#turmoil x reader

[multi-fandomsfreak]

Hello, I’m new to your blog and saw some of your Xenophanes and MX content. I recently saw your new post about GB and I wanted to request something with him and Turmoil. So on the Mario’s Madness wiki it says the Turmoil and GB are friends. So I thought what if GB and Turmoil were also friends with reader. So Reader is a demonic entity that takes the form of Rosalina (From Super Mario Galaxy). Reader is mostly a chill and mature person (When they’re not murdering their victims.) but sometimes they join in on Turmoil and GB’s schemes. Reader has some of Rosalina’s powers. (Such as Flight/Float, Telekinesis, Teleportation, and Telepathy.) I can only imagine the amount of shenanigans that the three of them can come up with. That’s all I can think of right now.. ☺️

(If it’s okay can you use They/Them Pronouns for Reader please.)

Also here’s the proof:

Being Best Pals With GB And Turmoil

Hey there! Thanks for the ask!

I actually knew that the two of them were friends from looking at the wiki as well. For some reason I was slightly surprised even though it makes sense that they would but regardless I really like it. Hope you enjoy reading this. ~J/Blaze

Pronouns: They/Them

Warning: ⚠️Mentions Of Murdering + Corpses⚠️

Requested: Yes/No

Characters: GB + Turmoil

Proofread: ❌

Credits: Art by Marco Antonio on Twitter + Banner by zhsoftly on Pinterest

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- Honestly I can imagine it being a field day being friends with both GB and Turmoil. Most of it coming from GB and with Turmoil just following along because why not. I like to think that you met GB before Turmoil. You managed to meet GB while you were on your usual rampage of gaining more victims just to play with. Since your character mostly resides in comet observatory which is in space you often find yourself going to earth once in a while which is the time you earn your victims who were foolish enough to fall for your power. One of these times you happened to glance upon the monochrome plumber. Well more like he happened to glance upon you.

- You see as GB just happened to stumble upon you while you were murdering your most recent victim and decided that he was going to bother you. He didn’t have any specific reason except he thought that your powers were interesting. Besides that he just thought ‘I don’t know who they are but I’m going to be they’re friend now’ that was it. So he went up to you admittingly catching you a bit off guard and immediately started a conversation with you as if you didn’t just murdered someone.

+ “Why hello there? Haven’t seen you here before, who are you?” GB said in a sly tone yet cautious although curious to who you were he still had his guard up in case he needed to defend himself. However despite being caught off guard by him you were honestly impressed by his carefree attitude and his natural approach to you. It seems like he doesn’t fear you and that caught your interest. You managed to immediately calm yourself before giving GB a slight smile while looking down at him. “I could say the same as well. Aren’t you aware that I just murdered someone, aren’t you afraid?” You asked curiously why he isn’t running away like everyone to which he gave you a slight chuckle “I’m flattered that you think I'd be scared. Trust me I’ve seen stuff like this” He said looking up at you through his cap with a smug look on his face. You raised an eyebrow at him before speaking up “you’ve seen stuff like this? You caught my interest” You gave him a smile in return before seeing him bring out a hand and started to shake yours “Same here, you can call me GB. If you please be so kind as to tell me your name?” “I’m [Name] pleasure to meet you GB” you said, shaking his hand in return.

- Pretty much since then you two have been inseparable. Like partners in crime. If you were doing something he had to do it as well. If people saw one or the other they always prepared themselves to see the other. That's how much you two hang out with each other. You two just naturally get along despite you mostly being mature for who you were and with how GB is. Guess it’s just how it works.

- For how you met Turmoil you and GB managed to find him in the forest that he resides alongside his recently eaten victims. At first the two of you were surprised to see him. Was a little thing like him able to cause something like this? Apparently so. If you had to admit he was actually kind of cute.

+ You and GB gave each other confused looks as you saw Turmoil staring off into space like he wasn’t even acknowledging you two. Little did the two of you know he technically did acknowledge you two just in a different way, through sound and smell. But later on you two did learn that he was blind. “Are you two my enemies?” The voice that came out of Turmoil surprised the two of you. His voice was gargled like he had swallowed a bunch of razors. Out of you and GB you were the one to speak up first not knowing how your pal may instigate him. You lowered yourself to meet him at eye level before saying “I promise you, whoever you are we aren’t your enemies. Tell me, did you cause this mess?” You could see GB copying your movements lowering himself before asking “yeah did you? If you did then I’ve got to admit I’m impressed” before you know it Turmoil gave off a smile. Nothing sinister, just a genuine smile it was like he was happy to meet you two “oh that’s great, I’m glad to meet new people as long as you two aren’t enemies you won’t end up like them” ‘them’ referring to the multiple koopas, galoombas and wigglers that were scattered across the ground. You gave him a nod before asking “I’m curious what is your name, little one?” “Turmoil you can call me Turmoil” you gave him a smile although he couldn’t see it he could sense it that you were “what’s yours and the man standing next to you names?” He asked to which you told your name and GB’s name to him. It seemed like GB was pleased to see someone Turmoil.

- You thought that it was chaotic with just you and GB. Well prepare yourself because it’s going to be a lot more chaotic with Turmoil around. Although the three of you have the same motives it seems like GB and Turmoil have the same personality while you were calm and mature when you aren’t claiming lives like them but you don’t mind it. In fact you find it more fun with the two of them compared to others. Do you know that one meme where a dude is struggling to keep his children with their harness on? Well that’s basically the three of you with you occasionally being the dude and the other two being the children.

- I like to think that Turmoil kind of acts like a dog around you. I’m pretty sure that it’s canon or maybe was canon that although he still has some humanity left in him he still can go overboard. You tend to notice him following you around. Due to him being blind he often relies on echolocation and his great sense of smell to know not just you or GB but pretty much anyone especially his enemies. Although he can and does that he also prefers to stick around either you or GB just for some familiarity. But he can manage just by himself.

- Be prepared to look down at the two of them all the time. If I’m correct Rosalina has a canon height of 7ft or at least around 7ft and with you being a demonic entity you can make yourself even taller than that if you wanted to. I like to think that GB has the same height as Mario, possibly shorter but only by an inch or so but in his true form is only a bit taller than his non evil counterpart but not taller than you. Obviously Turmoil will be shorter than the both of you combined so regardless of Rosalina’s canon height or your height you’ll have to look down at him no matter what. To be honest even though you're his best pal he kind of hates the height difference between you and him. He’s often the jokester between the three of you but as soon as you tease him about his height he gets pouty. Kinda funny if you imagine it. For Turmoil he couldn’t care less. He’s pretty much used to people being taller than him. Plus I don’t think he realise how tall you are unless you tell him directly but regardless even before then he has some sort of knowledge that you were tall. Sometimes when he is bored he likes to climb on you and rest on your shoulders to which you just let him.

- Since Rosalina has her Lumas and with you being her demonic counterpart you have your version of Lumas as well just more demonic than the original. They are like your little helpers telling you things about your victims, giving you information best suited for you and warning you of anyone going after you which is rare but regardless they tell you.

- GB absolutely loves your little minions treating them like they were his pet. Gently tickling them with the tip of his fingers as they rest in his hand. Turmoil on the other hand may have accidentally almost eaten one of your Lumas before getting told off by you telling him that they belong to you and aren’t enemies (I know in canon they aren’t enemies to Mario but this isn’t the canon Mario universe). But besides that they actually get along with each other. Sometimes Turmoil likes to fly around on the bunch of them because why not.

- All and all despite the contrast in personality between the three of you, you lot are the best of friends and often get into shit with you getting all of you out of said shit that the other two manage to convince and rope you into.

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[houseofoddballs]

Fuck it. Trauma bond Ghoap with a forgotten reader because all I can write is angst. Final word count is about 3,700, enjoy! Sorry about the lackluster ending and fair warning that Soap is a bit of a dick and fairly OOC.

Tw: Emptional neglect, light nsfw, mentions of torture. (Tell me if there are any more to add!)

You had never heard of trauma bonding, not before your 6'2 masked boyfriend brought back his Scottish best friend. Ghost was never one to be shy or sheepish, but the way that he bowed his head as he told you that he had fallen in love with Soap during their capture and torture, well, it broke your heart a bit. You thought that was going to be the end of it, that he was going to choose the mowhawked muscle over you (and you couldn't really blame him after the small tidbits about the incident you had heard) but then Ghost dropped to one knee and held your hands in his own as he looked you dead in the eyes and begged you not to make him choose, because he still loved you too. And how were you supposed to turn him down?

So, that's how you ended up living with two discharged military men. At first, things were a little rocky. You and Soap were getting along and getting to know each other after all. You weren't exactly dating Soap, but the threesomes made it hard to understand what exactly you were. Polygamy? It didn't matter, though, because Ghost was the one you loved. Ghost was the man who had stolen your heart and treated it like a golden retriever treats eggs. Gently, softly, sweetly. And you had done your best to do the same.

But Soap? Soap was... different. Where Simon was quiet and calm, Soap was loud and boisterous. Where Simon was introverted and kept to himself, Soap was ambiverted (at best) and loved social media. They were like night and day in a lot of ways, and it made your head spin. Another difference? Soap was SO *clingy*.

It was ok at first. Apparently, Simon and Soap had been captured for nearly a week and took turns watching each other get tortured. In the dead of night, when they got any reprieve, they spent that time whispering sweet words to each other just to keep them level-headed and alive. Trauma bonding. Ghost and Soap were bound to be connected at the hip for at least a bit. Right?

Well, 'just a bit' turned into months. Inseparable. You couldn't get five seconds alone with your boyfriend unless Soap was in the bathroom because he refused to do anything without Ghost.

That would have been OK if you didn't see how much it was wearing on your sweet Simon. Any time you got a minute alone together, he would gently hold your face and apologize to you. Murmur to you with his brows knit up about how exhausting Soap could be and how soothing your quiet company was.

He was burnt-out. No other way to put it. In the fleeting moments you got where you could hold Ghost and do things with him, he was simply exhausted and worn-out from Johnny clinging so tightly to him and making him a part of everything in his life. Simon was definitely an introvert, and hardly ever got time to recharge those batteries on touch and the like.

So what did you do? You gave him space. The time you got to spend alone was spent at a distance, small conversations about the things that interested Ghost, since Soap hardly ever talked about those. You had asked why Johnny was still here if he was really making Ghost so miserable, and all he had told you was that he couldn't leave Johnny, couldn't hurt him. So, you relented and just tried to be supportive. You could be happy like this.

Except you weren't. One can only live on table scraps for so long, but you were willing to try for Ghost, and even for Soap. So when Johnny told Simon that it was irritating how little alone time the two of them got because you were always hanging around and asked him to have a talk with you about it, what did he do? Well, he didn't defend you, that's for sure.

Groceries. How pathetic. Soap finally let you and Ghost get *Groceries* together, just the two of you, and your heart utterly soared. Just you and Simon, for possibly an hour. How long had it been since you could do this? How long had it been since you had even hugged or been hugged by your boyfriend? You had no idea.

But all of that went cold as you finished loading your haul into the trunk. Simon turned to you, dark eyes peeking out from behind his Skull balaclava that he only took off at home. He looked so tired, so exhausted.

"Listen, love... Johnny-..." You froze. Of course, you should have known better. No way Soap would let you and Ghost go somewhere together alone while he just sat at home scrolling through short clips on his phone. Of course, there was a condition, a caviot. But this was Simon, your Ghost, so you heard him out. "Johnny was wondering if you could... give us a bit more space. He feels like he doesn't get enough alone time with me. I'm sorry, love, I promise that I'll make it up to you."

If your heart hadn't sunk into your stomach, you would have had to resist the urge to laugh. Soap wasn't getting enough time with Ghost? The same Soap who had been draining every ounce of willpower out of Ghost until your strong-willed Simon was just complacent? The same Soap who drug Simon wherever he went and whined when you wanted to come with? The same Soap who had kicked you out of your shared room for reasons that you still don't know how he convinced Simon? And yet, he didn't get enough alone time with Simon.

You wanted to scream, to cry, to do or say anything to fight back. But one more look into Simon's weary, amber eyes shut down all of your complaints. He was slowly being worn down, and you didn't know what you could do to help. So, you just nodded.

The entire drive back was silent. At some point, you had reached over and gently held Simon's hand on the center console to let him know that you weren't mad, and he had let you. Your first physical contact with Simon in ages. You helped carry in and put away the groceries, acutely aware of Soaps eyes boring into and watching you for your next move, and then you simply retreated to your room. Alone.

That night, you had to listen as the two made love. Headboard banging against the wall, soft moans permeating through your headphones and into your ears, vibrations buzzing and echoing through the halls. You cred that night, just like so many other nights.

You were being forgotten, forced into invisibility in your own house.

And that's how so many months passed by. With you hiding away in your room and only coming out to eat or eagerly take Johnny's table scraps of Ghost's time. But Ghost hardly ever got any time to himself, so, sometimes you would just let him be and relax. Maybe it was simply time for you to move on.

That's when the texts came. Any time Johnny was gracious enough to give Ghost a moment of peace and you either didn't know or just let him relax, he would text you. "Johnny's still at work." "I miss you, love." "I'm on the couch." "Come see me?"

He was making you feel loved, needed even. Even though most of that time spent was him complaining about Soap, every time he would look at you with those soft brown heart melting eyes and thank you for being so understanding and supportive. He would tell you that he loved you so much and that you didn't know how much having you there kept him sane. And how could you leave him like that?

You wished that you had made Simon choose. Nearly five years of this neglect. Simon was so physically overstimulated by Johnny's constant need to be touching him, that something as small as resting your hand on his thigh made him irritable. Johnny would openly complain about you right in front of you, and Ghost would just sigh and let Johnny think he was having his way because it was better than fighting and dealing with Johnny being bitter and whiny.

It was fucking torture. Do you know what that's like? To be slowly isolated and forgotten in your own household? Yes, you do. Because Johnny has made sure of that. Are you going out too much? Johnny is complaining. Are you working too much? Johnny is complaining. You watch too many shows with them? Johnny is complaining. It was getting to the point where you only left your room to eat and when Simon texted you, period. Soap had insisted that with him and Ghost working civilian jobs, you should stay home to keep things tidy and make life a little easier. All it had taken was for Ghost to agree that that would make things easier for you to relent since your job wasn't the best anyway. But the pure isolation that you felt from only interacting with the two of them unless Johnny was gracious enough to let you come with them on an errand?

It was debilitating.

Finally, everything came to a head. "Hey Johnny, would you go to the corner store and pick up some soda?" "Would you come with?" "I would have bloody come with three hours ago right after work. Now I'm in my fuckin' pajamas. Not goin' anywhere like this." "Well, you know I dinnae like going right after work, Simon."

This was your opportunity, your chance. Soap was nose deep in some book he was reading and only half paying attention while you sat next to Simon on the couch, his feet propped up on your lap.

"I would go with you?" Simon's eyes flicked to you, a small smile pulling at his lips. "Yeah, love, that would be great. Mind makin' a list for me so I know what all we need to pick up?" A task. You loved when Simon gave you things to do, because whith those things to do was always some form of praise or appreciation upon completion. You ate it up whole and completely. "Of course, Si. I'll be ready by five tomorrow." "It's a date then, love."

And so, that's how you flitted around the house all day, straightening up and making a list of what you needed, absolutely giddy and buzzing wirh hopeless excitement. Soap got home early that day, which wasn't much of a shock, just made you retreat into your room early. Nothing new. Simon would text you when he was ready, right?

You sat by your phone eagerly with baited breath. 5:30. You guessed that work had kept Simon late again. It wasn't that big of a deal. But you sent him a text just to let him know that you hadn't forgotten about him. "I'm ready whenever you get off work, no rush. I love you."

5:30 turned to 6:00 and that's when you finally got the message. "I'm here." Short, sweet, to the point. That was Simon for you. You practically threw yourself off of your bed and ran to the garage with a large grin on your face. Even if it was as simple as groceries, you cherished every moment of time you got with Simon as if it were spending time with God himself. Because, in a way, Simon was your God. You looked up to him, depended on him, revered him, practically worshipped the ground he walked on; because he deserved it in your eyes.

Your grin fell at the sight before you. "Oh, hey Bonnie." Soap was hopping out of the passenger seat of Ghost's Jeep, going around to the trunk and popping it to pull out several grocery bags. Hurt, confusion, and betrayal all pooled together in your gut as you watched him take the bags inside all in one go. But, what about your list? Your phone felt heavier in your pocket as your stomach churned at the realization that to bring up the completion of the task would be pointless now.

"Hop in." Ghosts voice shook you from your haze, and you slowly took Soap's empty seat beside Ghost. Why? The question swam through your head in several versions and variations, like fish in a barrel, trying desperately to find the freedom to burst forth from your lips. But, you just couldn't ask, too afraid of the answer.

"Where do you want to go?" The question almost caught you off-guard. Where did you want to go? Did he mean Groceries? Were there some left? Or did he mean just in general? Was he offering to do something with you? "I um, I don't know." You admitted, eyes flicking between Simon and the road.

"...'M sorry love." He admitted with a sigh, shoulders sagging with the weight of the world placed upon them. "There was a bit of a mix-up, ya see? I got home and texted Johnny to ask if he would ask if you were coming-" Of course, the plan had been to bring Soap all along. That hurt a bit. "- and he told me 'no' so I thought he meant that you didn't want to come."

"I didn't get your message until we were already in the bloody market, and when I asked Johnny about it, he told me that he had told me that he didn't ask you. I felt so plum bad because I knew that you wanted to come with. 'M so sorry, love."

You were so close to losing it. Hot tears stung at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall when Simon was trying so hard, going so far as to take you for an extra drive just to make sure you had some time with him and felt loved.

"I already told Johnny, so he knows that I'm spending some time with you. Tried to throw a fit, but I shut him down." Simon sighed and ran a hand down his mask as he looked over at you while stopped at a red light. "It's ok, Simon, really. I'm just happy to spend this time together with you. That's all I can ask for. Even though you're tired after work and going for groceries, you're still taking the time to make it up to me even though it wasn't your fault. I really appreciate it."

Simon didn't pull away as you clasped his hand in your own, softly running your fingers over the back of his knuckles. He looked so grateful and relieved, as if so much pressure had just been released. He had been so worried about how you were going to take it, about if this small bit of time would be enough.

"Thank you, love. You have no idea how much I appreciate you and how-" Simon was cut off by a loud click and a light being turned on on his dashboard. "Bloody hell, check engine? I'm so sorry. It doesn't seem too big a deal, but I should probably check it out before it becomes an issue. Is that OK, love?"

What were you supposed to say? 'No!' 'For the first time in months, I get some time alone with you, and it's just 20 minutes in a car!?' 'I miss you' 'please don't!' You couldn't. Simon was tired enough as it was with Soap clinging to him. You simply felt dejected as you tried to smile and reassure him that it was ok and that you enjoyed your time together.

When you got home, Simon muttered about checking the engine tomorrow as he herded you inside, plopping down on the couch next to Soap. The sight made your heart hurt even more. You were ready to just head to your cold, lonely room to cry out your frustration when Simon piped up. "Hey, love, mind cooking up some chips for me? I'm bloody starving, and they sound wonderful."

How could you say no? Sitting in your kitchen waiting for the French fries to bake, you couldn't do it anymore. You sobbed quietly into your open palm as you clasped your hand over your mouth to quiet any noises. What were you supposed to do? Staying was only wearing you down and tearing you apart. You felt more like the ghost in this household, forgotten and lost. You were losing yourself, touch starved beyond belief and to the point of isolation where you were starting to sleep more than you were awake because it made the pain go away for a bit.

But leaving would be just as hard. You hadn't been employed for so long because the boys took care of you, which wasn't going to look good on a resume, and you had nowhere to go. But worst of all?

Worst of all was how you knew your leaving would affect Simon. Johnny was consuming all of him and leaving mere shreds, and the only time that Ghost got to indulge in his own interests was with you. But he just couldn’t bring himself to leave Johnny. You were his support system, his pillar.

You knew this, and yet, it still felt so unfair. Simon was everything to you. When you had been at your worst, he had held you and told you that you were beautiful. When he had been deployed for months at a time, you always texted him and told him how much you loved and missed him. He gave all of himself that he had to give to you before Soap came and statched that all away.

And you couldn't blame Simon for how badly the trauma had messed him up! He still had nightmares about that week. Being tortured and having to watch Soap get tortured as well. Sometimes, you would wake up in the middle of the night to one of them screaming and waking up on a picnic only for the other to softly murmur and reassure them that they were ok and alive. You couldn't do that, not for Simon, not like Soap could.

A sharp 'ding' cut off your thoughts as the oven beeped, signaling the end of the potato strings furnace treatment. You pulled them out of the oven and put them on a plate, heading to the bathroom to clean yourself up. The time for your little mental breakdown was up. Now you had to go take the fries to Simon like you weren't just bawling, like you were perfectly fine and happy, like you didn't want to scream and shout and beg for things to be different, to change. But that would be selfish of you to do, and Simon couldn't deal with you and Soap both being selfish.

God, you looked like shit. Bags were heavy under your puffy eyes, your nose was red and runny, your face all splochy from your crying, tear streaks running down your cheeks. This wouldn't do. You sighed as you splashed some cold water on your face and took a deep breath, trying desperately to distance yourself and disassociate from these awful feelings.

Once you were sure you looked fine once more, you towled your face off and grabbed the plate, plastering on your 'I'm fine' smile as you took the french fries to Ghost. The way he smiled so softly and gently at you made it all worth it, made you temporarily forget all of that pain. "Thank you, love. You're welcome to stay?"

"No, thank you, I think I'm going to try and catch up in some games. Thank you, though." Ghost didn't press any, didn't ask again. You wished he would ask again, would even try just a bit to make you feel like he loved you a shred as much as you revered him. But you had to remind yourself that you were getting greedy. He had just taken you for a car ride just the two of you, he had just stood up to Soap so you two could have a bit of time alone, he had just done exactly what you were asking him for. And yet you still wanted more.

The realization that you felt terrible for wanting the bare minimum amount of attention and affection for a relationship was just another reminder of how unhealthy this was for you.

"I love you." Simon said, his eyes so soft and sweet. "I love you too." You had to hold back tears as your smile grew a little bit, and you turned. You couldn't even wait until you made it back to your room to start crying. It wasn't fair. You did everything right, did everything Simon asked, and asked nothing in return, you loved him unconditionally with all of your heart and gave all of yourself to him; meanwhile Soap didn't even care enough to give Simon personal space when they were together because it made HIM feel better. And yet, Soap was the one who got all of Simon's time and love simply because it was easier for Simon to cave to his whims than put up with his bitching. You couldn't handle it anymore! Couldn't take it!

But what were you supposed to do? What could you do? Nothing. The only thing you could do was throw a fit, and that would just wear Simon even thinner and wouldn't accomplish anything because things would be the same again within a month.

And so, you did the only thing you could do. You fell asleep crying again, clutching your pillow to your chest, wishing desperately that Simon would finally come to his senses and put you first for once. But you didn't fool yourself into believing it.

Only shooting stars Grant wishes, and all of yours had been shot down.

[lorelune]

hell is a hound without a chain

|| blade x gn!reader || M || yandere wolf hybrid blade || wc: 3.8k  || ao3 ||

A bite is quite a burden.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: folds hands man ... hybrid blade is sure something. i chewed on this au for a minute because truly hybrid blade is such a flavor. a toothy one. enjoy loves!!

CW: dark content, hybrid AU, wolf hybrid blade, yandere blade, reader is not a hybrid, biting, claiming bites, caretaking, victim blaming, injured reader, references to reader drinking casually

You ache.

Your neck hurts.

It’s hurt for the past few days, and you imagine it will continue to hurt for the next several weeks, considering that Blade is not allowing you to heal in any meaningful capacity.

You sit on the bathroom counter, a bit teary-eyed, with Blade standing between your legs. A scented candle sputters on a small shift. Blade’s tail swishes. Annoyed. Ears twitching and jaw locked. There’s a first aid kit open beside you and it's running low on gauze and antibiotic ointment.

You sniffle as Blade pats at the wound on your neck. He’s being… gentle. For him anyway. The contact and disinfectant still sting and you hiss at the sensation and jerk away.  

Blade stills.  

"I’ll bind you again." His hand cups your jaw— too tightly. "Would you like to force my hand?"

"No, n-not really.” You sound pathetic. You want to cry. You probably will. "It hurts. I'm sorry."

Blade sighs but doesn't press you. He trades the disinfectant for a slather of ointment and prepares a gauze pad. The piece he cuts is larger than normal. It’s the size of his palm. You suppress the urge to feel for the wound on your neck and check its size and depth. You haven't gotten a good look at it yet. Judging by the red stain soaking down the front of your shirt, it’s a worse wound than normal. 

Blade has made it a routine to freshen the bite mark on your neck at least once a week. He always sinks his teeth into the same spot while other, less severe marks decorate your throat and shoulders (and chest and stomach and thighs, but those are easier to dismiss.) The mark he worries the most, the one that you know he associates with some animalistic claim, is on your side, broken flesh splitting where your neck meets your shoulder.

...

You first... 'earned' it after leaving Blade to his own devices for a weekend. 

It was just a beach trip with a few friends. Kafka encouraged it— you needed to stretch your legs. ‘Bladie’ as she so affectionately referred to your hybrid, was more than capable of taking care of himself. He was doing so long before you came into the picture and formally offered your home up to him. Besides, he’d had several months to settle into your home, hadn’t he? Kafka goaded you into accepting a “well-deserved” break. Himeko seemed... hesitant about the arrangement at the time. She warned that hybrids can get a bit prickly about being left alone, even if they are independent. 

("They tend to hold grudges.")

The trip was a mistake. 

It had been a lovely weekend. Kafka had thrown her card down for a beachside cabana at a resort. Drinking sweet fruity cocktails, lounging in the sun, and generally relaxing. It was... nice to be out and not worried about Blade. He knew where you were. He had a phone with an internet connection that he knew he could use, and he didn't bother to contact you. You figured he was enjoying the break from his typical vigilance. Perhaps he was enjoying not having an owner to stalk around and guard.

You were wrong. Wildly.

The moment you arrived home (you hadn't even set your bags down—), Blade was on you. Pressed into your own door, he growled and spat that you smelled “wrong”. You asked him what he meant— you nervously joked you could take a quick shower and make dinner. Whatever he wanted. Your voice had trembled, and your breath had started coming too quickly. 

His gaze pierced you a moment later, a growl ripping from his mouth, lips curling back. 

Nothing could have prepared you for the way he grabbed your jaw, jerked your head to the side, and buried his teeth in your neck. He covered your mouth with his palm when you screamed. Muffled any shout or cry for help. You knew Blade was strong, but you hadn't ever realized how strong. You were immobilized between him and his teeth and the door.

By the time he withdrew and lapped at the wound he'd made, you were sobbing, scrambling to get away, run, shut yourself in your room, and try to figure out how the fuck to handle this situation—   but Blade hadn't let you far. He cleaned the wound first with his tongue, then a damp rag, then dressed it properly as has become routine. He carried you to bed and curled around you. Arms locked around your waist, legs tangled. It would’ve been sweet if he was your lover.

(But, he is not. He is a wolf you foolishly allowed into your home.)

The reality of your situation began to sink in then. Slowly. Bit by bit. 

Blade freshens the bite about once a week, give or take. If he's feeling antsy, it's less. If you're more compliant, more tethered to home, or dare to take him in public with you, he leaves it alone. Allows it to almost heal before digging his canines into the rapidly thickening layers of scar tissue.

It's awful of him, but you don’t think he'll ever stop now that he's intent on marking you. You had been stupid to think of yourself as anything other than a claim to him, hadn't you?

A few tears drip down your cheeks as Blade secures the dressings. He dabs them away with the side of his finger, careful not to scratch you with his blackened claws. He brackets you in on your sides. He tips his forehead against yours and deflates.

"Bed," he says. It's something akin to a request. He'll take you there, anyway, but being given a warning feels like a luxury.

"Okay." Your voice is quiet. Scratchy from shrieking against his palm less than an hour before.

Blade scoops you up and ferries you to bed. He pauses to throw an extra blanket onto his... nest (even if it's on your bed). It’s a quilt he favors, worn through but soft. His preference for it would be endearing under different circumstances. 

He runs a hand through your hair, trailing his touch down to the wet collar of your shirt, “You need to change. You’re dirty.”

As is routine, he pulls your shirt off as you squirm. You lightly shove at his chest, if only to make yourself feel better. Resist a little for your own pride, despite knowing it’s useless. Your modesty doesn’t matter to Blade (not if it’s just him and you in the room. He’s permitted himself to your skin in the most non-traditional ways.) Regardless, you aren’t bare for long. He replaces your shirt with his own. It’s warm and too big. His frame is almost inhuman, and it gapes around your shoulders.

Blade cajoles you to the headboard and lets you fuss a bit along the way. He sits behind 

you and settles you between his thighs. The knit blanket is pulled over your lap and his arms wind around your waist, unyielding. Locking you there. Blade tucks his face into your neck on the... less injured side. He scents you there with a half-there growl. 

You rub at your puffy eyes. Your chest hurts.

"You need to rest." Blade tells you. He tells you this often. He's more in tune with your physical state than you are these days, so you appreciate the reminders. You feel half out of your body. 

"... Oh yeah?" you laugh, voice wobbly. "I should, huh? Don't I need to make dinner?"

"Unnecessary." Blade replies. He squeezes you. "You need to rest, first. I will prepare a meal."

"... Sure." Blade doesn’t do particularly well in the kitchen. "I can rest, then cook, okay? If you can wait that long? Otherwise, I can cook then rest later too—"

Then Blade really growls. It’s the kind that you feel between your ribs and makes you go stiff. His mouth opens, too hot against the fragile skin near your neck, and the points of his canines rest. Idle. You start to shake. 

"You will rest." Blade tells you. "I... went too harshly on you. You are weak. You need to rest. I will cook so you do not need to. I cannot guarantee that it will be any good, but you should not be on your feet."

You laugh. something rotten curls in your belly.

There’s care in the way that Blade speaks about you. He rarely speaks in such a forward way— it’s hard for him. You can hear how he struggles between certain words. How the sentences are harder for him to construct. The sentiment of care is not easy for him. This makes sense— as he is a wolf that has you in his jaws. There is not care in slaughter. An animal’s claim is just that. A claim. Baseless. Primal. A twitch that follows an instinct, maybe. 

Hearing him say things that could be kind makes you want to vomit.

You dig your nails into Blade's forearms. His hold constricts.

"Why would you care?" You snap. "Don't act like you give a shit about my wellbeing, as if you didn't just take a fucking chunk out of me."

It's the wrong thing to say. You know this. It’s better to not anger him. But it's hard to care when you’re this tired and worn down. Self-preservation is an afterthought. You feel spiteful, terrified tears burn your eyes. You wait for a wolf’s violence as Blade tenses and goes still behind you.

Preparing for the kill, you presume.

Instead, however, his mouth closes, and soft lips press into your throat. No teeth. No apparent ire. No mouthy attitude. And he stays quiet. Somehow drags you closer into the solid, warm line of his front. He is solid, maybe a little softer than when he first moved in with you. 

"My mark on you is protection, even if you do not realize it." Blade tells you. You figured as much, but it doesn't justify it. "Anyone who smells or sees you knows that you are claimed."

"Yeah, so everyone knows I've got some bully of a wolf at home, ready to tear my throat out?"

(You've read his file, you know he's capable of it.)

"I wouldn't." Blade's voice grates, low and angry. “I... I wouldn't. Not to you."

"If you say so."

"I mean it." He punctuates it with a kiss. He's half-hard against your lower back and you swallow. "I... I do not know how else to convey to you that you are cared for. That you are mine."

(You’re not sure you believe him. There are other, crueler ways he could. On your more anxiety-ridden nights, you’re grateful that Blade’s touch hasn’t strayed there. Never. He hasn’t ever touched you like that, with that part of him. Anything below your neckline is all teeth and tongue. Violence is his language of physicality, you've found. Pleasure he seems foreign to.)

"I'm yours?" You dig your nails in and his tail slaps the bed. good. You'll bear the consequences later. Best to get it all out of your system. "When did I agree to this?"

Blade thinks, for a moment. You doubt he'll be able to find when you did agree because you haven't.

"You allowed me into your home. Bed. I wear a collar with your name on it when I must leave this place." Blade tells you. His hand cups your chin, turning your face toward his, and his nails tease over your cheeks. "What did you think all of that meant?"

Your stomach drops. 

"... A kindness?"

“An offering." He corrects. He noses into your jaw, scenting again. His touch drifts under your soft shirt, resting over your tummy. "One that was accepted."

"Oh."

It hits you. All of it. Awareness is like being dunked in ice water, suffocating on it, and throwing it back up. Kafka had once warned you that hybrids think so differently from humans. You figured the differences would be... obvious. Easy to sort through.

You were, once again, so wrong.

You want to tell Blade that that's not what you meant. That you opened your home and heart because he was a beaten down stray who clearly needed a home— one where he was the only one of his kind. Where he had the attention he needed to thrive, and the space to do so too. That you signed your name on the necessary paperwork not as a proposition but as a gesture of care. 

In the same moment, you realize that even if you do tell all of this to Blade, it wouldn’t matter. This misunderstanding has been steeping for months beyond your control. You feel stupid. Foolish. So naive it hurts. There’s a bite mark dug into the flesh of your neck that will never really scar. If Blade can help it, it will never fully heal. You’ll bear it bloody... forever. 

“You smell wrong.” Blade huffs against your neck. He squeezes over your hips, rubbing little circles into the soft flesh.

Can he smell when you’re upset?

Probably. Blade always got particularly cagey when you would return home from the rare trip into the office. You were always exhausted, on edge, and overstimulated from a full day of endless everything. Blade would follow you around on those days, never letting you out of his sight. He’d wrap you up in blankets from his bed. Shove you in his clothes. Hand-fed you in his lap despite the fact his hands were too big and arthritic. 

Was that care? 

(So, so clearly.)

You don't realize you're on the verge of tears until you open your mouth to speak and nothing comes out but a wounded, awful cry. Like you're the pained animal and not Blade. 

"Hush." Blade tells you. He smooths your shirt— his shirt over your front, over your chest in a way that makes your breath hitch and squirm uncomfortably. He’s burning hot against your back. "You are safe. You can rest now."

Is that care?

Tears slip from the corners of your eyes. They’re angry, tired, and sad all at once. You try to suck them down the best you can.

Blade pulls you at you, sinking you into the sheets. He spoons you, flush against your back, hot and soft in all the ways that matter. You bury your face into your pillow when he runs a soothing, clawed hand up and down the back of your neck.

For a moment, you consider your options. It’s immediately overwhelming. Defeating. 

You know that there is nothing you can do about your position. You could rear up, slap Blade, and scramble for the door. There are organizations. Sections of government that handle situations like this. You might be able to get to your phone. At least text someone that things have gotten out of hand.

You also know that Blade would not allow this. He'd not allow you out of bed, let alone this room. He'd have you pinned, belly to the bed with a hand dug into your hair to brace you there. He'd let you squirm and kick and scream. He'd bruise you in return— leave his own marks. another set of molted hickeys across your shoulders.

He'd probably push at the freshly bloodied claim on your neck too. Never mind that he just patched you up. 

It's hopeless, and the knowledge hits you so hard that you feel winded. You scramble against the bed to grab onto the sheets, and you cry. It’s in your chest. You sob and cry so hard it hurts. The sounds you are making are ugly and broken. The feeling between your eyes is burgeoning into an acidic headache, and your mouth is somehow dry even as you get spit on the soft sheets. 

Despair is not beautiful. It’s toxic and infecting. 

Despite this, Blade does not move away. He is steadfast, and curls overtop of you. He hushes you with his simple, curt words and a low rumble in his chest that's hard to identify. It soothes something in your hindbrain you wish you could kill. His lips press into your hair. His touch is solid, bruising, but not maiming

Violence... shouldn't be comforting.

And yet— yet it is. When the tears come slower, and morph into hiccups as you desperately try and catch your breath, Blade... helps, you realize. His mane of hair spills over your face, like a curtain to darken the room. His hand slips to your front, under your shirt once more so it's his palm against the clammy skin of your chest.

"Breathe." He tells you. It's a command. "Like this."

His hand strokes up and down, in time with his own slow, deep breaths. There's the terrifying edge of his claws, blackened and sharpened, but they never cut in enough to gore. Only enough to remind you that they’re sharp— to maim, to protect— (what’s the difference to a wolf like him?) You're drained, and you can only follow his lead, sucking in breaths that become more steady with each one.

There's nothing left in you by the time you settle. You're wrung out, emptied and so tired. It's clarifying, maybe. As Blade pets you into sleep, you shakily bring a hand to press over the covered, weeping wound in your neck. A full moon of teeth marks. Even the light touch aches.

Blade nips at your hand, nosing it away. 

(How terrible, really. To be cared for by a beast who believes love and violence are one in the same. How terribly idiotic of you to not notice. How... cruel of Kafka for never connecting the dots for you. You’re sure she must’ve taken note, at some point, of Blade’s claim on you and its implications. She was once in your position, but knowing her own disposition, Blade never took her like he’s taken you.)

(Himeko probably noticed as well. But, she’s the type to only step in if she thinks she can make a difference. She has her own self-preservation in mind, and you can respect that. Mostly. Perhaps she saw Blade’s claim taking shape and realized that a Wolf’s bite is not something she had the claws to interfere with. She has her own hybrids to take care of. You ignored her words of caution in the beginning when she first offered them.)

(It’s hard to fault her.)

(And how can you fault Blade for his instincts? Perhaps you were too kind. You lacked caution— self-preservation— whatever you wish to call it. You put your own soft throat in the line of Blade’s bite. In retrospect, it’s frighteningly clear. It guts you. Over and over. The only thing that tethers you is Blade’s touch and breath against your neck. A reminder.)

(A reminder that you are his to tug and push and pull as he pleases. That he’ll leave bite marks where he desires, never to gore, but to show that you’re... protected.)

Isn’t there something alluring about that? 

It makes you shake all over again. It makes you muffle a fresh sob into your pillow and you beat your fists against the mattress. Blade lets out a growly word or two you can’t make out as he pins your wrists to the mattress.

It makes sense, now, why Blade always wanted to accompany you out on errands, if only to growl and bark at anyone who looked at you too long. You had thought he was just poorly socialized (partially true) — but he was snapping at strangers to make sure no one even thought of looking at you for too long. Let alone touch. Pursue. 

You have a hazy memory of a night at the cocktail bar. Kafka had asked you to come alone— ‘girls night’ again. Blade had given you the cold shoulder when you told him sheepishly that you’d be leaving him at home. Whatever alcohol dulls the memory, but you can recall Blade had thrown you over his shoulder the moment you had come home. You swayed and slurred your words and Blade looked ready to gut you. He threw you in bed, tore off the pretty dress that he had said was “far too revealing” and shoved you into one of his sleepshirts without listening to a single one of your protests. Your fighting and punching didn’t deter him— it didn’t make him any more aggravated. 

(“You’re stupid.” Blade had told you, roughly wiping a soft cloth over your face. Makeup smears on the fabric. “Why are you out in the dark? How did you get home?”

“... You’re silly. I took a cab.” You tell him with a frown. You bat at his ears and Blade grabs your arms with such force you’re scared they’ll break. 

“You’re reckless.” Blade had growled in your ear. “Do you know what you invite when you’re in this state?” 

“... A hangover?” 

Blade had stared at you, fuming. The next moment, his teeth were embedded in your neck and a pillow was shoved over your face as you wailed. Your vision swam as he pulled away, lips and chin smeared red. 

Blood stains his teeth as he drags you up by the collar, and spits— “Do you know how many men would eat you alive like this?”)

You realize now that there was an implicit— “And I’m not there to keep it from happening.”

There’s comfort in it. You feel disgusting, but the roiling behind your eyes is cut by how warm Blade is behind you. That he’s good at patching the wound on your neck, and attentive when you let him be. 

If you really can't escape Blade and your mutual incidental claim... maybe it could be okay. There’s some assurance that Blade will not gore you, only tenderly hurt for the sake of some instinct you will never feel, but are coming to understand. He is honest too. His words are solid. He is too straightforward to mince his words. They are never a riddle. There's safety in being underneath him as you are now. 

There's safety in him. You almost cry again. He'll hurt you but never rend apart into pulp as you know he could. He'll sink his teeth in but as a claim. His slaughter is accompanied by care— for you. Slaughter inflicted on others is instinctual violence born from different baser needs. It hits you, like a blow to the chest, that whatever brutality he could inflict on you, is only a fraction of what he would inflict for you.

"Oh," you say, so softly, as you realize. You feel foolish all over again. 

Blade makes a contented sound against your nape. Mouthing at you. His palm is settled at the base of your throat. "Your kind can be so slow. Now rest."

You laugh, blurting it out into your buttery sheets. There are specks of blood dotting the cream fabric, new and old. Fresh and faded. 

You'll have to restock your first-aid kit.

[meowkn]

Geto headcanons pls

Geto x reader headcannons!

Note: sorry for those who read my newest fic and it left you a little emotional… I hope this can make up for it. Also super sorry these are so short I’m literally so busy.

─ִ━━ ꯭ ───ׂ─ִ─ ͜͡✿͜͡ ─ִ──ׂ── ꯭ ━━ִ─

- He’s not overly romantic and you definitely had to confess first, and when you did he laughed at you until you told him you were serious.

- Eye contact all the time, eye contact for no reason. This man never takes his eyes off of you.

- He’s never “angry” per say, or when he is he just keeps his calm composure and you can’t even tell he’s angry. He’s extremely passive aggressive and condescending and will make you feel dumb during an argument.

- He absolutely loves to have his hair played with, he’ll let you style it and do whatever you want to it as long as he can feel your fingers on his scalp.

- Forehead kisses.

- Tells you to “watch your language” whenever you curse, and he’ll mean it too. He reprimands you every time the smallest curse word slips out of your mouth.

- “Do you want me to kiss that attitude out of you?”

- Loves holding your face and making you look at him. He loves having an excuse to have your eyes on him, and he gets pouty when you look away.

- Reserves Sundays just for you so the two of you can sit around in each others company, just talking about life or not talking about anything at all while he strokes your back. He’ll make you breakfast and insist you stay in bed with him but you’ll sometimes move to cuddle on the couch instead while you read or watch a movie.

- He’s such a neat freak, and he’ll know if something is out of place and he’ll be passive aggressive about it for a month.

- Will only buy your favorite flower, even if it’s something hard to find like orchids or lily of the valley, he’ll pay hundreds just to get those flowers for you. He won’t settle for any other flower.

[wambsgansshoelaces]

Turmoil; Chapter 1

Roman Roy x fem!Reader -read the rest here!

Prompt: slowburn romantic drama, arranged marriage plot line

a/n: thank you to anon for requesting! if you requested this fic, please tell me so I can tag you! I apologize if this reads as unrealistic or too dramatic- but please let me know your thoughts!

Word Count: 2.358k

Nothing. You’d turned yourself into something from nothing.

You’d ended up in New York on your own, running from your past, vying for a fresh start. With a degree from Harvard law in your pocket and an unsatiated hunger for success, it only took one case to change your fortune.

Your boss had pawned the case off on you because it seemed impossible. A man charged for real property fraud, and heaps of evidence to prove it. You initially thought you’d pawn the case off to some other schmuck, until you’d been given an anonymous tip and found a discrepancy in a bit of evidence that unraveled the opposition’s entire case.

It was a massive win- not just for you, but for your entire firm -and it came with a massive raise.

A few years later, you’d amassed an egregious amount of money in total and even more respect from those around you, so you quit and founded your own firm. You’re thankful for everything you have. You stay humble, you’re likable, and you make sure everyone in your employment is as well. It keeps you afloat- New York loves you, but more importantly, they trust you.

It earns you millions.

You’re happy with the life you lead. You frequent charity events, donating whenever you can, staying kind. You know what kindness can feel like during a period of misery. You remember what relief felt like when extended a hand, so you extend yours whenever you can.

You help the people around you. You’re kind to everyone, conduct yourself with grace, and are aware of yourself and those around you.

Maybe that’s why Logan Roy chose you.

He’d written to you a week ago, inviting you to dinner to discuss business prospects. You assume he’s gotten himself into a legal pickle involving some of his questionable activity which some regard as criminal.

When you enter the restaurant, one of his men spawn at your side and lead you into the dimly lit back where nobody is sitting. Your heels click on the marble, your gait not wavering.

“Mr. Roy,” you say when you see him. He gets up, albeit very slowly, and shakes your hand.

“Y/L/N in the flesh.” He sits back down and gestures to the seat across from him. You oblige. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself.”

“I do my best.”

He beckons over a passing waiter. “Get her whatever she wants. Put it on my tab.”

You quietly order a small appetizer and watch him watch you.

“Well, Mr. Roy, I hate beating around the bush. Why am I here?”

“The first case you worked on. Do you remember that man’s name? The one you proved innocent?”

“Connor Frost. I don’t forget. Never showed his face once.”

“About him. For witness protection and press reasons, we were allowed to alter his name in the official papers. We also got away with him never being there.”

Your heart misses a beat.

“Connor Roy was on trial for real property fraud, and you proved him innocent,” he continues. You school your face into neutrality. You get a sick feeling in your stomach that won’t stop growing and gnawing at you. It threatens to eat you inside out. “I hate to burst your bubble, but he was guilty. Fucking stupid, it was.”

You blink. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but-”

Logan’s eyes never leave yours. “But nothing. The deed you found in Connor’s name? Forged. And the people who forged it were paid more than enough to never think of speaking about it in court. You couldn’t have known it was fake, so you took it to trial and won. I practically bankrolled that raise of yours.” You can feel yourself begin to itch. “Initially, there was never any need to tell you. If I had things my way, I’d have let you live your life doing whatever the fuck you wanted. But my son had other plans.” As if he didn’t just reveal that your first case was a joke, he offers you some wine. You quickly decline. You feel like you’re going to puke all over him.

“Kendall. You know Kendall.” His voice drips with venom. “Would’ve given everything to him, but he obviously has different ideas for the company. I can’t let him take it now. He’ll fuck up everything I’ve worked for and put into place at Waystar. And I’m not giving the company to the idiot who accidentally committed fraud to the point of felony, or the one who’s running around the world with her dumb fucking political bullshit. That leaves me with one son. So the company has to go to him.”

Logan tops off his glass of wine. “But, by God’s grace, this leftover son is the fucking stupidest of them all.”

You have no idea how this has anything to do with you.

“Let me be clear, Miss Y/L/N. I respect you. You’re a fantastic attorney. I’d have you on retainer- I will, once my current contract with that Frederica jackass runs out. But you must forgive me for all of this. I have to do what needs to be done.”

He inhales, then sighs. “For you to take control without me losing public face, I want you and my son to come to an agreement in a partnership.”

You have to give him the dumbest fucking look for him to respond with, “Marry him. I need you to marry him.”

“I’m sorry?” You can barely keep your composure. You think you’re dreaming, or someone spiked your water, or you’re dead, or anything but this.

“I can’t have him in control. I can pretend like he is, sure, but I need someone with a brain at the helm.”

“I… my degree is in criminal law. I have no idea how the corporate, let alone financial world runs.” It’s all you can think of to say.

He waves you off. “You’ll learn.”

You don’t know what to say. You probably look like a fish, mouth hung open as you gape at him. “Surely someone else is better suited to this than me. I won’t. I can’t.”

“This is why I had to apologize,” he mutters. “Do as I say, and our secret is kept. Walk away, the tabloids will learn of a little lady who buried and forged evidence to win her first court case.”

“You can’t be serious. I thought it was real!”

“The public doesn’t know that. Regardless, I’ve done worse. I’ve ruined stronger, more powerful people with much less.”

You press your lips into a thin line. “I suppose you’ve left me with no choice,” you grit out.

Logan smiles and claps his hands together. “Welcome to the family.” Your appetizer finally comes and is set in front of you. You don’t feel that hungry anymore. “What are you waiting for? Eat!”

He takes a bit of calamari from you. “I think it goes without saying,” he says, “that if you say anything about this conversation we’ve had, you’ll end up prosecuted and in jail for fraud.”

☾𖤓

You feel like you could punch a hole into the wall. You can’t believe it. It’s pure dumb fucking luck that you got caught in this.

Logan Roy didn’t choose you for your legal prowess, or any of your skill or ability like you’d stupidly believed. He chose you because he has control over you, and he knows it.

A few days pass, and you begrudgingly drag yourself out of your rotting place in bed. Cursing yourself the entire time, you change into something nice. Logan told you he was throwing a party in your name, to introduce you to the family- and the inner circle, you knew.

If anything, you think to yourself, you look fucking good.

You’re not prepared for the onslaught of paparazzi that bombards you the moment you step out of the house.

That bastard must’ve told the press about your engagement.

There’s nothing you can do but get into the black sedan waiting for you at the bottom of your driveway. You’re probably going to have to move, now.

You sit in the backseat, simmering the entire drive. You have to prepare yourself for the hell that’ll be stiff arming paparazzi to get to the party.

When you pull up, you take a deep breath, and step out the car. The man sitting in the passenger seat got out before you and walks out in front of you, another flanking you as you push through the chaos.

The flashes are almost blinding, but you keep your eyes open. Every picture taken tonight is going to be circulated tenfold by not even tomorrow morning. You hope you have resting bitch face in all of them.

Your miniature guard manages to get you inside with no issues. You’re late on purpose, and it seems like the room goes quiet when you enter.

The crowd stares back at you as you survey them. As much as your rage is telling you to make a scene, you won’t. Time and place, you tell yourself.

Immediately, you can tell Connor recognizes you. He tries to avoid your gaze, but your rage bubbles up and out of you. “Mind if I steal him for chat?” you ask the girl standing with him, voice painfully faux-sweet. You feel like you’re on Love Island, in some sick, twisted way.

The girl gives Connor an awkward pat on the arm before leaving him be. You can feel peoples’ eyes burning into the back of your head.

“You told me,” you begin, voice dangerously low, “that you didn’t do it.”

He looks everywhere but at you. “I was just doing what I had to.”

“Was fucking me over what you had to do? Because I feel like that’s all you did,” you hiss.

“Do you really think someone like me is going to ever go to jail?” Connor scoffs. “It could damage my reputation.”

“It could damage my reputation,” you mock. “Are you fucking stupid? Fucking God.”

You turn to leave, but immediately pivot back. “You’re a Roy. You would’ve been bailed out immediately. You wouldn’t have even gone to jail for an hour.”

You’re fuming. You’re barely holding it together.

Then, you catch the eyes of a man not that much taller than you, dressed in all crisp black. He’s handsome, you think, a light stubble dotting his jaw and soft eyes that wrinkle gently when he smiles.

He excuses himself from the conversation he’s having to come to you and Connor.

“Connor. You’ve met my lovely bride-to-be?”

You’re back to fuming, any thoughts of his beauty gone.

He sticks his hand out to you. “Roman Roy. Nice to meet you, I’m your fiancé.” His voice is painfully bitter.

“You think I want this any more than you do?” you ask under your breath, your handshake way too firm. His grip on your hand is equally as tight.

Connor snorts. “At least act like you like each other.”

“You’re the reason any of this happened. Keep yourself out of it,” you snap.

Roman sighs and turns away from Connor. “Can we go for a walk? We should probably have a word.” To your dismay, you agree.

As soon as you’re out of the main atrium and by yourselves in a grand hallway, you speak freely. “Listen, this is nothing personal,” you begin, “but I’m looking for a way out of this.”

Roman looks over at you as you walk, both of you going at a snail’s pace. “I don’t stink, do I?” He sticks his hands in his pockets. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry this happened to you. I know he’s blackmailing you.”

You sigh. “I should’ve known something was wrong with the case when I never saw my fucking client in person.”

“Well, I want this over as quickly as you do. My father doesn’t want me anywhere near the company, and I’d like to change that.” You both stop walking to face each other. Maybe you two can be friends, despite everything.

“Let me make something clear, though.” Roman takes a step towards you, leaning forward to whisper in your ear. “I’m only in this for me. Not you.”

Whatever positive thoughts you’d had were chased away. You spend the rest of the night fuming under your skin, lying through your teeth, and standing by yourself in the corner.

Siobhan Roy is the first to approach you.

“I admire you, you know.”

“Your father said that too, and look where I am now.”

She presses a flute of champagne into your hand. “I’m not my father.” You share a tense look. “Listen. I think we can do something good together,” she says lowly. “You want to disentangle yourself from this situation, and I want my father out of the picture when it comes to Waystar. Some of my clients have used your firm during political scandal. They all came away unscathed… I have full trust in your ability.”

“What do you want from me?”

“When the time comes,” Siobhan says, “I want you to help take my father to court. And put him down under. So to speak,” she adds. “And I’ll help make sure that if my father ever says anything about you, nobody believes it.”

After Siobhan, it’s Kendall.

“Shiv talked to you.” He’s worse at keeping conversation than she is. “I would also be involved in this. I’d take my dad’s place as CEO, Roman becomes COO.”

“I take him to court, I’m told.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you do, and you win,” he says carefully. “And then you get so much money you can run away to some foreign country and forget any of this happened.”

You regard him carefully. “How can I trust you? Or Siobhan? Or anyone in this fucking place?”

Kendall pauses, and takes a moment to think. “You can’t,” is all he says before leaving you standing on your own once again.

Finally, Roman makes his way back to you. You bristle as you watch him approach. “I know you don’t really like me right now, but I want to go home and I can’t leave without you on my arm. So, shall we?”

You roll your eyes, but take his elbow anyway.

[unseededtoast]

Glimpse Of Us | Spencer Reid x F! Reader

Summary: After a painful breakup, you and Spencer try and move on, but find yourselves seeking out each other in different people. Inspired by "Glimpse Of Us" by Joji.

Also cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. Link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted

wc: 7.1k

content warnings: soul-crushing angst, emotional turmoil

His fingers find the velvet box in his pocket and he opens it. The ring inside is divine, he had it created just for you. The gemstone in the center reflects the warm light of his apartment beautifully as he admires it. He can't help but to imagine what it would look like on your finger, where it belongs.

As she exits the bedroom, he's quick to hide the box from her view. For the rest of the night he feels as if he's putting on a performance, one in which he half heartedly kisses her while he thinks of your lips, and he holds her with your body in mind.

-----

Closing the door behind him, Spencer is welcomed home after a long day with soft lighting and the smell of dinner. He shrugs his coat off and places it on the rack beside the door, thankful for the warm air after being in the cold most of the day.

As he takes his shoes off, he feels her arms wrap around him, her forehead resting on his back as she embraces him from behind. Spencer's eyes close in comfort, thankful for her loving ways. He turns around and hugs her back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

"I ran you a warm bath and I'll have dinner waiting for you when you get out." Her voice is soft and warm, full of nothing but the most tender love. Spencer pushes a strand of hair behind her ear with a small smile on his face,

"Thank you." He presses a second kiss to her forehead before retreating to the bedroom so he can indulge in a warm bath.

The water relaxes his tense muscles and offers a much needed reprieve. The case the team had closed today was nothing short of miserable. The air was unforgivably cold, the wind was harsh, and of course they were searching for a body for most of the day. He had wanted nothing more than to come home since the first moment he stepped foot outside this morning.

After putting on the sweats she had laid out for him on the counter, he joins her at the dinner table where a plate and a glass of wine waits for him. They eat in silence, comfortable with just the presence of each other. There's never any pressure to make conversation, they both have a mutual understanding that sometimes silence is more appreciated, especially after particularly difficult days. But what she doesn't know is that when silence settles, his mind drifts to you.

Spencer is beyond thankful for her devotion despite the chaotic life he leads. If there's one thing he can count on, it's for her to brighten his days and take the weight of the world off his shoulders when it becomes too much for him to bear. She is nothing short of perfection, a genuine blessing that Spencer is glad to have.

And because she's so perfect, it makes Spencer feel all the more guilty when he finds himself wishing it was you waiting at home for him instead of her.

The guilt has been eating at Spencer for a while now. He knows it's unfair to her, to constantly be comparing her to you but he can't quite bring himself to break up with her. It wouldn't be such a big deal if he didn't see bits and pieces of you within her. With her, he's reminded of how you laughed, the way you hugged him, and so many more small details that he just can't let her go; for if he lets her go then he would lose all of those small reminders and memories. It's selfish, he knows, but the appeal of seeing flashes of you through her is more compelling than doing what is fair for her sake.

Once dinner has been finished and cleaned up, the two of them find themselves on the couch, cuddled under green and umber colored faux fur blankets while a movie plays. But Spencer isn't really paying attention to the movie, no, his focus is on how she holds him and how it isn't quite right. Her grasp is always too loose and her hands never find the right spots. While her embrace is comforting, it's nothing compared to how you used to hold him so tight, and it all felt so right.

During a particularly quiet scene, she looks up to Spencer with doe eyes, and he can tell she's studying him, like she has him figured out down to a science.

"What's wrong honey?" She asks him, running a comforting hand up his arm. Shaking the thoughts of you from his mind, he smiles down to her with guilt creeping up within him.

"Just had a bad day." Is all he tells her. For he can never tell her the truth, that he'll never love her the way he loved you. It wouldn't be right, and none of it is her fault. He doesn't see the need to tell her he's only passing time in her arms, the ones that will never hold him the way he needs.

With big, beautiful eyes she continues to look at him, appreciating the tiny details that makes Spencer so beautiful. And while he should be appreciating her with the same loving gaze, all he can bring himself to do is think about how you used to look at him the same way.

As he looks into her eyes that look eerily similar to yours, he's catapulted into a memory, a time where things were perfect.

- - - - -

"Well why not both?" You ask Spencer, who's holding up two blankets to choose from. It's the first winter that you two are sharing together in Spencer's apartment and you both found out the hard way that even Virginia can get quite cold.

"You want them both?" He asks you, eyes glancing between the dark green and the rich brown colored blankets in his hands, both made of warm, plush material. You nod your head and motion for him to put them both in the cart.

"Yes, both of them. The colors compliment each other and they'll look right at home on the couch." A smile finds its way to your face as he places both of the blankets into the cart.

Spencer didn't need much convincing and you both knew it. All you had to do was give him the puppy eyes and he would bend to your every will. He would do anything to keep a smile on your face, and if that meant getting two blankets instead of one, then it was a small compromise he was happy to make.

Later that night the two of you sit entangled on the couch, under one of the new blankets. Spencer sat with his back against the arm rest and he had pulled you between his legs, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. Your head rested back on his chest and your eyes closed as soft music played from the vintage record player Spencer had recently bought.

Spencer savors the way you warm him, the way your body feels soft under his touch, and he appreciates the smell of vanilla that you always seem to have. He watches with adoring eyes as your chest rises and falls evenly, letting him know that you've fallen asleep. The apartment is dimly lit from a lamp, and its warm glow illuminates your features perfectly. Spencer can never get enough of just looking at you, each time he finds something new to love.

His eyes trail from the slope of your nose to the curve of your lips before noticing the way your eyelashes softly lay against the top of your cheekbones, gentle like a feather floating through the breeze. He had never seen such effortless beauty, both inside and out, and his heart feels like it could explode from trying to fit all the love he has for you within.

Kissing the crown of your head, he gently wakes you up and leads you to bed, and he can't help but smile as you hold his hand the entire way there. Your small hand fit into his like they were made for each other.

Once the two of you had settled in bed, you reach your arms around Spencer and hold him close to you. While you enjoy being held by him, you like to return the favor. You want him to come to you for comfort and security, you want to provide a loving warmth to him, to show him how much you love him when your words fall short of expressing the truth depths of your adoration.

His skin is warm under your touch and you press a soft kiss in between his shoulder blades. You're not sure if he'll be here in the morning due to work, so you hold him tight and soak in every second you get with him.

As the two of you drift off, Spencer rests his hand atop yours that rests just below his chest, not able to get enough of you tonight. There was something in the air this evening that made Spencer realize that you are the love of his life, and he wants to spend every night with your arms around him.

- - - - -

Snapping out of his daydream, Spencer realizes that the movie had come to an end. His hand lingers on the blanket for just a moment longer than necessary before he heads to bed, where she is sure to join him soon. He gets underneath the covers, his hand resting on the empty space beside him. His chest aches and he bites the inside of his cheek to stop from getting emotional as she walks in, a sleepy smile on her face.

Spencer goes through the motions of bidding her a goodnight before he turns away from her. He doesn't know if he's disgusted with himself for thinking of you while she lays next to him, or if he's sad he let another woman take your spot. As her hand makes its way around his waist, he's unable to stop the single tear that drips down his cheek.

He waits for her to fall asleep before he slinks out of bed. He puts his shoes on and shrugs on his coat before leaving. The walls of his apartment seem to be closing in on him tonight, and perhaps he needs some fresh air. Snow flurries fall as he walks the empty streets, illuminated by street lamps and starlight.

Spencer wipes his eyes of the tears that form in his lash line and sniffles every few seconds. He has no destination in mind, but he know where his body will take him. It's the same place he goes every time, the spot where he met you.

The bench is covered in a light layer of snow along with everything else in the park. He's unable to tear his eyes away from the spot he first saw you at, as if you would suddenly appear out of thin air. Spencer remembers very vividly the day he met you. He was at the park playing chess, trying to get better so he could finally beat Gideon, when he saw you.

You had your nose buried in a mystery novel, your hair was partially pinned back so it wouldn't get in your way, and you had the prettiest sundress on that complimented your skin tone wonderfully. Spencer had never been one to believe in love at first sight until he saw you. He swears that day the sunlight was focused on you alone, as everything else became utterly dull.

And Spencer had never been one to go out of his way to talk to a woman, but something within him told him that if he didn't seize this opportunity then he would regret it. So he pushed himself out of his comfort zone and talked to you. You were the sweetest woman ever, and he's still surprised to this day that you had given him your number after he babbled and rambled trying to get to the point.

What he wouldn't give to be able to go back and do it all over again.

- - - - -

Three months after you had left Spencer he found himself once again being interrogated about his love life by his coworkers. They mean well, and he knows it, but he wishes they would stop bringing the topic up, because every time they do it's like reopening the wound. But he doesn't want to concern anyone with how poorly he's actually handling the separation, they all have their own issues just as he does.

"You sure you're ready for that date?" Derek asked him one Friday afternoon, asking about the blind date he had set up for Spencer.

"Of course I am, I think I'm finally moving on, and I'm sure she's lovely." Spencer smiles to Derek, but there's a bitter taste on his tongue.

There's no chance that this mystery woman could ever compare to you. But he tells everyone he's moved on from you so that they might stop bringing you up in conversation. Though he knows that you had made friends with his coworkers as well and he knows they probably miss you too. But for his own sanity, Spencer had to find a way to keep them from speaking about you; and what better way to do that than date someone new?

But while Spencer was busy acting like he had moved on, it seems that you actually had.

A year after you had left, against his better judgment, Spencer looked you up to see how you were doing. He had refrained from doing so up to this point, but he couldn't help himself. He had to know, he had to see you.

What he found devastated him. On your Instagram was a photo of you and a man, cheeks pressed against each other's with wide smiles. The first thing Spencer noticed was how your smile finally reached your eyes again, how you looked genuinely happy. A look he hadn't seen in a long time.

But he couldn't stop there, he had to know more. He had to make sure that this man wasn't some psychopath. And it turns out he seems to be the embodiment of the American dream. Spencer found that your new man works in wealth management, owns his own property with a fenced in yard, and appears to be head over heels in love with you.

The man's social media is cluttered with photos of you. You smile in each one as if you were seeing color for the first time. Spencer goes through his photos, looking at vacations you took to Europe, evenings spent on a boat, and every small detail in between that the man had posted about. Spencer had to put his phone away after he saw a picture of you in the man's lap, his hands on your waist as he kissed your cheek while you smiled at the camera.

Spencer thinks often about how the man treats you. He wonders if the new man appreciates your tender touch, your kind heart, if he cherishes you like he used to. Spencer can't help but to ponder if your new man gives you everything he couldn't; if he comes back home to you every night and if the two of you plan to have a family one day.

And when those thoughts get to be too painful, Spencer wonders if you ever think of him. He hopes that you search for pieces of him in your new man, even in just the most minuscule details. Sometimes with this hope comes along the thought of if you will ever come back to Spencer.

But that hope is usually crushed with the realization that you're living in a new chapter, one in which he will never have the privilege to read.

- - - - -

The sweet smell of blueberry pancakes wafts through the house and wakes you. You take a deep breath of the fruity scent and stretch, enjoying the way that today has started. There are definitely worse ways to wake up. Instead of getting up right away, you opt to stay snuggled under the warm covers, your eyes closed as you breathe in the sugary sweetness.

"Good morning honey." You hear your boyfriend open the door, his voice deep and raspy from the night. At the sound of his voice, you can't help but to open your eyes and smile at him.

"What's the occasion?" You stretch once more as he walks over to you, looking down at you with doting eyes.

"Oh I don't know, I think it might be someone's birthday. Yeah, I think I remember someone telling me that the most beautiful girl in the world has a birthday today." He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips, the taste of blueberries lingering between you.

"You didn't have to make me breakfast." You sit up, pushing the covers away so you can go enjoy the pancakes that were so lovingly made. Your boyfriend only smiles wider,

"Don't worry this is just the beginning. I've got a whole day planned for you, baby." You try to fight the smile, not wanting him to know just how excited you are.

The two of you eat pancakes together at the table, your heart swelling with love from his gesture. Both of you know he's not the best cook in the world, but to you these are the best pancakes you've ever had. In fact, they could be burnt to a crisp and you would love every bite because he took the time to try and do something nice for you, and it's the effort you appreciate above all.

Licking syrup off your lip, your eyes find themselves fixated on your boyfriend's face and you can't help but be mesmerized. His eyes are kind and gentle, his smile is wide and welcoming, and you just don't know if you will ever get enough of him.

Though a tiny voice makes itself known in the back of your mind and it reminds you of just why you find your boyfriend to be so beautiful.

But you try your best to ignore the voice that whispers to you from within your own mind. You don't want to hear how your boyfriend's hair is the same shade of brown or how his eyes hold the same hue of green that Spencer's did. The voice works diligently to remind you that your boyfriend's hands don't feel the same and that his lips aren't as soft, and you wish that it would just stop. Everything would be so much easier if you could just forget Spencer Reid even exists, but no matter how hard you try you can never silence the whispers.

You'd be lying to yourself if you said you didn't still think of Spencer sometimes. Especially during the early days of your new relationship. When you first got together with your new boyfriend you were constantly reminded of Spencer. Your new boyfriend shared many features with Spencer such as his height, build, and hair color and you know it's no coincidence. You know full well that you gravitated to your new boyfriend because of these similarities, you were desperate to hold onto any part of Spencer that you could.

But your new boyfriend is different from Spencer in a lot of ways as well. He's more headstrong, he doesn't think things through as well, and he can't read you quite like Spencer could. But despite these differences you found yourself loving him for who he is.

Your new boyfriend practically worships the ground you walk on. He's entirely devoted to you and he reminds you every day of how much he loves you. He comes home at the same time every night, he's here when you need him to be, and just recently has opened up to you about one day possibly starting a family. He's everything you've ever wanted.

It had taken some time to adjust to something new and unfamiliar but it was worth it. You had been hesitant to get into another relationship, worried that you wouldn't be able to love anyone as much as you loved Spencer. It would be entirely unfair to the other person, and so you had asked your current boyfriend for patience; and this man had no problems waiting. In fact, you were convinced he would wait until the end of times if you had asked him to.

He was never overbearing, never pressured you for an answer or to go on a date before you were ready. Instead, the two of you built a friendship first. You would go for coffee on Saturday mornings, walks in the park after work, and even played a few rounds of mini golf. It was in those small moments that you found yourself falling head over heels for the man and eventually you felt that you were ready.

After a few months of being together, he had insisted you join him on a business trip to Europe. At first you didn't really know, you were nervous about being somewhere unfamiliar, but you trusted him to take care of you. And you're glad you went, it was the best trip you had ever been on. Your boyfriend treated you to candlelit dinners, a gondola ride, and the most tender, pure love possible. For the first time in a long time, you felt happy and it was all because of him.

Your mind drifts from memories of Europe to the conversation about starting a family. You remember the conversation almost word for word and you find yourself reflecting on it more than what is probably normal. But you can't help yourself, that conversation had opened your eyes about your true desires and left you feeling conflicted about a lot of things you still don't have the answers to.

- - - - -

It was a bright Sunday afternoon and you strolled down the street with your boyfriend hand in hand, enjoying the warm weather and freshness of spring. The grass was finally coming back to life, the trees were blooming, and flowers were beginning to pop up again.

"I want to ask you something, but you don't have to answer if you don't want to." Your boyfriend uncharacteristically stumbles over his words as the two of you veer off to a less busy path.

"You can ask me anything." You truthfully tell him, wanting him to know that he can come to you about anything. After all, there's nothing he can throw at you that would catch you off guard after your years with Spencer and the stories he would come home with.

"Have you ever thought about having kids someday?" Your pace slows down as his words sink in. You weren't quite sure what you were expecting him to ask, but it certainly wasn't that.

Instead of answering right away, you stop walking completely and look at your boyfriend, seeing nothing but complete seriousness and curiosity written all over his face. Your eye catches his, and your heart sinks when you see a flash of Spencer's eyes in your mind. Blinking away the fleeting image, you sigh and think about how to answer his question.

"I think some day, with the right person, I would most definitely want kids." Your answer is the complete truth, and yet you find yourself feeling guilty for not immediately imagining yourself having kids with your boyfriend, but instead with Spencer.

"Some day." A smile finds its way onto your boyfriend's face and he squeezes your hand lovingly.

Pushing the guilt and all thoughts of Spencer aside, you focus on what you have right in front of you. You have a boyfriend who loves you unconditionally, who wants nothing but the best for you, who you can see yourself spending forever with.

Yet despite loving him back and wanting a future with him, there's still a piece of your soul that yearns for Spencer.

- - - - -

After a long day of birthday celebration, you find yourself laying in bed waiting for your boyfriend to join you. The day had been filled with family and friends and it was probably one of the best birthdays you've had in a long time. But ever since this morning, the voice in the back of your mind hasn't let up.

While you were opening gifts you couldn't help but wonder what Spencer would've picked out. When your boyfriend asked you what top he should wear to best match the rest of the outfit you found yourself wondering what Spencer would've picked. During the drive to your friend's house you considered which songs Spencer would've played on the trip over. You hadn't really thought of Spencer much over the past year, seeing as how happy you were with your boyfriend, but lately you find Spencer infiltrating your thoughts more and more.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you give into temptation and grab your phone. Quickly, you look Spencer up on what limited social media presence he has. Your heart races as his profile loads, unsure of what you're going to see and what you want to see. The photos load and you realize he still hasn't posted anything since the photo you posted for him years ago.

You tap on the tagged photos tab and can't help the heaviness in your chest as you see a photo he was tagged in three months ago. He's got his arms wrapped around a gorgeous woman, her lips pressed to the side of his cheek. Within an instant, your mind replaces the woman's face with your own and you feel your throat begin to close up with emotion. The caption is something cliche about love, and with the same quickness as you had clicked on the photo, you exit out of the app.

It seems Spencer has moved on from you, and you're happy for him. You hope she can handle his lifestyle better than you could, but you can't help but feel sad that he was able to replace you. A tinge of regret takes residence in you for giving him the opportunity to replace you.

- - - - -

Spencer looks in the mirror as he straightens his tie and runs his hand through his hair once more. The velvet box in his pocket makes his heart hammer but the sound of her voice knocks him out of an anxiety-ridden spiral.

"We're going to be late, come on." She says with a smile on her face. Spencer knows he should be just as excited but the nerves take precedence.

The two of them enter the dimly lit restaurant and take their seat. The tablecloth is white, there's a candle in the middle of the table. Spencer knows it's the perfect time to propose. After all, today is their second anniversary.

She talks openly about what she's going to order and how she knows the food is going to be delightful. Spencer does his best to smile and nod, trying to calm his trembling fingers. He had considered proposing for a few months now and decided tonight would be perfect.

After the waiter comes and takes their orders, Spencer reaches across the table and takes her hands within his. Her skin is soft and smooth, but as he rubs his thumb across the back of her hand he remembers how delicate your skin used to feel under his touch.

Guilt intermingles with the nerves, and he feels disgusted with himself that even as he's about to propose he thinks of you. And the guilt is reinforced when he remember who he bought the ring for in the first place, it most certainly wasn't her.

Delaying the question, Spencer keeps making small talk until the food arrives. He takes glances over to her, and she always smiles back. And Spencer tries his best to act normal, but he knows he's failing.

For every time he looks at her all he can see is you. Every time he looks into her eyes he sees yours, he remembers how you used to gaze at him for what seemed like hours. Each time she pushes her hair behind her shoulder he remembers how yours used to always look effortlessly perfect. Even the shade of her lipstick brings him back to a memory when you wore a similar shade.

She laughs at a poor joke he made, and the sound of her laughter is replaced with yours in Spencer's mind. He realizes then that he can't possibly ask her to marry him.

When the two of them arrive back at the apartment, she rushes off to change into something more comfortable and Spencer hangs back in the kitchen, taking a seat at the dining table.

His fingers find the velvet box in his pocket and he opens it. The ring inside is divine, he had it created just for you. The gemstone in the center reflects the warm light of his apartment beautifully as he admires it. He can't help but to imagine what it would look like on your finger, where it belongs.

As she exits the bedroom, he's quick to hide the box from her view. For the rest of the night he feels as if he's putting on a performance, one in which he half heartedly kisses her while he thinks of your lips, and he holds her with your body in mind.

- - - - -

"Where are you going?" Spencer steps in front of her, blocking her path. He had returned home only an hour earlier to find that she had packed all of her things and called her friend to pick her up. She looks back up at him, and he clearly sees the disdain in her eyes.

"I can't do this anymore Spencer. I don't know what happened or what I did wrong, but I can tell you don't love me, and you haven't for a while." Her words shock him, but he can't find it within himself to contradict what she's saying; she's right after all. 

"You didn't do anything, I'm sorry." Is all he's able to offer her as he steps aside and lets her go. She shakes her head, tears gleaming in her eyes as she grabs the handle of her last bag and leaves without looking back. 

Spencer is left alone in his apartment and he bites his cheek as he looks around. She had taken everything she owned, not a trace remains. While he should feel devastated that she left him, he only feels relieved. The guilt that's been eating him alive for years is finally gone and he knows that this was the best possible outcome for her; he hopes she can find someone who cherishes her the way she deserves.

His eyes fall on the blanket draped over the back of the couch and suddenly this situation feels all too familiar. Spencer is unable to tear his eyes away from the blanket as his mind reminds him in perfect detail the most painful day of his life.

- - - - -

"Spencer, move. Let me go." Your voice is firm but it wavers as you finish the sentence. You had your last bag in your hand and you had hoped to be out of here before Spencer got back home. 

"No, please don't do this. Please don't go." Spencer begs you as tears fall down his cheeks. Pained by his sadness, a tear falls down your own. You so desperately wish you could stay, that things could work between the two of you. 

"Maybe if things were different I could stay." You say, using your free hand to wipe you eyes. 

Before you can be convinced to stay, you step around Spencer and head out the door, leaving behind the best and worst days. When you hear the door shut behind you, you're unable to stop the onslaught of tears that flow down your face as you go to your car parked alongside the curb. The last bag gets carelessly tossed in your car before you drive off. 

Spencer watches from his window as you leave, your car disappearing into the night. He collapses against the wall and sobs. It doesn't feel real, he can't wrap his mind around the fact that you had actually left. 

Hours later he finds the will the stand up and he sniffles the entire way to the bedroom where there's a crisp white paper laid on his pillow. Spencer turns on a light before he grabs the paper and before he reads a single word he notices how some of the ink is smudged, like tear drops had fallen before it had time to dry. 

Soon enough, his tear drops fall onto the paper as well. Each word is like a dagger to his heart and yet he reads it over and over and over again. 

Spencer, 

By the time you read this, I won't be here. Please don't come looking for me. We both knew things weren't going well for a long time, and I didn't see any way we could compromise. It's not fair to you and it wasn't fair to me to stay, we would drive each other to endless misery at some point if something didn't give.

I wish things could have been different for us, but I just couldn't handle it anymore. We both want different things and that's okay. You love your job and it was unfair of me to try and persuade you to pursue something else for my sake, and for that I am sorry. It would've been nice to have you home every night, to know that you could be here for the big and small moments of life. But I understand that that way of life isn't something you're made for, and that's okay too. I'm sorry I'm not built for the life you lead, I tried my best for as long as I could.

You will always have a piece of my heart for as long as I shall live. I wish you nothing but the best. You've got a lot to offer the world, my beautiful Spencer Reid. 

I love you, always.

His heart may as well have been ripped from his chest and shattered into a million irreparable pieces. As he reads and rereads your words he can't believe that you blamed yourself, that you felt the need to apologize for wanting a normal life. 

He recalls the first time you had asked him about a career change. To him it came out of nowhere, but when he really starts to think about it, he should've seen it coming. There were times he would come home and your eyes would be just a little bloodshot and your cheeks would be unusually red. Of course you told him it was just allergies, but the pictures of you two scattered over the coffee table should've told him it was something else entirely. 

The texts asking him if he would be home for your birthday were answered with a negative, along with the questions about Christmas, Valentines Day, and just about every other occasion. He wanted to be there with you, there's no place he would have rather been, but the job required him to be across the country more times than not. He should've realized that you had stopped asking those questions a year ago. 

His memory allows him to see into the past, and as it's said, hindsight is 20/20. The last year of the relationship he often found himself coming home to you already in bed, when you used to stay up and wait for him. Perhaps you had been so accustomed to disappointment that you had assumed something would come up and that he wouldn't be home when he told you he would. 

Within those memories he also notices how sad you seemed. Though he didn't see it at the time, he sees now how your smile stopped reaching your eyes and you stopped trying to plan things for the two of you to do on his days off. Instead of going out, you told him that you just wanted to spend time with him.

There's a particular memory that comes to the forefront of his mind, about a month before you left he remembers the two of you on the couch. You had snuggled into his side, head resting on his shoulder as the two of you watched a movie. He really hadn't been paying attention, he was focused on how warm you were, how he was happy he could finally be here with you. But if he had been following the movie, he would've seen that you turned it off just before the happy ending where the two characters lived out the rest of their days together. He should've noticed then how the tip of your nose turned red and how you wiped your eyes, claiming it was just from being tired. 

His chest aches deeply as he understands the pain he's put you through. All you wanted was him, and he had let you slip right through his fingers without even realizing. 

For days, weeks, and months after you left Spencer finds himself sleeping with the blanket you had picked out, for it's the last piece of yourself that you left him with. And after a while, your scent faded, but the memories remain. 

And ever since, he found himself chasing anything that could give him even just the smallest reminder of you. He only hopes that one day your paths will cross again and that you will find your way back where you belong; back to him.

- - - - -

The room feels colder and darker than usual. There's no sweet smell of pancakes floating in the air, there's nobody next to you to keep you warm. No, all of those comforts had left a week ago. The moment in which everything crumbled replays constantly in your mind. 

In front of you, your boyfriend dropped to one knee and held out a glistening ring. With tears in his eyes, he poured his heart out to you, speaking about how he's beyond in love with you and that he wants to grow old with you. That there's nobody else on this Earth he can imagine coming home to, holding close, and cherishing dearly. 

You could almost hear his heart break as you told him that you couldn't marry him. And not two days later, he had moved out without speaking a single word to you. Everything you spent years building, gone in an instant. But what haunts you the most is the look in his eye, it's the same despair you saw in Spencer's when you had left him. 

But you knew you had made the right decision not to marry your boyfriend. You loved him deeply, but after the conversation about starting a family you realized that you didn't want that future with anyone but Spencer. But that future isn't a possibility, you're keenly aware of that. So it seems you're destined to live out your days reminiscing about Spencer Reid. 

With time you know you had forgotten some of the memories and it's when you try to remember them that you find yourself wishing you had Spencer's memory. By now you figure he's done his best to bury the memory of you while you try to dig yours back up. 

There's one memory you cling to the most, and when sorrow begins swallowing you whole, you relive that memory, wanting to go back in time and live in that moment forever. 

It was a chilly fall day, the leaves had just started to turn colors. Spencer and you had been together just shy of a week but it seemed like neither of you could get enough of one another. In every second of free time you two had, you were together. He explained that his job required him to travel a lot, but you didn't really mind, he was worth waiting for.

 The two of you walked with intertwined hands through the park where you met, and take a seat on the bench. Spencer wanted to come by after the date he planned, a cozy coffee cafe with your favorite pastries. You had never experienced someone taking an interest in you, and your heart felt full knowing he went out of his way to learn what you liked. 

With lovestruck eyes, you look over at him and brush his cheekbone with your free hand, wanting to memorize every detail of him. His skin is smooth, eyes the most brilliant shades of earthy tones, and of course his chocolate curls had you swooning. 

You see his eyes dance between yours and your lips, and before you could comprehend what was happening, he pulled you close and kissed you. Your hands had found their way to his face, cradling his jaw as he held your waist. 

And as you pulled away you couldn't help the smile that found its way to your face. You had never been one to believe in falling in love so soon after meeting someone, but something about Spencer felt different. It was like your souls were meant for each other, there was an undeniable chemistry from the start. And though you wouldn't say it for another few months, you knew in this moment that you were helplessly in love with Spencer Reid.

But instead of leading a fulfilling life with him by your side, you find yourself utterly alone.

Eventually you make your way into the living room, which now has half of the furniture it did a few days ago. But you don't care, you convinced yourself that it was for the best, and that your now-ex deserves someone better than yourself, someone who wasn't still in love with the person who came before. 

You decide to get out of the house and take a walk with no particular destination. The fresh air will hopefully make you feel better. Your mind is anywhere but the present and you hadn't realized that you had made your way to the park. The same one that holds too many bittersweet memories. 

But instead of walking somewhere else, you continue on. You hadn't come back here since you left Spencer but it feels right. Lately you've found yourself considering trying to find him again, but ultimately you decide against it, recalling the words you left for him and the fact that it looks like he's found someone new. You love him too much to disrupt what love and peace he may have found.

Taking the familiar path you find yourself walking to the bench where Spencer first introduced himself to you, the bench that had started everything.

As you round the bend you see an older couple sitting there in the very spot you had all those years ago. The woman has her arm linked with the man's and the two of them laugh about something. The sunlight glints off of their wedding bands and you look away as they lean in to kiss each other. Walking by them, you offer a polite smile despite the turmoil you feel inside. They meet your eye as you pass and return your smile with warmth and happiness.

This trip down memory lane leaves you feeling like you had just seen a bit of what your future with Spencer could have looked like, the two of you grey-haired but still head over heels for each other. 

But you know that can never be a reality, and so you'll have to find a way to settle for the fleeting glimpse you caught.

-----

Part Two

[innammoratta]

Nightwing x Reader: Incorrect Quotes 1

Nightwing: I usually enjoy going out on patrol, but... tonight sucks. It's been four hours and still no progress!

Y/N: I've never heard someone complain about a lack of crime... *eats a Taki*

Nightwing: *chewing* But this is Gotham!

Y/N: *munching loudly*

Nightwing: .....

Y/N: .....

Nightwing: Can you please stop chewing with your mouth open?

Y/N: At least I don't talk with my mouth open!

Nightwing: ......

Y/N: wait.....

Y/N: I meant chew-

Nightwing: Don't....

Nightwing: Don't ruin this perfect moment....

[tojisun]

hows this literally so ghost coded. genuinely how he leashes his desires

[luventi]

childe angst!!! where in a rage of terror he massacres a treasure hoarder camp in front of you because they dared to slightly injure you with their filthy hands and all you can do his stare in horror at the dismembered bodies that surround you, the blood that has stained the grass red, and the cries of mercy aimed at the harbinger himself. but one can only find mercy in an honorable warrior and the 11th harbinger is a weapon.

one that thinks of himself as a man who has just defended your honor and as he walks up to you, the greys and blacks of his outfit fighting to be seen amongst the stains of blood that do not belong to him, you fight the urge to step away. instead choosing to let him take you by the waist and inspect you for any more injuries. he’s soft, gentle with your body, never pressing too harshly on what he thinks is a bruise. a vast contrast to the carnage that you stand in the middle of. and when he is satisfied? he drops his head against your shoulder breathing in your scent and nuzzling against you, his hands finding purchase on your hips, slotting your body closer to his as if he is allowed domesticity after the murderous rampage he went on and then your next move surprises you—instead of feeling disgusted and sickened at his actions, instead of shoving him away and screaming at him to never come near you, to never put his hands on you again. that you could never love a man like him. you only tug the lapels of his jacket closer and wrap your arms around him.

you have a horrific realization then. you realize that no matter how deranged ajax was, no is, you’ll never stop loving him. you could never will yourself to hate him, you can act as if you’re morally above him that you’re good and kind and he’s everything you’re not but the truth is you’re just like him and thats what scares you the most. and it’s what he loves the most.

[a-weird-writer]

i think for me, breeding kink falls under the claiming kink category, which… i’m sure i’ve made it clear where i stand with that.

but would leon actually have a beloved, or would he more view them as an… entourage?

A mixture of both, in my opinion.

Leon Cromwell is very capable of romantic and general attraction. You can sing praises and devote yourself to the devil, can love him.

But how could the devil love you back?

How could anyone love someone like him in this lifetime? How can you ever possibly justify loving a Demon Lord?

Love is such a specific human feeling. A feeling Leon is wary of ever experiencing, given everything he's done and will keep doing, he is more than aware of his less-than-ideal influence upon the people around him; Leon is a lot of things but delusional isn't one of them.

His choices don't make him any less of a monster, pitiful as the true reasons are. (As seen in his brotherly relationship with Chronoa, but I'll tie those spoilers under wraps.) Leon's logic and personal regards are warped and selfish, at times hypocritical in Shizu's case.

Nothing hints about Leon's emotional state. It is a personally crafted safety mask, a blank façade of apparent indifference. No openings, no weakness; A hollow shell of humanity, an eroded stone wall.

Leon's past is tragic and complicated; whatever innocence was maintained in his previous world lost itself after the distortion incident, further coated in malice thanks to Leon's current status as a Demon Lord. Not above committing the most heinous crimes and atrocities known to mankind if beneficial to him in the long run.

Leon can and will be mean if he wants too, the sheer definition of cold and cruel to his bystanders. Very tightly wound on himself and his self-driven goals. Even when his "softer" side shifts, shown to very very few people that actually know him for far more than his status, he may still come off as too blunt and careless. Barely expressive.

Leon Cromwell just doesn't grasp emotions too well...

Through the eyes of surrounding observers unfortunate enough to have to deal with him, your existence is just barely regarded with any sort of harsh twitch or grimace.

To his beloved, he seems not to consider you at all, constantly riding on the edge of your surface tension.

But there is a however. What Leon lacks in expressive vocabulary, figurative or opposing, is later proven contrary through actions and acts of service in sacred chambers.

[paper-lilypie]

okay I just finished reading Chapter Six of @bamsara’s Solar Lunacy and I realized something that, if Bam does in fact address later, will absolutely break my heart once I read it

Quick spoilers for Chapter Six below

———————

The entire first half of the story is set before the events of the Security Breach game go down and Chapter Six has now established that Moon had most likely been suffering gradual damage starting at least two years prior (from what they could tell from the available security footage). This means that all triggered responses and agitated behavior stem from this one thing: this “glitch” as the protagonist calls it.

We know that both Sun and Moon were gravely affected by it (both psychologically and on a real world basis: Sun’s anxiety and pressure on keeping both close relationships as well as the company’s bad rep on the downlow, and Moon both lost his position as Naptime Attendant and lives with the guilt(???) of murdering/injuring human beings). We know they both wanted to keep the protagonist in the dark about it because they’re their “favorite friend.” They care about them.

Which means once the Night of the Game comes around, not only will Sun and Moon be subjected to being controlled and manipulated into becoming hostile monsters AGAIN, they’ll be forced to relive their trauma through seeking to hurt Gregory AND the Protagonist.

This time, the one person they care about the most will be trapped in a cage with them and bear witness to their absolute worst— being hunted down with the intent to kill— and neither Sun nor Moon will have the power to stop it.

[storeecbrcod]

Traces of Turmoil (Pt 2)

Ghost x Reader fic

You were staring way too often. At first, it was occasional, as if you were getting lost in your head. But quickly, Price started to notice you looking at Ghost more and more. Always glancing at him, an abnormal amount. Gaz had noticed, too, even Soap.

Price could tell you were searching Ghost; he didn’t know what you were trying to see, but he didn’t really question it for a while. It was simply an observation how your eyes would flick to Ghost’s face, being met with his mask every time.

It was natural, Price assumed, to want to know more about the most emotionally elusive soldier in the team. You were genuinely so friendly to everyone. You thrived off of your ability to read people, to be what others needed in that moment as if you could read their minds.

But Ghost? He was a hard one. Not only did the mask block any sense of facial expression, but he was so guarded all of the time. Even Price didn’t know Ghost’s depth, and he accepted that as something that only Ghost himself would ever truly grasp.

Over time, however, the glances became more and more persistent. You wouldn’t just stare for a few moments, you’d get this confused or frustrated look where your brow would furrow and your eyes narrowed, chewing on your lips as you assessed him. You had always thought you were being secretive, but your face gave it away every damn time. It was almost comical.

Eventually, the furrowed brow and hard mouth morphed into calm eyes, occasionally shining with a calculating look. Price had half a mind to ask you about it, but when he finally found an opportunity, he noticed Ghost respond; he looked back. And it wasn’t a cold glare, his eyes were… different. Softer, almost. It took Price aback, to be honest.

Price watched you both more and more closely as months went on. It went from simple eye contact, to the twitch of a hand or leg, but eventually he was blatantly telling you with a nod or even words. Price couldn’t help but admire you for your perseverance; Ghost was a hard one to crack, if he ever cracked at all. It was a wonder to see a newer member get to him so thoroughly.

Despite your developments with Ghost, none of the team ever suspected anything other than a partnership. You never touched, never talked about anything outside of work. You just sat together, often in silence. It became routine to see you in Ghost’s office, working beside him or simply just being company for each other.

It was normal to see the two of you hanging around in gaps in the day. When Ghost wasn’t with Soap, or training, or with Price, he was with you. When you weren’t doing paperwork, or at the gun range, or hanging out with the rest of the team, you were with him. It was a happy arrangement.

The biggest slap in the face for Price, however, was one night in the mess hall. You were up one end of the table, entertaining everyone, just being upbeat and cracking jokes with Soap and Gaz. Price had been enjoying himself too, and had turned on a whim to look at Ghost. And when he did, he nearly jumped in surprise.

Ghost was looking at you, but it didn’t seem like him. It wasn’t Ghost in his eyes… it was something else. Someone else. Someone who had once been soft, and smooth like cold dark chocolate or black coffee.

As soon as Ghost noticed Price’s gaze, however, the iciness froze into his eyes once again. It made Price force a small smile as if he didn’t just see a whole other part of him.

Price had only ever seen that side of Ghost once, the flicker of past humanity lighting up, and that conversation haunted even him.

“My family, sir. They were killed. Slaughtered. I had to return the favour.”

Price knew, then and there, that you were dear to him.

And it was true. You were dear to him. He told you whenever he could, ever since the day that you first saw that look in his eyes in his office. His eyes always found yours and melted. Whenever he could, he’d brush past you in a seemingly accidental or casual way, but you and him both knew it was more. It surely wasn’t much, but the little breaths of affection he’d offer to you made you feel all the more connected to him.

It was funny to you, the fact that you are so content with his gentleness and his subtlety; with everyone else you were close with, you were incredibly physical and loud. You were very much like Soap in a way, but unique in the way you went about it; you weren’t overwhelming, you just oozed presence and weren’t afraid to hug others or do little things like grab things for them, or trace lines on their hands.

With Ghost, however, touch was incredibly fleeting, only ever happening if it was soft and quick. Speaking was also minimised, silence often being what the two of you fell into. Although, it never felt weird, and you never felt unsettled in your drastic change.

You had never realised how simply looking at someone, being in the same room as them, not speaking or touching or anything, could feel so intimate. This was a whole new level of connection that you had never realised you needed. It was a different you.

And you could tell Ghost was different, too. He lost the tension in his shoulders, he let the muscles in his face fall from taught and mean to mild and peaceful.

Peaceful.

He seemed to appreciate your effect on him, always looking for a reason to be alone with you, to sit and converse through simple looks as he busied his hands with something, most often paperwork. It was incredibly homely, it made you feel warm, and you could tell he had the same entranced feeling.

One day, you managed to speak up.

“I’m glad we do this,” you said simply as you read your book in a chair in his office. He turned to look at you, pausing his work.

“You do?” he asked. It wasn’t accusatory or judgemental, just a simple response as the both of you basked in the gentleness clinging to the walls. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a moment.

Soft, smooth like cold dark chocolate or black coffee.

“Yeah, Ghost, I really do,” you replied with a smile. You turned back to your book, thinking the exchange was finished. A minute passed before he stopped looking at you and returned to his work.

“Simon.”

You looked up at him, brow yet again furrowed like you used to do. He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the cool tension rolling off of him. You didn’t look away, and he finally met your gaze.

It made you choke up, his look. You thought you had seen a new layer to him before, but now? It was like his eyes were sliced open, layers and layers being brought to the surface just for you, like sutures in a wound being cut to show the plunging nature of skin, fat, muscle, bone, and marrow.

This wasn’t Ghost. This wasn’t the war-hardened lieutenant that had spent years of his life training to be one of the best soldiers there are. This wasn’t the stoney, abrasive man that so many were so afraid of, his infamy showering him in constant admiration and scowling hatred.

No, this wasn’t Ghost. This man was warm, caring. Intense in his feelings, and so kind and loving despite his past. The person welling up through the trenches of his beautiful dark eyes was gentle, heartfelt. He felt love, and he needed love. He held so much of it without an outlet. This man? This person, this human?

This was Simon.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

[karatekels]

Fresh Start - Days 8 & 9

I'm baaaaack!

Note: I think I'm going to make this either an AU where Kreese never showed up, or just earlier in the canon timeline before Kreese reaches out to him. So at this moment, Terry is not involved in karate in the Valley beyond his own practice.

Days 4 & 5 | Day 6 | Day 7 (Future updates posted below!)

TW: Something that could be interpreted as non-con or dub-con, but only in the sense that in dreams, sometimes things don't make sense while you're in them.

---

Day 8

You wake up shivering, trying to feel around for your blanket without having to open your eyes. As your feet fail to find the covers, you recognize that you’re not on your bed, instead on a cold, firm surface that was smooth like marble. Confused, you open your eyes to a dark room.

Suddenly, a bright light is turned on above you, and you see that you are laying on a pedestal much like the ones used to showcase the sculptures back at the art museum. Looking down, you see that you’re naked, and look around for something to clothe yourself with, starting to panic when you hear approaching footsteps.

“Ah ah ah,” comes Terry’s familiar voice through the darkness, chiding you. “You stay right where you are.”

You find your body getting heavy, moving to obey and lay back on the cool stone, while your mind distantly questions what is happening. Everything feels foggy, making thinking slow and confusing. Terry emerges from the shadows and approaches you, and while you feel like you should feel embarrassed at him seeing you in this state… you don’t.

“Terry.” You say his name as a sigh, feeling a strong sense of relief and comfort as he comes to stand next to you, staring down into your eyes. Terry would take care of you.

He reaches down, brushing your hair behind your ear, and your body tingles as though a current of electricity was flowing through you, stemming from his fingertips touching your skin. You whole body shivers with desire, gasping at the sensation, and Terry smiles in satisfaction, blue eyes roaming over you with lust. He picks up a paintbrush in one elegant hand, leaning over you and tracing the features of your face with the tip of it. Your eyes… your lips… you fight to keep still.

“Why do you insist on resisting this?” he asks, trailing the brush down your neck slowly, his gaze following the path of the brush with the utmost focus as you turn your head to the side, giving him access to the side of your neck with a soft cry. “Let me give you everything, Y/N.”

“What’s happening?” you ask him, your voice barely more than a whisper. “We shouldn’t be doing this…”

“I believe I told you that one of my vices is the collection of rare and beautiful things, my dear,” Terry croons softly, lightly stroking the paintbrush in circles around your nipples and making you arch your back off the pedestal, a moan escaping your lips.

“You didn’t think that you were an exception to that rule, did you?”

---

You bolt upright in your bed in a cold sweat as you wake up from the dream, panting for breath.

What the hell was that?!

Never in your life have you woken up from a dirty dream like this, flushed and trembling on the edge of an orgasm. Your nipples are prominent through your top, and you can feel the stickiness of your arousal on your thighs. It had felt so real…

No.

There were a dozen reasons why you needed to stop that train of thought immediately. You had to see this man at least one more time while you were here, and needed to be able to act normally around him. You were leaving in less than a week, so nothing could happen; hadn’t you told Terry just a few days ago that you weren’t the kind of person who dated casually while on vacation? And that’s if he would even be interested… No, you weren’t going to go down that road.

You toss and turn, struggling to get comfortable, but your clit is throbbing with a need that you can’t ignore. Flopping onto your back with a huff, you slip a hand into your pyjama bottoms, wanting to bring yourself to orgasm quickly so that you could get some damn sleep. Stubbornly, you think of anyone else, of no one at all, but no matter what you try you can’t seem to reach the peak.

Part of you thinks Terry would find all of this greatly amusing, the smug prick.

Frustrated, you allow yourself to give in, promising yourself that it’s just this once, letting your imagination to pick up where your dream left off. The thought of Terry touching you with his hands, teasing you, looking down at your flushed naked body as you writhe beneath him has you coming quickly and coming hard, unable to prevent the soft moan of his name from pushing past your lips.

Sleep comes to you quickly afterwards, and no more dreams wake you in the night.

---

A clock tower somewhere nearby chimes noon, the day finding you glaring at your phone, placed perfectly in the centre of the table.

You haven’t touched it for hours.

How were you meant to handle this?

You know that you’re an open book, that you wear your heart on your sleeve; your emotions have always seemed to burst out of you. He would notice; he noticed everything.

Why did that dream have to happen? And if it did, why couldn’t it have happened once you were home and having to see him was no longer an issue? Or, better yet, it could have happened sooner, before you’d developed this fun friendship with him. You couldn’t exactly cut contact with him now without him being suspicious, and you had told him you would see him at least one more time as you stepped out of the limo last night.

He had been wonderfully generous with you, with his time and his money and his company. You knew that he was a lonely man, and it seemed cruel to make this connection with him only to rip it away without a moment’s notice. And more than that, you wanted to see him again; he had quickly become a friend, someone you could trust and talk to. Part of you had hoped you’d keep chatting casually, even after you’d gone home.

Stupid, stupid brain.

So, you had to face him at least one more time while you were here, and there was a distinct possibility that he would pick up on your change in demeanour. You were a terrible liar, so where did that leave you?

You groan, throwing things into your bag – trying to forget that Terry had given it to you – and flee from your hotel room, leaving your phone behind you, for once looking for a crowded place to lose yourself in.

Day 9 Terry’s POV

The first thing Terry does upon waking is check his phone, trying to fend off the surge of disappointment in the pit of his stomach as there are zero notifications indicating a text or a call from you. It had been more than twenty-four hours now that he had dropped you off outside your hotel, and he hasn’t heard from you since. Wasn’t your generation obsessed with your phones?

He had waited all day yesterday, anticipating a message from you – a joke, a request, a simple thank you for the night before, but there had been nothing. He had tried not to let it get to him, tried to go about his day as normal, but all he was doing was going through the motions.

He thought he and you were getting closer, making progress, helping you on your way to realizing you had feelings for him. Had he been wrong?

Part of him wondered why he hadn’t just texted you first, but his reasoning was simple; he thought you would call first.

When you hadn’t, it really got his hackles up, and he was too stubborn to make the first move and vie for your attention like some desperate fool, and now here he was, every minute inching closer to two days without hearing from you.

He hates how much you’ve gotten under his skin.

Stupid, stupid brain.

He gets ready for the day, skipping his morning meditation; he knows his mind well enough to know that he can’t focus right now. Instead, he heads to his private dojo, forcing himself to stretch before allowing himself to move through the kata. It was far easier to clear his mind when he had his body to focus on. He supposes it was similar to how you escaped into books…

He clenches his fist, angry that you’ve wormed your way into his thoughts.

He needed them out of his head.

He needed you out of his head.

Walking over to a heavy punching bag, Terry takes a deep breath and assumes the proper stance, planning on fully venting all of his pent up emotions through his fists and feet.

He lays into the bag for a full two minute round, grunting in exertion as he strikes with as much force as he can muster. As he does, he goes through what his former therapist had cited as the ‘5 Stages of Grief’:

Denial. It hasn’t even been two days yet; you didn’t leave for another five. Plenty of time to schedule a liaison with him.

Anger. Who the fuck did you think you were, anyway, stringing him along like this? Using him for his money, his influence and then dropping him the instant you got bored?

Bargaining. Perhaps a big show of his affections, literally sweeping you off your feet was the way to get you to see reason?

Depression. This was pointless; there wasn’t enough time. There had never been enough time. He had been born too soon, and you too late. He wasn’t getting his happily ever after.

Acceptance. He’d been down this road before. Maybe not quite this hard, or quite so fast, but he had survived heartbreak and worse his whole life. He would be fine.

By the end of the round, Terry feels like he has all but resigned himself to his fate. He was too old for love now anyway. He feels better; he might go meditate after all.

Terry takes a seat on the bench to the side of the training mats to slip his shoes back on.

His phone vibrates against the wood beside him and he freezes.

It wasn’t you, he assures himself, feeling his resolve to forget you shatter despite his best efforts.

Sighing, he picks up his phone, preparing to be disappointed by some inconsequential business matter.

Instead, your name flashes onto the screen, notifications for several text messages coming in.

Oh, thank God.

Feeling outright buoyant, he quickly unlocks his phone, eagerly scrolling to your messages:

Is my tour guide up for an adventure tomorrow?

I’m thinking Santa Barbara Botanic Garden? That’s the one you told me about, right?

And you have to let me pay this time or else!

You still wanted him, he thinks, his heart warming as he reads your texts. He watches the three dots dance as you type another message to him. They disappear and reappear before his eyes as you change your mind about what to say again and again, making him chuckle. You seemed to have two modes: racing through things a mile a minute or completely subdued, either asleep or hungover, and you were clearly moving at the former speed this morning.

He hadn’t been to this particular garden in years, but imagined it would be a worthy romantic setting for his next encounter with you. Scenic, expansive enough to ensure they had space to themselves but with enough nooks and crannies that there was potential for… privacy, should the need for it arise. If he had his way, it would.

You seem to have given up on sending a follow up message; Terry can almost picture you pacing around your hotel room, trying to think of something snarky to send him. He can’t resist toying with you:

                                                Or else what?

I scared Victor away, remember? I’m sure I can take you on.

                                                Big talk for such a small                                                 woman. I’m positively                                                 terrified.

You should be.

                                                Chivalry really is dead;                                                 you’re awfully demanding                                                 when you want something.

I’m a modern woman; I’m not afraid to push for what I want. Are you coming or not, Mr. Silver?

                                                Yes, I’ll be there, and I’ll                                                 even let you pay. But I’m                                                 driving. Be ready and                                                 outside your hotel by 9am                                                 …“or else”.

I’m already planning to hide across the street tomorrow morning, just so I can see what the other end of that threat looks like.

                                                Be careful what you wish for,                                                 Y/N, or you might find your                                                 time in L.A. unexpectedly…                                                 extended.

Don’t tempt me with a good time, Terry.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

---

Days 10 & 11 | Day 12-A | Day 12-B | Day 13-A | Day 13-B | Day 13-C | Day 14-A | Day 14-B | Day 14-C

[wallflowergirl2006]

Platonic Turmoil x Reader

(H/L)- Hair Length

(H/C)- Hair Color

(S/C) - Skin Color

Also I inserted myself into the story :3 (Winters isn’t my real last name tho..)

Turmoil and (Y/N) weren’t always the bestest of friends in fact Turmoil would’ve eaten them if it wasn’t for Mara’s interference.

(No one’s POV)

Turmoil was roaming around the place looking for his next meal. He was beyond bored and hungry. He heard the sound of someone talking. He quietly followed the sound of the voice and saw a person with (H/L) (H/C) and (S/C). The person sounded lost and frustrated. He smiled to himself as he slowly snuck up on the person. Once he was close enough he pounced on the person. The person let out a surprise grunt as he made them fall to the ground.

(Y/N’s POV)

I was walking around trying to find Luigi because he wanted to meet up with me but I got lost in this big ass forest. “Luigi is going to be so mad at me..” I said as I pinched the bridge of my nose. I started walking again trying to find some sort of way out of here until I was tackled to the ground. I turned around expecting to see Bowser but I saw an unhinged Mario. Mario then started to try and bite me. I immediately shoved him off of me and started to run away. Mario started chasing after me.

I was a good distance away from him but something grabbed me. I looked to see what grabbed me and I saw Mario pulled me towards me with his tongue. It was like he was acting like a killer yoshi. I was only a few inches away from him until a blur came out of nowhere and Mario let go of me. I got up and saw a woman with light brown skin and shoulder length dark brown hair holding the creepy Mario. “Turmoil No!” The woman said as she held the supposed ‘Turmoil’ to the ground.

Turmoil then ripped the woman’s forearm off and started eating it. The woman screamed in pain from her missing limb. The woman and Turmoil then sat down next to each other. “You little shit.. You didn’t have to rip my whole arm off.” The woman said as tears rolled down her face. “Eh.. you’ll live.” Turmoil said as he continued to eat the poor woman’s arm. I then walked over to both of them. “Who are you?” I asked the woman.

The woman wiped her tears and smiled at me. “Mara Winters.. It’s a pleasure to meet you!” Mara said as she held out her hand. I shook her hand and smiled back. “Thanks for saving me. I owe you one.” I said as I looked at Turmoil. “Don’t worry about it.. Turmoil is a literal menace towards anything he comes across.” Mara said with a smug smirk. “I will bite your ankles and eat your other arm.” Turmoil said with a menacing glare. “Whatever they’ll just grow back..” Mara said as she placed her hands on her hips.

I then noticed that her arm was back. “Huh?! How is your arm back?” I asked Mara in a confused tone. “Okay, so basically.. I found a mushroom that can regenerate your body parts if they’re damaged. As long as my brain stays intact then my body can regenerate.” Mara explained to me. “Oh, cool! What did it look like and are there any more?” I asked her. “Nope! There’s only been one and she found it.” Turmoil said as he stood next to Mara. “Yeah, sorry.. I’ve been searching everywhere for that mushroom and haven’t found any.” Mara said in a slightly disappointed tone.

“Oh, that’s okay.” I said to try and cheer her up. “So, are you two like..?” “Oh heavens no!” Mara said with a disturbed face. “Yeah we’re just friends.. Nothing more than that..” Turmoil said as he looked disgusted by the thought of him and Mara being a couple. “We act more like siblings than lovers.” Turmoil said he crossed his arms over his chest. It was silent for a few seconds. “Well, I better get going.. It was nice meeting you Mara.” I said as I ran off. “Bye!” Mara waved me goodbye.

After that Mara and (Y/N) became friends and they hung out a lot much to Turmoil’s dismay but Mara encouraged him to try and befriend (Y/N) as well. Turmoil wasn’t really too happy about Mara’s idea but eventually he did try the idea and he was surprisingly happy with how chill and accepting (Y/N) was towards him. (Y/N) and Turmoil became friends and they were close enough that they would call themselves best friends.

Turmoil and (Y/N) were sitting together on the couch in Mara’s house. “Hey (Y/N)” Turmoil called out to grab their attention. “Yeah?” “Sorry for trying to eat you that day.” Turmoil apologized to them. (Y/N) was shocked. Turmoil wasn’t the type to apologize for his actions unless he felt like it was a really bad choice or mistake. “I forgive you.” (Y/N) said with a small smile. Turmoil smiled as well. A genuine smile, not his usual creepy one.

“I’m glad we’re friends..” “Me too..”

[greenishghostey]

These are mostly sad tbh. I thought about Eddie’s mum and got SAD

EDIT: I’ve now seen how horribly this is formatted on mobile. I am so sorry oh my god

tw: mention of death, unstable family life, neglect (to an extent), parent death

Eddie was best friends with his mom before she died. Her name was Jennifer and she was the best mom she could be. She worked two jobs, cashier at the grocery store in the mornings and bartending at night to make ends meet because her husband certainly wasn’t going to do it. The constant stress and responsibility of being the backbone and provider for her family made her tired and she fell asleep at the wheel of her car on her way home one night. Eddie was six years old when his mom died and sometimes he worries that it was his fault. He remembers how tired she always looked when she was home and she tried to be home a lot for him. 

Eddie’s dad wasn’t necessarily a “bad guy”, he never raised a hand to his son or his wife or anything like that. Harvey Munson was a spineless coward through and through. He was a pushover when it came to the wrong people and he became a petty criminal as a result. Theft, fraud, gambling, Harvey did it all thinking that he would strike gold and then Jenny wouldn’t need to work anymore. Honestly, he did like Eddie but he had never really wanted a kid, but having Eddie around was helpful when he needed smaller hands and someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions. 

Eddie’s parents had only been together for a short period of time when they found out they were going to have a child. They had a very quick wedding. Jennifer was over the moon that she was going to have her own family. 

Eddie makes sure to never forget what his mom’s voice sounded like. It’s the voice he tries to replicate for female characters when he is DM-ing - slightly raspy but with a distinct warmness that was soothing to listen to as a little boy.

Eddie looks exactly like his mom and bares very little resemblance to any of the Munson side of his family. He’s actually kind of glad that he doesn’t look like his dad because his mom was beautiful so maybe he is too.

[wambsgansshoelaces]

Turmoil; Chapter 9

Roman Roy x Reader

Word Count: 3.518k

You walk slowly back and forth on the cool marble flooring of Shiv’s apartment, trying not to slip on your socks. You're gesturing vaguely at your laptop as you pace, which Roman had gotten to project on her living room TV. You have the spreadsheet of Connor’s financial ruin pulled up, letting everyone mull it over.

“We have many options right now, and all of them are good,” you tell your miniature peanut gallery of the siblings- minus Connor -, plus Gerri and Greg. “We serve Connor. All this does is get him off of our asses, gets us some spending money. Doesn’t eliminate the massive fucking problem that is Logan Roy, doesn’t deal with anything involving Waystar. Purely a ‘fuck you’ to Connor and he goes to jail for five minutes before Daddy bails him out.” You glance around the room, remembering your audience. “Uh, no offence.”

You get a collective grunt from the three siblings, all of them in a similar state of focus. Roman’s sat on the sofa, eyes trained solely on you rather than the presentation. When you catch his gaze, he gives you a nervous smile. You smile back.

“What I think we should do is start building a case against Logan. But we bait him with this fraud to get a stronger case,” you say. “We’re pulling things together. I can see us having an airtight case before the years up.” You pause. “We just, uh, need to finalize the entire… CEO thing.”

The more time you’d spent with the Roys, the more they got along less. With Logan thrown out of the company, ownership, control of the company was up for grabs. Each of the three of them though that they were the right choice. What you saw in Norway, what you saw when you first met Roman, was slowly self destructing.

You’re worried it won’t go back to the way it was before.

The siblings’ banter, their underlying love for one another. You’re not going to hear it again for a while.

The general consensus is that you are to start building a criminal case against Logan Roy. You have to tell yourself that if you fail, on the off chance that this case crumbles under pressure in court, that the rest of your life will with it. Losing to Logan Roy, at anything, has grace consequences. And in this instance? Your career will suffer the most.

Roman’s trying to figure out how to completely disconnect your laptop from the television when Gerri approaches you. You both offer each other soft smiles. You were similar, after all, and although lawyers didn’t get along most of the time, you got the feeling that you’d both give each other grace.

“It’s nice to meet you informally,” she tells you, offering her hand for you to shake. Her grip is firm, it doesn’t falter. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it out to Norway.”

“You didn’t miss much. It was a lot of peacocking, if I’m honest.”

Her voice drops so that only you can hear, even though everyone else is involved in their own business, nowhere near. “There’s a power struggle here. Neither of us are stupid.”

You gather your composure. Maybe this wasn’t the wholesome interaction you’d hoped it’d be. Oh, how you wish strategy would leave you alone. “Mm.”

“And I think, with our lack of familial ties, lack of allegiance, we’re in quite the position to just… make things go our way.”

Your eyes flit about the space around the two of you. Still, nobody’s within earshot. “And what’s our way?”

“The one where we benefit most.” Her gaze shifts from you to Roman, still sat on the couch, your laptop finally disconnected from the TV. As if he can feel your eyes boring into him, he looks up, catching you and Gerri staring. “The one where we have the most control.”

“Since when are you and Gerri all buddy buddy?” he asks the minute you step out of Shiv’s apartment. The bone-chilling January air smacks you in the face, blowing back your hair as you glance at him in the dark.

“We’re not. I met her today.” You simultaneously reach for each other’s hands, curling your fingers together.

“What’d she say?” he asks, voice just barely cracking. He brings his free hand to your intertwined ones, rubbing over the back of your hand in an attempt to warm it.

You don’t answer until you’re both in the car a few moments later, you sitting behind the wheel. “She made an interesting proposition about the entire… succession thing.”

He buckles his seat belt, not taking his eyes off you. “Yeah?”

“That her and I back you so that we have the power when you’re CEO.”

You tear your gaze from his, backing out of the apartment complex’s parking lot and pulling out onto the street. He says nothing for a bit, turning things over in his head.

“I mean, I wouldn’t really be against that,” he says carefully, failing to sound convincing. “I wouldn’t like it, but I mean, CEO, and the two smartest people I know pulling the strings so I don’t fuck up…”

“You’d be fine with that? You wouldn’t want, I don’t know, free will?”

“Well, it’s you and Gerri. Sure, you’ve both had your cold and calculating bullshit, but neither of you are capable of rendering me completely useless.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, glancing at him when you stop at a red light.

He shrugs. “Just that you’re physically incapable of slighting me, because, you know”- he gestures at himself, taking your hand that wasn’t on the steering wheel and planting a kiss on the back of it -“and Gerri doesn’t even have it in her.”

You roll your eyes. “I mean, I could, but I won’t,” you say, teasing. He keeps your hand in his as you drive, night time New York lights blurring by.

“Would you do it, though?” he asks quietly. “Do you think I could do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Am I… am I capable?” You can tell he’s still looking at you, but your eyes are in the road.

“Of course you’re capable,” you say immediately. “But it sounds like you don’t really… want it.”

“I mean, I want it. I want more for myself. I just… don’t really want Waystar. I want more than just fucking around in my stupid fucking office and having… having no substance.” The car’s in the parking garage of your own apartment now, but neither of you make a move to get out. He’s looking straight ahead of him, eyes slightly glazed over. It’s an expression you’ve never seen on him before. He looks troubled, like he’s actually at war with something in his head. “I mean, I feel like a week ago I would’ve strangled you for it. Now, I think about it, and it’s so… so boring.”

Your hands are still wrapped around each other, so you begin stroking small circles into his skin with your thumb. “Boring?”

“Unfulfilling. Dull. Like, what, I make billions of dollars every year for the rest of my life, doing absolutely nothing to earn it, and then I just die? What kind of life is that?”

You turn so that you can face him. “I didn’t know that was on your mind.”

Roman gives a mirthless laugh, bringing your hand to his shoulder. Vaguely aware of what he wants, you rub absently. “I didn’t, either. I don’t know.” His fingers trace over the back of your hand, still staring out the windshield rather than holding your gaze. “You make me feel all of these new things. I’m thinking about so much more, now that I’m taking you seriously.”

“You weren’t taking me serious before?” you ask playfully, trying to lighten the mood. You lean over the center console, using your hand on his shoulder to keep you steady, pressing a hot kiss to his jaw. “In the end, don’t do anything you don’t want to. Life’s not worth it if you’re not happy.”

You step out of the car, and Roman’s not far behind you. “You know,” he begins once you’re both safely inside the apartment, “I have no idea what we’re supposed to do.”

His coat gets tossed into the hallway closet, yours not far behind after he coaxes it off of you. “We’ll just do what we can.”

“You’re not very reassuring,” he mutters, shutting the closet door and pushing past you into the kitchen. You follow, reaching for his shoulders from behind him once he stops at the kitchen counter. He drops his face into his hands, somehow both tensing and relaxing at your touch.

“Roman.” Your thumbs glide over his shoulder blades, and he doesn’t respond. “What’s the actual problem here? We can talk. I’m here for you.”

“He’s my dad, Y/N. In the end he’s still my dad.” You gently knead his shoulders in an attempt to soothe him. He still doesn’t turn to face you. “Which is why it hurts so fuckin’ bad.”

“Tell me what hurts, Roman. We’ll fix it, I’ll fix it.”

“I want… I want him to love me like I love him. But I know-” he chokes on his words, and you realize he’s crying. You falter for barely a moment when he abruptly turns and buries his face into the crook of your neck, wrapping his arms around your back. You feel his tears trickling onto your collarbone, and you feel a twisting in your chest. You cradle the back of his head with one of your hands, the other going to the small of his back. “But I know it’ll never happen.” His grip tightens on you before he continues. “Yeah, that shit with you, and Gerri, and CEO… it sounds so fucking good, but Y/N, when I fucking dreamed of it, the only reason it ever mattered was that it was him. He wanted me there, he thought I was the best. But it was all just a dream, anyway. It doesn’t fucking matter if that’s not how it goes.”

He sobs into your shoulder, and you don’t move. You keep holding him. You’ll hold him until he lets go. You hope he doesn’t.

“We’ll figure something else out, then. It’s okay, Roman, it’s okay.” You press a tentative kiss to the side of his head. “You’re getting yourself worked up. We can talk about this later, yeah?” He pulls away to look at you, waterline still glistening. You cup his face with your hands, thumbing away the stray tears on his cheeks and under his eyes. “Wanna watch that show I was talking about the other day? Make you feel better, take your mind off things?”

He takes a deep, controlling breath, calming himself. “I know a better way we can get me to feel good,” he murmurs, not wasting any more time, taking you by the jaw and pulling your mouth to his. If your first few kisses were careful, arguably sweet, this one was reckless. Roman kisses you without abandon, mushing your lips against his. For the first time, he’s needy, he’s greedy, he’s fucking desperate. Messily, he’d turned the two of you so that your back was to the counter. “Up,” he utters, mouth barely leaving yours. He reaches behind you, barely gesturing at the counter top.

Vaguely, you register, and you brace your hands on his chest and jump, managing to land where he wants you. The counter isn’t that high up- it wasn’t a struggle. Immediately, he’s pressed up against you, hands sliding down your legs to loop them around the part of his torso they are dangling by. While your hands go to cup his face, his slide back up your clothing to settle on your hips.

You kiss him again, and again, and again. The only thing you can hear is the blood rushing through your ears and the soft noises of your lips on his. You pepper kisses onto his lips, and he makes quiet, contented noises. He’s completely relaxed. He’s letting you do whatever the fuck you want.

“Feeling better?” you ask into his mouth before kissing him again, long and deep, fingers digging deeper into his skin.

He groans in response, the vibration against your lips spine-tingling. “So much fucking better.” He pulls his mouth from yours, to your disappointment, and the both of you are panting, vying for air. He doesn’t pull away entirely, instead leaning back in to dot kisses to the corners of your mouth, then down your chin, down your neck. “You look fucking gorgeous from this angle. A fucking goddess among men.”

☾𖤓

When the morning arrives, the two of you are tangled together, your head nestled into his chest, his head atop yours. His arms are wound tightly around you, keeping you flush against him in a refusal to let go. When you wake up, all you can smell is the faint scent of his aftershave from the night before. You never want this to end.

You don’t open your eyes, trying to get even closer to him. You barely rub your cheek against his chest in an attempt to burrow into him. Roman murmurs softly in his sleep, shifting, bringing you with him and pressing his nose into your neck.

His breath fans over your skin, deliciously warm, sweetly soothing. You bring your hand to his cheek, gently stroking, admiring his peace-laden face.

You spend the next half hour like this, just looking at him, reflecting.

Your fiancé. Your Roman.

You’d never expect, in a million years, that this would be how you ended up. You let your fingers trace calming patterns into the crook of his jaw, and he’s practically purring. You savor these fleeting moments, this peace.

It’s like a dream. Everything is in slow motion, and you can feel everything before it happens. You know you’re going to fall for him. You’re going to fall so fucking hard. You’ll scrape your face on the pavement, skid your knees, bleed for him.

Also like a dream is the looming sense of doom. The feeling that you’re grasping at straws, waiting for everything to suddenly slip away. Because you know it will. You know, whatever path you take, it intersects with Logan Roy’s, and there’s quite the conflict in the distance.

Roman grunts from under you, shifting so that you’re laying on the bed rather than him. “Fuckin’ tryna kill me,” he mumbles into your neck. Despite his words, you can feel him smiling into your skin.

“I want all that money of yours,” you tease back, letting him drape an arm over your torso, readjusting so that his face is buried in your chest.

“Mm, don’t act like you don’t already own everything that I do,” he says, sleep still playing with his voice. “God, you could tell me you wanted to live in the White House and I’d blow all my money renting it out for you.”

You laugh airily, and before you know it, you’re both up and about, getting ready for work.

“I forgot to tell you,” he calls from across the apartment, him in the kitchen, you digging around in your closet. “The shareholder thing. Looks like Dad’s trying to rally the troops. He has all the old-timers questioning everything Ken does.”

“Anything from Marcia?” you shout back, finding the outfit you were hunting for.

“She agreed to meet at the firm. Also, I heard from that pompous piece of googly-eyed garbage that Connor’s already had a lawsuit processed. He goes to court in a month or something.”

You stroll out into the living room, watching Roman muck about the kitchen, making breakfast. It smells good, at least, and you can tell he’s melting cheese over eggs while he scrambles them. “Are you talking about Pierce, or Greg?”

“Pierce. I don’t think Greg is that bad…”

You snort, rounding the counter to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Whatever you say.” He turns to briefly smack a kiss onto your cheek in return before getting back to his eggs. "Hopefully your daddy makes a scene.”

“Never refer to him like that again.”

At the firm, you decide that you’re going to pretend to keep working on Connor’s case. You’re itching for shit to hit the fan, to see Logan step in. As far as you know, everything is in place, and you’re getting closer to catching him red handed.

On your office phone’s intercom, your assistant buzzes to get your attention. “Siobhan is here.”

“Send her in, Cherry, thank you!”

When Shiv’s sat across from you, dressed in a power suit, she’s distracted. “I didn’t know you employed solely pretty people.” She gestures at you, then looks back at Cherry’s desk.

You laugh. “I do my best.” You absentmindedly click a pen, turning some thoughts over in your head. “So how are we going to play this?”

Shiv relaxes a bit in her seat, regarding you carefully. “I say we go for the jugular. There’s no reason to go easy.”

You lift a shoulder in a half shrug. “It’s your call.”

Another buzz. “She’s here.”

“Put her in Conference Room C. Love you lots, Cherry.”

Shiv flushes slightly. “Her name is Cherry?”

You shoo her out of her office before she can continue the conversation, and the two of you make your way down the hall. You see her through the glass before you get to the conference room. Marcia sits, hands folded primly in her lap, lips pressed into a thin line. You sit yourself in the chair directly across from her, Shiv following, settling in beside you. She wears a steely expression, her face devoid of emotion.

“Is it really so bad, just telling Dad you don’t want him anymore?” she asks Marcia, leaning back into her chair.

“That is not the topic of today’s conversation,” Marcia manages back, tone icy.

“Before we get to that,” you tell her, “you’re going to have to swear a few oaths. You’re Catholic, aren’t you, Mrs. Roy?”

She nods, hesitant. You reach under the conference table, where a small storage container is attached, and pull out a Bible. You stand, round the table, and make her set her hand on the holy book.

You swear her in, and you’re back in your seat next to Shiv. You fiddle with your pen, as does Shiv with hers. Your notepads are set before you both, at the ready to take notes.

“Just so you remember,” Shiv drawls, “if we find out anything you say here is untrue, you’re in deep shit.”

“Let’s start out easy, light.” You cross your ankles over each other, keeping your eyes on Marcia. “How long have you and your… new friend been seeing each other?”

She sighs, lips pursed. “A little over a year now.”

Shiv’s lips press together, keeping whatever comment she had lined up to herself. Instead, she asks, “What are you aware of, if anything, that my father has done that isn’t… to your taste?”

Marcia takes a moment to respond. “Bribes. Threats. What’s new?”

“You’re going to need to be a bit more specific,” Shiv replies quickly, pen poised over paper.

“Well,” Marcia says, drawing the word out, “he’s had private meetings. With investors, with accountants, with employees. He always has something to hold over them. There is always some hidden record, some bastard child, to bring them to him.”

“And if we were to ask you to remember who some of these people were, would you be able to come up with names?” you ask carefully, glancing down at your empty notepad then back up at Marcia.

“Yes, I’m sure I could.”

You and Shiv both jot things down.

Shiv opens her mouth to continue, but Marcia beats her to it. “There is something important you should know.”

“By all means,” you say, trying to be encouraging.

“I have come to know your first case quite well,” she tells you, averting her gaze. “It is a shame, what happened to you.” You and Shiv exchange a glance. “But despite all of the theatrics my husband enjoys, what he’s presented to you still is not the full truth.” She takes a moment, formulating her next sentences. “It was not Connor committing the fraud. It was Logan. He manufactured evidence, he framed his son, and I… I’m fairly sure the poor boy thinks he committed the crime.”

The room is dead silent for what seems like ages. You don’t know where to look. Your eyes flit from Marcia, who seems to be contemplating something in her head, to Shiv, who looks just as confused, just as off put as you do.

Marcia seems to decide something, then continues speaking. “I have had enough of the drama. I will testify in court against my husband if you help me turn our relationship into a thing of the past.”

You throw Shiv a triumphant look before turning back to Marcia.

“That sounds like quite the respectable deal.”