her the moment she even tries to stand up among the quiet murmurs of your patients and their relatives. You throw her a stern look, and she is immediately pinned to the soft sheets like her body is not her own.

Rogue!Valeria who finally has a chance to talk to you once it’s time to change the bandages on her wound. You sit near her, your voice quiet, asking “May I?”, as you delicately remove the covers. Valeria asks if you can speed up the recovery, seeing what a miracle worker you were, treating the patients all day with the help of not only healing salves, herbs, and potions but also magic. And you decide to grant her request, hands gliding along the surface of her skin, Valeria’s stab wound slowly closing and a delicate, light scar forming. She doesn’t know how much that takes out of you until your assistant helps you walk back to your room to get much-needed rest. Her eyes lingered on your fatigued figure as her fingers keep poking and prodding at the thin skin of her new scar, feeling something warm spark inside her.

Rogue!Valeria whose gang starts protecting you. Thieves know better than to try picking any of the locks on your doors, signs carved on the worn wood by her informing them that this place is off-limits.

Rogue!Valeria who sneaks through your backdoor, knowing you always forget to lock it, seeing you sleeping on another book, laid out under your arms. She wraps you in a soft blanket, pressing her finger against her lips when she sees awake patients or assistants eyeing you two.

Rogue!Valeria who leaves the flowers she picked from the gardens of her rich targets on your windowsill, petals ruffled and worn, former beauty still recognizable. Instead of putting those flowers in the water you dry and preserve every single one of them, with time gathering small bouquets that greet you each morning around your clinic. When she visits “officially”, she asks about them and you just say that you have no idea who leaves the flowers, mischief tugging at the corners of your eyes. Valeria only grins in response. “Is that so? You must have a lot of suitors then.”

Rogue!Valeria who always leaves some of her things behind just to have an excuse to visit you again, to see you at work, to hear your laughter, and to feel your hand shake her own in a warm greeting. Each time she gets bolder, and instead of a small satchel or a dagger, you start finding her jewelry and accessories. When did she have the chance to take them off anyway?

 Rogue!Valeria who drags you to the market during fairs, insisting that you need to have some fun once in a while, as she leads you between a variety of stalls, her heart squeezing harshly against her ribs each time your fingers tighten around her hand.

Rogue!Valeria who ends up hiding with you in a narrow alleyway, hiding from the city guard that patrolled the festival grounds. She looks you in the eyes, trying to make sure you’re okay, and shoots you a sly wink, caging you between her body and the wall. She feels her breathing get quicker with each second spent like this, but you two are soon taken out of it when small sparks of fire shoot out of your fingers. Too agitated to control your magic, you get flustered, not sure why you were getting nervous in the first place. But when you hear Valeria let out a hearty laugh from your sudden supernatural outburst, everything starts to make sense.

Rogue!Valeria who never mutters a single word about her quickly developing feelings. It would complicate things. It would spoil your friendship. It would tie her down, it would cause her to become slow and eventually sink, taking you with her. Yet she couldn’t let you go. Not when her heart ached with such sweet foretaste each time she saw you running to her with your arms open. Not when her thoughts inevitably drifted to you each time she was preparing to raid another lazy lord’s manor. Not when her days already started to center around visits to your small clinic, during which you constantly looked at her with that contagious light in your eyes.

taglist - @mockerycrow @stridersdiner

check out my masterlist for more fics or send me a request!

[seventeenlovesthree]

Character/Headcanon analysis: Koushirou Izumi and his parental tendencies

I like to call Koushirou "parental" when it comes to his 02 self - and I'm aware that may also be a very self-indulgent headcanon of him taking after Kae, even though she is more into soft parenting, whereas he himself is pretty occupied to make sure that his children are not blowing themselves up...

But of course you can also just call that him being a naturally supportive and caring person - always has been, ever since Adventure, even if certain events had to trigger him to not only be theoretically but physically helpful (such as whenever it comes to saving Mimi, Sora and Hikari - or telling Taichi to take it easy for once). The same attitude can also be found in Tentomon - though in his case, it's being protective on one hand and quite literally parental on the other (particularly in Tri).

Koushirou being thoroughly protective is the reason why like to parallel him to Sora (and Hikari and basically Taichi too and thus Team Light validates me again), because them having self-sacrificial tendencies towards the others has ALWAYS been a thing - to various degrees. Again, Koushirou was ALWAYS taking on responsibility to make sure that others are safe (which is literally 90% of how his interactions with Hikari go, heck, Atlurkabuterimon trying to protect Angewomon is the biggest metaphor for that!). Unfortunately, my art did not become canon, but yes, I still maintain he was cut out of The Beginning (even as support) to give the spotlight to others for once. They still couldn't fully ignore him, hence why the "If Koushirou-san can't figure this out, how are we supposed to?" quote exists - the 02 kids have always relied on him and looked up to him, so it makes perfect sense. And Takeru acknowledged his support in his fanfiction as well! But they naturally didn't want him to get the spotlight, because it was about the 02 kids. 100% valid.

But then you also have the show vs. tell problem. Mimi says Koushirou is ignorant - and a lot of people take that at 100% face value. Taichi even defends him since he is pretty much aware of his quirks - and the scene above pretty much implies that Mimi herself knows how Koushirou is (= getting into hyperfocus mode and becoming ignorant towards everything he doesn't deem important in the process, hence being ignorant in urgent situations, but NOT in general). Stageplay!Kou is in a league of his own anyway, because he was allowed to voice his frustrations with "not being allowed to help by Taichi" again - and because he made everyone question how they really felt (like a good parent would always encourage their children). There are tons of examples, but to sum it all up: He is a connector, he is basically second in command, he is protective. His way of phrasing that may be awkward and not always understandable by others (hence why Yamato needs to explain it to Kae and Taichi to Meiko, IT'S A PATTERN), but...

Again, I just feel like 02 made him incredibly paternal in how he watches over the 02 kids, every time he talks to Iori, Miyako or Ken, he's kind and reassuring - yes, he does scold them and his potential suitors, ahem for being reckless, but also knows when to give praises.

(It also makes sense that he also mainly gets angry whenever he is being left out of things - especially if he knows he could have done something to support.)

We also all know that he has a very loving mother himself and, as mentioned, even if their parenting style might be rather different, he knows what is important, so... How can I not think it's because their relationship got better and he takes after her? Yes, Tri onwards didn't maintain the mom/dadness in him the same way, but he still feels responsible for everybody's safety, he gives advice and guidance all the time and that doesn't change.

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone (Part 1)

Pairing: Jim Hopper x fem!reader, Hopper POV

Summary: Reader is a secretary at the Hawkin's Sheriff's Department and Jim Hopper drives her to and from work everyday. Hopper gets worried when reader does not come out of her home, and when he finds out she is sick, he decides to take care of her. Set before the events of Season One of Stranger Things

Tropes: Jim Hopper x sick reader, mutual pining, angst, fluff, grump x sunshine, age gap (reader is fresh out of college).

Warnings: No Smut, mostly fluff, self-deprecating talk, indecisiveness, maybe some occasional cursing, Hopper is a little OOC, maybe one or two references to sex, but not explicit and only if you squint.

Word Count: 4.8k (I'm so sorry- but not really because it's great)

There is a minimal use of (y/n). Any references to the reader besides the (y/n) is done using "your" or "you."

Internal monologue is in italics.

Honestly this is my first fanfiction ever, it's kinda self-indulgent, I tried to proofread the best I could, but please BE GENTLE. If you don't like, don't read, if you do like it, you're my favorite.

ENJOY!

*********************************************************

Hopper's truck idles in your driveway behind the ancient sea-foam green station wagon, and has been idling for the past 10 minutes. He is starting to get worried. You always come out to his car immediately when he pulls in the driveway. Probably, he suspects, because you don’t want to keep him waiting, but what you don’t  know is that he would be willing to wait forever just to see you.

Hopper taps his fingers on the steering wheel while inhaling smoke from the cigarette perched between his lips as worry pricks at his chest.

Where is she? Hopper thinks to himself.

His eyes skate over the windows and peeling white sills  of the modest home looking for signs of forced entry, but the house looks relatively quiet. He can’t decide if that is worse.

All of a sudden a frizzy haired, freckled girl wearing a nurse's uniform comes tearing out of the house with a large colorful bag thrown over her shoulder. She rips open the door of the station wagon in the driveway, but then raises her gaze to glare at Hopper's car, before running to his driver’s side window.

"Hi can you possibly move out of the driveway. I'm so late for my shift-" She declares out of breath while glancing down once at the plain watch on her wrist.

Hopper studies her for a minute things not quite connecting. Marcie.  He decides. You had mentioned your roommate in passing, but this was the first time that he had officially spoken to her or seen her.

"Um- sure. I'm just waiting for y/n-"

"She's not going to work today, she's got a cold." The girl waves her hand dismissively. "Sorry you must be Hopper. I'm Marcie and I'm so late, please." Marcie's eyes widen with her plea.

"Yeah sure." Hopper puts his car in reverse to clear the driveway allowing Marcie to squeal past him. Hopper momentarily smiles at her bravery for whipping out of the driveway so quickly when the chief of police is directly behind her, but then his thoughts turn back to you.

He idles in the street for a second, contemplating the situation.

I should just go to work, I should just drive away and sit at my desk and shuffle papers around- He thinks, but then he reconsiders. What if y/n needs something? Her roommate just left her there, I'm not even sure she locked the door. He raises his gaze once more to skate over the empty windows as if hoping that you will appear.

But when you don’t  Hopper sighs in defeat, pulls into the driveway, and turns off the engine. He pauses again with his hand on the key where it still sits in the ignition. His thumb taps anxiously against the wheel.

You're not her boyfriend, you're her boss. Hopper takes in a lungful of smoke, watching the house once more. But a boss can check on his employees, maybe she hadn't been able to call Flo to tell her she wasn't going to be at work so I should just check in on her, because I’m really helping Flo. Hopper reasons.

He gets out of the car, before pausing with his hand on the door. What are you doing? This is definitely overstepping. The intrusive thoughts are back to prick behind his furrowed eyebrows.

The truth was he has tried to keep his distance, but now he has begun to realize how much he relies on driving you to work everyday. How much he relies on those few moments in the car before he is twisted and pulled away to his office. But then you would be there after, waiting at your desk for him to drive you home. And the look on your face every time was enough to erase the tedium of the day.

Jim eyes the front door to check if you are coming out once more.

He always felt better when you’d  practically skip out of front door wearing those cute oversized sweaters and long skirts, with your hair billowing behind you in perfect curls. You would always smile at him as you walked to the car, before shyly ducking your head with flushed cheeks. And then after the shift, he always made sure that he didn't stay too late because staying late meant that you would have to wait for him. And because you were too embarrassed and polite to tell him that you were ready to leave, you would read at your desk quietly.

As cute as you looked leaning back in your desk chair utterly consumed with whatever the novel of the day is, because Hopper noticed you must be the fastest reader in the world given how many different books he'd seen you with, Hopper hated those days. Hopper hated those days because Callahan would loiter by your desk after his shift and make you laugh so loudly that it made the symphony of your voice drift into Hopper's office, quickly turning something that made his own heart jump and buckle in his chest into a consuming fire.

His hand tightens on the door frame of the car.

He hated watching Callahan ease over to your desk so carefree at the end of the night, taking the time to talk to you, flirt with you even.  Callahan who didn’t have to worry about the age difference or what everyone would say if he went out with you or spent the night with you. Callahan who was younger and carefree, maybe even a perfect match to your sunshine. Jealousy burned through his entire body when he thought of Callahan taking you out to dinner, having his hand in yours as you walk to the movies, sitting side by side in a booth at a restaurant, and even after the date when Callahan would walk you to your door and you would invite him in. His jaw clenches at the thought of you with Callahan alone in your house, your room, your bed-

He thinks about getting back in the car again, turning away, and leaving.

Hopper knew that it wasn't fair. He shouldn't feel jealous, shouldn't feel the need to control your life, because it was your life, and he didn't want to ruin it. He didn't want to intrude. You were so young, so full of life, innocent, that he knew he would ruin you in the worst way. He was just an old grump, so far from your sunshine he might as well be hibernating in a cave.

But oh how he wished he could. Oh how he wished he could bask in your sunshine all the time, letting the soothing rays from your smile fill him with peace.

Hopper lay awake at night thinking of you, wishing that you had met when he was a little younger, a little less- well- Hopper. He dreamed of what it would be like to tell you and have you return the sentiment with one of those smiles that sometimes he imagined were only for him.

Hopper looked back up at the house. The thought that you were alone inside and sick, made him close the door of his car, flick away the cigarette, and tramp through the overgrown lawn. Hopper made a mental note to ask you why it wasn't cut and then tossed it away.

Boundaries mean that I’m not going to come mow her lawn one day.

He knocks once. "(y/n)?" He calls, but hears nothing. "(y/n)?" He says a little louder, knocking a few more times.

Hopper was hesitant to shout. What if you had a headache?

His hand closes on the handle and turns, it is open. He sighs in exasperation. What was Marcie thinking leaving it unlocked? Doesn’t she watch the news? There could be any number of psychos lying in wait, watching the house! Then before he can stop himself he thinks: Yeah. Like you.

The inside of the home is tidy, but lived in. The living room has a collection of threadbare chairs and a patchy colored fabric couch covered in what looked like a handmade blanket. Hopper wonders if you made it, remembering last Christmas when you made a hand-crocheted tote bag for Flo. Because that’s the kind of person you were. You gave so much of yourself out to other people, cared for them, and he believed that he was so different from you.

There’s a coffee table with several rings in front of the couch where he places his hat, tracing the circles on the wood with a fingertip.

The smell of coffee pours from the kitchen and splashes against Hopper’s nose, but he continues down the darkened hallway that leads deeper into your home.

"(Y/n)?" He says again, louder, but there is no answer. "(Y/n)?"

The last thing he wants to do is stumble into your room while you are changing and scare you to death. The thought of seeing you naked causes a pink hue to travel into his cheeks.

A low groan sounds from the hall bathroom and makes Hopper’s chest clench in worry. "(Y/n)?" He turns towards the bathroom. The lights are off inside and the door is just barely cracked. Hopper pushes open the door and flips on the switch to the right against the white tile wall.

At first he's confused, because the low groan sounds again, and then he looks down.

You’re laying under a thick blanket, curled into a small ball, halfway between the toilet and the bathtub. Your cheeks are flushed with fever, eyes closed, breath coming in shallow gasps.

"(Y/n)!" Hopper gasps dropping to his knees. "(Y/n) are you okay?" Worry tightens its cold grip around his throat.

How could your roommate leave you like this?

"Hop?" You breathe, opening up one red eye. "Hey." Your voice is no more than a raspy croak. "What are you doing here?” Each word sounds like its too much effort to finish. In fact you close your eye and shy away from the bright bathroom light that Hopper flipped on when he entered the room.

“I came to pick you up. Marcie said you had a cold.” His eyes skate over you. “The door was unlocked.” Hopper felt the need to add that last part, trying to find rationalization for why he’s here instead of telling you that he came in because he was scared.

“Sorry. She called the office-“ You begin to cough violently into the blanket, curling further into a ball.

"Shh it's okay." His hand comes down to your hair, pushing it back from where it sticks to your skin. "Are you alright?" Your forehead burns against his hand.

"Not really." You croak. "I didn’t mean to fall asleep here, but it was easier than going back and forth."

"It's alright." Hopper gently places his arms under your knees, sweeping you up against his chest in one quick move.

You sigh and turn your head into him, while your hand grips the front of his jacket that is still chilled from the wind outside with a shiver. The cold is welcome against your feverishly hot skin.

You cuddle into his jacket away from the offensive light above, making warmth radiate through Hopper's body.

"Which room?" He asks.

"Across the hall." You mutter into his shirt with another sigh.

Hopper hopes that you can't feel his heart stuttering around in his chest like a bee trying to get out of a plastic cup. He's trying not to think about how natural this feels, how wonderful it feels to hold you close and have you curled up against him. He rationalizes that your fever is probably so high that you don't realize what you’re doing, that any other time you wouldn’t dare burrow into him like this. But he can't help but imagine what it would be like for you to want him to hold you like this.

Your room is tidy, but still a little messy. Hopper smiles at the cluttered desk and stacks of paperbacks, memorizing the titles and making mental notes of those that are more worn than others, promising himself that he'll read every one if they are your favorite.

He is always on the lookout for ways to start conversations with you and Hopper figures that the war themed paperbacks he has back at home are a bit out of your comfort zone given the titles of the books on the desk.

Hopper places you down on the bed, quickly pulling the covers over you. He tries not to notice what you was wearing before, he had only ever seen you in long skirts or long pairs of pants, but now you were only wearing an oversized t-shirt that barely reached mid-thigh and a pair of bright blue underwear. He ignores it, feeling the warmth of you skin beneath his palm.

"What can I do?" Hopper kneels next to the bed so you doesn’t have to look up at him.

"I'm okay, just sleepy." You whisper, cuddling into the patchwork quilt with another uncontrollable shiver.

"Okay." He brushes your hair back again before he can stop himself, enchanted by the way it feels against his hand. "I'll be right back okay?" Hopper breathes.

"Please don’t go.” You mutter moving into his touch, turning your entire body towards where he hovers just on the edge of your bed.

Hopper freezes. She didn’t mean that, she’s just sick, doesn’t know what she’s saying. He rationalizes eyes skating your figure again. He’s never seen you look so small.

When you were well, sometimes Hopper believed that you were the embodiment of the sun on earth, filled with light and warmth. Noting that your bright personality just exploded out of you constantly, but now seeing you so dim… it scares him.

“I promise I’ll be right back.” Hopper says again.

“Hmm.” You whisper as you begin to succumb to the exhaustion of the fever.

He backs out of the room, watching your sleeping figure one more time before he springs into action. Hopper walks to the bright yellow phone hanging in the wall in the kitchen and dials the station.

"Hey Flo it's the chief, how are things this morning?" He breezes looking through the kitchen cabinets and refrigerator. Hopper frowns at the dismal array of canned vegetables and moldy fruit in the ice box, but pours himself a cup of coffee.

"Hey chief. Pretty slow. Callahan went out on a call to get Mrs. Morris' cat out of a tree, but other than that it's been quiet. I meant to tell you that (y/n's) roommate called and said that (y/n) won't be in because she's not feeling too well this morning. Tried to call you before you left, but I figured I'd see you when you got in." Flo pauses. "Where are you anyway?"

"Um- something came up. Look I might not be in for a few hours. Do you think you can manage to keep things quiet?" He shifts uncomfortably. Hopper wasn't keen on everyone knowing that he was with you.

What would they say if he was here? He was aware of what the rest of the people in town said about him, but he didn't want them to say things like that about you. You deserved better.

"Sure chief."

"Alright thanks. I'll see you in a bit." He hangs up the phone standing in the kitchen for a minute while he finishes the coffee in the faded green mug. Hopper considers what he has to do, but he doesn't like it. The thought of leaving you again makes his heart twist in his chest, especially knowing how sick you are.

Not sick enough to stop smiling at him. The thought is welcome amongst the continuous admonishing from the guilt of him being there.

Hopper walks back towards your room peering in through the open door to check over your sleeping figure. Deep down he knows that he shouldn't be here, that he should just leave, but he can't. He can’t leave you when you can barely lift your head to look at him.

The phone rings on your nightstand, and as you stir, Hopper reaches for the receiver to stop the call and breaks his only rule.

"Hello?"

"Um. Hi. Who is this?" The voice on the other line is definitely a woman, decidedly older.

"Jim Hopper. Who is this?"

"This is (y/n’s) mother.”

Oh shit.

"Um hi Mrs. (y/l/n)-" Hopper's eyes go to yours which have widened in surprise.

But before he can respond any further you reach out and take the phone from Hopper’s hand.

“Hi mom." You croak. "Can I call you back?"

Hopper watches you with wide eyes as you wait a second to listen to your mother. He can only imagine what she's asking you.

 "No mom, he's not my boyfriend he's my boss." Your voice rasps. Hopper's heart stutters once in his chest when you answer her.

"He's here to check on me." You try to raise your voice again, but it comes out more like a harsh whisper.

You pause.

"No I'm not sleeping with my boss mom." Your face flushes as bright red as Hopper's does. He immediately stands from the bed, realizing that he was sitting on the edge and was about to touch you again subconsciously.

"Please can I call you back. I'm really not feeling well." You sigh laying back down as if sitting up is too much work.

Hopper's brows furrow with worry once more, wishing that he hadn't answered the phone. Because even if he was ever going to date you, which he wasn't, he didn't want your mother to hate him.

"Yes I'll make the soup. I love you. Okay. Bye." You hold out the phone trying to place it on the receiver, but Hopper takes it from you. "I'm sorry." You mutter laying back down in the bed with a sigh.

"It's okay." Hopper's still bright red. "I understand."

You sigh. "She's been so worried since I moved away."  You turn to cough into the blanket.

"Try not to talk." Hopper smiles. "You know, I think you talk more when you're sick."

You wheeze out a laugh. "Shut up."

"And you're definitely meaner."

You snort so hard that you begin to cough and Hopper feels bad for making you laugh, but when it's over you smile so wide at him any regret vanishes. That was why he liked you so much, because every time you smiled at him, you filled him with the warmth and brightness that you shone with every day.

He presses the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature. "Are you going to be okay if I leave for a bit?"

"Yeah." Your eyes are closed now, leaning into his hand. Hopper ignores how you lean into him and again tells himself it is only due to your current state.

"I promise I'll be right back."

"You don't have to-" You breathe in a low rasp.

"I'm not going to leave you like this alone." Hopper responds. "I'm just gonna run to the store-"

"You don't have to-"

"I want to." Hopper clears his throat. "Try not to die."

"I'll try my best."

*********************************************************Hopper can remember the last time he made chicken noodle soup clearly. Sara had a cold, it was before she was diagnosed and was starting to get sick more frequently. Hopper had stayed home from work with her while Diane went out and he made the chicken noodle soup recipe his grandmother had used to make him when he was sick.

As he stirs the pot on the stove the smell brings back all the memories that usually make his heart clench in his chest, but now standing here in your small kitchen, the memories are softer.

The trip to the grocery store had been quick as he practically ran up and down the aisles strategically to find everything he needed, anxious to get back to you. Hopper had stolen the house keys out of you purse to make sure that he could lock the door, rationalizing that you wouldn't need them and he'd be damned if he left the door unlocked with you being as defenseless as you were right now.

Hopper walks back towards your room. You are curled up in a ball under the covers again, looking more small and cute that he wants to acknowledge. "(y/n)." He whispers.

"Hmm." You sigh and turn to look at him. Your cheeks aren't as flushed as before, which means the Advil Hopper made you take must have brought down your fever.

"I made you some soup. I think you should eat something." He says gently.

The smile you give him, warms his heart and makes the cold muscle in his chest flutter and stutter.

"You didn't have to."  You croak.

"I wanted to." He shifts his feet unsure. "Do you need help- or- um?" It wasn't that he didn't want to carry you, the memory of how it felt to carry you was fresh in his mind. It was that he wanted to make sure that it was okay for him to touch you again

"Please." Your cheeks flush all over again as he picks you up and carries you out to the kitchen table, sitting you up in a chair before draping the homemade blanket around your shoulders to cover your shivering body. 

He quickly moves to the stove dipping out a portion of soup into one of the flowery bowls from the cabinet before placing it in front of you.

You smile into the steam, letting the heat open up your lungs. "Thank you."

Hopper sits across from you at the kitchen table watching you eat it slowly, another mug full of coffee sitting in front of him on one of the cheerful flower printed placemats. He still can't bring himself to leave because he's worried about what would happen if he left. You could barely walk to the bathroom without help- maybe you might even need to go to the hospital.

The thought of taking you to the hospital filled him with dread, a whole slew of memories there that he didn't want to relive.

"This is really good." You smile at him from across the table. Your voice is less hoarse than it was a few moments ago, but still barely audible. "You didn't have to make soup. I could have ordered some from Sullivan's on the corner."  You cough violently into a napkin before blowing your nose again.

"It's okay. I just wanted to make sure that you were-" He stops unsure if he should continue. "Well if you were okay."

"Oh. Well it's very nice of you. I'm sorry that Marcie didn't call."

"I'm not." Hopper responds before he can stop himself. "I'm glad that I came by." His cheeks flush with his confession.

"I am too." Your cheeks are as red as his before you duck down to look back at your soup. "Though I don't want you to get sick too."

Hopper shrugs. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

He watches you finish up the rest of the soup. She's beautiful even when she's like this. Hopper looks at your face, noting you red cheeks and nose. Even covered in snot and flushed with fever, she's absolutely beautiful.

"Did you want to go back to bed?" Hopper asks when you take the last bite of chicken noodle soup.

"No I think I'll lay on the couch for a bit-"

He immediately moves to pick you up from the wooden chair and helps you over to the threadbare couch, laying the blanket over you before he can focus too much on your uncovered legs. "Thank you."

"Yeah-" His voice has deepened a bit, trying not to dwell on how wonderful it felt to have you in his arms again.

"There should be some tapes in those cabinets.” You gesture to the cabinets under the tv in the corner. “Did you want to stay and watch a movie?” You immediately freeze. You hadn’t meant to ask it, but here he was taking care of you making sure you were okay. You didn’t want him to go, despite his constant internal monologue convincing him otherwise. “Or if you have to go back to work that’s fine.” You back track.

“Um- well.” Hopper considers leaving again. He thinks that he’s overstated his welcome, knows that he is doing more than he should especially more than a boss would do for his employee. His eyes skate over your small figure curled up under the blanket. “I don’t think it would hurt to watch a movie. I think that Flo can manage the department for a few hours without me.”

You try to hide your excitement as he picks out one of the tapes and pops it into the VCR.

Now came the ultimate question: where should he sit? Regularly when Hopper was trying to woo someone he would sit next to them, throw his arm across their shoulders so they would lean into him- but he didn’t want to do that to you… well, he knew he SHOULDN’T want to do that to you. So he forced himself into the lazy boy arm chair that sat about 7 inches from where you were laying your head on the couch as the movie began.  You bunch up one of the couch cushions under you head, trying to prop yourself up as the movie began. Hopper reached over before he could stop himself and helped you adjust the pillow.

Your eyes meet his as a small smile graces your lips. He holds your gaze, trying to gauge how you feel about him- tries to read your mind to see if you wish that he'd just leave, that this is weird and he needs to go.

But there's nothing. He forces himself to look away from your gaze and back towards the tv trying to stop the warm feeling that rises in his chest.

Don't do this to yourself. She's just being nice because you made her soup, asking you to stay means nothing.

Within a few moments you were asleep again and that meant that Hopper didn’t have to feel bad about glancing over at you occasionally. His fingertips itch to push back the hair that's fallen into your face, but instead he puts them on the arms of the chair, relaxing back.

And within moments, Hopper falls asleep.

He wakes up when Marcie kicks open the front door at 8 pm after her shift, practically falling into the living room in her haste. Hopper jumps up from the chair startled.

"Oh hi." Marcie does a double take. "I didn't know you were going to stay here."

"No I wasn't-" Hopper clears his throat awkwardly. "I just-"

"He came to check on me Mar." You croak sitting up. "It's okay."

"Oh well." Marcie eyes him up and down. "I'm just gonna take a shower." Marcie continues to frown. "And I keep my pepper spray in there-"

"Marcie!" You exclaim as loud as you can without hurting your voice, but she doesn't look sorry.

Hopper nods awkwardly as she saunters from the room, his cheeks flushing bright red. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but the rhythmic sound of your breathing had lulled him into a deeper sleep than he was accustomed to. In fact he couldn't remember a time recently in which he had slept so soundly.

"Well I guess I should go." He rubs the back of his neck.

"Yeah. I'm sorry she's just always in a hurry and she doesn't have a filter." You sigh, hearing the shower begin to run. "It takes a bit to get used to her."

Hopper notices that your voice sounds less hoarse than it did when you fell asleep.

"It's okay." He waits another beat, because despite Marcie's sudden intrusion, he wishes that he could stay- but he knows better. "I'll give you a call tomorrow, see if you need a ride to work."

"Yeah I hope I'll feel a bit better." You begin to rise from the couch, but stumble forward and Hopper catches you against his chest in an awkward hug.

"You've got to be more careful." He breathes into the top of your head, holding you tightly against him.

"Hmm." You sigh, holding on to him just as tight. "Thank you Jim."

Hopper freezes. It's the first time you've ever said his first name, and it makes something inside his chest break open. It sounds so perfect coming from your lips that he wishes you would say it again. "You're welcome (y/n)."

Your arms are wrapped around him in a full hug by now, nuzzling your face into his chest- but just like that Hopper snaps out of it.

She doesn't want you, she's just being friendly, like (y/n) is all the time. Plus she's sick today, not thinking straight. The thought makes him sober up.

Hopper extricates your arms from around him rather abruptly, leaving your head reeling, and helps you back onto the couch. "Well goodnight."

"Goodnight." You smile, but it's tight lipped and for good reason. You have no idea what you did to make him suddenly so cold.

And the entire ride home from y/n's house, Hopper refuses to believe you were disappointed when he left.

*********************************************************

Thank you so much for reading! Part 2 will be posted soon!

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Forgive These Bones I'm Hiding (Part 2 of 2)

Pairing: Serial Killer Marcus Pike x f!Reader (Reader is a police officer with the nickname “Cricket”)

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 13.8k

Warnings: This is a Spoooooooky fic for Halloween season. Please heed the warnings; this is not darkfic, per se, but it explores dark themes and contains elements of suspense and horror. The following subjects are mentioned in the context of cases that the reader deals with. I do not go into explicit detail about any of these themes and any violence is implied rather than seen, but please heed the warnings for: child abuse, domestic abuse, alcoholism, drunk driving, implied sexual assault, suicide, drug use, drug overdoses. Whew. Okay, for the story itself, please be warned that there is: derogatory language (someone calls reader a “bitch”), murders, body horror (corpses!), Marcus Pike being a bit unsettling, Very Enthusiastic Pussy Eating, unprotected PIV sex (this is fiction! use protection and also maybe don't fuck a serial killer!)

Summary: When five paintings are stolen from their frames, an unusual crime for your small-town precinct in Hannibal, Missouri, it's easy for you to project your insecurities about being a female police officer in a tiny, Midwest town onto the handsome FBI Agent from Washington who arrives to help with the case. But as your disposition--and the solid walls you've built around yourself--begin to soften, you quickly find you have bigger problems than the charming man you can't help but develop feelings for. One by one, bodies are starting to pile up. Bodies that all seem to share one connection… You.

Additional A/N: OKAY, so things definitely pick up in this chapter! Please heed the warnings, as Cricket’s past cases feature in a big way. There are more corpses, more unsettling!Marcus, and, of course, more MURDER. Thank you to @littlebirdsbookshelf for being an amazingly supportive human, beta reader, and crime consultant! Thanks for making sure my self-indulgent fanfiction always has its roots in reality!! They can’t fuck if I can’t make it make sense first. PLEASE check out our Playlist for all the spoopy Midwest Gothic vibes. The title of this fic itself comes from Family Tree by Ethel Cain, which is of course on the song list!

Masterlist | Part 1

The next morning starts with a headache.

"Wha'th'fuuuuck," you croak. You’re so disoriented that it takes you a few moments to realize your alarm is going off. 

You fumble for it, surprised to find it on the charger. You don't remember plugging it in. For that matter, you don't really remember getting home last night. Did… Did Marcus…?

Confusion and dread cut through the hangover, and you switch on the lamp as you sit up in bed. 

You're still in your clothes from last night, but your boots are untied and placed neatly on the floor next to the foot of the bed. 

You look around your bedroom, looking for more clues as to how you got here. There's a glass of water on your nightstand, and upon further inspection, two ibuprofen next to it.

You rifle around beside it looking for a note, but you come up empty-handed. It doesn't really matter; you can pretty much guess what happened: You got so wasted that Marcus Pike had to help you get home. He took off your boots, but clearly didn't feel comfortable taking off the rest of your clothes. He made sure your phone was on the charger and even went so far as to anticipate your need for water and pain medicine in the morning. 

Something still feels off, though. Just call it a gut feeling, an instinct, some vestigial part of your hindbrain that's telling you something.

Maybe you forgot your purse…?

But no, when you finally drag yourself out of bed to check the entryway, your purse is there, hanging on its usual hook. 

Shaking your head (probably a mistake, going by the ache that shoots through it when you do), you chalk up the odd feeling to the hangover. You don't remember the last time you had that much to drink, after all. 

You feel slightly better after taking a shower and downing another glass of water, but your stomach still roils and your head still hurts as you throw on your uniform. You're thankful for the dark sunglasses that come with it when you step outside your house. 

Fuck. Why did you drink so much?

You pull into the station about thirty minutes late, which isn't that bad, considering how many glasses of whiskey you had. How many, exactly? You lost count after three, but you know there were more. You were upset about Bobby and unsure of whether you even made a difference in this town and… wait, did you cry last night? In front of Marcus? An image flashes through your mind: Your head buried in the crook of his neck. A wet patch on his white dress shirt from your tears.

Oh, fuck. 

The man in question gives you one of those characteristic grins when you enter, still wearing your sunglasses. 

"Moving a little slow today, are we?" Marcus asks playfully. 

"Jesus fuck," you murmur, collapsing into your chair with a sigh. "I guess so."

"I've never seen a woman put away that much whiskey," he comments with a wink in your direction.

"And you never will again," you groan. "I'm swearing off the stuff for life."

"I don't blame you."

"Jesus, I don't even remember what happened last night. I woke up this morning with no memory of how I got there."

Marcus laughs. "You don't?"

"I barely remember what the hell we talked about. Oh, God–was I an ass? Would you tell me if I made an ass of myself?"

"You didn't make an ass of yourself," Marcus promises.

"I feel like I got all maudlin about the job," you say, frowning.

"You did, a bit."

"Sorry if the evening was a sob-fest."

"I think you're allowed to be upset after finding Bobby Pearson like that."

Cold dread shoots down your spine. Heart in your throat, you stare at Marcus open-mouthed.  

"Did… Did I tell you that last night?"

"Didn't need to." He holds up a copy of the Hannibal Courier-Post with a grim expression. Oh. Right. There it is, right on the front page, accompanied by a picture of you deep in conversation with the Coroner. 

You shake your head, laughing slightly. "Jesus, guess I really am out of it this morning."

"You up for a ride?" Marcus suddenly asks.

"Huh?"

"To the St. Louis field office," he explains. "I texted you yesterday about forensics, remember?"

"Shit, that's right! I'm–I'm sorry–"

"Don't be. There was a lot going on," Marcus insists. "But they've got some stuff for us to look over. Wanna go for a little drive?"

"Only if it's you who's doing the driving," you say. 

"Done."

"And if we stop for coffee."

"You drive a hard bargain, but I accept."

An hour later, with a latte in your hand and your head tipped against the cool glass of the passenger-side window, the fog of your hangover begins to clear and you start to feel much better. The sun glints off of the pavement of State Road 61 as Marcus speeds along in the left lane on the way down to the city. Everyone steers clear of what’s obviously an unmarked police car, and like all officers before him, Marcus takes full advantage. The tall grass next to the road blurs as you stare out over endless fields, dotted with the occasional farmhouse. The day is crisp; one of those beautiful fall days where the temperature stays low even though there’s not a cloud in the sky. If you squint your eyes, you can pretend you’re flying.

At the Field Office, Marcus breezes through security with his badge and his characteristic toothy grin. After you’re presented with a visitor’s badge, the two of you walk down the stairs to the basement, and down a dimly lit hall until you reach a door that reads “Forensics - Art Crimes.”

"Basement, really?" you ask, wrinkling your nose.

"Windows are bad for the degradation of paint," Marcus points out. Then, with a grin, he adds, "Plus, they always give Intelligence the prime real estate."

When he opens the door, your face brightens. Unlike any forensics department you've been in previously, this one is full of… well, art. You aren't sure why that surprises you, but Marcus chuckles as you gaze, open-mouthed, at the selection.

"It's like our own little secret museum, huh?" he says, eyes twinkling.

"Okay, I think I get why you like your job now," you say quietly as you examine what looks like an ancient Greek vase on one of the tables. 

"Is that…"

"Fake," one of the lab workers says with a shrug. "Art museum still purchased it for two mil, though. Oops, right?"

"Oh. Is most of this stuff fake, then?" you ask.

"Nah. This one's a genuine Picasso that was recovered from the black market," the woman says, waving her hand at a colorful painting leaning against the wall. "We're in the middle of returning it to the rightful owners."

"Holy shit," you breathe. 

"New to art crimes?" the woman asks.

"Not a lot of paintings to steal in Hannibal," you say with a smirk.

"Ah, so you're Rockwell.”

“No, I’m–oh. Haha, I get it.”

“Damon’s been taking the lead on that one. His office is there in the back; he’s expecting you two.”

Marcus greets Damon like an old friend while you stand by his side doing your best to look ‘official.’ Something about being here–in the FBI building–makes you feel like a country-bumpkin of a cop. Maybe it's just the ever-present chip on your shoulder (Okay, it’s definitely that.), but the moment makes you feel like you need to fight to take up more space, puffing out your chest and straightening your spine. And when Damon offers his hand for you to shake, you grasp it more firmly than strictly necessary, something you’ve learned over the years is an effective tool to assert yourself as a female officer.

“So you’re the lead detective on the case?” Damon asks as you shake his hand.

“Yessir.”

“Fantastic. Well, I hate to bring you all the way down here to deliver bad news, but running the prints didn’t give us any matches.”

Your heart sinks. 

"But," the agent emphasizes, "your team did excellent work canvassing the area around the museum for CCTV footage, and we got some hits at one am at a few different places. Compiled it in a presentation for ya, if you wanna take a look."

At your eagerness nod, Damon turns his second monitor around to face you.

"So, first hit is at Main Street Bed and Breakfast," he explains as a grainy, black and white, blurry photo appears on the screen. Hard to ID, but it looks like we've got got male, maybe six foot, two-thirty, on foot heading away from the museum, which would be just across the street over here–" he points at the corner of the screen. 

"Then the same individual shows up walking past Java Jive–" another grainy photo, not much clearer than the first, " –and then he turns down the alleyway behind the Dutch Country General Store, and gets into a white Pontiac Grand Am."

"He puts something in the backseat," you exclaim, pointing at the blurry shape.

"Mmhmm, something skinny and long," Damon says.

"...Like five rolled-up canvases," you offer, raising your eyebrows.

"It's not a lot to go on, but this is the only individual we saw out walking that night that didn't originate from any of the establishments we analyzed."

You watch the series of images, squinting as if it will help with the pixelation. The license plate, of course, is completely illegible as the car drives away.

"We've got people analyzing the plate, but best they can do is determine that the first letter is either a 'C' or an 'O.'"

"Better than nothing," you concede.

"Obviously, a Grand Am is gonna be a pretty common car in the area, but it's somewhere to start. We'll start pulling state records, and we'll be in touch if we–"

The loud ringing of your work phone interrupts Damon, and you wince apologetically as you pull it out and see 'SGT HUBBARD' on the caller ID.

"Hullo," you chirp amiably.

"Hey," Hubbard says on the other end. "We've got a body."

You straighten with a sharp intake of breath. Two deaths in Hannibal in less than a week? You don't think you've ever seen anything like it. Frowning, you duck out of Damon’s office and walk several paces away.

“I’m in St. Louis for the Rockwell case, but I’m finishing up,” you tell him. “I can be there in an hour and a half.”

“See that it’s quicker.”

You roll your eyes, mutter a “Yessir,” and end the call.

“Pike,” you bark, causing Marcus to look up with those pretty, soulful eyes of his. “We gotta go. There’s a case back in Hannibal that needs my attention.”

“Yes ma’am.” He gives you that wide, toothy smile again, and you remember how last night it had felt… unnerving to you. Like there was something lurking behind that earnest grin that no one else knew about. You shake your head. Jesus, you had way too much to drink last night. Get a grip, Cricket.

Lights on and sirens blaring, you zip past farms and woodlands. The official GPS time says one hour and forty-nine minutes, but you can do way better than that. Other vehicles automatically part for you, leaving them all behind in a blur of red and blue. Tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration and hands on ten-and-two, you think this might be the best part of the job. The part where you’re flying. 

You drop Marcus off at the Station with your apologies and race to the address Hubbard gave you.

The coroner’s office and a local news van are already there when you arrive, and the Sergeant looks disapprovingly in your direction, as if you could have shortened the drive from St. Louis through sheer force of will. 

“What is it?”

“Harold Dalton, 54. Apparent suicide.”

“What? What the hell is in the water that–”

“Hush. Keep your voice down. Right now, we’re waiting on State Police to come help with this one–there was a firearm involved.”

“He shot himself?”

Hubbard’s mouth is a thin line as he nods grimly. “Not a pretty sight.”

“Dalton…” you murmur to yourself. “Why do I know that name?”

“He’s got some priors,” Hubbard says. “Possession, some assault charges that were dropped, and–”

“Child neglect,” you whisper, as the realization hits you. “Oliver Dalton.”

“Shit, yeah,” the Sergeant says, realizing the connection at the same time. “God, how many years ago was–”

“Five,” you answer automatically. 

“That would make Oliver…”

“Sixteen.”

“Mm,” Hubbard grunts. “Ever check in on him?”

“He’s bounced around from home to home,” you answer, trying to keep the emotion and bitterness out of your voice. “Doesn’t last in one place for very long.”

“It’s a fucked up thing for a kid to go through,” Hubbard mumbles. “Can’t imagine he’s all that well-adjusted.”

The two of you stand in silence on the run-down, rotting porch. What a fucking shithole, you fume, scraping a piece of flaking paint with the toe of your boot. In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of sirens coming closer.

“Know we’re not supposed to say it,” the Sergeant finally says, as the State Police car pulls into the gravel driveway, “but good fucking riddance.”

Dalton. Now that the connection has been made, you can’t believe you didn’t remember immediately. You suppose you have tried your best to put his name–and several others–in a tidy little box in the corner of your mind. It’s easier that way.

Except… Why does it feel as though you were just thinking about him? As soon as you hear it, the pang of familiarity rushes through you, but you can't put your finger on why…

Hubbard is shaking hands with the two state cops that just arrived when your phone pings. You pull it out and glance at the thumbnail. 

“Hope everything’s okay! Talk to you later.”

It’s from Marcus. Something prickles across the back of your neck, and you slide your phone back into your pocket without responding.

“Officers,” you greet the newcomers, forcing a cordial smile and sticking out your hand to shake.

It was just the cold breeze making your hair stand on end. That’s all. 

“Sorry I had to dump you at the station like that this morning.” You tap out the message on your phone as soon as you get back into your squad car.

“It happens, don’t worry I know how it is.”

After a few minutes, Marcus begins typing again. 

“Want to meet up for a drink?”

“Fuck, no. You have any idea how shitty I felt this morning?"

"Noted. How about dinner, then? And some water?"

You pause. Drinks are one thing. But dinner? That could be considered "date" territory if you think about it too much.

You must be silent for too long, because your phone pings again.

“Had something I wanted to ask you about the CCTV sweep.”

It’s an obvious effort to sweeten the deal and get you to say yes, and you know it. You should tell Marcus you’ll discuss it tomorrow at work, pick up some fast food on the way home, and eat it in front of Jeopardy!–alone. 

Instead, you find yourself typing, “Dinner sounds good. Water sounds better. Where were you thinking?”

Marcus begins typing almost immediately. “How’s the Mark Twain Dinette?”

You snort to yourself. “Just as bad as you’re thinking. But Finn’s Food and Spirits is surprisingly edible if you’re looking for local eats.”

“Edible, huh? That’s not really a ringing endorsement, but I try not to go to chain restaurants when I’m traveling, so… let’s do it! :)”

It isn’t until you get into the shower that the reality hits you of how strange it is to be washing off the remains of two very similar cases in as many days. Not just two consecutive deaths–but two suicides, in a town of barely fifteen thousand people. 

And you knew them both. 

What you find most jarring, however, is the difference in your own mood between the two days. Yesterday, the weight of Bobby’s death felt as though it was dragging your body down. Today, though, there’s a weight off your shoulders. A burden you didn’t even realize you were carrying, suddenly gone. Hubbard had said it well, earlier–said what you’ve been thinking the entire day since. 

Good riddance.

You arrive a few minutes before Marcus, so you go in to grab a booth for the two of you–sitting where you can see the door, as you always prefer to do. Being a police officer has left you with some funny habits; it’s actually pretty nice to be able to talk to another person in law enforcement, for once. It isn’t like you go out much with Hubbard, who is both your supervisor and over twenty years your senior. Evan strictly works nights, so you don’t see much of him, either. You’re acquaintances with some of the officers in surrounding towns, but you don’t have much patience for their “I’m a cop” bravado–or even worse, the “Thin Blue Line” stickers on their car windows. 

Marcus seems different, though. Sure, he’s got an air of confidence around him, but you can tell it’s not an act at all. And yet, despite that confidence, there’s a softness to him: something in the upturn of his eyebrows, in the way his lips part when you speak, the way he seems enraptured by your every word–

When the man consuming your thoughts enters, you jump slightly, afraid, for just a moment, that he could read your mind. His expression brightens the moment he sees you, eagerness written all over his face, and you shake yourself.

This is why you can’t let him in.

“Everything go alright today?” Marcus asks amiably as he slides into the booth opposite you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, shaking your head. “Nothing big.”

The lie sits heavy on your chest. He’ll find out tomorrow–along with the rest of Hannibal–when the day’s Courier-Post arrives at the station. It’s just that you don’t want to talk about it, not tonight. 

“Yeah,” you say again. “So what was the thing with CCTV?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Marcus says, taking his eyes off the menu for a moment and giving you a discerning look. “Why don’t we just save work stuff for tomorrow, huh? C’mon, take a break–what’s good here?”

You shrug. “The catfish is usually fresh-caught from the river, if that’s your sort of thing.”

“Is it your thing?” he asks, a glint in his eye.

“I make it a point not to eat anything that was recently pulled from the river.”

Marcus hums in response, scanning the menu again. When the waitress comes by to take your orders, he gets the catfish.

“Country-fried steak,” you say, handing her your menu. 

Silence falls at the table; without reading material or decisions about food to be made, you aren’t sure how to talk to the man opposite you. He intrigues you; he attracts you… he also scares you, just a little. Is it possible to be too disarming? Too earnest? If so, Marcus certainly is, and something about his sincerity… puts you off.

Fuck, when you think about it that way, maybe you’re just an asshole.

“So the CCTV question was just a pretense to lure me here,” you say, raising one eyebrow in challenge.

Marcus holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “I plead the fifth. But I–listen, the truth is, Cricket–I can call you that, right? You, uh, you never gave me your first name.” When you don’t offer an answer, he forges ahead. “I’ve been told I’m forward, and that’s probably accurate, but the truth is, I think you’re one hell of a good looking woman, and I’d love to get to know you better.”

Your stomach flips over at his words. As much as you’d hate to admit it, you’re not immune to flattery, and certainly not coming from such a beautiful man in his own right. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“I find it easy to talk to you,” Marcus continues. “I’m on the road a lot, and it can be… lonely. You don’t know how much of a relief it is to have someone to talk to who gets it, who’s been there, you know?”

You nod thoughtfully, tracing the rim of your water glass. “I do get it. I–I’ve been alone for quite some time, too, and there are few people in Hannibal that I can really sit down and just talk to. I–I guess what I’m saying is, it’s a relief for me, too.”

Marcus reaches slowly across the table and, in a barely-there caress, runs his index finger across the back of your other hand. 

“I–” you say hastily, pulling your hand back and settling it in your lap, instead. “I want to be clear that I’m not in the stage of my life where I’m looking for anything temporary.”

“Me neither,” Marcus says, his eyes burning intensely into yours.

“Anything between us, is, by very nature, temporary,” you point out. “I live here in Hannibal. You’re going back to Washington upon completion of this case. I’m not against seeking mutual relief from loneliness, but I’m just… I’m not sure if I know you well enough to go down that road.”

Marcus’s eyes are full of understanding and acceptance. He draws his hand back and sits back against the booth with a small, wry smile.

“So, what’d’you wanna know?” he drawls, letting the Texan accent slip out in full force.

So… you talk. And talk. 

And talk. 

Your plates have long-since been empty and the ice in your water glass has melted, dripping condensation onto the checkered tablecloth–and you feel as though you’ve been given a glimpse past the toothy smile and confident demeanor, into a deeper, hidden vulnerability underneath. 

“...She–She broke up with you via text message?” you ask, dumbfounded at Marcus’s most recent admission.

“God, when you put it that way, it sounds… way worse than it was, but yeah,” he chuckles. “But honestly, when I look back, the writing was on the wall. I was rushing, she was dragging her feet. There… there wasn’t a future there.”

“Do you do that a lot? Rush, that is?” 

Marcus hums loudly as he seemingly deliberates his answer. “Mmm, I don’t like to see it as rushing.”

“How do you see it?”

“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” he says simply, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours.

It makes you shiver slightly.

“Has that made me hasty, on occasion? Impulsive? Sure. But I don’t see the point in hiding what I am only to be disappointed later. Eventually, I’ll find who matches me beat for beat. Someone who has the same ambitions, the same drive. The same passions.”

His eyes bore into you again, and you swallow. 

“You are forward,” you comment, somewhat breathlessly.

“I know what I want,” Marcus says again–quieter, this time.

“I wish I had that degree of certainty,” you whisper, laughing shakily.

“I think you do. In here,” he says, placing a palm over his heart. “But you second-guess it in favor of what’s up here.” He taps his index finger against his temple. 

“I happen to think humanity in general should obey their brains a little bit more, speaking from experience.”

Marcus laughs loudly, breaking the intense mood that had settled over the table. “I don’t think you’re wrong. But when it stands between you and your desires? Sad,” he comments, pouting his lip slightly.

“Some desires should remain just that–desires, nothing more.” Your voice wavers.

“I respect that,” he says lightly. Signaling to the waitress with a wide, friendly smile, he asks for the check. “But you don’t strike me as a person who indulges most of her desires. You put everything else first, don’t you?”

“Not always,” you object, bristling slightly at the blatant call-out. 

“I’m sure,” he grins as he scribbles a signature on the receipt. “Well, Cricket, I hope I’m wrong. I hope you chase the things you want, that you indulge in the little things that bring you joy, that you live your life not being afraid to say ‘I’m doing this for me.’ After all, I’m seeing such a fleeting moment of your life, aren’t I? A blink of an eye in the scheme of things. You and I are merely ships passing in the night, never to be seen or heard from again.” He stands. “Have a good night, Cricket.” 

And with that, Marcus gives you one last fond smile and disappears through the front doors, leaving you stunned–frozen to your seat as you absorb his speech.

You wake up confused for the second morning in a row.

Bright and loud. Why is it so bright and loud?

This time, the confusion resolves itself quickly as your brain comes back online and you realize that your work phone is ringing again. 

The old-fashioned alarm clock across the room reads 5:23 AM.

“Hullo?” you croak.

“You’re not going to fucking believe this.”

At the sound of the Sergeant’s voice, you switch on your bedside lamp and blink rapidly in the harsh light. 

“What is it?” you ask, trying to sound more awake than you actually are.

"Maisie Fletcher called the station around four saying her husband never made it home from the Waterhole. Evans drove the road from town to their house about a mile south just to take her statement, and found solid evidence of fresh skid marks leading into the river.”

Your heart sinks. The river. 

“Any sign of a vehicle?” you ask, already suspecting you know the answer.

“No.”

You take a deep inhale through your nose and let it out slowly through your mouth. Pulling a body from the Mississippi is miserable, unpleasant drudgery. First, you’ll spend hours directing boat patrols back and forth in a cross-hatch pattern for miles south of the suspected entry point. Then, once you finally find the vehicle, the work to exhume it from the water begins. The fire department will need to be coordinated with, and, depending on the depth of the car, a SCUBA team or a crane. 

“Fletcher…” you repeat, frowning. “Isn’t that–” 

“The domestic disturbance couple, that’s right,” Hubbard confirms. 

You snort. ‘Couple’ is a strong word, in your opinion. The husband, Gavin Fletcher, was single-handedly responsible for half a dozen trips out to their house along the river over the years, but every time you’d asked Maisie–with increasing urgency in your tone–if she’d like to press charges, she had declined. And every time, you’d leave the house with a lead balloon in your stomach. 

You always worried it was a matter of time before the “domestic disturbances” turned ugly. Or worse… fatal. 

And now… he’s in the Mississippi. Maybe. Possibly.

Is it bad if you find yourself hoping he’s at the bottom of the river?

Yes. Yes, it is. 

“Understood,” you sigh into the phone. “Let me throw on my uniform and I’ll meet Evans down at the bank.”

After a long day of standing on the banks of the Mississippi, watching patrol boats pass back and forth in slow, deliberate lines while drizzle slowly seeps its way down into the innermost reaches of your clothing, a vehicle turns up around six pm. You watch as the fire department uses the Jaws of Life to pry open the driver-side door, sending a cascade of muddy water onto the ground. 

It’s difficult to recognize the former person being pulled from the wreckage–even after less than twenty-four hours of being submerged, water can do a fucking number on a body–but a search of the wallet in the back pocket of its jeans confirms the identity of the swollen, bloated corpse that used to belong to Gavin Fletcher. 

Predictably, the task of notifying Maisie Fletcher is handed down to you. 

Your mouth is a thin, tight-lipped line as you drive down the gravel driveway that you wish wasn’t so familiar. You barely have to knock before Maisie is at the door and falling to her knees in a display of grief that you simply can’t find yourself to feel. Try as you might, you can’t force anything–any emotion other than ‘numbness’ onto your face as you deliver the news as gently as you possibly can. 

Maisie, still weeping, agrees to meet you at the morgue tomorrow to officially ID her late husband, and as she shakily rises to her feet, you can’t help but note the not-quite-healed-over bruise on her temple. 

You need a fucking drink. 

Thirty minutes later finds you at the Waterhole nursing a cold beer and an even-colder mood in your still-damp uniform. 

Palmer, ever the charmer, leans into your personal space with all the enthusiasm of someone attempting to disarm a bomb, and mutters, sotto-voce, “You smell like a goddamn fishmonger, Cricket.”

At your deadpan glare, he backs away, hands in the air, and makes a show of cleaning cocktail glasses instead.

You don’t much feel like talking. 

For one–yeah, the lingering smell of river brine–with the barest hint of ‘bloated corpse’ underneath–doesn’t put you in a sociable mood.

But what’s really bothering you is all of those old “domestic disputes” hovering in the forefront of your mind ever since Hubbard said the name ‘Fletcher’ at 5:30 this morning. God, you had all-but-begged her to press charges; in hindsight, you probably sounded insane. And each time, you took her refusal personally–as if it were happening to you, not to her. You’ve worked hard over the years to put that hurt, that anger away in a tiny little box in the corner of your mind, but the death of Gavin Fletcher seems to have released it all over again.

He’s dead, you point out to yourself. There’s no point in resurrecting your demons.

“Back at it, I see?" a slightly amused voice calls out from your periphery, and you close your eyes in exasperation.

You can't do this dance now.

"Marcus," you say with a resolute sigh. 

"Fancy seeing you here," he grins, and slides onto the barstool next to yours. "I'll have the same," he says to Palmer, who nods.

Seated next to you, you can tell exactly when the odor of your uniform hits his nose. He pauses, beer bottle halfway to his lips, and cocks his head in a way that would be comical, had you been in a better mood. His eyebrows pinch together, causing a little crease to appear between them, as he looks at you. 

"Did you… get dumped in the river earlier?"

You sigh again. "Not exactly. Had a car go into the river last night. Had crews searching all day, and finally found it this evening."

Marcus lets out a low whistle. "Roads must have been slick last night with all the rain," he points out.

"Yeah, exactly," you agree. "Honestly, it's probably worth it to put a feature on hydroplaning in the local paper after the news comes out. Not enough people take it seriously."

"Occupants?"

"Just the one. Male, forties. I can't release any names until tomorrow, though."

"I know," Marcus says, smiling fondly. "So after a day in the rain and the Mississippi mud, you're so ready for a beer that you don't even change out of the wet uniform, huh?"

"Fishmonger," Palmer grunts from the other side of the bar.

"I wasn't going to say it, but…"

"If you two are gonna gang up on a woman drinking, I'll damn well go home and do it alone," you grumble.

"Nonsense," Marcus grins. "If I bought the second round, would that convince you to stay?"

"One," you say, holding up your finger. "You have me for one more drink. Then I'm going home and getting into a hot bath."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawls, a glint in his eye when you mention the bath. "Guess I'll have to get my fill in the span of two beers."

You drain your first bottle and set it down challengingly. 

"...One beer," he amends.

"It's just as well," you tell him. "I'm less than pleasant company tonight."

"Impossible," Marcus promises. "Your company becomes more and more entrancing to me the more I'm graced with it."

"I guess if you can't handle me at my 'smelling like rotten fish,' then…"

"Don't make me beg to 'handle' it."

"Marcus!" You bark out a surprised laugh in spite of yourself. 

"Ha! There it is," he crows triumphantly. 

"Are you trying to cheer me up or piss me off?"

"You looked like you could use the former. Seems as though you already have enough of the latter."

You can't help but chuckle again. Damn him that it's working.

"Is it so wrong to desire the company of a beautiful woman who smells like the bottom of a river?"

"Leaving," you sputter through your stifled laughter, although you make no move to get off of your stool.

"You wound me."

"I'm not the one habitually insulting your smell.”

“If I smelled like that, I’d hope someone would ask why,” Marcus points out with a teasing grin.

"I guess if I had known I'd be doing… this, I would have gone home and showered first."

"Doing… what?" Marcus asks, a flirtatious glint in his expression.

"This. This… dance, this back and forth." You gesture between the two of you.

"This… dance?" he repeats teasingly. "Cricket, if you wanted to dance, all you had to do was say so."

"Do you ever stop?" you laugh, rolling your eyes.

"Of course I do," Marcus answers, sounding affronted. "I'd never push someone if I didn't think my feelings were returned."

You close your eyes and exhale shakily. "You know I do… I do feel the same way, Marcus. And it isn't like I haven't thought about what you said last night–in fact, I've thought of it a lot. But I keep coming back to the fact that I just… I don't want to just scratch an inch. I'm looking for…" 

"Connection?"

"Yes," you say emphatically. "Exactly. Not to be melodramatic, but I'm just too damn old for anything else."

"I feel the same way," Marcus murmurs.

"If you feel the same way, how the hell do you reconcile the fact that we're from two different parts of the country?" 

"I don't know," he says softly. "But I know I can't ignore what I feel for you–the connection I feel between us. I know that's real, don't you?"

You drain the last of your beer and set it down on the counter. 

"Guess that's my time," Marcus chuckles resignedly.

"Walk me to my car," you say quietly. 

Marcus nods, throwing some cash onto the counter and extending his hand to you. "Shall we?"

Not taking your eyes off of his, you gently slip your palm into his own. He walks you to your car, one hand resting perfectly at the small of your back and making the skin there tingle slightly.

“I won’t ask to kiss you,” he announces as you open your door. “But from one passing ship to another, I’ll just say that you look so goddamn beautiful right now under the streetlights.”

You turn carefully around. Marcus’s expression is open and earnest. His lips are parted, his eyebrows upturned as he watches you. He’s made his desires clear, and you… you simply want to bask in that all-consuming attention of his for just a few moments. 

Slowly, achingly slowly, you bring your palm up to lay against his sternum. Your eyes meet–a question in his, an answer in yours. 

Just as unhurriedly, Marcus steps closer. He gently cups your chin in one of his large hands as he tilts his head just slightly and lowers it to meet you. 

His lips are soft when they slowly brush against your mouth. The kiss is sensual, full of longing and barely restrained passion lurking just under the surface. His lips are parted, but he makes no attempt to deepen the kiss; you never feel the careful slip of his tongue into your mouth or the sting of teeth. Despite this, it might be the most sexually charged kiss you’ve ever received. A wave of pure want surges down your spine and into the base of your core and your grip on his shirt tightens to steady yourself as a small, involuntary noise escapes from deep in your chest.

You expect things to escalate from there. You wait for your back to hit the side of your car, to feel the weight of Marcus’s body against you as he pins you against the door. You wait for his hand to grip your hip, his fingertips to dig into the back of your neck as he takes control.

Instead, he pulls back–breathing shakily as he does–and rests his forehead against yours.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have done that,” you laugh breathlessly, thinking of how the hell you were supposed to to work with him now.

“Maybe not,” Marcus chuckles back. “But I don’t regret it. I can’t.”

The orange light from a nearby lamp casts half of his face in shadow, making his features stand out in dark relief: the bow of his upper lip, the angle of his cheekbone, the strength in his brow, the line of his nose… 

He’s the one who looks beautiful, you think. Out loud, you say something else. 

Just one word.

Your name. 

Marcus’s lips part in surprise, eyebrows turning upward as he realizes the gift you’ve given him. He could have used it all along, of course, had probably seen it in the city directory before he’d even met you. 

But he waited for your consent, instead.

And oh, how sweet it sounds when it falls from his lips for the first time like this, his mouth just inches from yours.

“I can’t believe I let you kiss me smelling like this,” you joke, trying to dispel the heavy cloud of tension.

He laughs quietly, and murmurs your name again, his thumb brushing delicately back and forth against your cheekbone. “Go home,” he whispers. “Take that bath. It’s late.”

You nod, swallowing thickly. “See you tomorrow.”

Marcus steps back, giving you a fond, warm smile. “Sure will.”

Christ, what have you done?

The thought doesn’t hit you until the wee hours of the morning, when you bolt upright in bed before your alarm and realize that you’re going to have to continue working alongside Marcus for the foreseeable future. 

You don’t know him, not really; you don’t know how he’ll act in a professional setting after a very unprofessional moment between the two of you. He brings out a softness in you that you don’t recognize, a deep yearning at the very core of you that had been shoved down and suppressed for years. Vulnerability is punished in your line of work, especially as a woman, and you’ve gotten so well-practiced at stamping out any trait that could be perceived as weakness that you, unknowingly, eradicated it from your personal life as well.

How long has it been since you’ve let someone in?

How long have you denied yourself the comfort of another’s touch?

Damn him.

He’s brought all of these feelings to the surface, and now you have to worry about not only his reaction to seeing you at work today, but yours as well. 

Will you be able to hide the way your body seems to gravitate toward him? Can you keep your face from betraying you? 

Will he be able to remain aloof and businesslike, or will the mask drop–showing everyone the hunger in his eyes? 

You shudder slightly. Please, let the day go smoothly. 

As it turns out, all your nerves were misplaced. There’s no awkward reunion, no shy smiles or stilted small talk. 

“They ID’ed the guy!” Marcus exclaims loudly as you walk into the bullpen. 

The outburst from the typically softspoken man surprises you so much that you nearly drop your coffee.

“What?” 

“Your Norman Rockwell thief! His name is Reuben Porter, and he lives in Moberly.”

A slow smile spreads across your face. “No way.”

Marcus grins back, dimple on full display. “Fancy a drive to the field office today?”

“Hell yes. Gotta be sooner than later, though,” you add, thinking of Maisie Fletcher. “I’ve got a meeting at three.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smirks. “Shouldn’t take too long. They’ll share all of their files, and you and your precinct can be the ones to make the arrest.”

“Wait… you’re not doing that?”

“Told you it was still your case,” he points out. “Yeah, before you know it, I’ll be out of your hair and on a plane back to D.C.”

“What a relief,” you joke, but the words hardly have any bite to them. Back to D.C.? Part of you wants to have your fill of him first; that kiss last night only left you craving more. All you can think about is his lips on yours, and wonder about the feel of his body as it pins you to the bed. 

“I’m sure it is.” 

Marcus’s voice deepens, his tone tinged with amusement, and you fight the urge to avert your eyes like a schoolgirl. 

“Shall we, then?” you say lightly, raising your eyebrows and tilting your chin upward.

“You’re driving, this time,” he says with a boyish smile.

The car is where the tension finally returns. The air feels dense, each lull in polite conversation pregnant with what goes unmentioned and unacknowledged. To your surprise, you find yourself itching to address the elephant in the squad car, even after what feels like hours of giving yourself pep talks before work, promising yourself you wouldn’t be the one to slip.

“When… when is your flight?” you ask instead.

“Tomorrow.”

“...Oh.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Marcus says seriously.

You blanch. “You do?”

“Mmhmm. ‘Good Riddance,’ right? Mister Big City Agent, finally getting out of your way so you can arrest the jerk who had the audacity to defile the Mark Twain Museum.”

You bark out a surprised laugh. “I can’t tell if you’re making fun of Hannibal or not.”

Marcus makes a show of appearing offended. “I would never poke fun at the birthplace of Samuel Clemens.” Sobering, he adds, “I hope you know by now that I care very deeply about every art case.”

You can’t help but beam at him. Taking a leap of faith, you respond. “And I hope you know by now that I’m not hoping the door hits you on the way out.”

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. 

“‘Course.”

Marcus slowly reaches his hand over to you and drags just the tip of one finger from your wrist and down your hand to the end of your pinkie finger in a barely-there caress. 

You let out a shaky exhale as the squad car pulls into the lot of the St. Louis field office.

Damon greets you and Marcus cheerfully as you enter the Art Crimes Department. He shakes your hand, offering his congratulations, as you follow him back to his office.

“Here you go,” he says, handing you a singular flash drive. “The final identification reports identifying Reuben Porter as the thief, and all related case notes.”

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Oh,” you say, turning the flash drive over in your hand. “Why not just email it?” 

“File’s too big,” Damon shrugs.

“Got some stuff for you, too,” Marcus adds, pulling out his field notebook and a manila folder and handing them to you. “My notes, and my formal report of my involvement in the case.”

“Thank you,” you say, looking at Damon, and then at Marcus. “For your expertise and your support. I’ll–”

You’re interrupted by the loud ringing of your work cell. Grimacing, you give the agents an apologetic smile and duck out of Damon’s office.

“Yeah,” you say impatiently into the phone.

“Hey,” Hubbard replies, sounding, for once, incredibly hesitant.

“...What’s going on?”

“Can you go on a call?”

"I'm at the St. Louis field office with Pike," you tell him. "You'll have to call Evan in."

"Evan is already here," the Sergeant says, making you frown in confusion. 

"He is? Then why–"

"We’ve got a body, but Cricket? …It's Johansson."

You don't realize your legs have given out until you feel the cold chair underneath you. Your breath comes in short pants after hearing That Name. That fucking name.

"Jakub," Hubbard continues, as if you needed to be told.

"H-How?"

"Looks like an overdose, but the autopsy will have to confirm it, obviously."

You feel as though you're floating above yourself. That fucking case. You hadn’t been on the force long; it was the first time the system had failed you. Failed her. 

"I just thought you should know," the Sergeant is saying. "If you need to take a few days–"

"I don't," you interrupt. "Thanks for telling me. You still need me to come?"

"Nah," Hubbard says. "Have fun in St. Louis."

"Yeah," you hear yourself saying over the blood rushing in your ears. "Thanks." You robotically set the phone down on the table, eyes unseeing as you process the conversation. 

A warm palm lands on your shoulder, and you exhale shakily. "S-Sorry, just give me a minute."

"Are you okay?" Marcus's voice is full of concern.

"Yeah, it's um… just a name I haven't heard in a while, is all."

But that’s not true… is it? The name is fresh in your brain, feels familiar when you silently form the shape of it with your mouth. Jakub Johansson. You’ve tried your best to put him–and all the other cases that keep you up at night–in the past, but ghost after ghost keeps turning up this week, in more ways than one. 

“Do we need to get back to Hannibal?” Marcus asks.

“Nah. No. They’ve got it handled, they were just–it was one of mine, so… informing me, I guess.”

“One of your… what?”

“Sorry. Just an old case. Someone connected with it, anyways.”

“Everything alright?”

“They’re dead,” you deadpan. And even as you say the words out loud, a weight you didn’t realize you had been carrying seems to lift from your shoulders. Finally unparalyzed, you turn and look at Marcus. His gaze is burning, his eyes searching your face with unrelenting intensity. 

“Do you need to take a moment?” he asks softly, plush lips barely moving and his wild eyes never once leaving you.

Suddenly, the windowless Art Crimes Department feels stifling, like there’s not enough air. You can’t speak; you can’t breathe. Instead, you nod as you quickly rise from your chair and all-but-bolt from the room, walking quickly down the hall and up the stairs until you reach the lobby, then rushing out of the main entrance. It’s only then that you feel as though you can suck in a deep, ragged breath of crisp autumn air.  

You’ve carried this case with you for almost seven years. Seven years of feeling like you were the one who failed–not the system. You. You could have collected more evidence, you could have fought harder, you could have–no. You pace the sidewalk, repeating the statements the Force’s therapist gave you all those years ago. You did everything you could do. You helped a woman in need and brought a bad man to justice. His light sentence is not your fault. 

And now he’s dead.

Why doesn’t this feel like relief?

That feeling, the one you've been having all week, returns. That feeling of wrongness, like you’re forgetting something important. 

“Hey.” A soft voice cuts through your thoughts.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” you murmur, not turning to acknowledge Marcus. “What the fuck is happening this week? Pearson, Dalton, Fletcher, J-Johannson… I’ve seen more dead bodies in one week than I’ve seen in a fucking lifetime.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Marcus points out, “not a dead body.”

“The case with Johansson, it… it fucked me up for a while,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “I had to take time off, I was appointed a therapist to speak to, I–” 

“The details must have been really upsetting to you,” he says gently, laying his hand on your forearm.

“I had panic attacks,” you whisper, feeling the leftover shame wash over you. “We’re supposed to keep our own emotions out of the job, and I… I failed–”

“That’s not a failure–” Marcus starts, but you interrupt quickly.

“I failed her,” you grit out through clenched teeth, spinning to face him head-on. “I thought I was doing everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.”

The soft sound of your name causes a sob to catch in your throat.

“Listen to me,” Marcus says softly. “You did everything you could, I know you did. You’re a caring, capable, brilliant cop, and you did everything in your power. And besides, the universe has a way of making things right, doesn’t it? He came to justice in the end.”

You snort. “He fucking overdosed in his own home, and his victim was left with a lifetime of trauma. If that’s justice, the universe has a funny sense of humor.”

You deflate with a sigh. Checking your watch, you give Marcus a humorless smile. “We’ve gotta go, anyway. I need to be back to meet with the wife of a drowned man at the morgue.”

Maisie Fletcher’s demeanor is far more stony than it had been the day before. Head held high and lips pursed, she strides confidently into the observation room and watches expressionlessly as the sheet is peeled back to reveal Gavin Fletcher.

“That’s him,” she confirms with no emotion in her voice.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say, because it’s what you’re supposed to do.

Maisie snorts, the first time her facial features have changed since she walked in. “Really? Knowing what you know about him? You might be the only other person who knows the truth about what he really is.”

When you don’t answer, she speaks again.

“This might be the best thing that's ever happened to me." The words are whispered, barely audible even in the cryptlike silence of the morgue.

You nod at the mortician, Milo, who you remember from a few grades below you in school. He nods back and carefully replaces the sheet.

You escort Maisie back out to her car with a heavy heart and brooding thoughts.

"What are you going to do?" you ask quietly.

"I'm leaving town. Soon as I can. I–I never meant to stay here, but…"

"It's hard to leave," you murmur. "The town, mean," you correct quickly. "It sucks you in. Believe me, I know."

"You could go, too," Maisie points out. "Every town needs cops."

"And leave all this?" you joke. "I'm good. Really. Just been a week for the record books."

As Maisie drives off, you turn and see that Milo is watching you from the front entrance.

"There a problem?" you call out.

"Nah, just wanted a second opinion on something. You busy?"

You shake your head, walking back into the morgue behind the mortician.

"Lot of new tenants this week," Milo says. He pauses, looking over at you as if waiting for your laugh. You manage a weak one, but it seems to satisfy him. He stops in front of one of the metal drawers and turns toward you. "This one, the one they found yesterday? The autopsy hasn't been completed yet, but I wanted to run something by you to see if you agree with my analysis."

You shrug, holding your arms out in a gesture for him to continue. He grabs the handle and pulls, revealing the pale, stiff corpse of Jakub Johansson. You suppress a flinch.

"It doesn't take an autopsy to conclude that the overdose killed him," the mortician says. "We've got all the classic signs of a fatal dose of Fentanyl. Should be cut-and-dry."

You pause, a small frown on your features. “If it’s cut-and-dry, why am I sensing a ‘but’ there?”

“Well, the overdose is cut-and-dry. No one walks away from that many drugs in their system, but… well, it looks like he got into a fight or something right before.”

“A fight?”

Milo sweeps the sheet back from the corpse’s arm. “Here. See, there’s the puncture from the needle, but look–” he gestures at the upper arm, where, through the discoloration of the already-decomposing skin, you can clearly see five purple marks. 

“Someone grabbed him,” you say quietly. 

“Mmhm. And here.” He points to the forearm, where a larger bruise runs horizontally across the skin. 

Staring at the marks, the image starts to crystalize in your mind. “It looks like… like someone grabbed his upper arm, and held his forearm in place with their knee, or something.”

“That’s exactly what it looks like,” Milo nods grimly. 

“He was held down,” you murmur, barely audible in the silent room. “He was held down and given a fatal dose.”

“The injuries were perimortem,” the mortician adds. “They would have been sustained just before he overdosed.”

“How long before?”

“No way to be precise, but…” he clicks his tongue, “...no more than an hour or two.”

You thank Milo in a daze, heading back out of the morgue with rapidly swirling thoughts. You can no longer ignore the facts: All the people who have died this week, with the exception of Bobby Pearson, were on your list of ‘Cases that Haunt your Dreams.’ That list… subconscious, but so vivid that you may as well have it written down on a piece of posterboard and hung opposite your living room couch. They were the cases that kept you up at night, the reason you… 

… the reason… you…

…drink… to… forget.

The phrase seems to set off a chain reaction in your mind. You hear it again and again, but not in your own voice…

In the voice of someone else. 

“They say there’s only two kinds of people,” Marcus says. “Those who drink to remember, and those who drink to forget.”

You remember his soulful eyes, the understanding in his expression as he acknowledged that he knew exactly which of those people you were.

“I drink to remember.”

“The living, and the dead.”

The dead.

Images flash rapidly in your brain. Him telling you the work matters. Urging you to tell him the names. Pouring you another drink. You, crying against his dress shirt. Him pleading with you to let it all go, the burdens you carried.

The names…

Nothing makes sense, anymore.

Well, actually, everything makes sense, it’s just that you don’t want it to. 

Everything that’s happened over the past week is leading you to one conclusion–and you simply aren’t ready to face it. Not yet. 

You can’t face it… but you can’t let it go, either. It would be against everything you thought you stood for. So rather than go home and drown your suspicions in more whiskey, you go back to the station.

Not bothering to turn on the lights, you sit down at your desk and power on your computer. The blue light is harsh in the dim bullpen as you open the FBI’s website and search for the Art Crimes department. You glance at the directory–Supervisory Special Agent Marcus Pike at the very top, of course–then navigate over to the department’s news page and scan the recent case headlines. 

Wilton Man Admits Operating Fraud Scheme

Palm Beach Art Dealer Sentenced to Federal Prison for Laundering Money From Art Fraud Scheme.

Lips pursed, you open up a second tab and search for ‘Wilton.’ It’s a small town in Connecticut–and you find the town’s local newspaper easily. You click back to the FBI page, look at the date the man was arrested, and look through the newspaper archives on and before the same day. 

No major headlines stand out, but when you read the obituaries for the week, goosebumps begin to rise at the back of your neck. Elliott Bradford, 42. Overdose. Mark Hampton, 38. Suicide. 

Those kinds of deaths are common everywhere, you try to tell yourself. But, pulling up yet another tab, you search for the first name. Immediately, article after article appears in the results. Heart in your throat, you click on the first. 

Sex Offender Elliott Bradford Implicated in Trafficking Ring. The news is from over a decade ago–but the details are enough to turn your stomach. He’d been sentenced to ten years in prison, which means he would have just been released… last year. Mere months before Marcus would have been there for work. 

When you search for Mark Hampton, you find a similar story. Marjorie Hampton Files Suit Against Husband Mark Citing Repeated Abuse. And just a few years later, he’s dead, too.

A little voice in the back of your head tells you to stop digging, but you can’t seem to quit. You repeat the search with Palm Beach, and find that again, the obituaries are filled with accidental deaths and suicides from the town’s most violent men. 

Minneapolis. North Hollywood. Palmdale. You’ve gone as far back as 2016, and every town has the same pattern: Marcus Pike arrives for a case, and days later, known abusers start turning up dead. 

Every. 

Single. 

One.

It’s nearly two in the morning when you finally force yourself to stop. Your mind is swirling with names, dates, and heinous crimes. And all of them died within weeks of the town being visited by a certain FBI Art Crimes Detective. There’s still a part of you that can’t believe your conclusions are real–that the sweet, kind man you can’t deny your feelings for any longer is actually a killer. Which is why, hands trembling, you do the one thing you definitely should not do at this moment.

You text Marcus Pike.

“I need to talk to you.”

You regret it almost immediately. Part of you hopes that he’s asleep. He has to be, right? It’s two AM. Shaking your head and inwardly chastising yourself, you slip your phone into your pocket and start shutting down the computer. 

When you get up to leave, however, your phone pings.

“Where and when?”

"I–I need to talk to you,” you blurt out the moment the hotel room door opens, but the sight before you almost makes you swallow the last few words.

Marcus is shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sleep pants low around his hips. You can’t help but stare at the sight, taking in his broad shoulders, the light musculature of his arms, his slender waist and the soft skin on his stomach. A light trail of hair disappears below the waistband of his pants, and you swallow thickly as you drag your eyes back up to his face.

"So you said," Marcus says quietly. If he’s amused at your obvious staring, he doesn’t show it.

"You–what're you doing up so late?"

"Never did sleep much," he says with a crooked grin. One of his eyebrows raises as he looks you up and down. "Why are you up and at my door at this time of night?"

"Losing my fucking mind," you murmur shakily.

He steps forward, reaching his hand up to tenderly cup your cheek. Your eyes flutter closed as your body instinctively responds to his touch.

"Marcus," you whisper. 

"And why does that bring you to me?" he asks, his voice deepening. His thumb traces back and forth across your cheekbone.

To confront you, you want to say. To make you tell me I'm not crazy. That I figured out your secret.

Instead, you reach out and touch one trembling hand to his sternum, indulging in your desire to touch that expanse of golden skin. 

You open your eyes to find him watching you with a hooded, coal-black gaze. His eyes flick down to your hand on his chest, then back up to your face.

The moment feels like the drawing back of a bowstring. It seems to linger, seconds stretching out longer and longer until the inevitable moment where everything snaps.

Suddenly, Marcus is pulling you forward, shutting the door, and pressing you back against it in one swift, fluid motion. 

His entire body molds to you–hips, hands, lips–with far more ferocity and less restraint than the night before. You feel the sting of his teeth, the grip of his fingertips as he takes from you.

You aren't exactly idle, either; your hands map the planes of his chest, hips canting up to grind against the hard length you can feel there. When he pushes right back, you groan loudly and dig your fingernails involuntarily into the meat of his upper back, and he hisses.

"Sor–"

"Again," he growls, so you scratch harder.

A low, feral sound escapes from deep in his chest he breaks away from your lips and kisses a frenzied path down your neck.

"This was always going to happen," Marcus rasps into your skin. "You, and me. Can't you feel it?"

"Feel–?" you gasp, arching your back at the little nip of teeth at your shoulder. What you feel, right now at least, is the hard, thick length of his cock pressing insistently against your stomach, and it empties your mind of all other thoughts. 

"Feel the electricity between us. The connection," Marcus clarifies between kisses back up your neck until he gently nibbles your jaw. 

"Mmhmm," you whimper. Your knees almost buckle.

"Tell me," he orders. 

"I feel it."

You reach down and grasp his erection through his clothes as if to punctuate your meaning, and Marcus’s knees do buckle slightly as he sags against you with a broken groan.

"Every fucking night," he growls, "I pictured how you would look spread out on this bed. You'll forgive me for indulging that, now."

"Tell me," you parrot coquettishly, staring up at him coyly from behind your lashes.

Another low sound emanates from deep within Marcus's chest at your command. Spinning you around so fast you nearly lose your sense of direction, he pulls you further into the room and deposits you on the bed before crawling over you. 

"Tell you, huh? Tell you what? How I would close my eyes and think about the sounds you'd make for me? Or about how I'd get so worked up imagining the way you'd taste, the way you'd look coming undone beneath me that I'd have to fist my cock just for a little relief?"

"I wanna see that," you say lazily, licking your lips and making a show of pulling your shirt over your head. 

"Next time," Marcus promises darkly. “Next time I'll do it just like this, with you staring up at me, watching me fuck myself for you. But I don't think I can go one more night without being inside you."

"Please," you whisper, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

"Yeah?"

"Fucking… yes, Marcus, shit–"

He chuckles, straight, white teeth showing as he grins and starts to unbutton your pants. You let him draw them down your hips, along with your underwear, your breath getting shakier as you see the hungry look in his eyes. It makes you feel powerful, the way just the sight of your bare center seems to affect him. 

When your pants reach your ankles, he yanks them off the rest of the way and casts them aside in the corner of the room. His gaze is almost predatory, but you get the feeling you are the one who has him under your thumb at the moment. Giving him a sly, crooked smile, you spread your legs wide.

Marcus pitches forward onto his elbows, dropping down onto the bed as if deep in prayer, but everything about the man in this moment is sinful. With his mouth inches from your pussy, he breathes in, closing his eyes and shuddering visibly. When he opens then again, they're deep obsidian. They don't move from your face as he lowers his mouth to you.

You aren't sure who moans louder at the first generous lick of his tongue into your pussy. Rather than start at your clit, he dives in; thrusting the wet, warm muscle as deep into your cunt as he can while his nose presses deliciously against you. 

He devours you greedily, licking up into you as if he could pull pleasure out of your channel with just his tongue. He seems to be getting almost as much satisfaction out of doing it; his eyes are closed as if savoring you, low, muffled moans from deep in his throat punctuate every lap into your pussy, and every so often, his hips thrust slightly against the bed as though he can't help but seek a little relief.

His hands scrabble at your hips, yanking you closer as soon as he can find purchase, and you throw your head back on the pillow as he buries himself even deeper than before.

Christ, how is he even breathing?

His nose rubs back and forth against your clit, and you can feel your orgasm starting to build. Growing bolder, you rock your hips subtly against Marcus's face, and by the loud groan that escapes him when he feels you do it, he enjoys it.

He pulls at your hips again, wordlessly commanding you to continue. 

"Fuck," you murmur. "Marcus, your mouth–"

You slowly grind on him, gyrating your hips as you chase the sensations that feel best for you. It causes everything to pull up tight, and before you even realize what's happening, you're falling apart on his tongue.

"Have to have you," Marcus pants in your ear, having surged up to cover you with his body even as you were still trembling with aftershocks. "Tell me I can have you."

"Yeah," you agree. "Fuck, take it. It's yours." Make me forget.

"Condom?" 

"Clean. You?"

"Clean. You–You sure? Tell me now, because I don't think I can wait any longer."

"Please," you whisper, reaching up to gently wipe away some of the slick above his upper lip with an amused smile. He looks wrecked already–the only time you've seen him with a hair out of place–and it's incredibly endearing. 

You don't have time to dwell on that thought, because with a broken sound, he sheathes himself within you. 

The noise that escapes you is involuntary–an instinctual, guttural reaction from somewhere deep in your subconscious brain. You can feel Marcus everywhere at once, pressing against nerves deep inside of you, nerves you didn't even realize you had. 

Anyone would be forgiven for expecting sex with this clean-shaven, softspoken man to be just as gentle and sweet as the man himself. You would have thought the same thing, except for one feature of his that always made you feel as though something darker was lurking underneath: that smile. Wide, toothy, eager; the rows of straight, white teeth; the boyish little dimple it exposes.

It's his eyes when he smiles like that that have always made you wonder what he's hiding; what demons are being concealed behind pearly whites and laugh lines.

But you think the way Marcus fucks might expose far more than anything else about him. 

The fire that dances in his eyes has certainly hinted at a deeper passion, but you've yet to experience anything like the way it feels to be on the receiving end of this much intensity. 

He's unrelenting in his pursuit of pleasure; fervent and raw and so very physical. He doesn't shy away from the messiness of sex; he licks an escaped tear as you reach your second peak, he spits on your clit and rubs it in with his fingers, and when he finally pulls out and finishes on your chest, he immediately covers you with his mouth and sucks himself off of your nipples.

You'd also be forgiven in thinking Marcus was done with you. That, given the late hour and the vigorous, explosive way he had fucked you, he'd collapse on the bed with a tired, sated sigh.

Instead, he pulls at your hip and guides you to turn over on your stomach. You're about to open your mouth and question his motives when you feel his hot, wet tongue press against your other hole.

You squeal involuntarily, burying your face in the pillows as you surrender to the onslaught of Marcus’s attentions. In this, just as in every other way he's already had you tonight, he's incredibly vocal. He straightens his tongue and pushes it inside, and moans loudly as he feels you give way for him.

"Good girl, so fuckin' good, gonna make me hard again, aren't you? Mewling so prettily into the sheets like that while I take you apart. You like that, don't you? Filthy fucking girl, huh? Good. I am, too–told you we were made to do this."

Marcus is merciless, giving you his tongue, fingers, tongue again, over and over and over in your pussy and your ass until you come undone again with a wail. 

You're boneless and pliable as he hauls your trembling body up onto your knees and enters you again, this time from behind. 

He's equal parts brutal and reassuring: ample, generous praise spills from his lips with every rough punch of his cock. 

You're so overwrought with pleasure, you can't even speak. Marcus is destroying you in every delicious way, and you aren't sure how you're supposed to come back from this. How you're supposed to confront him after he's made you feel things you didn't even know how could feel.

His lower hands are pressing down on your lower back, intensifying the arch in your spine and causing his cock to hit the perfect spot inside you.

"Gonna–" you gasp.

"I know," Marcus answers. "Together, this time. With me, yeah? I'm so close, but I'm waiting on you. Cum for me, let me feel it baby."

You sob into the pillows as he fucks you through your orgasm, your walls aching and ultrasensitive from the relentless onslaught of his cock. 

You're only barely aware of him pulling out and letting you collapse forward onto the bed. You aren't sure why it surprises you–perhaps just the intensity of the moment before–but you aren't expecting the warm, gentle arms encircling you as Marcus follows you down and wraps you up, pulling you into his chest. 

You're still panting, trying to catch your breath and regain equilibrium as you hear his voice behind you. It's not rough and rasping like before, but soft and soothing as he croons into your ear.

"So good for me, so perfect. Took me so well, look so good in my bed. Incredible.”

Giddy and overwhelmed, you start to laugh breathlessly.

Marcus chuckles too, nuzzling the spot behind your ear with his nose with a satisfied hum. His fingers start to trace a path up and down your stomach, and you sigh bonelessly and settle against him.

"This… this wasn't what I came here for," you murmur after a few moments.

"No?" Marcus nips playfully at your jawline just below your ear.

"No, I… I…"

The teasing kisses continue, causing sparks to shoot up and down your spine.

"Marcus," you sigh, as you feel another little nibble on your neck. "Marcus. Stop."

Slowly, cautiously, he pulls back. You turn in his arms, frowning slightly.

"I came here… Jesus, this sounds–I need you to convince me I'm just being jumpy. That I've been spooked, scared of my own shadow…"

“You’re under a lot of stress,” Marcus says gently. “You’ve had a hard week.”

You scoff. “Hard week? I’ve had hard weeks. This week was devastating. I’ve seen more deaths in one week than in almost my entire time on the force, and–” you swallow and look up, meeting his dark eyes, “–they’re all connected to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “They were bad men, and they all had their vices…”

“Every single one,” you forge ahead, “was connected to a case assigned to me. But that’s not the only connection, is it?”

Marcus cocks his head to the side, not dissimilar to a confused puppy. “What do you mean?”

“They were all connected to cases that keep me up at night. Cases that didn’t end in justice. Cases that I confessed… to you.”

Confusion melts away into an easy, casual smile. Marcus chuckles softly. “I thought you said you didn’t remember anything we talked about that night.”

“Details might be blurry, but it’s the only thing that makes sense,” you say, laying back to stare at the ceiling. “I was upset over Bobby. I was disillusioned with the job. You were all too eager to lend an ear, to let me drown my sorrows and whisper the names of the men whose faces I’ll never forget. I cried on your shoulder, Marcus. And you… you took those names, and—”

“Are you saying you’re accusing me of being some kind of one-man vigilante justice machine?” Marcus asks, beginning to laugh outright. “Cricket, do you have any idea how that sounds?”

“It sounds crazy," you say, turning toward him again. "So convince me otherwise. Tell me I've lost my fucking marbles on this one."

"I think it would be natural for anyone to look for some kind of reason behind a string of deaths of people they know," he offers gently. "And these men, they've… they've affected you more than most–let's not mince words, you were traumatized by these cases. It's only natural that you would look for answ–"

"Answers?" you interrupt. "My job is to find answers, you should know that. I've been researching you on your own website, what do you have to say about that? I know where you've been for other cases."

Marcus chuckles, although it seems… deeper, this time. "That's publicly available information on the government's own servers. I'm not sure what your point is."

"I also looked up all the newspapers from the times you would have been there," you say. "And just like in Hannibal, there's a rash of suicides and accidental deaths, and all of the victims? They all had rap sheets miles long."

"Cricket," Marcus intones softly. "I know you're desperately trying to find connections here, but you have to realize these all sound like huge coincidences–"

"You got sloppy," you accuse, picking up steam and confidence as you continue to talk through it. "Did you know that? Johansson's death was no accident. He was held down and given a fatal dose. It was rough; whoever did it wanted it to hurt–"

"Stop." Marcus cuts you off, his voice harsher than you've ever heard it. "You're grasping at straws. You're under a ton of stress, and you've concocted a wild fantasy to cope. It's a good story, but that's all it is. The things you're accusing me of, the person you've made me out to be… it's not rational, and it's dangerous. I'm an agent with the US Government, and you're throwing around some pretty serious allegations."

"I know what I've seen…" you murmur, shaking your head.

"You haven't seen anything," Marcus insists. "I'm not sure what your game is here. You come to my hotel room in the middle of the night saying you want to talk, you come onto me, we have sex… and now you're telling me you think I'm, what? A serial killer?"

"I–I think I should leave," you say quietly, getting up from the bed and padding over to pick up your uniform–where your gun is still holstered in your belt. You grab the pile of clothes and retreat to the bathroom to breathe and regroup. You splash cold water on your face, trying to ignore the fact that your hands are trembling slightly. 

Get it together. 

The pull you've felt for the man all week doesn't matter. Put it aside. Do the job. 

You take a few more deep breaths, then pull on your clothes. With a set jaw, you unholster your gun and slowly open the bathroom door.

"Marcus Pike, you're–"

You freeze mid-sentence, staring at the now-empty room.

"...gone?"

Epilogue (1 year later)

“I know it’s not much, but–”

“It’s perfect,” you breathe, walking into the small office, carrying a paper box full of your belongings, all waiting for a home among the bookshelves and desk space.

“Sure,” the other agent laughs.

It might not have a window. It might not have much charm. But it has a door–a real door that closes and everything–and even more importantly, it bears your name on a plaque.

A real office.

Yours. 

“You’re coming to us from… Saint Paul?”

“Saint Louis,” you correct amicably. 

“Welcome to White Collar Crimes,” your new coworker says with a wan smile. “It’s like Organized Crime, except instead of bodies, you’re examining accounting spreadsheets.”

“Good,” you say emphatically. “I’ve had enough death for several lifetimes.”

The other agent makes a face. “What the fuck was going on in Saint Louis?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “You don’t wanna know.”

You set the box down, taking out some of your most prized possessions: A Mark Twain bobblehead, your Bachelor’s Degree in Criminology from the University of Missouri, and more recently, a certificate from Quantico labeling you as a Special Agent with the FBI.

It had taken most of the year to coordinate your exodus from the tiny town of Hannibal where you grew up. Sure, you could have simply gone to another city to be a cop, but the endless parade of speeding tickets, accidental overdoses, and orders to break up tent cities was wearing on you. Were you really making a difference where you were? 

No.

No.

You wanted to go after the real criminals. Those who swindled the vulnerable out of their hard-earned money. Those who gamed the stock market only to make a few million more than they already had. 

White collar crime.

“Well, welcome to D.C.,” the other agent says, his tone tongue-in-cheek, but your smile is genuine nonetheless. He leaves you to your task–setting up the tiny, cramped space that serves as your office. 

You unpack a box of your favorite pens, your stapler, a potted plant (fake) to add some greenery. Maybe when you get an office with a window, you can get some real plants, you think as you rearrange your notebooks on the small bookshelf beside your desk.

You glance down at the badge on your lapel and smile.

It had been a year since your strange run-in with the Art Crimes Agent that changed the course of your career. 

After Marcus Pike fled the scene of his own hotel room–leaving most of his belongings behind–you couldn’t find it in yourself to continue down the road of being a small-town police officer, handing out tickets and misdemeanors and investigating every tragic case that came across your desk. And they were all tragic, make no mistake. 

After a few months of being angry and indignant, you’d grown to respect Marcus Pike. You’d realized he was telling the truth all those months ago: he’d felt useless as an Agent, cutting through all the red tape and bureaucracy, and he’d simply taken matters into his own hands in the end.

He used his connections within law enforcement to gain access to the world’s undesirables: the violent, the unhinged, the maladapted, the unacclimated. 

The bad men who had gotten light sentences or slaps on the wrist when they should have been removed from polite society for the gain of humanity.

Compared to you–fighting through the red tape of Government at every turn–Marcus was unstoppable. You guess that’s why so many people like to read about comic book heroes who spend their time doling out vigilante justice. Fighting for prolonged sentences within the criminal justice system was one thing. Living by your own creed of law and order? That was another.

Marcus simply… went around the law.

Did the ends justify the means?

That was a question that kept you up for months on end–that still causes you to shoot up in bed, panting and sweating, fighting off the remnants of a nightmare.

Even now, you aren’t sure of the answer.

That, on top of the real job opportunities that the FBI awarded you, is what really brought you here.

Marcus Pike… is a murderer.

You’re here to keep an eye on him.

Putting aside your… more personal connections, the man is dangerous. After all, you have no way of substantiating that his moral code, the way he kills for his own perceived sense of good, will always match the general sense of human morality. Is Marcus the type of man who would take a personal slight and warp it into his own twisted sense of justice? Would ever kill to satisfy his own grievances? Would he ever simply kill for the sake of it? You have no way of knowing.

A soft tap on your office door interrupts your reverie.

“Got a briefing on the Waters case in five. I’m assuming you read the file I emailed over?” 

At your nod, the other agent continues. “It’s in conference room 2E63. Since this place is a bit of a labyrinth, thought we could walk there together.”

“Appreciate it,” you say cheerfully, snapping your laptop shut and grabbing your notebook. 

Time to work.

“Got any questions for me before the meeting?” your coworker asks as you navigate through the halls.

“Are other departments involved in this case?” you ask. “There’s the embezzling scheme, stock fraud, that’s obviously us. But what about some of the company’s other operations? The file mentioned something about illegal smuggling and money laundering, surely that’s–”

“Organized Crime, yup. We’ve got two representatives from that team, they’ve been heavily involved. It was recently discovered that some of the goods smuggled were uh, famous paintings or something? So we’ve recently added someone from—This is us, by the way.”

Your coworker opens the conference room door, and across the room, a familiar set of deep brown eyes flicks up in surprise.

“Anyway, yeah, we also recently added someone from Art Crimes to assist in the recovery of the, uh–” your coworker trails off, turning to the only other agent in the room that you happen to know, apparently hoping for him to complete the sentence.

He doesn’t. Agent Marcus Pike is still staring at you, lips parted, his face white as a sheet. Fear lurks in his wide eyes.

When he blinks, though, the mask suddenly drops back down over his expression, his agitation replaced with cool confidence.

“Cézanne,” he answers patiently. To you, he extends his hand. “I haven’t seen you around here,” he says carefully. 

To anyone listening, the words are straightforward, said by a stranger, but you catch the hidden, underlying message. I’ve seen you before, but in a different world. You are out of context. 

“Just started today,” you comment lightly before giving him your name, taking his hand, and shaking it firmly. Very firmly. Marcus blinks. You see a flash of that wild intensity that you know lurks beneath his unassuming exterior.

When he smiles, you take in the rows of perfectly straight, white teeth and his singular dimple. 

A warning. Or a promise.

“I look forward to working with you.”

[greenandsorrow]

What once was.

the secret history fanfic

"One likes to think there's something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I've learned one thing in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn't conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does is a fool."

I'm a fool... Richard was right. Love has the power to conquer many things, it can make the shy act brave and the brave act shy, but it cannot conquer death. I used to think Henry could not be conquered by neither love or death. I such was a fool.

Author's note 🦋

This story will be very self indulgent and maybe not for everyone! I am aware that the characters of the book aren't meant to be romanticised and I'm also aware of all the elitism and pretense that's portrayed in the book, but I still love it. If you love it too, you'll excuse me, I know it.🏛️🍂☕

No Bacchanal will take place in this fic. The characters will still be messed up, but not guilty of murder. Richard won't be the narrator. Another mention, this is Henry centred!

The Secret History left a big impression on me when I first read it (I've read it three times so far) because: I) I'm greek, live in Greece & speak greek, II) during high school I had to study ancient greek and latin to death III) I have a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.

I hope you'll like my attempt at inserting a new character. Obviously, this isn't even trying to compare to Donna Tart's exquisite talent, it's just fanfiction.

That's just an introduction. I'm a bit insecure about writing something I aspire to be a bit more "serious", especially when it comes to my use of the English language, but it's fine I guess.

The title is basically "What once was" by Her's.

My OC, Rita, is definitely my shameless self insert. I didn't want to make her flawless, without any negative traits. I also wanted to explore the contradiction between a raw, almost bohemian person against Henry's perfectionistic and almost non-human at times personality. Rita is genuine, she is simple but in a complicated way (like all of us). She shares the same passion of the ancient world with her classmates, but not in their flamboyant manner. In a way it's her heritage, Plato, Homer & the twelve Gods of Olympus, but she embraces the fact in a grounded way, not in an obsessive one.

Just like the title is inspired by a song, so is Henry & Rita's backstory. The childhood I'll be referring to is inspired by Taylor Swift's song "seven". You don't have to be a Swiftie to enjoy this fic, but do listen to the song. It describes the purity of childhood friendships. Childhood friends that get separated for years only to find each other by chance (or fate) is all the information you need for now.

Warnings; possibility of smut/ nsfw content, mentions of childhood trauma and abandonment, triggering themes in general, physical injuries, mental issues, self harm, homophobic people from the 80's, some cute moments that might be out of character for the gang, stereotypes that I don't resign with but are part of the plot, dark themes that might have to do with death, pov changes

the masterpost

my masterlist

YOU CAN ASK TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST

[xerith-42]

Stop blaming characters for bad writers

Seriously, stop fucking doing this. While this is a post that could certainly be applicable to MANY fandoms, I'm mainly directing this whole rant at my target audience which is mentally ill minecraft obsessed freaks.

If a character is written badly, gets badly fumbled by the creator, or has the ball dropped in regards to their arc in some way, a lot of people will blame the character, as if they're a real conscious person making these decisions. When they aren't. They're a block man literally being controlled by two people who just aren't very good writers and one or both of them are incredibly sexist, kind of racist, ableist, and just bad writers in general.

Yeah, Laurance does some pretty shitty things through out Season 2 of MCD, actively crossing lines he wouldn't have previously crossed. We as fans can cope by saying something something calling, or just saying Laurance is a bad abusive person, but the reality is that the writers wanted to force the series to fit a specific vision and as a result were willing to do anything to get the series to that point. In order to make Aaron the most favorable suitor for Aphmau, her previous suitors need to be out of the picture, or clearly inferior options.

Garroth suffered the out of the picture, being mostly absent outside of a few cutscenes here and there until episode 81 of season 2, but episode 81 is the culmination of the writers goals to make Aarmau happen. By the time Garroth has returned to the series, the damage has already been done. He's not getting the life he wants. And Laurance is written out of the picture as well, but only after being shown to be inferior because Jesson were pushing an agenda.

Laurance didn't deteriorate as a person due to neglect of his physical and mental well being after a severely traumatic experience. He deteriorated as a character because the writers stopped giving as much of a shit about him and instead were using the series as self indulgent fanfiction of alternate versions of themselves. That's not Laurance's fault.

And this applies to any character who was completely fumbled in MyStreet due to this similar focus on wish fulfillment from the writers. Jess has stated that the relationship between Aphmau and Aaron in Phoenix Drop High is reflective of her relationship with Jason, we all know this. This means that any characters who come off as total fucking creeps in that series (namely Gene), are not actually acting on the whims of their own autonomy or desires as characters. They are acting in service of telling a predetermined story that they are retroactively being added into for author fulfillment.

In this regard I fully support fandom cope and say that you should rewrite your little guys to your hearts content. But if you're going to criticize these characters for their actions, don't criticize them. They didn't do anything wrong. All characters are just puppets in service of the story or themes a writer is trying to push. If a character acts in an objectively terrible way, especially a way that isn't in line with their previous characterizations, that is a failing of the writers, not the character.

And I feel like largely a lot of us can and frequently do this. We're actively criticizing Jesson for being terrible low-key bigoted writers all the god damn time, it's like half of the content here. But when we get into character discourse I feel like some people cling onto bad actions of the canon too closely and I've seen more than a few posts presume some pretty terrible interpretations of characters based on these actions. Obviously Laurance is a character I and a lot of others are fixated on so a lot of discourse revolves around him, and it was seeing some... interesting takes on him that prompted me to start writing this post.

But this happens to everyone. Quite personally based on the character I was shown in MyStreet, it feels really weird that Garroth would make an insensitive comment about his brother's weight. Yeah siblings poke fun at each other and often cross lines, but if that was something Zane was seriously insecure about (which it seems like he might be) then it does make Garroth come off as a really insensitive brother, which just doesn't gel with how hard he tries to bond with Zane despite their tense relationship. And I don't think Garroth should be criticized for making those comments.

Whoever wrote those lines (Jess and/or Jason) should be criticized for writing a scene where a character is mocked by their older sibling over a physical insecurity even if said sibling would not normally do that. It's not Travis' fault that Jesson never decided to give him more of a character beyond "funny pervy guy" that's not funny in every anime they've watched until Season 5 of MyStreet. It's unfair to try and say Travis should be scrutinized for his borderline sexual harassment of some characters when it's not his fault that happened, he was written by writers who don't think this sort of behavior isn't all that bad if they make it out for comedy and punch him in the face.

And god dammit it's not Laurance's fault that his jealousy became the most prevalent emotion he felt. Laurance has always been a character to give into his vices and yet fight against them at the same time, it's what makes him compelling. If they were going to pull on those vices in order to make him a less appealing love interest, he never had a chance to really be his own character after a certain point. Because at a certain point in Season 2, Jesson stopped caring about the character they had been writing for over a hundred episodes at that point. They just wanted to canonize their self insert ship and were willing to do anything to get it.

Laurance isn't an abusive angry person who would have killed Aphmau if they got together. He's a flawed character being handled by incredibly flawed writers who are prone to making some of the worst decisions you have ever seen a creator make in regards to their character writing. He was caught in the crossfire of the adoration he received from a very dedicated fanbase, and the creator who would rather pretend he and his previous arc didn't exist for the sake of her fun. It's not Laurance's fault his arc was stilted, jerked around, and ultimately ended with him completely face planting. And yet still reliably dragging his bloodied body up at just the slightest glimmer of hope (Void Paradox).

It's deeply poetic and tragic that I can describe his character in universe and in the meta-textual sense that way, but we should never blame Laurance, or Aaron, or any other characters for things being like this.

They didn't write the show. Jess and Jason did.

[dinolich]

FAQ

One click spot for frequently asked questions, pertaining to HELLAWEEN and art in general. This will be linked in my bio and updated over time.

HELLAWEEN -What was the inspiration behind HELLAWEEN/How did it come to be?

In 2014 I had just graduated college and moved across the country for a storyboard internship at a film studio. I had a huge quarter life crisis when the environment clashed with me in every way, which left me questioning if I had made a massive career choice mistake. To help take the edge off I decided I needed to come up with some characters that were as self indulgent as possible. So I asked myself "What if there was Halloween level of a Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater game?" and "What if My Chemical Romance wrote the soundtrack to Scooby Doo?" and thus, the main cast was born. Originally I didn't have any plans with them, I was just having fun drawing them for inktober and developing their personalities. Once the internship ended and I was able to set my career back in motion with some significantly better studio atmosphere fits for me in California, I started getting more serious about developing a linear story. I spent some time pitching different versions to tv studios and shorts programs. Got some great feedback but no real bites. Fortunately, I had a post blow up that caught the attention of my publisher who reached out to see if I was interested in doing a book instead and I LEAPED at the opportunity! HELLAWEEN is very much inspired by my own teenage years, growing up in the Bay Area, being surrounded by alt and skate cultures in the 2000's. As well as exploring identity, and growing up queer but the words for "how" didn't really exist yet. Plus a deep love for spooky cartoons and stylish anime, of course.

-What kind of music pairs the story/characters?

Great news I have playlists for everyone

Gwen- Ashnikko and My Chemical Romance Miles- 100 gecs and Oingo Boingo Sloane- PUP and The Cure Hiro- Gorillaz and Maximum the Hormone Bea- AFI and The Used -Do you have any voice claims for the cast?

I’d mostly want them to be played by actual teenagers. But I have a couple in mind that I think could work—

Gwen I could see Valeria Rodriguez (Lagoona and Spectra on the current MH series) Miles maybe someone like Zeno Robinson (Hunter Owlhouse) Sloane I have no idea, but definitely a VO who’s non binary who can sound like a strong leader.

With Hiro and Bea it’s impossible to not hear Dante Basco and Grey Griffin in my head. The Jocks I would kill to cast any actor from Riverdale I could get my hands on. The rest I have no idea.

-What are the character's pronouns/orientations? Gwen- She/Her Miles- He/Him Sloane- They/Them Hiro- He/him Bea- She/Her Jarrahdale- She/Her Headless Horse Kid- He/Him Fritz- They/Them Whitney- She/Her Hazel- She/Her Kyle- He/Him Dom- He/Him Ester- She/Her In general I don't want to define their sexual orientations. I'm an aroace author and it's not something I'm interested in writing about. Ideally, I'd like to give the audience room to project themselves onto the characters. Don't get me wrong this book is QUEER and themes of identity are important, just don't expect any kissing in the canon story. Headcanons on the other hand, go nuts!!! The Jocks however, are all bi or pan. Can I get HELLAWEEN in ____ country/language?

Getting it published outside of the US is not out of the question, but at the moment I don't have any concrete info on that. I've heard folks have had good luck getting the book through their country's Amazon site or Bookshop.org Can I draw fanart/make my own playlists/write fanfiction/make a character?

oh my GOD yes ART Who are your artistic inspirations?

Jhonen Vasquez and Aaron Alexovich, FLCL, Jamie Hewlett, The Muppets, Mike Mignola, Mob Psycho 100, Rem's Devil's Candy, early Tim Burton, 2000's Neopets, Pokemon, plus online artists I’ve looked up to for years or grew up drawing with. What programs do you use?

Comics- Clipstudio Paint Sketching- Procreate Storyboarding- Storyboard Pro Writing- Final Draft/Google Docs What ink markers do you use in your sketchbook?

Copic markers, pentel pocket brush, pilot brush pens, micron fine liners Check out my episode of Creative Block!

[jak--ash]

Massage- a Serirei fic

rated e for everyone, 1,495 words.

serizawa has pain and gets a massage from the best psychic hands of the century.

not proof-read, I just had to write and publish so I didnt get embarrassed. please be nice this is my first time writing fanfiction and is very self-indulgent. enjoy!

serizawa is a trans guy, which added to his isolation before leaving his old life. with the support of his mother, he was able to start hormones and he got top surgery a about a year and a half ago-the anniversary was celebrated at Spirits and Such. Because he transitioned during that time, he finds himself in a place of stealth though he's learning to be proud.

when serizawa met reigen, he found a gap in who he was now and who he saw himself as, in many ways. he was no longer working for claw, he was starting adult education, he had a steady job and new friends, along with a cute boss. he spent so long hating the world but now he felt like he had found a place for himself to be happy in.

serizawa is. deeply touch starved. isolation and dysphoria created a perfect storm inside him- too scared to let people touch him while desperately needing someone to force their way through to him. he could never voice those feelings though, desire always getting caught up in his throat and dying out before they reached his tongue, leaving nothing but an ache in his heart.

one day at work business was slow, which was usual. Serizawa was sipping a cup of mid-afternoon tea and going over some homework when Reigen stood from his desk to face the window and rub his eyes as serizawa kept taking notes. Reigen made his way to seri's desk with a smile and they chatted about what was new in serizawa's academic life.

"well, don't let me be the reason you stop your hard work," reigen said with a pat on serizawa's shoulder, and that's when he felt it- serizawa's shoulder was like granite. reigen tentatively brought his other hand to serizawa's other shoulder and gently squeezed, causing serizawa to suck in a breath between his teeth.

"woah, serizawa, you alright?" reigen wanted to start working out the muscle but figured he should get permission first, so he just kept his hands comfortingly on his shoulders.

Serizawa let out a nervous chuckle. "aha, I get that question a lot. my shoulders are always pretty tense and have been for years. when i was recovering from top surgery i think i hurt something in my left shoulder and neck, so it flares up. sorry, i didn't mean to scare you."

"don't apologize buddy. i'm sorry you're in pain. what if I gave you a massage? we don't have any reservations so we could close down for a little bit. besides, I need to keep my exorcism techniques limber. whaddya say?" reigen wiggled his fingers, dancing across serizawa's shoulders, making serizawa laugh again, softly, and nod. a massage from someone he loved sounded nice.

The two of them worked together to get the room prepared; flipping the "open" sign to "closed", wheeled out the massage bed, dimmed the lights, and turned on the salt lamp, essential oil humidifier, and white noise machine; Reigen wanted to go all-out for someone as special as Serizawa, who was currently in their office's bathroom changing into comfortable pants and removing his shirt. Reigen placed a glass of water for Serizawa on the side table and rummaged around for the oil he'd use for the massage. when serizawa returned, reigen found himself enamored with serizawa's body and drank it all up, eyes raking over his body hair around his tummy, chest, and arms. His scars were fading at this point, raised in some areas and stretched in others- they both frequently talked about how hot they were for it, along with serizawa's mismatched-sized nipples.

"I'm going to stretch a little bit first," serizawa said in a low voice, "I might make cracking sounds, but I'm fine," with that he began holding positions that extended his neck, jaw, shoulders, and arms, popping joints and sighing, groaning a bit with a good one. He got a little lost in his actions, stretching out his back and legs a bit too. Reigen just watched, wondering what he'd done to be blessed with such a beauty in front of him, and tried not to let his mind wander when serizawa let out soft groans carried by his sighs. Serizawa rolled his shoulders and nodded, climbing onto the massage bed and lying face-down. Technically, he could've sat in a chair for the massage, but he figured he'd be able to relax more if he felt somewhat covered up by laying down.

Reigen was snapped out of his stupor and got to work. he uncapped his lavender oil that he had been warming and let serizawa smell it, which earned him a chuckle. Reigen placed some of the warm oil across serizawa's shoulders, and got to work. "try to relax for me, okay?" he whispered, answered by a soft hum from the bottom side of the massage bed.

If he was honest, serizawa didn't know what he expected. he had been to a massage therapist twice before, but she would only do quick sessions, not enough to give him true relief. of course, he frequently massaged his own shoulders, but he could only do so much. This? was otherworldly. Reigen went slow, as if he wasn't just massaging, but visually and physically mapping out inner workings of serizawa. He worked the target areas with thoughtful yet firm fingers and palms just until serizawa was about to speak up about the pain, when he'd move to the surrounding areas and make sure there was no tension there either. It was alluring ebb and flow that serizawa felt himself getting lost in, forgetting all thoughts outside the caring touches easing his years-long pain. He let out a big sigh, and felt himself enter a state he didn't know he could enter sober.

"how are you feeling?" reigen whispered. he too had been lost in his hypnotic movements, obsessed with how he could feel some of the tension leaving the other man's body. his ears had been zoned in on serizawa's breathing, when its pace picked up as he worked the sore spots and how he was almost snoring when the tension disappeared.

"reigen," serizawa breathed dreamily, "don't stop yet, it feels good. my left arm is going a little numb though." For the second time, reigen cursed his dick for having a reaction to serizawa in a moment like this.

"I'm not going anywhere, don't worry," Reigen hummed. He slowly worked his way down serizawa's left trapezius, to his bicep, forearm, and finally his wrist and palm, earning a small groan from serizawa. Right before the urge to hold serizawa's hand overtook him, reigen moved back to serizawa's shoulders, giving him more attention now that he felt softer in the area.

"I think this is as much progress as we'll be able to make today, serizawa," reigen muttered as he continued to mindlessly rub down serizawa's back, not wanting the touch to end.

"hm, you're probably right," there was a soft silence as the two men kept basking in each other's company. the atmosphere was so welcoming and full of trust, it was hard to pull themselves away from it. "do I have to get up?"

Reigen tousled the head of hair still glued to the massage table and smiled. "No, but if you do, we can go get takoyaki." that piqued Serizawa's interest like reigen knew it would, making him rise. Serizawa's face was adorable; smushed from how he was laying, and relief painted all over. he reminded reigen of young kittens who wake up disgruntled from deep naps. Serizawa moved his shoulders around a bit and hummed.

"thank you, deeply. that was amazing."

"don't worry about it. now that i know, this won't be the only time i help you. whenever you want, tell me you want another and I'll give it to you, okay?" Reigen knew Serizawa was still working on letting his needs be known, but he didn't need serizawa to know in that moment how he already fully intended to check in on serizawa periodically and ask if he could rub him down again.

"I will, thank you. I'll go get dressed for takoyaki now." Serizawa stood, sharing one more smile with Reigen before going back to the bathroom to change again.

In the following months, the two of them found a routine they both liked for massages. Serizawa did start to ask for them, which helped spur his confidence. the physical relief serizawa was getting allowed him to do more for pain management, such as yoga and exercise (mob gave him some workouts to help strengthen those muscles). Eventually he needed them less often for pain outside of flare ups, but he kept finding himself asking reigen for them because how good it felt to just be close. of course, reigen always obliged.

With each touch, serizawa felt his fears melt away, until he finally started to feel like he was beyond his past.

[imkillerbae]

Heya! Thank you for adding some fanfictions to the thread, it's so empty recently.

How about something with Sova? Could be anything of your choice.

Heyooo!!!! THanks for requesting and sorry if this took so long to make.

And you're welcome! I'm glad I could contribute to the simping.

I LOVED writing this and had so many ideas. But I settled for something fluffy ehehe self indulgent stuff. anyway, here's Sova being a simp, cool reader, God mi heart. This is my most favorite one that i've wrote probably. Enjooy!!!

Say So (Valorant Sova x Fem!Reader)

Summary:

Sova’s artificial eye is acting up, and he needs help with it. Sage knows nothing about biocomponents, and the two young engineers were too experimental, so he approaches Y/N, also someone with artificial parts, for help.

Words: 2k

CW: Slow burn, FLUFF, lots of blushing, Sova the Shy bear, lots of inner monologue from him. just lots of fluffiness.

(Please listen to Avenue Beat's cover of Say So, originally by Doja Cat, while reading this.)

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

🎶 Why don’t you say so? 🎶

Sova held this eye pain in for a while now. He didn’t like the idea of anyone tinkering with his artificial eye, but this was getting too painful.

He was reading ‘We’ by Zamyatin when it just busted on him, giving him a small jolt of electricity in the head. He felt that the thing was in some sort of disrepair, but he didn’t like asking for help with something so sensitive. Clearly, he made a mistake. Since this thing is so close to the brain, he might just deal with a lot more than a nonfunctioning eye. He sighs. He should’ve just asked for help.

Another hindrance was who to ask for help.

His choices were Sage, Raze and KJ, or Y/N.

He respected Sage for her skills in the healing arts but he couldn’t expect too much from her when it comes to eyes made of metal and wires. Plus his history with her? A can of worms he’d never want to open again. As for the two—Raze and KJ—he tried asking for their opinions and he was met with crazy ideas for modification and improvements, things he didn’t necessarily need. Plus, he’s not too fond of the idea of them fiddling with his eye for their own scientific curiosity.

That leaves Y/N.

Y/N was the obvious choice. She really was. She was skilled with biocomponents, she was easy to talk to, kind, generous, perfect. But there was a huge problem.

Sova has a crush on her. Was it called a crush? Do crushes even apply at their age? Point was, he liked her. And he was shy about it.

Y/N was an agent in the protocol who was similar to him, in a sense that she also had some robotic parts to her, namely her arm. The robotic components started from her shoulder, all the way to her fingertips. She was skilled with repairs of that nature. Along with Sage, she was also a medic for the team, both human and non-human. She was the obvious choice.

🎶 It’s been a long time since you, fell in love~ You ain’t coming out your shell, you ain’t really been yourself~ 🎶

Sova was just very shy, it was pathetic. Normally, he never really had any problem telling people what he felt. He openly says I love you all for god’s sakes. But whenever he was with her, he can pretend to play it cool but sometimes he’d zone out staring at her or just stutter on his words. His brain would just be filled with her, in scenarios he’d made in his head. Like how he would take care of her, marry her, take her to his Babushka, all that cheesy stuff. He wasn’t like this normally but his heart just beats faster than a machine gun could fire. He blushed at the thought every time he imagined spending the rest of his life with her. It didn’t help that he looked extremely serious whenever he was thinking.

He sighed. He needed to gain some confidence with her if he ever wanted a chance. Or at the very least, get this eye of his in proper order.

Getting to her door was easy peasy. Knocking was another deal. He stood there quietly with his fist raised, ready to knock, but no sound was emitted. Usually he rehearsed what he needed to say beforehand, but it seems like he couldn’t get his head straight this time.

It’s not that complicated to ask for repairs Sasha. Stop hesitating, he scolded himself. You’re not asking her to a date, you’re asking her to fix your eye. Stop overthinking, it’s not going to happen.

As he was about to knock, his thoughts were interrupted by Breach who was on the other side of the door as it opened. “Oh! Sova! Aye, great to see ya! But I gotta bolt! Thanks Y/N for the advice, haha!” He said immediately, waving at Y/N then at a confused Sova, although you would never be able to tell from his face. As he moved past Sova, Breach muttered “g’luck pal”, but neither Y/N or Sova heard it.

Sova stood outside the door, unblinking at Y/N who had her protection glasses on. “Hello,” she greets, gracefully placing the screwdriver on her desk. She smiles gently, her heels tapping lightly on the floor as she walked closer. The entire room was humming with electricity and the steady air from the vents, but he could hear his heartbeat clearly.

🎶 If you want it, scream it, shout it babe~ 🎶

He clears his throat, dusting his shoulders off. “It seems that I would’ve interrupted something had I knocked a little too early,” he starts, looking at the door, and then at her. He looked at her as discreetly as he could. She was in a white coat, casual clothes underneath. She adjusted the coat to her shoulders before speaking. “Not necessarily, Breach and I were just talking about his arms. He thought I’d be the best at tinkering with that.”

Concentrate Sova. Speak. Speak.

“I concur.” He replies, looking around the room, just anywhere other than her. He was sweating under his shirt, thank God he was wearing white. “So, what brings the big Russian teddy bear into my humble cave?” She teases with a laugh, pulling on his sleeve, beckoning him to walk closer to her walk table. She was professional most of the time, which he appreciated greatly, but it seems that she enjoys making him blush.

He blushes at the nickname, but he holds his breath to deafen the beating of his heart. “I-I’d like to ask for help with my eye. I can’t see anything from it right now, and it hurts.” He explains, leaning on her work table. She pauses for a moment, staring at him, then her expression changes to that of annoyance. “It’s not supposed to hurt. Since when has this been going on?”

“More or less a week. I thought of fixing it myself, which was a mistake.” He admits, ashamed, and she sighs. A hand lands on her hips and she leans on one side giving him an unsatisfied look. “Sova you don’t fiddle with your own eye, artificial or not. You know this. And for a week? This could be serious.” Her shoes tap impatiently against the floor.

Sova scratches the back of his head sheepishly then gives a meek smile. “It was foolish of me to think that it would pass. I’m sorry.” And with that, her expression softens to that of concern. She then reaches for latex gloves on the table pulling it over each hand. “Sit on the table so you’re on my eye level. I need to take a look at that before I pull it out of your eye socket.”

He looked at himself from the distant mirror. He was wearing a white shirt that fit snug enough to show his bulky shape, and dark green combat pants with lots of pockets on them. He fixed his blonde hair, combing it back. Y/N was watching as he did this, and she giggles to herself. She didn’t take him for someone who’s very concerned with his appearance.

“Alright big man. Lean in and let’s see what’s happening here,” she advices to him as she placed herself between his legs, holding a small flashlight with one hand. Sova furrows his brows but hesitantly complies. “Closer,” she says sharply, and he could feel her minty breath on his lips right now. He was looking to the side as she spread his eyelid open, his eye shaking.

“Look at me,” she whispers, too focused to care about him turning into a tomato, at the mercy of her hands. He then looks into her eyes, saying nothing but feeling everything in his chest.

When they first met, they easily got along. He was generally supportive of everyone, but he always found himself speaking positively about her more than anyone else. She was a team player like him, making use of his intel to clear areas as he watches her back. She’d saved him in the battlefield countless times, he knows he can depend on her with no fail. And his most favorite thing about her is her kindness and positivity. It was something he and the rest of the team needed.

As he thought about all of these things, Y/N repeated her question. He didn’t hear it the second time. “Huh?” He asked again, and Y/N’s eyebrows furrow, chuckling. “I asked if it hurt when I touch this,” she pressed on the side of his sclera, and he finally winces. “Slightly,” he whispered, looking away again and blinking.

🎶 Boy stop playin’ 🎶

“Why are you acting like you’re shy?” She smiles at him, tilting her head to one side, biting her lip. His breath became shallow as they stared at each other’s eyes, in comfortable silence. It felt like a moment was forever before she cleared her throat. “I’ll take that eye from you now, Sova.” She chuckles again.

Getting the eye off of him was not as painful as he would’ve thought, the numbing cream helped. Apparently static electricity damaged it. It was designed to be impervious to static electricity but alas, accidents happen. The inside of his eye looked fine minus the minor bruising, and she reassured him that seeing his eye like this didn’t bother her at all. “Sova I’ve dug out bullets from your shoulders with my fingers, don’t act like seeing your healed eye is something I’m not used to.”

As she worked, they talked about anything and everything that came to mind. How their day had been going, how was work, how was home. The conversation never seemed to end with the both of them.

“So, here’s what I’m advising. Take these anti-biotics every 6 hours, make sure you’ve eaten before though. I’m out of stock on the eyedrops but I’ll let you know when I have them again. In the meantime, stop touching it and make sure your hands are clean,” she slaps on his hand playfully, and he just huffs, the corner of his lips tugging slightly upward. “Thank you, Y/N. You are… wonderful.” He breathes out the compliment, smiling to himself.

🎶 Why you beatin’ round the bushn’~ 🎶

She returned his smile and crossed her arms. “You always say that. But thanks,” she shrugged, leaning on the wall, standing across him as he remained sitting on the table. He grits his teeth.

“I mean it. You are.”

“Yes. I know you mean it.”

“Y-you’re very wonderful. Kind, and beautiful. You smell great.”

“Uhuh? Thanks… haha.”

God what was this sudden urge to… to speak up? He didn’t know why but he needed to close this distance. It was gnawing at him. He couldn’t let this moment, this chance slip by him. He had to seize it. He internally fought the urge to chicken out and took a deep breath.

🎶 Knowin’ you want all this woman, never knock it till you try~ 🎶

He suddenly stood up and walked towards her, and she jolted upward out of instinct, one hand on her chest. He was a hunter after all, he could be intimidating. But everyone who knew him would say otherwise.

“I was wondering if you’d want to… come with me sometimes. I know a good place for coffee, we could come by after you take inventory of supplies. I think I could be of use in that department.” He asked spontaneously, his mouth stuck in a half smile as he realized what he’d said.

Y/N’s mouth was open, her eyebrow raised in shock. She was fighting the urge to laugh at his proposal. That was sudden, she thought. “W-wait, wait, are you asking me out? For coffee?” She asked, eyebrows furrowed and smile suppressed. He cleared his throat and looked around.

“Yes, I thought it would be a great idea to repay you for all of the help you’ve given me, digging out bullets from my flesh and all.” And with that, her room was filed with laughter, her laughter, a sound he’d come to love. “Yes, of course, I’ll take that offer. And maybe you’d like to show me some of the photographs you’ve taken of Russia? I’d love to see them.” She giggled, holding on his arm and squeezing gently.

His eyes widened. He was elated that she said yes that he almost didn’t hear her request. “When we both have free time, I’d like to take you there myself. My babushka makes great pastries.” He chuckles, his cheeks dusted with pink. Her hand trailed upwards from his elbow to his shoulder, then it settles on his cheek. Caressing it slightly, she then pinches it between her fingers, tugging. He winces.

“Let’s do the coffee thing first. Then we’ll talk about the second date.” She rolls her eyes teasingly. God he was on cloud 9 right now. He was confident that she’d say yes, but he was overthinking things. He should’ve just done this way earlier. “I’ve been meaning to ask you out for a long time now…” he admits, scratching his cheek with his finger. She then chuckles back.

“I’d let you had I known it. Why don’t you say so?”

[thatdesklamp]

'Intrinsic Warmth': Collector's Edition

Here is a masterpost of all 'Intrinsic Warmth'-related content: a small portion is stuff that I've written, probably in response to a question/ask, but the majority is content that I... haven't actually produced! This is so so self-indulgent because I love everything here like a firstborn son. Oh my goodness. I’ll put this on the ‘other’ section of my masterlist for reference, too.

me prattling on

The Influence of 'One Day' on 'Intrinsic Warmth', an essay-that-I-didn't-mean-to-be-an-essay about how 'One Day' by David Nicholls impacted IW (in more ways than just the shamelessly-stolen concept, lol)

music

'Intrinsic Warmth': The Musical, a compilation of all the songs people have related to 'Intrinsic Warmth' in my comments (I've added the full list below with extra comments + context for each song)

'intrinsic': The Fic Playlist, an actual IW playlist (!!!) made by ao3 user redromeow

writing

'Sunday September 7th, 2014', a true gem of a fanfiction of my own fanfiction (ohmygod); Satoru's perspective of the beginning of IW's Chapter 19, written by ao3 user late_night_secrets

'Intrinsic Warmth': The Musical: The Context and Comments = Comments you guys made when you recommended the songs :DD

Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want / The Smiths

"So, for once in my life / Let me get what I want / Lord knows, it would be the first time" -- Hebi's yearning hours

Haunted / Taylor Swift

"Stood there and watched you walk away / From everything we had / But I still mean every word I said to you / He will try to take away my pain" -- just IW in its angst era

"Come on, come on, don't leave me like this / I thought I had you figured out / Something's gone terribly wrong / You're all I wanted / Come on, come on, don't leave me like this / I thought I had you figured out / Can't breathe whenever you're gone / Can't turn back now, I'm haunted" -- Chapter 15, 2010 (Gojo + Hebi on the roof)

Don't / eAeon ft. RM

Lyrics that are very Hebi and Gojo. I particularly like: "Please, don’t leave this place / There’s no place like this elsewhere in the world, after all / Please don’t break us / Then our one heart will be divided"

look at me / george

Lyrics that are Gojo being in his feels whenever he sees Hebi (in IW's angst era specifically)

You're on Your Own Kid / Taylor Swift

"I wait patiently, he’s gonna notice me / It’s okay, we’re the best of friends" -- Chapter 14, 2009 (the first year after they graduate) Hebi is yoyok coded. Lol.

Remember the time / Michael Jackson

It fits IW v v well (it does)

Something about us / daft punk

"I need you more than anything in my life / I want you more than anything in my life / I'll miss you more than anyone in my life / I love you more than anyone in my life" -- Chapter 12, 2007 (right after Geto left). It is them.

Good enough / xdinary heroes

A song that matches the tone of their relationship

La gent normal al Mercat de Sant Antoni / Manel

I couldn't find this on Spotify! I've put it the original 'Common People' on IW:TM, but here's a link to the actual song that I got recommended; it's Hebi and Gojo.

Last Kiss / Taylor Swift

Specifically in Chapter 16, 2011 (the one with the Kiss and Breakup). Yikes.

IF I HAVE MISSED ANY SONGS Y’ALL HAVE SENT PLS TELL ME, I TRIED TO BE THOROUGH BUT I MAY HAVE MISSED SOME

[romanarose]

Gross Reality

Santiago Garcia x fem!reader

Join my tag list!

Triple Frontier Masterlist

800 Words

Summary: You are on your period and feel disgusting, Santi isn't phased.

Content Warnings: BODILY FLUIDS, all the bodily fluids. This fic is just me being self-indulgent because I'm feeling disgusting on my period today. Breif reference to butt stuff bc it's me. But mostly, if bodily fluids like puke and shit gross you out, keep going but I know this is the reality for many people who get periods.

A/N: In my head, this takes place in a lil universe of several of my Santi fics, including the one I did with Dolli, Honest Mistake, and but more importantly another Santi period fic I referenced in this fic, Santi With a Reader on Her Period.

****************

Santi Claus: Hey babe, you wanna come over today? The new Spider-verse movie is on Disney plus, we can refuel your fanfiction inspiration 👀or inspiration 👀 for other things 👀

Benny’s Hot Friend: Can’t, busy sitting on the toilet.

Santi realized, again, he needed to change his girlfriends name from what he had drunkenly put it in as months ago at Will’s engagement party.

Santi Claus: … just sitting there?

Benny’s hot friend: No, dumbass

Santi Claus: Did you get distracted watching tik tok for an hour again?

Benny’s Hot friend: NO! Im on my period and it’s day two and everything is fucking awful and I wanna die and I think I’m going to on this toilet

Santi Claus: Cramps?

Benny’s Hot Friend: Shitting, Santi. Shitting. I’ve bled through my tampons after 30 minuets and i'm sick of it and I keep needing to shit and it’s disgusting and I’m disgusting and I’m just free bleeding over the toilet and shitting when need because I can’t trust my farts ARE YOU HAPPY

Santa Claus is typing

Santi Claus is typing

Santi Claus is typing

Santi was very carefully plotting his next words.

Santi Claus: Amor, have you eaten today?

Benny’s Hot Friend: NO I HAVEN'T EATEN TODAY SANTI IF YOU MUST ASK AND I HAVEN'T HAD ANY CAFFEINE EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE.

When he didn’t respond, you assumed he’d gotten sick of your shit. It wasn’t that long ago that you happen woken up on top of him with a surprise early period, bleeding all over your new boyfriend who you hadn’t even farted around, and now, although you were more secure, you still worried you’d come across as gross and bitchy and he was over it. Your periods were horrible, the first 2-3 days at least. Dejected, you clean yourself up but only to go get more pain medicine and plot yourself back down on the toilet. 

Another round of cramps came and pretty soon you could add tears and puke to the list of fluids exiting you, ready to just get into the bathtub and cry when you felt your hair being held back and you look to your side to see Santi, eyes concerned and worried, but not disturbed.

“Do you need a hospital, mi vida?”

You shake your head. “No, tummy just hurts.”

Not deterred, Santi holds your hair and rubs your stomach as you empty into the trashcan until the pain subsided enough to try taking a pill again. Dutifully, Santi cleaned up the trash can and your face before guiding you up rinse your mouth out with mouth wash, all while muttering oft praises and encouragement. ‘There we go, let it out’ ‘Do you feel better? Bien.’ ‘Doing good, just spit it out now’

“Santi, I’m sorry, this is so gross-”

“Oh hush. This is far from the worst I’ve seen.”

“Saw worse in the military?”

“No- well, yeah, but I was thinking about the time Benny called me after getting food poisoning from Taco Bell and I had to play big brother while Will was out of town.”

“Yeah” You pant, stomach hurting. “I’ve had to deal with him sick too. He’s a bigfucking baby. Now can you please get out, I need to shit.”

Santi scoffed at that. “You think I don’t shit? I shit all day, three times before lunch-”

“Yeah, you should get that checked out”

“-I’m not phased. I’ve had my finger in your ass, I can handle what comes out of it.”

Finally, you giggle, smiling at him as he sat at the tub edge. “Okay, your funeral.” You bent over in pain again, wondering what the fuck you did to deserve this nonsesnese every month and what you did to deserve to deserve such a loving boyfriend. You wanted to marry this pain in your ass, marry him so hard. He talks to you while you take care of business whipping your face when you get the cold sweats

“Santi, I love you but you’ve gotta get outta here while I clean up.”

He chuckles, but concedes. “Okay, I brought over chinese food-” 

“Oh FUCK YEAH”

“-and coffee”

“FFFFFUUUCCKKK YEEEAAHHH”

“I’ll get it ready in the kitchen when you’re done”

He does as promised and you begin to clean up when you get a ding on your phone. You didn’t realize it was Santi’s until it was too late, and you saw it. No, he wasn’t cheating. No, he wasn’t talking shit. It was the last text you sent him and you saw what your name was on the screen.

Benny’s Hot Friend.

“Santiago Garcia!” You stand in the kitchen with his phone, fully dressed but your hair clinging to your face from sweat. “Wanna explain my contact name?”

He looks confused, then his eyes widen and he stops plating your food. Muneca, listen, I can explain-”

“BENNY’S HOT FRIEND?!” But you were smiling.

He starts to back away, hands raised in defense. “I said you were hot!”

“Did you forget my name that night?”

“Honey, I had like 8 beers and I’m a short king! I was drunk!”

Playfully, you run at Santi, threatening to bleed on him again.

***************

Anyway, shout out to my Peeps in the whorefully yours discord! we all go there and complain about our periods bc they suck. Mine arent THAT bad, I mostly had the shits and the excessive bleeding and I do just sit on the toilet sometimes but I know other people who throw up from the pain.

Your pain is real, and you deserve someone to take care of you

@fandxmslxt69 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @whatthefishh @k-ra @eyelessfaces @ivystoryweaver @steven-grants-world @campingwiththecharmings @ahookedheroespureheart @littlenosoul

[ghostofechoes]

I Need Genuine Help

Don’t worry it’s not that serious but still serious enough to me.

I’ll probably not get a response, this is my most active account online and that’s saying something.

I am going to go trigger happy with tags just to get this post out there so I apologize in advance!

Respond to this send me an ask reblog I don’t care just help me lol.

I don’t know what to do I have to many ideas and no one in my life to help me.

No it’s not mental health and no it’s not that I don’t have anyone I just don’t have anyone who will know how to help me with this.

I am overwhelmed with so many ideas so many stories I want to create in so many different mediums and my brain won’t let me choose one.

I don’t even have a hyperfixation that I can lean on right now to get going with like fanfiction/art.

So I’m stuck in a limbo bursting with creativity but no outlet.

There is another issue

I am exhausted after work and rather let my ideas whirring around in my skull things on easy mode while I watch shows that bring me up.

But that’s not creative, it’s gotten to the point that jotting down my ideas aren’t enough I need to do something.

But everyone I know will tell me to go the capitalist route and pick the one that can make you money the soonest even if it’s not what I am enjoying most at the moment.

But I can’t do it, call it undiagnosed adhd/autism or me being stubborn as fuck but I want to enjoy what I do I am incapable of starting anything if I don’t enjoy it so this is where you all come in.

Help me pick?

What is my limited range of people who can hear my voice interested in the most?

I am going to be doing all of these I am unable to keep away from all my ideas

My issue is taking the first step I would appreciate my audience/community to say what they want to see out of the choices I want to pick so at the very least I will have like one person interacting with my stuff.

So this 31 year old gayby is asking for help thank you for your time!

Love you all out there!