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#adam x f!detective
lykegenia · 1 year
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The Wayhaven Chronicles Nate Sewell x Leah Kingston Murder Mystery
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The kittens are settled in a spare room, in a large pen made from some of Nate’s spare bookcases with the litter tray in the opposite corner to the cat carrier. Blankets have been scrounged from deep in the warehouse, and Felix has already retrieved a hot water bottle and leaned it, wrapped in a fluffy cushion cover, against the outside of the carrier to keep the little inhabitants warm until they’re old enough to properly generate their own body heat. As Leah watches him peer into the dark interior, she’s reminded of a kid that’s seen the plop of a frog into a pond – or herself, waiting for leftovers to finish spinning in the microwave. Her phone pings just as he turns to Adam with a pout.
“They’re all awake now, why don’t they come out?”
“This is all very new to them,” reminds the ever-patient Nate. “We should give them some time and quiet to get used to being somewhere safe.”
Contrite, the young vampire rocks back on his heels. “We should get them some toys, for when they want to play. And they need names.”
“We should be focussed on the case,” Adam says. He’s stern as ever, but the extra blankets were his idea.
“Tina just sent me Russell Seakirk’s address,” Leah interrupts. “Someone could come with me to check it out.” Nate’s the one she looks at as she says this, but he only has an apologetic smile for her.
“I’ll be more use looking into Agency records in case there is a supernatural connection after all,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck.
It makes sense – they should keep all angles covered, including the ones she can’t put on the murder board at the station – but it doesn’t lessen the brief disappointment that snags in her chest.
Adam clears his throat. “Felix, you go with the Detective.”
“But –”
“The case is the priority.” A pause. “I will see the kittens are cared for.”
A second passes where it looks like Felix will argue, but then he springs up with preternatural speed and beams at Leah instead. “Can I choose the music?” he asks. “I just downloaded a whole load of new songs onto my phone.”
She shrugs. “Sure.” Nessie’s radio is the only thing that works, and she needs to have some noise while she’s driving. Besides, the others all pull faces when they’re asked to go with her instead of using their abilities – even Nate, who isn’t very good at hiding his dubious expressions.
As they step into the corridor, he calls out for them to wait, his long strides closing the distance until Leah has to tilt her head back to look at him.
“I’ll walk you out,” he offers in a low voice.
With Felix on her other side there’s an awkward squeeze to the silence, and she takes out her phone to hide in its sat nav app, plotting the best route to the victim’s house. It’s cowardly, but using work to cover uncertainty in other parts of her life has been a sound strategy in the past.
“How are you feeling about your second murder case?” Nate asks after a moment of walking.
She guiltily slips her phone back into a pocket. “I’ll be happy if we can catch whoever did it.” And if they don’t decide to kidnap me for any creepy science experiments. She squashes down that last part because worry and guilt war so obviously in him whenever anyone mentions Murphy, and because it sounds a bit too much like self-pity for the image of the capable, unconcerned detective that she wants to project. Instead, she tries to focus her mind back on the case. The first few days are the most important. After that, it’s easier for evidence to get lost or hidden, or –
Nate catches her wrist, a casual, brushed touch that halts them both. When Felix looks back to ask why they’re not following, he forestalls the question with a reassuring smile and a flow of words in an unfamiliar, trilling language. The younger vampire frowns briefly, but then shrugs and replies in the same tongue, before flashing a grin at Leah.
“Meet you at the car!” he calls with a wave before vanishing in a blink of superhuman speed.
“That was Echolian, wasn’t it?” she asks Nate. “What did you say to him?”
He ducks his shoulders, his gaze sliding away and then coming to rest on their joined hands. “I told him I wanted a few moments with you to myself.”
“What for?” Her eyebrows twitch together in amusement at how sheepish he looks.
“To tell you how amazing you are,” he purrs, “and how lucky I am to know you.”
A hot, tight wriggle of something uncomfortable makes itself known in the pit of her stomach and she drops her gaze to his chest. It sounds like a line. It sounds like she’s heard it before. “Save it for when I solve the murder.”
“Can you really not see the impact you’ve had on all of us?”
“It’s only been a few months,” she insists.
“I know, but…” He frowns, lips parting as if to say something else until he thinks better of it and instead ghosts the back of a finger along her jaw to tilt her up to face him. “I didn’t just want to say that.” There’s a sly tone in his voice now, a smooth switch from earnest to suave that makes her heart gallop – terror or anticipation, she can’t tell.
“Why else, then?” she asks, breathless as he leans in.
The smile bowing his lips widens. In a detached sort of way, it occurs to her that even if the capillaries in her face weren’t so treacherous, it wouldn’t matter because he can read the rest of her body’s autonomic responses just as easily as the flush in her cheeks. It’s unfair. But she sways forward nonetheless, until his breath feathers against her cheek.
“I wanted to wish you a successful day catching bad guys.” The words are a barely-there murmur.
“Here’s hoping –”
She can’t think of anything more to say beyond that. Her fingertips brush Nate’s elbow, exerting slight pressure, and he takes it as permission to close the gap. She’s not used to kissing him yet, to the eagerness as he presses close, the catch of breath and the rush of heat across her skin. Even when they pull apart, close enough still that she can hear him swallow, it doesn’t feel over. It lingers. His hands are soft on her face, his thumb a slow stroke across her cheek.
A noise from somewhere else in the building jolts her back into reality. Her eyes open to find Nate watching her, with a hungry edge that makes insides squirm.
“Felix is waiting,” she manages, hoarse.
“Will I see you later?” he asks.
The honest answer is that it depends – on what they find, on what else might go wrong – but that might seem too indifferent.
“I hope so.”
He smiles, which means she got the answer right. He darts in for another quick kiss. “Stay safe, Leah.”
“This is Wayhaven,” she points out, and he frowns. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”
“I look forward to it.”
She turns and heads for the car, pulling her phone out of pocket again. Even with her mind settling firmly into the business of the mystery, however, she can’t resist a brief glance back. He’s still standing in the middle of the hallway, his expression not one she’s quick enough to interpret before it melts into a smirk that puts all other thoughts out of her head.
“Let me know if you find anything in the Agency’s files,” she covers, and darts out before waiting for a reply.
--
Russell Seakirk’s home turns out to be a one-bed chalet in a holiday park outside the main part of town, pretty enough, with sky-blue cladding and a varnished deck, and a view out between the trees that border the lake. The gentle lap of water at the shore forms a background to the birdsong and the sound of children playing out of sight behind a rise. After a brief glance over the outside, Leah leads the way to the site office, where the grizzled site manager rises from a book of crossword puzzles to greet them. When his eyes narrow, she knows he recognises her.
“And what can I do for you today, Detective?” he asks with an easy smile.
“One of your tenants,” she answers. “Russell Seakirk. He’s dead. I would like to have a look at his property.”
“Blimey – right, yes. Of course.”
They follow his shuffling steps along the road to an isolated with a clear view over the lake and a small collection of empty plant pots gathered around the front door. It takes a moment for Leah to find the right key from the set Tina took off the body, and a moment more of fiddling before the old lock will turn, and all the while the landlord hovers over her shoulder in a miasma of fresh soap and stale beer.
“Any, uh word on when I can get a new tenant in here?” he checks. “Waiting lists for these babies are a mile long.”
“Our investigation is ongoing,” she replies automatically. Minimal information, not enough to invent details if asked, or to tip off guilty parties. “Any problems with Mr Seakirk?”
“Ar, not really.” The landlord shrugs. “Kept hisself to hisself. Away with the fairies most of the time, if you catch my meaning. Been chasing him for rent. I told him I was keeping count, so long as he made it up in silly season. Don’t suppose I’ll be seeing it now.”
“Silly season?” Felix asks in an undertone.
“When the tourists come,” Leah supplies. It’s a headache every year, the roads clogging with caravans and campers, noise complaints, litter everywhere, and too often a belief that you only need manners if you’re not a paying customer. She shrugs off the thought and steps over the threshold.
The inside is bland, sour, with the air of somewhere barely inhabited. It’s only not a mess because there aren’t enough possessions to cause clutter in the first place, and the few personal touches immediately visible don’t seem to have been picked with an overarching plan in mind, or any particular thought for comfort. A storm lantern stands on a table in case the power goes out; the second-hand furniture in the small living room doesn’t match and looks well worn; the windows are fitted with office blinds instead of curtains. When she tries to open the door further, it’s blocked by the small mountain of unopened mail piled up beneath the letterbox.
She nudges it aside with the side of her foot. “What about the neighbours?”
Another shrug. “Holiday lets. Seakirk’s one of the few who lives – sorry, lived – here year-round, why I gave him a few months’ grace, as it were. It’s not all that pleasant in the winter, but needs must in this economy, eh?”
“Has he always been bad with money?” she asks as she pulls on a pair of forensic gloves.
“I don’t mean to speak bad of him,” comes the reply after a moment. “Didn’t really seem to think of money the way most people do. But it wasn’t so bad, not until a few months ago.”
“What happened a few months ago?” Felix asks. He’s starting to get a feel for investigation.
“Not my business, couldn’t tell you.”
“I see.” She gives the man a smile and passes him her card. “If you think of anything that might be relevant to the investigation, my number’s there.”
He takes the hint, salutes with it. “Will do detective. And, uh… this place…?”
“I’ll let you know,” she assures him.
He nods and tramps away, and she breathes. Felix has already dived in and started rummaging around in the bedroom. Leaving him to it, she flicks through the letters on the doormat. Warning bills, final notices, usual junk. Nothing that stands out, though when she opens the letter at the bottom of the pile it’s dated almost a month and a half ago.
“Find anything?” she calls as she steps into the living room.
“There’s a bunch of ticket stubs and receipts from the museum on the bedside table.” He emerges and holds up a crinkled scrap of paper in an evidence bag. “Is that useful? I used gloves like you told me.”
She nods as she takes the receipts. “It might be somewhere to check out. ‘Vanilla cream latte and flat white with a shot of butterscotch’… someone had a sweet tooth.”
There’s more mess in the living room, books stacked with nowhere else to put them, and all in clear plastic dust jackets with indexing stickers on the spine – from the library. She picks one up and sees a check-out date from weeks ago, without a renewal. Most of the titles seem to be about local and maritime history. The one in her hand has been dog-eared, but a brief scan through doesn’t reveal why, so she shrugs and puts it back on the pile before continuing with the search.
“Let’s see…” she mumbles. “If I were a supernatural living in a tiny trailer who wanted to keep secrets, where would I put them…”
Under the sofa is always a safe bet.
Moving the coffee table aside, she squats down and sticks her arm under the sofa. After a bit of blind patting, her fingertips manage to snag the edge of what feels like a spiral-bound notebook. She stretches further, her position sprawled on the floor hardly dignified, but she can think of worse things she be stuck in up to the shoulder.
“Gotcha.”
When she finally pulls the notebook into the light, there’s nothing remarkable about it, A5 with a pattern of green and yellow fish on the cover – but when she opens it to look inside, a folded piece of paper falls to the floor.
It's a detailed map of the lake. Dozens of circles have been added in black biro, each one labelled in a tiny script she can’t read. More of the same symbols are written into the notebook, and though at first they all seem to swim together, after a moment she recognises where two of them match, and something clicks. The cipher might be beyond her, but the notes are arranged like journal entries, their headings corresponding to labels on the map, with the same strings of symbols repeated next to each other in grids that slowly spiral around a point just off the southwestern shore.
It's a search pattern.
But for what? As far as she can recall, nothing valuable was ever sailed from Wayhaven’s port. Every dockside town boasts local stories of smugglers, but in Wayhaven most of them are focussed on the inlets and forested gullies on the opposite shore, far outside the boundaries of the town itself, where there’s an easier connection to the coast.
She’s peering so closely at the pages she jolts when Felix comes in, holding his nose.
“Whatever you do, don’t go in the kitchen. The fridge is full of fish. With their heads still on.” He shudders. It’s a bit hypocritical coming from someone on an all-blood diet, but she doesn’t comment.
“What do you think of this?” she asks instead, holding the journal up for inspection.
He blinks. “It’s Echolian.” After a moment he takes it, squinting at the words and even turning the notebook upside down.
“You can’t read it?”
“It’s… what’s the word - gibbonish?” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Gibberish?” she asked. “How so?”
A shrug. “The letters are Echolian, but the words aren’t.”
“It’s not English written in Echolian letters?”
“Is that bad?”
Tossing the end of her braid back over her shoulder, she stands and places the notebook into another evidence bag, casting one last glance at the sofa, which is a determined hiding place if not a smart one. Added to the fact that whatever Russell wrote was coded in a language only spoken in a different universe, the care he took in making sure it wasn’t found by any casual observer means it has value. It complicates things.
“I was hoping for just one mystery,” she confides to Felix. “Can Nate read Echolian?”
“Have you met him?” he snorts. “Of course he can.”
She smiles. “Then can you take this to him to decode.”
“Do you think whatever’s in here is why Seakirk was killed?”
“We won’t know until we know what it says,” she answers. It could be entirely coincidental. Her instructor at the academy always delighted in reminding her students that a scratch on a pocket watch might mean anything.
“I’m sure Nate’ll get right on it, especially if I tell him it’s a special request from you,” Felix teases, waggling his eyebrows. “Where are you going next?”
“The station,” she replies. “Hopefully Verda has autopsy results for me.”
Felix wrinkles his nose at that and follows her outside so she can fasten the door. Someone determined would find little trouble forcing the lock, but it should keep at least casual intruders at bay until the city techs can get in to do a sweep. No sense inviting people in to trash the place if the journal really is something to do with the murder.
“You know, you don’t have to wait for me,” she chuckles. “You’ll get to the warehouse much faster if… Felix?”
He’s tense, coiled as if ready to burst into motion, his gaze fixed on the clump of small trees that separates this row of cabins from the next. More so than any of the others, she forgets he’s still a predator. Smoothly, her hand goes to the Volt gun at her hip, watching him, trying to see what he sees.
“Felix?” she repeats.
He starts. “Huh? I thought I saw something. It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?” The last thing she wants is for Trappers to insert themselves into her perfectly normal, not-for-the-Agency case.  
“Yeah,” he replies, with one last look at the copse. “I must just be on edge.”
He shakes himself, but Leah doesn’t turn her back, or take her hand off her gun, as she heads for the car. She’s never faced a supernatural threat without the whole of Unit Bravo as back-up.
“Hey, how about I come with you as far as the station anyway?” he asks.
Her relief shows in a breath. “Want me to listen to more playlists, huh?”
“Wha– oh.” He grins. “You know it.”
She laughs and ducks into the car, but can’t help shake the feeling of eyes on their backs as she starts the ignition and pulls away.
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quickscribe · 11 months
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles - Mishka Jenkins Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Female Detective/Adam du Mortain, Detective/Adam du Mortain Characters: Adam du Mortain, Female Detective (The Wayhaven Chronicles) Summary:
Adam finally surrenders to his feelings for the Detective.
(Spoilers for book 3)
Preview:
It has been two months since Adam and I shared our first and only kiss. I knew what would follow; I knew that giving in would mean letting go. He made that perfectly clear.
"I can only give you this moment."
My need for him was too strong to resist. He told me he couldn't allow me to fall in love with him, but I needed him to know that we were well beyond that point. And the eagerness with which he returned my kiss removed any doubt that he felt the same. The taste of him consumed me, along with every unspoken word his lips betrayed to mine.
It almost felt worth it. Then he left my room.I heard the thud of his knees as they hit the floor outside, heard his body rack with sobs, and my heart broke more than anything he could possibly say or do to me. Guilt overpowered me. What am I doing to him? I never wanted to be the source of his pain, so I took a page from his book and vowed to withdraw from him completely.
It's too bad he was always an unreliable narrator.
It's been two months, and he hasn't moved on. I still find his gaze lingering on me with the same intensity whenever we are near. He still drifts to my side at every opportunity. His fingers still find ways to brush against mine. The only thing that has changed is the way I respond to him. I have refused to entertain my own feelings for him. I no longer hold his gaze. When he closes the distance between us, I retreat. I've even stopped using his first name, referring to him only as "Commanding Agent du Mortain." Meanwhile, I can't remember the last time he referred to me by my title. The sound of my name on his lips used to be a rare treat, and now he uses it with such regularity that I find it's the worst form of torment.
I can't do this anymore. Every day, I deny my own feelings and withhold my own thoughts. No one was meant to live such an inauthentic life. At first, I thought that perhaps he was better at this than I. But the more I pull away, the more he reaches out, confirming he is no more capable of quitting me than I am of quitting him. Meeting his eyes is enough to make my heart sing. Why should I pretend it doesn't? I refuse to indulge in this illusion any further. I would do anything just to see him smile once more.
It's this determination that has brought me to his door.
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grapecaseschoices · 1 year
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bff felix remains the best.
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whereeammii · 2 years
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wip wednesday
no one tagged me i just want to get this out of my drafts
She lifts her heavy skirts, her boots sinking into the mud with each stubborn step away from him. At this point, she couldn’t even bring herself to lament the dirtying of the dress.
Unfortunately, Adam is quick to follow. He’s always quick to follow.
“Detective,” he presses, his voice right behind her and strained with the effort to keep his tone even. “Do you not understand that this is America in the eighteenth century? There is no such thing as an American accent yet.”
“Do you not understand that I don’t care?” Kyla shoots back, throwing the words venomously over her shoulder with a humorless smile.
Adam releases something akin to a strangled groan low in his throat.
“You are infuriating!” He gets through gritted teeth, his jaw tensed.
She scoffs. “And you are intolerable!”
His green eyes look down his Roman nose at her, his pale cheeks flushed a pinch pink with indignation. It blossoms over his face and dips down to his neck as his eyes drop a little lower. He lets go of a heavy breath and heat prickles across her skin. At once, they both turn frustratedly away.
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sophiethewitch1 · 1 month
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What We Want - Chpt. 5 - Meet The Adams Family
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In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe
(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!
SUMMARY
Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.
Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?
As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.
And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.
Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?
(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)
PREV - NEXT
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The first thing you’d done when you woke up, still somehow in the Wayne manor, was pull out not-your phone and check the date. When it tells you that you are not, in fact, in some weird version of a time loop, you feel some measure of relief. The second thing you do is look your own damn name up on Google. There were over 3 million results. You have a Wikipedia page. If that hadn’t made you want to gag, the press from last night had you bumbling your way into the ensuite bathroom and puking into the toilet.
It’s still sitting on the bathroom floor, nauseous and achy and sweaty, your mouth washed out but still tasting foul, that you continue your research.
It’s just as you had suspected, your family was dead. Still dead. Well, shit. In the light of day, you supposed that made more sense. That there was no real reason to assume otherwise. You hadn’t for most of yesterday, but as soon as you’d thought that maybe there was a chance, your hopes had been dashed. Which was good, rip the bandaid off and all.
It was good. Things were good. They were fine, you were fine. You really wish you were a better liar.
Again you wash your mouth out. Root around the cabinets for some medical-grade mouthwash, do it again, and then you throw yourself into the shower. Again. You notice the soap smells like whoever’s clothes you stole. Refreshing and awakening, that mint and earth again. You think you can detect something floral in it too. It’s still masculine, but…
Wow, you are such a freak! You put down the fucking soap and manage to resist the urge to slam your head into the tiles. Your headache was bad enough already.
When you leave the bathroom, you glance at the door, and then down at your towel. Guess you’re stealing some more apparel. You find a Superman shirt, give it a judging glance, and then pick out a black T-shirt with ‘The Beatles’ across the front, and some sweatpants. You have to roll up the pant legs so you don’t trip and fall flat on your face.
One hand scrolling through Twitter and TikTok and Reddit and every single piece of social media you could find, getting the people’s source of news and you get the high overlords’ one when you turn on the huge TV attached to the wall. The remote kind of confuses you at first, but you manage to find the good ol’ Gotham news channel.
Immediately, you’re greeted by your miserable mascara-streaked face. You turn the TV off. You take a deep breath. Turn it back on. Luckily it’s not just you getting your private moment of trauma blasted open in the media. Your party had been filled with Gotham’s elite, after all. You weren’t the only rich idiot left crying by the side of the road.
You weren’t the only one who had to suffer. There had been twenty-eight casualties, in total. A small amount, considering the man behind the deaths. The Joker wasn’t known for his cleanliness. You tell yourself that, and yet still, you can’t make them just numbers. They’d been standing right next to you, after all. All in the same boat, all waiting for the axe to swing, secretly hoping you’re the one who lives to the next day. Only one of the party guests had been shot, and that’s because you think they’d personally pissed off the Joker. That’s what Twitter says, anyway. There were multiple video recordings of the altercation, and it didn’t look like he’d been the smartest banana in the bunch. The TV is a lot sweeter on the dead soul.
You feel sorry for all the dead. You still don’t think this rich heir should be the face you see, though. When you check his name, you find several forgotten assault cases. Assault, rape, just like that disappearing bastard had tried to do to you. That female janitor you’d seen shot had done more for this city than that guy ever had.
Did her family know? Did she have a family? Someone to mourn her? You’d never thought about that before. How many people out there wouldn’t have anyone to even remember them?
It’s none of your business, in the end.
After a whiles more research, you switch the TV off and tuck your cracked phone into the sweatpants. You know where your mother’s grave is, on the west side of the estate. Wikipedia knew all, which was now kind of creepy to you as it knew all about you as well. Really, you couldn’t believe it. Your mother, buried with the Waynes? You’d always thought she should find someone new, someone who’d appreciate her, unlike your father who had dipped as soon as Sam was born.
You couldn’t even remember the guy. Still, you remembered that he’d smelled bad and made your Mum do everything, and was just generally all around the worst choice for a husband.
But, Jesus Christ, Bruce Wayne? Absolute insanity. You had no idea how the two of them would’ve even met. Let alone fall in love and get married. Your mother was one of the loveliest women on earth but… they had absolutely nothing in common, other than having troublesome kids. And you hadn’t seen her getting lovey-dovey with the other PTA mums.
You walk out of the room you’ve borrowed and into the hallway. In the light of day, the Wayne manor is much less creepy, and you can find it in yourself to appreciate the antique space. Warm sunlight falls over dark oak furniture, illuminating your bare feet as you walk along the Persian rug. Your fingers trail along all the tiny little decorations, some annoying part of you demanding you leave traces of yourself behind. Your fingerprints dirty an old clock, a golden candelabra, a lamp and a tiny spinning globe.
You might’ve gotten lost in a place this huge if you couldn’t hear people’s voices floating down the halls. They were too far away for you to be able to tell what they were saying, but you could still hear them. They’re to the west, so you’re definitely going to have to go past them.
You follow the voices and eventually come to a stop in a hallway. You can smell food. Good, real food. The type that makes your instant-ramen-powered body salivate. The people are in the kitchen, right around the corner. You duck your head and quickly sneak past the mostly closed doorway. On the other side, you pause, your curious self unable to leave just yet.
“She needs help,” Bruce says, and you mentally curse. Balls. You didn’t want to hear this. You guess this was instant karma for snooping. Maybe they weren’t talking about you?
Why did that sound very unlikely…
“She went through a lot last night,” he continues, which, well, yes, you did go through a lot, “And he said that she saw a woman get shot right in front of her. It makes sense if she doesn’t want to talk yet.”
He? Who’s he? Who ratted you out? Wait, dumb question, the four other witnesses who saw the janitor get shot. You were still pretty sure the Waynes weren’t supposed to know that, but everybody knew those GCPD pigs were always just a dollar away from whatever you wanted them to do. It’s not surprising that the Waynes know details only the police should know at the moment.
…It is a bit disappointing, though. You chose to have hope in them, that they’d gotten that information legally. Your fatal obsession with the Waynes wasn’t going to disappear after one miserable party. You wished it would.
“She was acting strange before that,” Timothy Jackson Drake’s smooth voice drifts from the kitchen. You were still a little starry-eyed over him, which was… bad, you think. It’d definitely make whatever relationship the two of you had been forced into a whole lot more difficult. It did not need to be any more difficult.
“Are you accusing her of something?” Bruce Thomas Wayne’s voice is gravelly in comparison, angry, maybe. Also, ‘accusing’? What could he even be accusing you of? It was pretty obvious you weren’t capable of anything nefarious, you were far too stupid for that. You were a plastic bag drifting along the Gotham river, barely able to affect which direction you flowed in.
“God no. And I definitely wouldn’t do it with her listening, that’d be rude.”
Your breath hitches, and you push off from the wall. Busted, damn. Your face feels unbelievably hot. As you leave, you can hear Mr Wayne scolding his adopted son. You walk until you can’t hear their voices anymore, and then a little further, finding an exit door.
You stumble out onto a stone staircase, probably a servants’ one in the olden days. You move down it, hand gripping the railing. You’re barely conscious of where you’re going. There’s a path that leads away from the stone manor and further into the estate, and you follow it. When you spot a small gated area, with stone obelisks and angel statues, you veer off the path and onto the grass.
Hissing out a breath, it’s only now you realise you went outside without any shoes on. Your toes curl in the cold, wet grass. It’s a miserable feeling, and you want to walk right back inside. And then you think about the awkward conversation waiting for you, take a breath and keep going. The gates swing open easily under your hand, the golden embossed ‘W’ glinting in the light.
A guardian angel stands before you. Its stone face is disapproving, glaring down at you from above. ‘Interloper,’ it calls you, but you move past it without pausing. It’s pretty obvious which graves are the new ones and which are the old ones. They’re all clean and well-kept, but the ones to the left have dates going back hundreds of years, and the ones to the right only decades. Your eyes follow the rows of graves. Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne…
Your breath whistles out of you, nearly muffled by the grey morning wind.
And your mother. She has a different last name, now another Wayne. Your siblings don’t, which makes sense. You’re surprised to find many of your extended family also in this graveyard. Your grandmother. Your uncle and aunt. A few of your cousins.
It’s cold this morning, and you’re out here with only a thin T-shirt on. Shivering, you rub your palms against your bare arms. It doesn’t do much. Still, you don’t want to go inside yet. Instead, you crouch in front of Sam’s grave, eyes reading the tiny epitaph. It’s not the one you wrote.
‘Beloved Son and Brother.’
Simple, clean-cut, formal… unfamiliar, you suppose. Yours had been much more flowery, ‘All the colour in the world is gone without you’. It was a bit silly, but you’d never said you were a poet. You’d just known you’d wanted something that represented them, if poorly.
Sam was a beloved son and brother. But that wasn’t who he chose to be. He liked colours. He’d change his favourite every other day, so he liked everything rainbow. It made it easier to choose which one he’d like next, he said. You were always buying him more and more coloured pencils because he’d wear them all down to the tips, he dyed the cat a bright red headache, much to your mother’s horror, and considered it his personal job to make every single birthday, christmas, and easter card. He’d paint on the walls in washable markers, and you’d often been the one to volunteer to help him get it all down. In school, he always had the best art project out of the entire class, even if you were slightly biased.
He was a colourful kid. He wasn’t… a plain grey tombstone. Nothing to help remember him, because you were always losing more and more of their precious memories.
The others had similarly impersonal graves. Just what they were, not who. Mother, sister. Nothing that spoke of how they’d lived their lives, what the world had lost when they’d died. It was… you didn’t think it was right. It was a disaster, really. Even when you’d had to rely on the Wanye Foundation donations, you’d managed a better resting place than this.
You suppose you’d never gotten them into the Wayne family’s personal graveyard, though. That was a bit of an upgrade, you guess.
“You need to come back inside. You’re worrying my father.”
“Jesus Christ!” you shriek, leaping backward. Your foot catches on one of the cobblestones, and you end up tipping back farther than you mean to, your ass bruising against the ground. You bump another gravestone, and there’s a horrible moment where it gives a little and you think it’s going to knock over.
It doesn’t. A shining miracle on your day.
From your slightly wet seat on the ground, you look up, finding one such Damian Al Ghul-Wayne. His towering height is the first thing you notice, second his stunning emerald green eyes. Both were incredibly shocking in their own ways, but his height really was almost dizzying. Perfect brown skin and a stylish 'long on the top, short on the sides’ black haircut, paired with the sort of face some European model might have, all come together to make sure you feel as pathetic as possible. His posh-looking outfit doesn’t help.
Neither does the fact he just watches you. He doesn’t even pretend to bend over to help you up. Which you’re sort of grateful for, honestly. It’d just make you more embarrassed. You didn’t know if you could hold the hand of your celebrity crush and… well, be normal. Pretend to be normal. You weren’t doing a very good job of it anyway.
You have to wonder, which was the worst introduction? The drunk, the bloody, or the one where you fell on your ass? God, you really are screwing this all the way up. You wonder how you’re inevitably going to make it even worse. There’s a part of you that desperately doesn’t want to meet any of the other Waynes, even as another part of you is screaming that it needs to.
If they knew they had a fangirl in their graveyard, you’re sure they’d kick you out. That was why you were lying about everything, not because you had intimacy issues.
Stop thinking, you idiot! You’re only making things more difficult for yourself with all your worrying and fretting. And maybe you should get off the ground, you looked stupid. You push to your feet, wiping your dirtied hands on the sweats.
He still doesn’t say anything when you stand, still just staring at you. His open staring is far too intimidating, so you scrounge for something to say.
“Your father? You- Is he alright?” you stammer over your words, giving Damian Wayne an awkward smile. He doesn’t return it, instead canting his head towards one of the windows.
You look toward where Damian Wayne gestured to, find nothing but an empty window frame, and then back to the ridiculously tall man. You swear, the guy had grown like a bean pole. He had to be something ridiculous, like 6’5, or maybe more. You were fairly certain you’d been taller than him at twelve, or thirteen, whenever it was he was first introduced to the world as Damian Wayne. Now, now… not so much.
“There’s nobody in there?” you ask, like you’re questioning your sanity. You are.
“My father’s shy,” He says, coolly shrugging one shoulder.
What. Bruce Wayne? Shy? Was he joking or something?
Damian Wayne stares down at you with narrowed green eyes, and dark brows in a harsh frown. His arms are crossed over his rich kid sweater, shiny black shoes tapping against the cobbles. That’s not the face of someone who makes jokes, you think.
You swallow, mind whirring as you try desperately to fix this conversation, “Right. Okay. I’ll… I’ll come back inside, then. Sorry for bothering you guys.”
He keeps staring at you. He doesn’t seem bothered.
“Sorry for bothering him?” you correct.
Damian gives one slow, cat-like blink of his eyes, and then turns with a tsk and walks away. It takes you a moment to realise you’re meant to follow him. It takes you even longer to actually catch up with him because he’s so fucking tall.
On TV he didn’t look this tall. You feel kind of betrayed, which is weird.
As you’re walking along, getting closer back to the manor, a stick or something pokes you in the foot. You curse, grabbing your foot. Thankfully you don’t start bleeding or something. You’d already be tracking dirt all over the inside of the impeccable space, you didn’t want to bring blood in as well. It takes a moment for you to realise the sound of Damian’s footsteps crunching in the grass has stopped, and you glance up.
He’s staring right at you again. He looks even less impressed with you, raising an eyebrow and mouth ticking downward. You put your foot down and tuck your hands behind your back in a very obvious anxious display.
“You went outside not wearing any shoes?” Damian Wayne asks, incredulous.
“I was… yeah, I forgot to,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. Not your best moment, but you weren’t really having any of those today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Maybe you should stop thinking about that, actually.
“That’s disgusting,” The young Wayne sneers, and then turns and gives you his shoulder.
You think your heart maybe cracks a little. Well, they do say to never meet your idols. Maybe whoever wrote that quote had you in mind specifically, because now you were in… this situation. Ex-step-sister. If that was a thing. Your Wikipedia page said that you said that a lot, very insistent that you had absolutely nothing to do with the Waynes.
…It didn’t really look like you had nothing to do with the Waynes, from an outsider's perspective. Which obviously didn’t make any sense, since you were… you. You were not an outsider, not anymore.
This was too complicated. You needed a coffee. With like, so much sugar it’ll make you bounce from the walls.
Damian strides up the side entrance’s staircase and through the door, leaving it open for you to follow through. You hesitate at the doorway, looking over your shoulder to the graveyard. The statue calls you names in the distance, and although you feel like a stranger who doesn’t belong here, you manage to step back into the house.
You force yourself to walk through the hallway and into the kitchen, fists clenched tight at your side and your shoulders bunched up to your ears. Bruce Thomas Wayne, Timothy Jackson Drake, and the butler from earlier. Damian Al Ghul Wayne steps around the trio, picking some drink from the counter and moving to sit at the dining table at the edge of the room. There’s an open book on the table that he starts flicking through, and well, apparently that’s the end of your first conversation with the youngest Wayne.
You did… well, alright might be pushing it. You're still going to say you did alright.
Tim Drake gives you a sweet smile, catching your attention. The silky raven hair of his heart-shaped fringe falls over his beautiful, pale face, and for a moment there you totally forget that he’d called you out earlier like that. Which was just, such an odd thing to do. His hand lifts to scratch at the buzz cut under the floppy strands of hair. The movement mesmerises you. You look away from his sky blue eyes, very quickly realising they’re robbing you of the few remaining brain cells you have. And you need those, damn it. Especially because you’d already made the decision to hide from all your problems like a baby. Negative, negative…
“How’re you doing today?” Tim asks you, giving you a friendly greeting. It’s a welcome olive branch.
“I’m good,” you lie like you breathe, eyes glancing around the space. Bruce Wayne has his phone out and a mug of coffee in his hands. He sips from the cup, his focus swallowed by the tiny screen. You glance back over to Damian Wayne. Huh, it really does run in the family.
Your neck prickles, and you glance back at Tim again. You get a brief vision of his tired, unsmiling expression, and then it’s back to the angelic and gentle smile. You smile back at him, a wretched, awful twisting of the lips that you hope doesn’t look like a grimace.
Tim’s smile turns into a grin. It’s really too pretty and makes you shift in your seat uncomfortably. Damn it all, look away!
“Would you like some breakfast, young miss? I’m afraid we’ve run out of pancakes, but I’d be happy to make some more for you,” the butler says in an awfully familiar British accent. You think you know this person, but you can not remember from where. Shit. Your memory was bad on the best of days, much less after… after an event like last night.
Anyway, the food from earlier had been pancakes. Despite the delicious scent, you really didn’t want to make him make any more food for you. You felt like you were intruding as it was.
“Do you have any toast, or… cereal?” you suggest instead, wondering if rich people even bother with cereal. The butler chuckles, and you think, ‘Oh, yeah, probably not’.
“We have both, miss. Master Grayson has a particular fondness for cereal, in fact,” he informs you, which, oh, cool. You did in fact know that, you stalker you. You’d totally forgotten about that weird fact or the weird fact that you knew that weird fact. Dick Grayson has an Instagram where he posts reviews of different cereals, which of course you have notifications on for.
“It’s more of an obsession,” Tim says, resting his palm in his hand as he… continues to stare at you. Nobody else thinks his ogling is strange, so you try to ignore it as well. Try is the choice word.
“I like cereal too. It’s normal,” you say in defence of Dick, a natural and instinctual urge.
And apparently, the fact that you like cereal is fucking shocking, judging from the open-mouth looks the group gives you. Oh no, you’re supposed to hate him, right? You’re supposed to hate them all, actually. What had you called him on your phone? Something about being annoying and a dickhead?
Swallowing your inner scream, you move around the counter and towards the cupboards. Whatever, they’ll have to deal with this new and improved version of you, which didn’t despise everyone in the room. Along with being a terrible liar, you were also pretty bad at keeping secrets.
You don’t want to think about that, so instead you turn to Alfred.
“So,” you start, “Can I see your cereal collection?” you ask, like a totally normal person. Man, this cupboard’s looking pretty head-smashable right now.
This family has more tact than yours did, because they all manage to put their eyes back to what they were doing and pretend you weren’t acting really, really out of character. Rich people. They’re good at overlooking the crazy.
“Of course,” the butler clears his throat, “In here, you’ll find Master Dick’s collection-” score! Not another fan can claim this right, “-and in the fridge a carton of milk. Are you sure I couldn’t serve it for you, miss? I understand you might still be a little…”
His voice trails off. Little what?
He glances at the others and then leans in close like he’s going to tell you a secret. Behind a hand, he whispers, “Hungover.”
Ah. Well, yes, but you were a big girl who could make her cereal, even on hangover days. Kind of embarrassing it was that obvious, though. You were usually better at hiding how much of a mess you were.
“I’ll be fine, thank you,” you say, and the butler nods and backs off. You’re pretty sure at this point that he was the one who called you yesterday morning, but you still couldn’t quite recall his name. When you were out of sight, you’d check your phone for his contact information.
See? You could do this. Stealthy.
As you start perusing through the cereal options, Tim gets up from his spot by the counter and comes to stand next to you at the breakfast bar. He heads straight to the coffee machine, and you glance at it longingly.
It’s one of those cafe-quality fancy espresso makers, with an Italian name embossed in silver on the top. Tim manipulates the machine like a master, which you’re very jealous of because it might as well be alien technology to you. You miss your shitty drip coffee, at least that dingy little machine was loyal to you. Better than George.
“Coffee?” Tim Drake offers, glancing at you. Ah, the starry eyes are back. While Damian Wayne had been a mildly disappointing introduction, Mr. Drake was just reinforcing your celebrity worship. And of course, because your brain works against you, his offer reminds you of the daydreams you’d had on your first twenty-first birthday. Coffee shop au real person fiction- a new low, even for you.
Flustered, you look up at the ceiling. The old mansion is decorated in every single available corner, the plaster above spreading across the entire surface with delicate filigree and pretty curling patterns. It’s gorgeous, absolutely entrancing. That’s what you tell yourself at least.
“Please,” you say, your voice just the slightest bit too quiet. He hears you anyway.
It’s surprisingly domestic. Of course, you don’t know any of these people past face value and Wired YouTube interviews, but… it’s quite indulgent. This is sort of your dream, isn’t it? A full house of people enjoying their morning together. Peaceful bird song drifting in through open windows. The comfort of being around people you trust, not having to perform or put on a show. Well, you are very much putting on a show right now. It’s the thought that counts, or whatever.
“What would you like in it? We have sugar, milk, oat milk, and I like having a few syrups on hand,” Tim chatters excitedly, listing off the different ingredients he has on offer. Your poor ass stares at his rich one, and you are very rudely reminded these people live in different tax brackets than you.
Who the fuck had coffee syrups in their house? You could barely afford the little treats of caramel syrup you get every couple of months. The disappearance of the middle class was one you had witnessed personally.
You rattle off a very basic, bland order. Tim looks sort of disappointed in you which… well, you could be a coffee snob. You just didn’t have the time, usually. A flat white kept you going through the day, you didn’t need anything else. And so, Tim hands you a very bland coffee, and it is god sent. You can’t imagine how good it would be if you had mustered up your courage and asked for some caramel syrup.
Huh, you could be a coffee snob. You could be anything you wanted, really. And your first thought is being a coffee snob. Good God.
“Are you going to be staying?“ Bruce Wayne asks, immediately putting you on the spot. You weren’t ready for this, you were thinking about the coffees you could buy. Oh no, you really aren’t ready for this.
“At least for now, right?” Tim Drake says, just making it all the more stressful. You let out an awkward chuckle, fingers tight around your drink.
“Oh, I don’t want to be an inconvenience-”
Damian Wayne slams his mug down on the table, so hard a crack splinters up its side. He picks the cup up, strides across the kitchen, narrowed green eyes meeting yours for a second, and then he dumps the cup in a secret rubbish can. He murmurs an apology to the butler and then is out of the room.
Okay, well, you certainly feel like an inconvenience.
The butler clears his throat, and says, “Please forgive young master Damian. He’s been having a difficult time recently, I hope you can understand.”
And you think, ‘bitch, a difficult time?! He’s not the one who almost died last night!’ but what you say is, “Of course, I completely understand. I don’t want to bother him anymore so I’d really like to leave today.”
Mr. Wayne laces his fingers together, blue eyes giving you an assessing look.
“Stay for the day, and you can leave tonight. I want to make sure you’re truly alright,” he eventually says, and the mere presence of the man has you yielding to his commands. Didn’t really matter you were an adult who’d managed to survive this long on your own, you were listening to the big scary guy when he told you what to do.
Well, that’s that! You make your cereal and have a very quiet breakfast. You can’t tell if they’re being quiet because you’re here, or if mornings are usually like this. You hope they’re usually like this. Once you’ve finished your very nice cereal (one of the highest rated on Dick’s Instagram) you place the bowl by the sink. You want to wash it, but when you ask Alfred he gives you a look like you kicked his dog. Okay, you’ll just go then.
You’re about to sneak away, when you realise Tim’s staring at you… again…? But this time he seems quite focused on your clothing. His eyes follow the double lines on the side of your sweatpants, before settling on the Beatles logo on your shirt. He hums at it. Raises his brows.
“I’m sorry, I borrowed this because I didn’t have any other clothes. Is there something wrong with me wearing this?” you ask, and then experience a moment of horror, “This doesn’t belong to you, does it?”
“Hmm?” Tim chirps, “Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s not mine.”
And then he turns away from you in a very clear dismissal. Nice, you really wanted to go hide for an hour or two. With one last awkward wave to Bruce Thomas Wayne, you scurry out of the kitchen and back to the bedroom you’d started thinking of as yours. You need to figure out how you're going to handle all this, and you're going to do it alone. Maybe with some dessert, if you can find it. You wouldn't say you think better with sugar running in your veins, but it definitely makes you more willing to deal with the bullshit that is your life. Hopefully it'd work in your new one, too.
-
Tim listens to your retreating footsteps, waiting till you’re far enough away to begin talking to Bruce. Humans were creatures of habit, so you’d probably be going back to the same room you slept in last night. He thinks Damian and him were the only ones who noticed whose shirt you were wearing, B’s off his game today. You’ve really managed to mess him up, to Tim’s delight.
“See? Dames was totally fine with her being here,” Tim says, cheerily enjoying his youngest sibling’s suffering. Bruce sighs, witheringly, lifting his hand to rub against the headache he always has. He’s probably noticed the excited, slightly fanatic gleam that’s entered into Tim’s eyes.
It was sort of obvious. This was all so exciting! You’d come back, sporting absolutely none of the defensive vitriol you usually have, and ate breakfast together. You took a coffee out of Tim’s hands. You’d willingly spoken to the devil, who everybody in the family knew hated you as much as you hated him, and even more than that-
You’d spoken to Bruce. Tim was sporting the idea that you’d gotten head trauma, at this point in time.
“Okay, fine. You get the mission, but-” Tim has to resist the urge to clap his hands together like a gleeful child “-but no extra cameras. I’m serious, Tim, if I find out you’ve invaded her privacy just after she’s starting to warm up to us again-”
“She wouldn’t know,” Tim complains, cutting the Bat off with a roll of his eyes.
“She’s smarter than you’d think,” Bruce shakes his head. Tim has to disagree, after the catastrophe that was last night. Unless of course, you were just playing with them all. So many options, it’s dizzying.
“We’ll shelve that argument for later. So, I want full control of the case, and in turn, I’ll do another two weeks as CEO,” Tim waves off Bruce’s complaints, going straight into haggling. The CEO position was tossed between the two of them like a hot potato, and it was one of Tim’s favourite bargaining tools.
“I am absolutely not agreeing to that, a month and nothing less.”
“This is why half your children don’t talk to you, but sure, whatever. Chase away your last, loyal loving son-”
“My God, Tim. Three fucking weeks, and if I hear another word I will hand this matter over to Grayson,” Bruce sighs, sounding a bit defeated.
Tim gives an offended gasp, placing his hand against his chest. And then he realises Bruce might actually be serious, and freaks out a bit.
“He’d be bad for it. Far too personally involved. You definitely don’t want to do that,” he says, leg bouncing under the table. Of course, the Bat notices, but he doesn’t mention it. He wouldn’t take this from Tim, they both knew he was getting too frazzled around the edges. He needed something to focus on, to ground him.
You were the perfect project. He loved his projects.
“I am aware. But the girls are out of town, and uncontactable. And I think if I gave Damian this assignment the two of them would kill each other.”
“No Jason option, sir?” Tim says because he’s a shit-stirrer and wants to get to work.
Tim succeeds in chasing Bruce away. He’s left to have his coffee in peace as the old man quickly flees the room at the mention of the son he's on the worst terms with. For the next few hours, Tim taps away on his computer, enjoying his time.
And when the front doors open, his ears prick, and a decidedly evil grin spreads on his face.
“I’m home!” Dick calls out, words travelling through the grand manor.
Tim gets up from his seat and wanders leisurely to the main hall, where Dick stands. He’s got a suitcase by his side, filled with all the things he’s brought up from the Blud. When he spots Tim, Dick’s face spreads in a familiar sunny smile. He quickly rushes to Tim’s side, swallowing the younger brother in a hug. Tim groans at the tight squeezing.
Despite his clinginess, it was good to see him. His tanned skin glowed healthily, and his curly black hair was messy over his brow. Sapphire blue eyes sparkled. He was happy to be home, despite everything that was going on. Dick always looked like he’d just gotten back from a run because he usually had. It was hard to get the guy to sit still for even a minute, much less stop parkouring over every imaginable surface.
“Tim! How’s it been? Ah, it’s so good to be home,” Dick starts, and again, Tim groans. When Dick starts yammering he never stops.
“I’m good, man. We can talk later, you should go put your things away before Alfred does,” Tim reminds Dick, and Dick pouts. It was a general rule that unless it was cooking, the family wasn’t supposed to rely on Alfred for everything.
“Alright, alright. I’ll be down in a minute! I have so much to tell you,” Dick relents, hand lifting to mess with his hair. Tim pushes him off, glaring at the man, and Dick laughs.
Tim gives Dick a tired wave as the gymnast bounds up the stairs to his bedroom. Tim watches him disappear down the hallways, and thinks, ‘I wish I could see this happen.’ He sighs, guess he’ll just have to hear Dick retell the story later. The distant sound of your shrieking voice has him chuckling. Yeah, he’ll hear about it later, he’s sure.
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MASTERLIST - NEXT
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thechaoticdruid · 2 months
Text
[Firsts 2/2]
Pairing: Astarion x Named! F!Tav
Plot: Winnie and the party have infiltrated the Goblin Camp and are on their way to rescue the Archdruid Halsin. Astarion's flirtations are just as persistent as ever, leading to a spicy proposition later at the tiefling party.
Content/Warnings: MDNI SMUT THERE IS SMUT!Fantasy bigotry towards goblins, violence with light gore, goblin death, sexual humor, heavy sexual content post tiefling party, virginity loss, PiV sex, fingering, ass grabbing, finger licking, blood drinking, errors may be possible, ooc moments probably. This part is LONG as fuck, 7, 570 words. Also no smut till the end btw, but plenty of horny teasing. Oh right forgot to add a warning for brief descriptions of torture (goblin camp shenanigans) and allusions to Astarion's trauma. I was tired last night while writing this .
First part: [1/2]
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Great, goblins. It just had to be goblins.
Winnie let out an internal sigh as her and the rest of the party entered the heart of the goblin camp. 
The sounds of drums filled her ears as she looked over the chaos before her. She recognized someone up on a stage, a bard she'd previously met in the druid’s grove. Looks like he didn't heed her warning about goblins. 
Typical. No one ever listens. 
Winnie turned back as she noticed her companions making observations. Shadowheart was inspecting the merchant goblin’s wares while Lae’zel sneered at the little green humanoids. Astarion on the other hand looked positively thrilled at all the chaos.  
“Ah, drink it in. That sweet sweet chaos!” Astarion grinned from ear to ear. “Not that I approve of goblins of course, filthy little beasts, but I absolutely love all this delicious debauchery!” 
“Keep your guard up, Star. I wouldn't trust the goblins with a pair of scissors.” Winnie muttered quietly. 
“Do I detect a hint of bigotry from our righteous little heroine, hm?” Astarion smirked at Winnie, an eyebrow raised and a glint of mischief in his eyes. 
“I don't have a problem with goblins, as long as they don't plan on murdering innocents, which this horde obviously is.” Winnie murmured, crossing her arms and looking off to the side. While Winnie was correct, the horde seemed very intent on slaughtering the druid’s grove; it didn't excuse the fact that Winnie had indeed lied about not having a problem with goblins. Ever since they'd reached the blighted village a few days back she'd constantly kept a sharp eye on the little green humanoids, preferring to stay as far from them as she could. It was an aversion that Astarion was quick to prod at since the human female had previously been quite adamant at calling out his prejudice towards gnomes and gur. (Winnie honestly had gotten rather offended considering some of her closest friends had been gnomes!)  But similar to Astarion, Winnie had a history with goblins so to speak. Just the sight of them was enough to make her uncomfortable.
The past wasn't important now. Winnie had to remind herself of that. What was important is finding the druid Halsin and hopefully a cure for their parasites.  Winnie looked around the camp, checking to see if there had been any sign of a cage or anything they could keep the druid captive in, but as she continued to find no luck it was clear that their search would need to go deeper within the goblins domain.
The camp itself surrounded an old Selunite temple that the goblins had appeared to have taken up residence in.  As Winnie began to head towards the entrance she ended up bumping into one of the goblins who'd been telling a story to his friends.
“HEY WATCH WHERE-” The goblin glanced up and quickly looked over Winnie, getting a good look at her. “Another human! You lot think you're so high and mighty! Coming in here like you own the place!” The goblin snarled,”well you ain't nothing!” 
Winnie just looked at the little green man with a blank stare. She rolled her eyes before turning to walk away, not about the goblin bate her into a fight.  As she began to walk off the goblin blinked in confusion. “HEY I WAS TALKING TO YOU HUMAN!” The goblin quickly went after Winnie, kicking her feet out from under her. Winnie fell to the ground with a grunt, just barely able to stop herself from landing flat on her face. Her hands were skint slightly, stinging from the empact. A small cut formed on one of her index fingers, drawing blood. Astarion quickly whipped his head over from where he'd been. The human’s sweet intoxicating ichor immediately delights his senses. 
The goblin moved in front of Winnie, eyes narrowed at her. “Someone outta teach you respect.” The goblin suddenly kicked her chin, “kiss my foot!” 
Winnie flinched from the kick, her chin throbbed as she let out a pained whimper. Her fuschia colored eyes glanced back at the goblins' feet.
“Kiss it!” He said again.
“Chk! Don't you dare!” Lae'zel hissed from the side while Astarion and Shadowheart watched in amusement. Winnie leaned her head over towards the goblin’s foot, her mouth was inches away from it. She actually looked as if she was about to press her lips to it before suddenly she jerked her head forward and sank her teeth down into the goblin’s ankle with enough force to break through the skin and draw blood.
“Ahhhhhhh!!!!” The goblin suddenly screamed, “get the hells off me!” 
Winnie pulled back and sat up, spitting goblin blood out of her mouth and wiping off her chin. She had left a deep bloody bite mark around the goblins ankle. Astarion let out a laugh at Winnie’s antics. 
“Usually biting is my specialty, but I must admit it does rather suit you, darling.” 
“You'll pay for that you human bitch!” The goblin suddenly unsheathed his scimitar and took a stab at Winnie. Quickly she dodged out of the way before taking the opportunity to land a swift kick on the goblin’s bleeding ankle. 
“Godsdamnit!!!” He clutched his ankle before then losing his balance and falling to the ground. 
The druid then proceeded to kick him in the face, knocking out a tooth.
“This is getting fun! Let's gut him!” Astarion said, voice full of bloodlust.
“No please! Mercy!” The goblin cried.
“Kiss my feet.” Winnie crossed her arms and glanced down at the goblin with a glare. “Now.”
“Y-Yes m-ma'm.” The goblin crawled over and planted his lips over the druid’s boots, making the vampire snicker from behind Winnie. 
“Now get out of my face.” She said, the goblin quickly ran off, tail between his legs.
“Aww…..I was hoping you'd splatter his innards all over the dirt.” Astarion pouted, voice sounding like a sad child. 
“I'm not about to have the entire horde on my ass just because of one little shit. We're not killing anyone unless we have to.” Winnie sighed before feeling a familiar sting on her hand. Blood was still dripping down her finger. 
“May I?” Astarion gently grasped Winnie’s hand. The druid’s cheeks reddened as she looked at her hand and then back at him. The pale elf had a lustful longing gaze in his eyes.
Winnie looked off to the side, face flushed. 
“I….guess…” 
Astarion slowly leaned in, running his tongue over the trail of blood that had dripped down to her wrist. He practically sucked her finger into his mouth to finish off the rest, his eyes staring up at her seductively as he cleaned off her digit before leaving a small kiss on the cut.
“Still a pity you decided to let the little rodent live. You would have looked absolutely ravishing drenched in his blood.~” Astarion purred. 
“You two aren't going to start coupling out in the open are you? We still have a job to do or have you forgotten?” Shadowheart crossed her arms. 
“As delicious as that idea is, Shadowheart is right. Best get back to the worms.” Astarion hummed, still looking rather smug about what had just occurred. Winnie was a bit dumbfounded at the moment. Legs feeling like jelly as heat rushed to her face and to her thighs. It had been days since Winnie had received her first kiss from the pale elf. Days since they'd come so close to having sex before being caught by literally everyone one of their companions! Gods, Winnie was still trying to recover from the embarrassment. 
Their uninvited audience had ended up ruining the mood so Winnie was able to keep her virginity that night. Astarion hadn't made any more attempts to bed her since then, but his flirtations were still going strong.  Winnie took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure before continuing on with her companions. 
They didn't spend too much time on the outside of the camp.  Winnie had peacefully convinced one of the goblin ladies to release an owlbear cub who was being tormented at the camp. Peacefully convinced meaning threatened to kill them if they did not release the poor beast.
Afterwards the young druid gave the cub a pat on the head before allowing him to get a whiff of her scent so he could find their camp later.
Once the baby owlbear was out of harm's way they continued on with their quest and entered the 
temple. The guards were less than welcoming, but Astarion was quick to exclaim that their little group were all loyal followers of the absolute, true souls in fact. He laced every word with some dramatic flair.  The goblins looked at one another for a moment before sighing and allowing them to pass. Winnie took note of Shadowheart becoming increasingly on edge the further they entered the temple, but she refrained from pressing the matter. She assumed if it was important the half-elf would tell her.  
The four adventurers stepped deeper into the darkness. The loud wail of a man could be heard coming from off in the distance. His blood curdling screams echoing throughout the chambers of the temple. Winnie poked her head out from behind a corner and immediately spotted a human man strapped to a torture rack. Two goblin males stood next to him winding a little lever to stretch his limbs to their limit as the other goblin questioned him. 
Winnie cringed hearing another scream from the human man. A look of pity flashed across her face momentarily before she quickly assumed a stoic facade.
“Well isn't this intriguing?” Astarion mused, popping his head out from behind the corner.
Shadowheart and Lae'zel joined him shortly afterwards.  Winnie walked over towards the rack, eyes looking over the pained and terrified man. 
The goblins were cackling their heads off at the poor man’s misery. From what happened goblins were saying this man was a part of the group the druid Halsin had gone with. One of the goblins suddenly turned back to see Winnie. 
“Come to join your friend, have you human?” He asked in a mocking tone. Winnie looked over at the man. He started right at her, his face battered and bruised, tears had been streaming down his face. 
“Friend? I've never seen the idiot before in my life.” Winnie said, keeping a calm and composed face. She stared at him before looking back at the goblins as an idea sparked in her mind. 
“Let me put him through the paces.” She said.
“A human, torturing another human!? Ha! Why not!” The torturer goblin laughed before gesturing for the druid to come forward. Winnie looked over at the tools laid out before her. She kept her expression stoic and unreadable as she suddenly picked up a hot iron poker.
“What are you- NO! NO PLEASE!” The man cried out before feeling the hot melt press against his thigh. He let out another wail of a scream. Astarion smirked, tongue flicking across his lips sadistically as he and the others simply watched.
Winnie then tossed the poker to the side, glancing back over the tools before grabbing a pair of pliers and ripped the man’s big toenail right out. 
“There's a hidden village across the bridge! The entrance is covered with moss!” The man suddenly shouted. 
“Well look at that, you got him to speak! You're not half bad for a human! And we got what we needed. Come on, let's go tell the drow!” The torturer said to the other goblin before the two ran off.  Once they were gone Winnie glanced back at the man, battered and bruised. He appeared to have gone unconscious from the pain. Poor man.
She dropped her facade finally and took a deep breath. Winnie reached into her pack before taking out a healing potion.  She unscrewed the top before pressing the bottle to his lips and making him drink.  After downing the bottle the human began to come too, coughing as color returned to his face and his wounds slowly began to heal.  His eyes widened at the sight of the druid female and a look of fear washed over him.
“G-Get away! N-No more please!” He begged.
“Shh…Calm yourself. You're safe now.” Winnie said.
“Safe!? You nearly bloody killed me!” He raised his voice. Astarion and Shadowheart quickly looked around in case anyone was attracted by the noise.
“Silence him before he attracts the entire horde!” Lae'zel said between gritted teeth.
Winnie put a hand over his mouth.
“The goblins would have definitely killed you had I not shown up. Look, I don't have time for chatting, we're looking for a druid named Halsin. Tell us where he is and we'll free you.” She said before slowly removing her hand from his mouth.
“I-I don't know. He turned into a bear and we got separated. The goblins might have locked him in one of the cells, but I'm not sure.” 
“Well that's something to go on at least.” Winnie sighed before taking a lockpick from her pack and slowly beginning to pick the lock. 
“If you must free him. Do it quickly.” Shadowheart said as she looked over her shoulder. Winnie continued to fiddle with the lock, biting down on her lip, but even it broke.
“Shit.” The druid cursed.
“Gods, have you never picked a bloody lock before?” Astarion asked in annoyance before gently pushing Winnie to the side.
“Usually I just wild-shape and squeeze my way where I need to go.” Winnie admitted as she watched the high elf take out a pick before skillfully undoing the lock in a matter of seconds.
“Damn, you're good.” The human female exclaimed with an impressed grin.
“Obviously.” Astarion said smugly.  The human man dropped to the ground once free.
“Thank you…I should be able to make it to the grove on my own. Someone has to warn them.” He said.
“Best of luck to you.” Winnie nodded, before the man took off. 
The four adventurers went in the opposite direction of the human male, continuing their search for Halsin. Winnie took a long whiff of the air, but was unable to catch any hint of a bear’s scent. 
Nope, nothing but goblin stink. And maybe human entrails…
The party ventured further down the halls, eventually coming across a floor stained in blood with rats patrolling the grounds. Winnie noticed a strangely erotic dressed man cleaning a blood mace. His outfit somewhat reminded her of something she'd seen a courtesan wear at Sharess's Caress while she was there ‘borrowing’ literature. As her group wandered closer, the man took note of them. 
“Welcome child. Have you come to assist with the prisoner?” He asked. 
“Oh him? Nah they killed him before I got here.” Winnie bluffed. 
“Amateurs. Pain should be savored, cherished.” The man said.
“Uhh…..Okay….” Winnie said, a little creeped out.
“Forgive me. I am a priest of Loviatar, goddess of pain. We worship our lady through pain and it's intricacies.” 
“Can't say I've ever heard of her. Not really the religious type myself, but that does sound fascinating in a macabre way I suppose…” Winnie stated.
“If you're curious, I could show you first hand how we please our mistress.” He said. Winnie didn't really care for how he was staring at her.
“Oh, I must see this.~” Astarion said, almost sounding like he was about to moan. “Don't you dare say no.~” He looked at Winnie seductively.
“Yeah…..Not happening. I kinda try to avoid getting the shit beaten out of me. Thanks.” Winnie replied before turning to walk off.  Astarion pouted and followed after her. The two of them going ahead of Lae’zel and Shadowheart.
“Your loss, young one!” The strange man called.
“You really are no fun, you know darling?” Astarion sighed in disappointment.
“Astarion darling'' Winnie mocked, “if you want so badly for the creepy sadistic man to spank someone you are more than welcome to offer your own hind.” 
“I don't believe he ever said anything about spanking. Is that something you'd like to see?~” 
“You know what I meant!” Winnie snapped, face turning bright red with embarrassment. 
“Don't be so vicious. I was only teasing.” Astarion smirked, “although you do look absolutely delicious with your cheeks all flushed. Makes me rather hungry…” The vampire moved closer to Winnie, breath hitting the back of her neck.
“You're going to make a pass at me now?”
“Not exactly.” He clicked his tongue, “I merely wanted to remind you that I haven't forgotten how we were so rudely interrupted the other night.” Astarion moved some stray hairs behind Winnie’s ear. “And how wonderful your lips felt against mine.” He purred softly.  Winnie could feel her heart speed up.
“Maybe…Maybe it would be better if we forgot it…” She looked off to the side. 
“Oh come on, you can't mean that.” Astarion crossed his arms. “After all, you might never get a chance like this again.” He moved in front of Winnie, getting closer to her.
“Excuse me?” Winnie looked back at him with a raised eyebrow.
“You and I both know our days are numbered as long as we have these worms in our heads. Wait too long and you may never know what it's like to feel the touch of a lover. To feel my touch.” Astarion took Winnie’s hand and placed it on his chest.
Winnie shivered in arousal, and swallowed nervously, face feeling like it was on fire as her hand trembled against his muscles.
Oh gods. Man titties….I..er…FUCK!!!
Winnie pulled her hand back before her brain had the chance to turn off. Heat was rushing between her thighs, threatening to turn her mind to mush. She had to get it together! There were far more important things than sex right now!
“Would you quit with the flirting! This really isn't the time!” Winnie hissed before turning to continue walking through the temple. She did her best to ignore him from there on out.  As much as his honeyed words made heart skip a beat there was no time for it right now. 
~~~~~
The party made their way deep into the bowels of the goblin’s sanctum until eventually they came across the worg pens. Winnie’s nose almost instinctively sniffed as they entered the room. The unmistakable scent of a bear cut right through the foul stench of goblins. The bear looked like he was in one of the pens with two goblin children throwing rocks at him from outside the cage.
“Amicus Animalus.” Winnie quietly whispered the speak with animals incantation before they approached. She needed to make sure that this bear was actually the druid they were looking for and not some random animal. 
“Get back!” He seemed to growl at the goblins as one of them aimed a rock right at his head. 
“What the hells is going on down here?” Winnie demanded, eyes narrowed at the little brats. 
“We're throwing stones at this stupid bear!” 
“Makes funny noises when we hit em! Hahaha!” 
Winnie rolled her eyes before looking back at the bear. 
“Get rid of them!” He growled, voice rough and gravely “free me!” 
“Okay, that's enough.” Winnie glared down at the goblin children before knocking their heads together and knocking them out. The adult goblin who had currently been standing by turned towards the human.
“Oi! The hells are you doing!?” She shouted before drawing her bow. Winnie swiftly kicked her weapon from her hands before stabbing through her with her scimitar, the goblins blood spilling all over the floor.
“We're under attack!” One of the other goblins shouted.  
“I'll sound the alarm- '' Before another goblin could run for help Astarion shot an arrow right into his throat, making him drop dead.  
Winnie quickly shoved the body of the dead she-goblin out of the way before pulling a lever to release the bear from his pen. 
The bear quickly charged through the room before smacking a goblin clear into one of the walls. 
“Quick! Release the worgs!” Another goblin shouted before the second pen was opened and two huge wolf-like beasts emerged. 
“Fresh meat.” Winnie heard one of the worgs snarl darkly. It went charging towards her teeth barred.  Winnie quickly assumed her direwolf form and slammed into it head on. Both canines being about the same size gave them around the same estimate of power. 
The bear slammed into the other worg while Astarion, Lae'zel and Shadowheart fought off the remaining goblins in the room. 
After all of their adversaries had been dealt  and the strange bear both took a more humanoid form as Shadowheart tied up the unconscious goblin children to assure they wouldn't cause any trouble. 
The bear shifted into an oddly tall muscular wood elf which towered over Winnie. Her eyes widened as she looked him over, not expecting him to be so intimidatingly large.
He's big……
“Pardon the viscera. Nature's bounty should be cherished.” The elf exclaimed, wiping some stray goblin blood off his face. 
“You’re Halsin, I presume?” Winnie tilted her head curiously.  
“Yes. Did someone send you for me?” He asked.
“We heard you're a renowned healer and we definitely could use some healing.” Winnie said.
“The fact that you fought your way through goblins to find must mean it's urgent.” 
“It is. Very.” 
“Alright then. Let me have a look.”  Halsin leaned in closer, examining Winnie’s face.  Behind her right eye something was squirming, hiding. 
“Oak father preserve us. You're infected.” 
“Unfortunately.” The younger druid sighed.
“I must apologize, but I cannot cure this.” Halsin said sadly.
“What!? Oh, you must be joking! We did all this for nothing!” Astarion scoffed and crossed his arms.
“Skva! I told you we should have continued looking for the creché! Now we've wasted time!” Lae'zel hissed.
“If it would help I may know where you can find answers about your infection. The true souls, others who are infected like you have been taken to moonrise towers. You're more likely to find the cure you seek there.” Halsin explained.
“Perhaps you'd be willing to lend us a hand on getting there then? We did just save your life after all.” 
“I would, but these goblins are a threat to the emerald grove. I cannot go anywhere while their leaders still live.” 
Winnie thought for a moment. “Alright then. I'll help you kill all the goblin bosses and then you help my friends and I safely get to Moonrise Towers. Sound like a plan?” 
“What? Now we have to fight more of them?” Astarion whined.
“Quiet Star.” Winnie said before looking back at Halsin. 
“It won't be easy. We may have to slaughter the entire place just to kill the leaders.” 
“Ah don't worry. I had a few ideas while looking around the place.” Winnie assured him with a smirk.
Winnie transformed into a rat to stealthily sneak around the area and crawl down  into the pit where two giant spiders were held. She immediately had a nice friendly chat with them about how she'd free them and let them eat their fill of their goblin masters if they agreed to fight by her side. 
All the while Astarion and Shadowheart snuck back towards the front of the temple, using the high up wooden rafters to sneak around the temple unseen until coming across a secret room full of explosive barrels. 
Winnie had noticed some goblins rolling them off to another room when the party had first entered the temple earlier and made a mental note to remember them if need be. 
Astarion and Shadowheart rolled them over the rafters, taking as many as they could with them at a time.  Winnie quickly undid the locked door, allowing the spiders to escape out and begin attacking the goblins near the entrance.
She quickly climbed up to the rafters to meet up with Astarion and Shadowheart before turning human once again. The three then proceeded to light the barrels and drop them one the majority of the goblins past the spider pit all the while Lae'zel and Halsin fought their way through goblins and attacked one of the leaders, Minthara. 
Lae'zel was able to push her down into a chasm after narrowly avoiding some heavy blows. 
Once they reached the room where the hobgoblin leader was, Winnie quickly took her direwolf shape and charged down into the fray along with Shadowheart. Astarion stayed up in the rafters and sniped a few of their enemies from afar. 
It was a quick and bloody battle, but thanks to the spiders and explosives they ended up on the winning side.  
“You did it! You actually did it!” Halsin cheered as the last of the leaders laid dead. Winnie was still in wolf form panting.
“Yes, yes we saved your pitiful grove. Now agree to help us damnit!” Astarion crossed his arms with a sneer.
“I will honor our agreement, but we needn't leave immediately. I'll meet you at your camp tonight and we can set out come dawn.” Halsin agreed, making Astarion let out an annoyed sigh. 
~~~~~~~~
The four adventurers eventually regrouped with the other members of their merry band of weirdos and eventually headed back to the emerald grove to gather supplies and make camp for the night.
The tieflings ended up being so grateful for the defeat of the goblins that they actually joined the camp to celebrate.  Winnie wasn't exactly sure what to make of it honestly.
She'd hadn't been to any social gatherings since she was a kid. When she moved to Baldur's Gate as a teen there were never any opportunities for her to attend a party since she was basically a street rat whose only companions were a group of adventurers that had gotten in trouble with the Flaming Fists on one too many occasions. 
Needless to say she felt very out of place and just sat by the river, drawing in the dirt for the beginning of the party.  At least until Karlach spotted her. 
“Hey soldier!” She waved at the human female with a big toothy grin. “What are you doing over here?”
“Oh hey Karls. I'm just you know, getting some air.  All the people honestly make me feel a bit claustrophobic I guess.” Winnie shrugged.
“Oh come on! I think Gale was looking for you and Fangs is sitting alone pouting because you didn't come to see him.” 
“Oh Karlach you know darn well Astarion pouting could mean anything!” Winnie replied, giggling, “I think he started sulking the other when Shadow said his hair looked uneven on one side.” 
“You should still go see him. Maybe he'll give ya another kiss hm?” Karlach winked, tail wagging with excitement. 
Winnie’s face turned bright red. 
“I'm not sure. He was rather um…blunt about wanting more than that earlier…” 
“Isn't that a good thing? You should go for it! Go get some action for the both of us!” Karlach exclaimed.
“But I've never gotten action before! I don't know what I'm doing and I look like a fucking potato under these clothes!” Winnie huffed and looked down at the ground. 
“Mate, potatoes are fucking delicious! You can do this I know it and I can't get laid so I want you to go ride him for him for me! Now up!” Karlach said, grabbing a large broken branch and nudging Winnie along with it so she wouldn't burn her. 
“But I don't wanna top…” Winnie muttered under her breath. Eventually she caved in and walked off to join the others at the party so Karlach wouldn't push her all the way to Astarion herself.
She took a deep breath and glanced about.  
The camp was full of tieflings, some were chatting over the fire and Winnie took notice of one lovely looking one who appeared to be trying to make conversation with Astarion. Winnie rolled her eyes. 
Pouting because I didn't come to see him, my ass.
The young druid walked off in the direction towards Gale's tent, taking note that Wyll who's tent was right beside the wizard’s appeared to be missing from the party. 
“There you are. I was looking for you.” Gale suddenly piped up. 
“Oh hey Gale…What's up?” Winnie gave a small smile.
“I wanted to congratulate you. You did a great thing, saving the refugees.” 
“I just did what was necessary. But I'm very glad they're alright. Goblins attacking a druid’s grove honestly it's too…” Winnie trailed off, unpleasant memories flooding her mind. “Um….Why was it  you were looking for me again?” 
“Ah right! I was wondering if you'd like to join me later this evening. I was hoping I could show you something rather….magical…”
“Hm…Magic does sound fun….But I don't know I haven't really decided if I want to really do anything later. I'm kinda tired from all the fighting ya know?” Winnie scratched the back of her head.
“I completely understand! Take all the rest you need! You've earned it.” Gale said.
“Thanks, maybe next time okay?” Winnie gave him a sweet smile before turning to walk off.
“Of course!” Gale called. 
The human druid let out a sigh before suddenly one of the tiefling girls ran over towards her.
“For the hero of the hour!” She cheered and patted Winnie's back before handing her a cup of wine. The brunette haired female mouthed a shy thanks before taking the cup and drinking from it. 
Her pink eyes looked over to still see the vampire sitting there. A look of discomfort was clear on his face. Winnie finally caved in and began to approach him. “Hey Star…. How's it going?” Winnie asked.
“Ugh it's so dull. I do all this hard work and how am I repaid? This cheap sewer water.” He scoffed and glanced down at the wine bottle he held in his hand. Winnie took the bottle of wine from it and gave it a sniff. It smelled normal enough. She gave it a taste. A bit bitter. Winnie herself much preferred sweet wines, but she didn't see anything abnormally bad tasting about it. She considered going to get a jar of blood she'd found in the goblin camp earlier that day, but Astarion spoke before she could offer.
“Honestly I don't know how you find any joy in playing the hero. It's awful.” Astarion huffed and took the bottle back.
“Awe come on, it's not THAT bad. You got to kill plenty of goblins! And you looked so badass when you hit that hobgoblin in the eye with an arrow!”  Winnie exclaimed.
“Perhaps. Slaughtering all the little vermin was rather enjoyable, but it still doesn't make up for this piss poor excuse for a party.” Astarion sighed, “I’m just looking for a little more excitement. A little more fun.” Astarion gave Winnie a seductive look for a moment before it vanished.
“I was hoping you'd join me this evening, but it looks like Gale has already caught your attention.” Astarion rolled his eyes. The way he said the wizard’s name almost sounded a little disgusted.
“We just talked. He wanted to hang out later and show me a magic trick.” Winnie insisted.
“Oh yes I'm sure a night with him would be very magical.” 
“What do you mean?” Winnie asked.
“Oh you're so adorably innocent. Obviously he wanted to show you his staff, darling.” Astarion said in a teasing tone.
It took Winnie a moment before she turned bright red. “I-I…Didn't think he'd meant that! I'm.. I'm really not interested in him in that way…” 
“Good. Then you still have a chance to make the most of your evening. Wait until things quiet down and come find me out in the forest.” Astarion looked off to the side, red eyes looking directly at the woodland area past the river. “There we can spend some quality time together and pick up where we left off before the others so rudely interrupted us the other night.” Astarion purred out.  
“Gods, you're persistent…Alright. I guess I'll meet you there.” Winnie gave in. She couldn't help but think back to what he said in the goblin temple. They really could die any day now, so why not just get it over with and have her first time be with a vampire. It would at least be something to brag about when this was all over and they went their separate ways.  But there was still the gnawing anxiety of her insecurities. The worry that once he saw her, all of her, he'd be disgusted and back out.  
“Wonderful. I'll meet you there once the others have turned in. See you there, lover.~” 
~~~~~
As Winnie waited for her other companions to head to bed she carefully and quietly made some preparations, watching as the tieflings left one by one back to their own camp for the night. The sound of music and laughter that had previously filled the air had died down. Winnie grabbed hold of her pack as she knelt underneath the shady tree she kept her bedroll under. She held a jar of (maybe human?) blood and a bottle of sweet dessert wine she ‘borrowed’ from someone at the grove. She packed the refreshments along with two glass chalices, some blankets and her bedroll into her pack. Once the druid noticed Astarion had left and the others had entered their tents she slung her pack over her shoulder and made her way towards the river.  Winnie carefully hopped across a long and some stones before reaching the other side and wandering off into the forest. 
She sniffed, attempting to pinpoint Astarion's scent so she'd be able to find him quickly. The smell of bergamot, rosemary, brandy and just the faintest hint of death lead her deeper and deeper into the woods.  
Eventually once she got further enough away from camp Astarion stepped out into the open. 
His perfect pale skin was exposed as he appeared to have discarded his shirt before Winnie had even got there. 
“There you are. I've been waiting….Waiting since the moment I first-” 
Winnie let out a loud sigh before dropping her comically large backpack she'd filled to the brim with junk. She panted a little before looking up at Astarion.
“Sorry, that was just kinda heavy.” She rubbed her back before bending over to open up her pack.
“Uh….Why the hells did you bring that?” Astarion asked, crossing his arms. He was slightly annoyed Winnie had interrupted his dramatic seductive line! 
“I wanted to make sure we'd be comfortable.” Winnie said honestly before taking out a large rolled up bear pelt blanket. She took out her bedroll and placed it over the pelt before adding two other blankets over it. Then the druid sat her pack down on the pelt before sitting.  The assortment she'd laid out had made a nice cushy bedding. Winnie sat down on her bedroll before looking up at Astarion, patting the space besides her shyly.  
“Come on I uh…I got you something…” She said, Astarion hesitated almost as if he pondered the possibility of this being some kind of trap before taking a seat beside the human female.  
Winnie took out the chalices along with the blood and wine. “I found this at the goblin camp and I couldn't help but think about you…You know cause I can't always give you blood and it would be nice to have some lying around for you to drink…” Winnie said, voice speeding up nervously as her face reddened. 
“How…romantic.~” Astarion’s seductive demeanor returned as he scooted close to Winnie, trailing a clawed finger over her thigh. 
“I-I suppose it is…..I…I…Is it hot in here!?” Winnie felt her face a bit before quickly pouring a glass of wine and drinking it. Astarion looked at her wide eyes as she suddenly realized something….
That was not wine. 
Winnie immediately spat out blood onto the grass, holding back the urge to gag. Astarion covered his mouth, his lips curling up into a shit eating grin from behind his hand. It took everything he had not to burst into laughter at the druid’s stupidity. She wiped her mouth and huffed. 
“AH! Why is this so hard!?” She covered her face in embarrassment. “I'm sorry Astarion. I really don't know what I'm doing…I want this, but I don't have any idea what to do or say…” 
“Darling, relax, let me take care of you…” The elven vampire suddenly leaned in and slowly licked a bit of blood off the side of Winnie’s mouth. He then took the chalice from her hand and tossed it off to the side. Winnie took a deep breath. 
“Okay…I'm just nervous…” She looked off to the side.
“I'll be gentle, my pet.” Astarion cupped her cheek, tilting her head back to face him. His red eyes stared fondly into her own before she eventually closed them and leaned in. Astarion wasted no time pressing his soft cool lips against Winnie’s warmer ones, receiving a soft moan as his lips moved against hers. The vampire sucked slightly on them before he teasingly nipped her bottom lip with a fang. 
“Mmm!” She moaned, allowing him to slide his tongue into her mouth and deepen the kiss. 
Winnie could feel herself melting under his touch, sucking on his tongue as it nearly slid down her throat. She tried to keep her moans from getting too loud, but it only became harder as one of his hands cupped her right breast. It felt so plump, so soft. He was about ready to tear her shirt open. The elf squeezed it gently, his thumb sliding over the top of her breast, feeling over the smoothness of her exposed skin. 
Winnie eventually pulled back for air, his tongue quickly flicking over her own as they parted. Despite the fact that it had been revolting for her, the leftover taste of blood in her mouth was actually quite the treat for a vampire. 
Winnie flinched as his hands moved towards the buttons of her shirt, causing Astarion to come to an immediate halt and back up.“What is it, pet? Is something the matter?” He asked as a frown formed upon his lips.
“I’m afraid you won't like what you see….” The druid muttered, voice full of shame.  This was it. This was when he would change his mind and call it all off. 
“Oh sweetie, I've bedded far worse, trust me. And you don't even come anywhere close to any of them.” He gave her a wink before standing up. Winnie was a bit confused as he held out his hand for her. She took it and stood up.
“Look at me, lover.” He purred, planting a kiss on her lips before moving her hands towards his belt. Winnie took a deep breath, trying to ease her nervousness before she undid his belt, slowly pulling his pants down. There was an evidently large bulge growing in his underwear which immediately made Winnie’s face burn brightly. She kept her eyes locked with his before continuing to strip him bare. His underwear dropped to the ground, letting his erection spring free. Astarion took her smaller hands into his own, placing one on his chest and and the other on his ass. “I'm not going anywhere. Not until I've nibbled on every inch of this,” Astarion pulled her against him, his hands gripped her ass, making her squeak “lovely body.” 
She gasped, she could feel his hard cock poking her through her pants. Her hand reactively squeezed his ass, resulting in the vampiric letting outa soft husky moan. Winnie furrowed her brows with a huff.
Fuck it.
She quickly moved to pull her shirt off over her head, tossing it over to the side before unhooking her bra. Astarion grinned, tongue flicking over his fangs before he immediately attached his mouth to one of her tits, sucking and licking around her nipple. 
“A-Ahh…” Winnie moaned feeling his fangs gently graze her breasts, hands roaming her form before pulling her down her pants.
“O-Oh gods!” Her legs shook, feeling him rub her through her underwear. Winnie tried to grip onto him for balance, but her legs buckled, sending them both tumbling back onto the cushion of the blankets with Astarion on top. He breathed out with a smirk, an almost feral look was on his eyes as his mouth moved up to Winnie’s immediately capturing her lips in another kiss.  His hand remained between her legs, now eagerly working to pull her underwear off before he slid a single finger into her cunt. 
“Mmm!” She moaned loudly into his mouth, feeling his digit begin pumping in and out of her, slowly speeding up with each thrust. He was gentle, but made sure push up against all the right spots in order to drive her nuts. Her hands gripped his back, nails digging into his skin as he added another finger, pushing them both in deep while his thumb rubbed back and forth over her clit. “A-Astarion!” The druid whimpered, pulling her head back. 
“Shhh..Pet they'll hear you from all the way back at camp.” He teased, scissoring his fingers as he pumped them back and forth inside her. His digits were soaked from how wet she was getting. She whined, burying her face into the side of his neck as she moaned his name again his skin.  
“Star please!” The female whimpered into his neck, her lips pressed against it almost as if it were a kiss.
“Oh alright because asked so nicely.” Astarion pulled his finger from inside her, resulting in another whimper as he stared her right in the eyes and slowly sucked his fingers clean, pulling each of them out slowly with pop sound. 
He then reached back down and grabbed hold of his cock, rubbing it slowly with a moan as his eyes stayed locked on Winnie. She bit her lip in frustration. He seemed to be going awfully slow on purpose. 
Fucking tease.
Once he deemed himself prepared, he lined himself up with her entrance. 
“Now, if it hurts too much, be a good girl and let me know.” Astarion said, keeping his tip at her entrance as he waited for her to respond.
“Okay…I'm ready.” Winnie nodded before feeling his slowly push in.  She gritted her teeth and grunted feeling a sharp stinging pain as he stretched her out. 
“A-Ahh….” Her fingernails dug into his shoulders and she bit down hard on her lip until it bled. Astarion groaned feeling her tight walls clench around him almost painfully tight as he pushed his full length inside. 
“Fuck…” He breathed out, cock twitching inside her.
“Star…” Winnie looked up at him, her hips bucking upwards with need. Astarion’s lips twitched upwards and he immediately began to move inside her. Winnie wrapped her arms around his torso almost as if hugging him against her as the slick wet sounds of him pumping in and out filled hear ears. 
“Y-Yes…Please….Keep going…” She said, as he sped up, hips slapping against her now. Winnie bit down on the biteless side of his neck in an attempt to quiet her moans.  
Eventually however as he slammed harder and harder into her she unable to keep quiet any longer eventually giving up all together as she reached her climax. 
“Astarion! Bite me! Please!” Winnie cried out. 
“Huh? What?” Astarion asked as if suddenly pulled out of a trance. Winnie turned her head and exposed her neck.
“I want you to bite me, now.” She said. 
“Gods yes…” He practically moaned before quickly sinking his fangs into her flesh. Winnie cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. She could feel his thrusts slam even harder now that he had a taste of her blood. 
One of her hands roughly gripped his ass, her eyes rolled back into her head as she felt herself come undone. Her vampiric lover eventually following after her, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself completely inside her.  
Soon after the two found themselves resting upon the nest of blankets Winnie had been so generous to bring along. Astarion laid on his back, arms resting behind his head and one of his legs crossed over the other as his plump druid lover laid her head on his chest. She kept a blanket wrapped around her, still not quite comfortable leaving her bodice fully exposed. 
“Did you enjoy it?” Winnie asked in an almost mouse like voice.
“Hm? Yes, of course.” Astarion replied, staring up at the night sky.
“You sure? You just seemed a bit distant half of the time.” Winnie shifted a little. 
“Winnie, you were fine. We'll have plenty of time to practice later.” Astarion hummed. He seemed rather eager to dismiss the subject.
“You mean….You're interested in doing this again?” Winnie asked in confusion.
“With a delicious little plaything like you? Why not!” He chuckled a bit.
Oh…He thinks of me as a plaything….
Winnie frowned. She knew this was just supposed to be about sex, but for some reason it still hurt to be reminded of it. She let out a sigh before rolling over and facing away from him.  Astarion glanced over as soon as he felt her move away. He felt a slight disappointment at her retreat, but couldn't for the life of him understand why. 
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~••~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
Note from The ChaoticDruid: This took so long to finish! I'm glad it's done and I hope my attempt at writing detailed smut wasn't too shitty. I'm honestly thinking of writing more fics with Astarion and Winnie that are set during the game's campaign! If anyone wants to request a romance scene from the game for me to recreate with Winnie just send me an ask I guess. I'm up for that. Might take a while though. I'm tired now. BYEEEEE.
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monvante · 4 months
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persona non grata ╱ navigation
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per·​so·​na non gra·​ta: unwelcome or unwanted. not popular or accepted by others.
pairing: myg x f!reader
genre: suspense / noir / detective au
rating: mature | 18+
estimated word count: 3-5k per chapter
content warings: crime, missing person investigation, themes of violence and murder, corrupt police officers, depictions of dementia, substance abuse & addiction, breakup, minor character death(s);
NO TAGLIST AVAILABLE.
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chapter navigation.
chapter i. goodbye kanan. chapter ii. ground & grave.
drabbles.
n/a
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extras.
frequently asked.
feedback.
moodboard.
playlist.
updates.
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The insides of your stomach are twisting and turning as you rush inside, uninvited and breathless, waiting for him to acknowledge you behind his incessant typing and the meaningless emails he reads everyday. 
Yoongi seems as still and lifeless as ever, which somehow comes as a comfort to you. 
“Days off are supposed to make you look better, not worse. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He types as fast as he comes up with witty remarks. 
“That’s because I have!” You spit back, fists closed tightly around the newspaper in your hands.
He quirks up one brow, enough for you to know you’ve got his attention.
“Here,” you toss it onto his desk. “Read it.”
November 27th, 1991. Case solved: Thanksgiving kidnappings linked to man apprehended by police.
“That’s Adam Bowen. He got arrested a night after Kanan went missing,” you huff, catching your breath. “They never considered him a suspect because… the timelines didn’t add up, apparently.” 
Yoongi looks up at you from the large frame of his glasses.
“And?”
“Police always suspected he worked with his brother… but they never found enough evidence to prove it. They never even fucking found said brother, the guy disappeared out of thin air and Bowen never told them anything. Not a word.”
He leans back, stretching his arms. His gaze diverts away from you or the paper altogether and he’s staring into space, seemingly at a loss for words.
“They got one brother, huh? Looks like it was enough for them to settle it,” Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Sloppy as all hell.”
In your heart, there’s some feeble hope, but most of it has been filled with despair and a fierce jealousy towards anyone who still maintained a sense of normalcy. Your last seven years have been haunted by nightmares, tainted by the faces of all the missing person reports hanging on your walls.
“We got a second half of the story to figure out.”
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monvante © 2021 - 2024. all rights reserved. do not copy, edit or redistribute my work.
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hoboal87 · 6 months
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Don't Speak, Part 21
Pairing(s): dark!Sam x f!Reader, implied dark!Dean x f!Reader, mentions of Adam x f!Reader, dark!Dean x Claire
Characters: dark!Sam, dark!Dean, pregnant!Reader Claire, Bobby, Ellen
Warnings: dark!Winchesters, Trauma Bonding/Stockholm Syndrome, **Non-graphic descriptions of Non-Con/Rape, **Dub-Con, Violence, Non graphic descriptions of childbirth, Manipulation, Angst, **past miscarriage, Pregnancy
WC: 2.8k
beta’d by the wonderful, lovely, @writethelifeyouwant
**This is a dark!fic that includes triggering content and is intended for mature audiences only. You are responsible for your own media consumption, so please, read the warnings and if you feel that you may be triggered and/or offended please move along. If you have any questions about the warnings/tags please feel free to DM me.
Don’t Speak Masterlist
My Full Masterlist
Part 20
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May
You don’t remember most of what happened after Dean confronted you and Adam. Bits and pieces shine through your memory on occasion but whatever he’d done to you–to Adam–is gone, and if you’re honest with yourself, you’re grateful. You don’t want to remember the awful things that Dean had almost certainly done to him. Your previously damaged wrist is wrapped again, your jaw is sore and your throat feels raw. You aren’t sure you could open your mouth to speak or eat, even if you wanted to. 
You bring your hand to your face to feel the damage done, and from what you can detect, you’re swollen and there is at least one cut on your cheek. Groaning, you sit up, the pain briefly replaced by relief when a small kick comes from your belly. 
The baby is okay, you sigh. It shouldn’t surprise you that Dean managed not to do any harm to your baby; producing an heir for the brothers has always been the goal since they took you a year ago. But whenever you think they’ve hit new lows to their depravity and ruthlessness, you or Claire learn that they have no boundaries. 
As you rise from the bed, your ankle aches, no doubt also injured from Dean’s attack. You push through, needing the movement after being bed-bound, and make your way to the dressing table to grab a mirror and inspect yourself. Your reflection startles you. Bruises litter your body, two distinct handprints marring your neck, and a gash that has been crudely stitched. You wonder who had tended to your injuries. Adam, for all you knew, was dead. If Dean hadn’t killed him, surely Sam would have; he had touched what’s theirs, and the Winchesters are nothing if not possessive of you and Claire. 
“You’re up,” Sam’s voice fills the emptiness of the room causing you to drop the mirror, and you watch as it cracks on the ground. Your heart pounds in your chest as he strides towards you, closing the space in less than half a dozen steps. His hand cups your face gently, his thumb grazing the healing cut on your cheek, and though you try to contain yourself, you let out a small gasp of pain and his face softens. 
“I was starting to worry, princess,” he says warmly, a look of concern just barely touching his hazel eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” you murmur, a feeling of guilt deepening in your stomach. Sam wraps his arms around you. 
“You understand why Dean had to punish you, don’t you, Y/N?” Sam asks, waiting for you to nod in agreement. “Do you know how much it hurt, princess, that you were hiding this–” his hand cradles your stomach “–from me?”
“Sammy, I’m–” you can’t finish your apology, sobs leaving your body instead. You’d hurt him; you’d hidden your pregnancy for months, and now he’s upset with you. “I was scared– I thought if I waited until…”
“To find out from Dean? From Claire? Why didn’t you trust me, Y/N? I stood by your side when you miscarried, didn’t I? I gave you space to heal, I was gentle with you afterwards, wasn’t I?” Sam demands, his expression hardening, sympathy slipping away. 
You nod, feeling ashamed for lying to Sam. He was gentle, understanding even; he didn’t have to obey John’s orders to stay away, but he did. Even after having to teach you a lesson when he found out about you and Claire, he was practically apologetic. He told you he loved you, and you repaid him by breaking the promise that you’d never do anything like that again. If there is one thing you were still learning about Sam, it’s that he doesn’t tolerate dishonesty.
“I told you it wasn’t your fault– that I didn’t blame you for what happened and you betrayed me, you kept secrets from me.” Sam gazes down at you pointedly, as if he’s waiting for you to make another confession. Your stomach knots violently: are you supposed to admit that his father had ordered you to carry on an affair with Adam in order to conceive an heir? What does he know already? Your heart thumps harder. What had Dean told him; does he know that Adam is John’s bastard; does he care? “Anything you’d like to tell me, Y/N?” 
“I’ve been– Adam and I– John–” You don’t know where to start. Your relationship with Adam was nothing at first, you were obeying your husband’s father. Sam needed an heir, biological or not. “John told me to– that I had to with Adam,” you mumble, preparing yourself for Sam’s reaction. “Before he died, he said I needed to be pregnant when you returned from your trip. I didn’t– I didn’t want to, Sam, but you weren’t–”
“So you’re saying it’s my fault?” He accuses sharply, and you can’t stop yourself from recoiling from him out of instinct. “You fucked that piece of trash Milligan, and I’m to blame? Or is it that I married a whore who can’t keep her legs closed? Which one is it, Y/N?”
Tears fall silently down your cheeks, “I’m sorry, Sam, it won’t happen ever again. I only love you– I only want to be with you,” you half-lie. You’d learned to love him before, you could learn again. “I’m yours.”
“Good,” he sneers. “And let me tell you what will happen if you decide to deceive me again.” His eyes darken. “I won’t step in like I did this time. Do you want to know what Dean was doing to you when I found you?” 
You hesitate to answer, thinking briefly that you could fill gaps in, but the bruises on your body told all the story you needed to know. You shake your head, diverting your eyes to the floor. 
“Dad isn’t here to protect you any more, princess,” Sam grabs you by the chin, forcing you to lock eyes with him. “Right now, the only thing stopping me from throwing you out onto the streets like the whore that you are, is that I need an heir to get what’s rightfully mine.” He jabs a finger roughly at your stomach, and Mr. Finch’s words echo in your ears. “No one is to step foot in this room, unless they are with me, until I say otherwise, understood? That includes Dean.” 
“But what if–”
You hear the sound of Sam’s hand cracking against your face before you feel it. “I said, no one,” he reiterates, roughly pushing you back onto the bed, and running his hand up beneath your nightdress. “Open,” he commands, giving each of your thighs a slap. You do as you’re told, bracing yourself against the bed, hoping that this will prove your loyalty to him.
July
Weeks turn into months of being kept under lock and key. Sam is true to his word, you don’t see anyone: not Dean, Claire, Ellen, or Bobby. Sam is the one bringing you meals, books from the library when you request them, and when he’s in a particularly good mood, he accompanies you on walks around the east wing of the Manor. You spend your days staring out the window, envious of the fresh air that Claire and the few remaining servants can take advantage of. 
You’re starting to grow restless. You crave interaction with someone other than Sam. Once or twice a week, muffled arguing seeps into your room from the hidden passageway that Sam and Dean still use to visit each other, but you can never quite make out what is being said. Whatever they were arguing about, it seems like Sam always won. 
The only person besides himself that Sam allows into your room is the midwife, Dorothy, who visits two weeks after Dean's attack on you and Adam. She inspects your body with a raised brow, the gash on your cheek is mostly healed, and a scar has taken its place; the bruises have faded, and your ankle no longer aches, but you fear your wrist will never be quite right again. She declares you healthy in regards to your pregnancy before noting the paleness of your skin, and you silently rejoice when she recommends that you be allowed more time outdoors, to take in the air. She concludes that you and Sam should expect a delivery by the middle of September, giving you only two months left to prepare for the baby’s arrival. 
Sam takes Dorothy’s recommendations seriously and tells you that night that you’ll be allowed to walk the grounds, though he will of course be accompanying you. You take your walks late in the morning, and it becomes a part of your new routine. The fresh air does you a world of good, making the isolation that Sam has you in almost bearable. Some days, you sit under the large oak, wondering if this is what the rest of your life will be like at Winchester Manor–only ever allowed to see your husband, and not his brother or your sister-in-law ever again. You want to ask Sam to allow Claire to join you as she used to, but the mention of anyone else being around you causes Sam to lose his temper. Something has him paranoid. When a gardener gets too close to the two of you one day, Sam launches into a tirade about you being taken away from him. He grabs your arm roughly, guiding you back to your room and slamming the door before moving a dresser in front of it to block anyone from entering via the main hallway.
He paces the length of your room, muttering under his breath about blood curses and demons, uncleanliness and a sacrifice that has to be made. You’re frightened, but still you reach out in an attempt to calm him. He lashes out, his eyes darkening, and he shoves you back onto the bed before pushing up your skirt with one hand and freeing himself with his other. Your instincts to fight back–which you had long ago learned to suppress–desperately try to resurface, but you know it won’t do you any good. You brace yourself as Sam pushes in, stifling a cry as he mutters ‘mine’ over and over again, in time with his thrusts. Once he’s finished with you, he tucks himself away before disappearing out of the room through the secret passage, not returning until the next morning. 
His demeanor is different–the madness that was behind his eyes is no longer there–but he informs you that for the time being you will no longer be permitted onto the grounds. You want to argue that Dorothy explicitly said you needed the fresh air and sunlight, but after the incident yesterday, it’s clear that Sam’s mind is in a fragile state, and you can’t risk your or your baby’s life. You spend another week in isolation, reading and carefully observing Sam. Bouts of madness seem to slip through the cracks more and more now that you’re looking for them, and you wonder if whatever once afflicted his mother is now coursing his veins also. 
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That night, pained screams replace the usual silence of the Manor. Your heart falls to the pit of your stomach, and you hope Claire isn’t being punished for something at such a late stage of her pregnancy. Sam, unsurprisingly, is unfazed, but allows you to cozy up against him as the screams become more frequent.
“Sam!” Dean bursts through the secret passage and is striding towards the bed before you even register that he’s in the room. “It’s time.”
“And?”
“We made a deal. It’s time,” Dean insists stoically. 
Sam rolls his eyes before exiting the bed, gesturing for you to join him. “Go with Dean,” he commands as Dean pushes against the wall, revealing the dusty passageway. Sam disappears out of the room as Dean grabs your hand to pull you into the dimly lit corridor. 
In what feels like a matter of only seconds, you are in Dean’s room. Claire is panting in the middle of the bed, clutching at her belly and pulling on her nightdress in plain distress. As you move closer you notice a large wet spot underneath her. Dean orders you to sit in a chair beside the bed as he paces the room impatiently. You grab Claire’s hand, unsure of what else to do, and give it a tight squeeze. Claire gives you a pained smile in return. You want to give her assurance, tell her everything is going to be okay, but your words stick in your throat.
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Claire mumbles under her breath, glancing briefly at Dean, and for a moment things seem to calm. “I thought– If I’d known, I wouldn’t’ve–”
“I know,” you tell her. She isn’t a malicious person, and as easy as it would be to hate her for what she unknowingly set in motion, it wouldn’t do anyone any good. “It’s okay, Claire.”
“What’s taking so long?!” Dean grunts as Claire’s breathing picks up again and another wave of contractions hit. 
Sam’s been gone at least an hour. At first, you assumed he was going to wake Bobby to send a carriage to retrieve Dorothy, or send for Ellen to help. She may not have medical training but she’d gone through birth before and helped you through the aftermath of your miscarriage. You had some knowledge yourself–only a week prior a book titled The Wife’s Handbook arrived, which you immediately consumed, wanting to know everything in case of this very circumstance. During your previous pregnancy, you were able to go to Claire or Ellen with any questions, but this book gave you guidance on things you wouldn’t think to ask. Though, you’d figured it would be you, and not Claire who needed help when giving birth, worrying that Sam wouldn’t allow anyone in to see you when your time came, if his mind kept deteriorating at the pace it seems to have been lately. 
“Not much longer,” Claire grunts, tears filling her eyes. You nodded in agreement; her contractions are only a few minutes apart, now. “He promised, Dean.”
“I know!” Dean focuses back on the two of you, anger bright in his green eyes. “Stay here, Y/N.” As soon as he’s out the door, Claire lets out a blood curdling scream. 
You lift her soiled dress to find a head, covered in dark blonde hair, delivered. Before you can tell her to push again she’s already doing so, and you watch in awe as the baby leaves her body. You flip the baby over, rubbing her chest, and waiting for her to cry. It takes a moment, but loud, high pitched cries issue from the tiny girl’s body, and relief washes over you.
Claire reaches out for the little girl and you hand her over gingerly, holding back your own tears as Claire brings the baby to her chest. You rub your hand against your belly, knowing that in only a few months, you’ll have your own baby in your arms.
“Ameila,” Claire whispers against the baby’s head. “I can’t believe you’re finally here. I love you so much, baby girl.”
You leave Claire alone briefly, entering the connected bathroom, and grab as many towels as you can. When you return, Claire has shifted baby Amelia to her breast, softly cooing at her. You drape a plush towel over the baby, lay two under Claire, and set the rest to the side.
When Dean returns, he has Sam in tow, and there is a heavy clanging echoing behind them. Your eyes stay fixated on Dean as he approaches the bed, warmth filling his face as his gaze falls on the baby in Claire’s arms. She hands the now sleeping Amelia over to Dean and his body stiffens slightly, as if he’s afraid he might hurt the newborn. You move away from the couple, allowing the new family a moment alone. For now, there isn’t any more that you can do for Claire, she needs a midwife or doctor to assess any damage done. 
Sam doesn’t enter the room much further than stepping over the threshold, and you decide to join him. Once you’re next to him, you notice that there’s a large chain in his hand leading outside of the room. Claire lets out a hiss of discomfort, and there’s a nod between the brothers after a stern look from Dean. Sam pulls roughly on the thick chain and a hoarse grunt comes from the hall. He jerks the chain again. This time, the sound of footsteps accompany another, more submissive grunt. Dirty and bruised hands reach out on either side of the doorframe, using it for leverage as a figure steps out of the darkness and into the room.
Adam.
Part 22
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Feedback is fuel! Please tell me what you think!
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halsteadlover · 1 year
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Locked In part. II
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*Gif not mine credits to the owner*
• Pairing: Jay Halstead x F!Reader.
• Requested: yes, by anon.
• Warnings: mention of blood, swearing, angst.
• Word count: 3879.
• A/N: this is part 2 of 3. I hope you’ll like it. Thank you so much for you support, the love I received lately has been so overwhelming I can’t really stress enough how much I’m grateful for every single one of you ❤️ Let me know what do you think about this piece, like, comment and reblog if you want, it’d be amazing. Love you all xx
<- Part one
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Jay was on the verge of losing his mind.
He had always been a patient type, after all he was a sniper, patience must’ve been a virtue, but at that moment, knowing you were in that prison and in who knew what state, he couldn't sit still. He didn't know if you were okay, if you were hurt, if you were still hidden and that state of limbo made him lose his mind.
“What the hell are we waiting for?! We have to get in!” exclaimed an angry and impatient Jay, approaching Voight and the rest of the team. They were all armed and equipped with their bulletproof vests as they, together with the tactical team, worked out the best plan for the break-in.
“Halstead you need to calm down. We're all worried about her but we can't break in like this, there's a riot in there and if we suddenly break in we could make it worse,” Voight replied, knowing the more time went on, the harder it would’ve been to keep Jay calm.
“Don't fucking tell me to stay calm, it's your fault she's in danger!” he almost yelled at his boss “You shouldn't have sent her there! Not alone! I told you I'd go with her and now God only knows what happened to her!”
“Halstead, choose your next words carefully,” Voight admonished him, staring at him with menacing eyes but Jay didn't let himself be influenced, he was too angry.
“Or what? What are you going to do sarge?” Jay spat through gritted teeth, walking over to Voight at which point Adam and Kevin intervened, pushing Jay away before he could do something he would regret. “If anything happens to her you'll pay for it,” he continued, pointing a finger at him, and god if he meant every word he said.
“Okay man that’s enough, come with me,” Adam pulled him away.
“Let me go!” Jay exclaimed, shaking off his friend's hands. He ran his hands over his face, furious, afraid.
“Jay, listen to me alright? Y/N will be fine, she's strong, and she'll find a way to protect herself, we know her,” Adam spoke. “We're all worried about her, but we need to stay as calm as possible.”
“Calm? What the fuck are you talking about Ruz? How the fuck do you stay calm knowing one of us is locked in there and risking his life? We're out here and she might be fucking dead!” the very thought that you could… No, no, it couldn't be, you were fine, you had to be fine.
“I know you are worried about her because you care so much about her, she is your partner…”
“She's not just my fucking partner, I fucking love her! Don’t you understand it?! I can't be without her, I can't be here while God only knows what they're doing to her!” Jay almost screamed at him, stopping because of the lump in his throat, tears filling his eyes as he tried to be strong. “Adam...” he continued to speak, in a lower tone of voice “If something should happen to her...”
“No Jay,” Adam interrupted him, placing his hands on his shoulders, his heart ache to see his friend in that state “Don't say it even as a joke, she's fine and she'll be fine, c'mon we know her, she's Y/N, she'll find a way to protect herself, and whatever happens she's strong, she knows we're coming… That you're coming.”
Jay didn't answer, looked down for a moment and wiped away the single tear that slid down his cheek with one hand.
“And, Jay, can I tell you something?”
He nodded, bringing his eyes, now red and shiny, back to Adam.
“We all knew that. You are a very good detective but you are not good at hiding your feelings. The only ones who haven't figured it out are you and her.”
“Her?”.
“You're really dumb man,” Adam chuckled, returning his hands to his sides “You really don’'t realize it don’t you?”.
Jay shook his head, his heart pounding.
“That woman dotes on you Halstead and we've all seen it and believe me she loves you as much as you love her.”
Jay felt his cheeks burn. Did you really feel what he felt for you? Did you really love him too? He couldn't believe it.
“So get a grip and focus Halstead, she needs you now and you can't lose your mind. We will save her and you will tell her how much you love her and she will too, okay?”
Jay nodded as a storm of emotion washed over him. He wanted you. He wanted so much to see you again, hug you, hold you like he had never done before, he missed you so much. He was so scared, it was like air was missing from his lungs and never in his life had he felt similar emotions.
“I don't know if I can Adam…” he whispered, trying not to get overwhelmed by the urge to cry. “I just… I just want her back…”
Adam hugged him in response, patting his shoulder. He wasn't very good with words but that was his way of telling him he was there, that everything would be fine.
“I know it's hard Jay,” Adam murmured, pulling away from the hug “But like I said she needs you more than anyone in the world right now, she’s waiting for you to come and save her and you can't let fear win, not now. Once we’ll save her you can do whatever you want, you can cry, scream, destroy things, but now you have to focus on her and what you can do to get in there and save her,” he continued, looking in his eyes and pointing to the cursed prison that was behind them. “We'll get her back, you'll get her back and you’ll tell her how you feel about her.”
Jay nodded again, this time with more conviction. Adam was right, about everything.
“I just need a couple of minutes.”
Adam smiled slightly. “That's my man. We’llwaiting for you.”
The team, along with that tactics and SWAT, had decided on a silent approach, some agents would enter from the roof and would descend into the wing where the riot was taking place, capturing and handcuffing every prisoner they came across and sealing every possible escape route. Other agents would instead enter through the main and secondary entrances, also using the factor of surprise to capture the detainees and finally surround them.
No one had any idea what would be in there, how many victims there would be, how many wounded.
Jay didn't care at all about the other inmates, he had entered there with the sole purpose of finding you but the more time passed and he didn't find you, the more anxiety grew.
Every corridor he walked down, every step he took, he felt his heart beat so hard in his chest, and never before had he felt such a sensation, such a turbulent state of mind.
He didn't know what to expect. Were you okay? Were you hurt? Were you hiding? The fact he hadn't heard from you anymore was worrying him to death, deep down he knew something had happened, he just didn't want to admit it, he didn't want to accept it.
His worst fears came true when an inmate approached him, a look of terror on his face.
“Chicago PD raise your hands! Against the wall!” Jay exclaimed, pointing the gun at him and not even letting him speak. The young inmate raised his hands in surrender, stammering and trying to find words as he saw a series of officers point their weapons at him.
“I… Wait… You're from the police…” he murmured stating the obvious.
“I won't say that again, face against the wall and hands behind my back,” Jay threatened, not in the least mood to waste precious time.
“The cop… The woman…” the boy stammered and Jay's eyes widened. There was no shadow of a doubt that he was talking about you.
“Where is she? Where is she?!” Jay almost yelled. He put down his gun and approached the inmate, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and slamming him against the wall. “I swear if you even touched a single hair…”
“No! Good heavens no! I didn’t do anything!” the inmate interrupted him “An inmate was beating her and... I... I took her to a safe space...”
Those words were like a punch in Jay's stomach. He tried to hold back his emotions, but he promised himself if he ever found the man who dared hurt you, he would pay dearly.
“Where is she now? Is she fine?”.
“She's in the kitchen, I hid her there, but you have to follow me.”
Jay let go of the man and began to follow him as he made his way through the corridors of that wing, trying not to be seen by other inmates. He tried to ignore the fact the young prisoner didn’t answer the question if you were fine, because you had to be fine, it couldn't be otherwise.
When he walked into the kitchen Jay's heart stopped beating for a second, his nightmares just coming true. You were lying on the ground, unconscious.
“No, no, no, no,” Jay murmured as he rushed over to you, kneeling beside your body. You'd been beaten, your face cut and bruised, your eye swollen, your hands scratched defensively, and your shirt was slightly lifted. With horror Jay realized you had been kicked in the belly judging by the huge bruises you had on your abdomen and he didn't even dare to imagine how much you suffered from the pain.
He immediately alerted the rest of the team and called for help through his transceiver, all while the prisoner watched the scene not far from him.
“Y/N, please wake up, please please,” Jay said, grabbing your face in his hands, stroking your battered skin and hair. “How long has she been unconscious?” he asked addressing the young prisoner without looking at him.
“I don't know... I think half an hour or something more...”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Baby please open your eyes for me, open your beautiful eyes. Don't do this to me, I’m begging you...” he whispered “Everything will be fine, can you hear me? I'm here now, I won't leave you alone anymore. I'm so sorry I wasn't here to protect you, I had to be here, I shouldn't have let you come alone, please forgive me...”
“You'll be fine okay? Everything will be fine, help is on the way and you will recover. Don't you dare play tricks on me, I… I need you so much baby… Please…”
Subsequent events happened so fast that it was difficult for him to even realize it. With no small amount of difficulty, the paramedics arrived and immediately transported you to the hospital. Jay didn't leave your side even for a second, he came in the ambulance with you not wanting to leave you alone for even a second.
“Why is she still not waking up?” Jay asked the paramedics concerned.
“The head trauma was severe but the GCS is good and we believe she just passed out. The thing that worries us the most, however, is that most likely with all the kicks received there may be internal bleeding or that some organ has been injured.”
“And is it… Is it dangerous?” Jay asked knowing full well the answer.
“We need to get to the hospital as soon as possible,” the paramedic replied, looking Jay in his eyes, not directly answering his question but letting him know that if you arrived late the situation could have been irreversible.
“How long has she been unconscious?”.
“For about 45 minutes, before I found her half hour.”
With everything that happened Jay didn't even think to ask the name of that young inmate and thank him for saving your life.
As soon as you arrived at the hospital, you were immediately transported to have a CT scan and an MRI. Jay was in the waiting room as he paced back and forth like a maniac, impatient and worried sick.
He kept praying that you were okay, that you’d recover soon. You were such a strong person, he knew you wouldn't give up easily, that you would fight for your life.
He took off his bulletproof vest, which he only then realized he was still wearing, before throwing it on one of the chairs in the waiting rooms.
The image of you lying on the ground, unconscious, covered in bruises and cuts, was imprinted in his mind, and he couldn't get it out of his mind. You were always smiling, always happy despite the disgust your work made you surround yourselves with, and seeing you in that state was something he’d never forget.
The next few hours passed so slowly and quickly at the same time, as if he was in a state of limbo, where nothing could be done but wait.
The rest of the team arrived at the hospital, and just seeing Voight brought back the initial anger Jay felt. None of this would have ever happened if he had sent him with you, if he hadn't sent you alone to that damn prison.
He didn't even bother to ask how things had gone in the prison, if the riot had been contained because, the truth was, he didn't care about anyone or anything, except you who were on a hospital bed in bad shape.
The lights in your room blinded you as you regained consciousness, opening your eyes. It took a moment for your vision to adjust, although your right eye was still swollen. You looked around as your mind tried to retrace the latest events that had occurred.
You remembered there had been a riot in the prison, you remembered being beaten by a prisoner who wanted to abuse you but you did not remember how or when you arrived on that hospital bed.
Your ribs hurt so bad and it felt like spears were stabbing you and breathing turned out to be more painful than you ever imagined, plus your head was pounding like you were being hit with a hammer.
You turned your head to the side and seeing Jay sitting in a chair next to you made your stomach turn upside down. He was sitting with his arms folded across his chest, his eyes half closed as if he was resting. You noticed he was wearing the same clothes you had seen him in that morning – so you deduced that it hadn't been as long as you felt – and his trousers were covered in dust.
What had he been up to?
Was he the one who saved you?
The thought made you smile although this action, simple as it was, was quite painful.
You reached out to him, and as best you could, so you stroked his forearm. Your touch snapped him awake in his chair, his gaze automatically landing on you. His eyes widened and he almost had a heart attack upon realizing you were awake and watching him.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” he almost stammered, in disbelief and relief like he'd never been before. “Y/N… Holy shit, you finally woke up! How are you? You feel pain? Wait, I'll call the doctor.”
He leapt to his feet and ran out of the room before you even had a chance to answer or say anything. This made you giggle.
After the doctor examined you, Jay re-entered your room and sat down in the chair next to you again.
“How are you?” you asked in a weak tone of voice, noting his initial silence. He took your hand, stroking your injured and still red knuckles, and leaned his cheek on the back of your hand, still intertwined with his.
“I should be the one asking you that,” he replied with a small smile, but it was a dull smile, it didn't involve his eyes.
“That bastard was strong, it hurts a bit when I breathe.”
He didn’t say said anything, he just looked down for a moment. He needed a moment of silence, he needed to regain control over his body because if he looked at you for another second then he’d probably lose every ounce of rationality he possessed.
“Do I look that bad?” you joked but your expression immediately returning serious when he brought his eyes back to yours and you noticed how shiny his eyes were.
Oh God.
“Y/N…” he muttered, trying to hold back and keep his composure but failing miserably. “I thought I lost you, I was so scared.”
“Oh Jay, but I'm here, you won't lose me I promise. Don't ever think you can get rid of your partner so easily.”
“No, no,” he shook his head slightly “You don't understand… I… Shit, you made me worry to death Y/N, I've never been so scared in my entire life, not even during the war, I don’t think I've never had this fucking fear of losing someone so important to me like today.”
Your heart was pounding as he spoke and if you hadn't already been lying on the bed, you probably would’ve passed out.
“Jay…”
“Wait, wait, I’m sorry, I need to finish… I need to tell you how I feel because it's eating me alive, I can't take it anymore.”
“What?” you whispered.
“Pretending I don't feel anything for you, pretending you're just my partner, pretending every time I see you you don’t make me lose every inch of control,” he spat out, “I've thought about telling you this so many times, you deserve so much more than all of this, but I really can't take it anymore. I've been so scared of losing you and never seeing you again and not having the opportunity to tell you everything I feel for you and I'm sorry I'm doing it this way, you probably won't understand anything,” he paused for a second before continuing “I… Y/N… When you called Voight I felt like dying, like a piece of my heart was being ripped out of me, and I know that sounds unbelievable and pathetic but this is just the truth. I've totally lost my mind, I wasn’t able to think straight because all I could do was think of you alone in that damn prison. And when I saw you… God… I think I died and rose and died again within minutes…”
“I thought the worst, I thought I would never see you again, that I would never see your beautiful eyes again and I died inside, the pain that just this thought caused me is not in the least explainable. I can't be without you Y/N, and today I had the confirmation, I can't imagine to exist in a world where you're not a part of and I don't care about the consequences of what I'm saying, that you probably won't feel all the same, that i'm probably ruining the best thing that has ever happened in my life but… I… I fucking love you, I love you like I've never loved anyone else in my life, I love you so much I can't even stand anymore next to you and pretend like nothing’s happening. You entered my mind and my heart in such a deep way I can't do anything anymore without thinking about what it would be like to do it with you and I really don't know how you did it, how you made me fall so madly in love with you,” he spoke, not even realizing what he was saying, “But you are the most important person in my life and I love you to death Y/N, I love everything about you, every single aspect, how you move, how you talk, how you stammer when you're nervous, how you're so clumsy sometimes I even wonder how you hold a gun in your hand, how you smile, how your face lit up when I bring you coffee, how you twirl a strand of hair with your fingers while you're focused, how you nibble on your pen when you're writing a case report, and when you laugh, God, you make me lose my fucking mind…”
You didn't realize the mess you were, the way you were crying. You couldn't believe it, if it had to be a dream you never wanted to wake up. Everything you wanted and ever wanted had just happened.
Jay Halstead loved you, he had feelings for you and God how stupid you felt because you had wasted so much time, time when you could be happy and be together instead of looking at each other from afar and thinking how much you both loved each other.
“Jay… I…”
But before you even had the opportunity to say something and tell him how stupid he was, how much you loved him too, how hard it was for you too to look at him, hug him, thinking he didn't feel the same things you did, but apparently that day fate wasn’t on your side. In fact you heard a knock on the door, which opening revealed the rest of the team who joyfully welcomed you, not realizing what they had actually interrupted.
As much as you loved each member of the team, at the time you cursed them for interrupting you and Jay, who stepped away from you to give the others room to say hello.
He kept his gaze down, standing to the side as he listened to the others talk and try to cheer you up.
A shocked expression appeared on your face when suddenly he left, without saying a single word and without even looking at you and it was in vain to call him.
“What's wrong with him?” Kevin asked, looking at you in confusion like you could answer the question.
“I really don't know,” you sighed, not really knowing what to say and what the hell did just happen.
-> Part Three
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230 notes · View notes
corn-fanfiction · 3 months
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SAVIOUR COMPLEX (Mark Hoffman x F!Reader) (Pt. 13)
(Part 12) (Part 14)
Rated: M
Tags/TWs: language/ past abuse/Mark Hoffman being a c*p/reader's life is getting messy/ Detective Gibson/ LINDSEY PEREZ????/ CHAINSHIPPING MENTION???????/ trauma n grief/ hurt NO comfort
Housekeeping: I'm retconning that Lindsey wasn't killed by Mark. I've decided she took a long sabbatical after her injury and then returned only after the coffin trap.
You stand at the wooden panel door within the hospital. You reference the name scrawled on your note in your hand and compare it to the name plated on the door.
You knock and enter when prompted. Sitting behind a desk, 40s-50s something with slicked blond hair is a man. He's scribbling onto a notepad and looks up when you enter.
“Hello, sorry did we have an appointment?”
“No, sorry!” You lower your head and smile bashfully, pressing your way inside and closing the door behind you. “I hope I'm not inconveniencing you. It's…not a medical issue.”
He straightens, then tenses a little, but maintains his smile.
“Well…have a seat I suppose.”
You do.
“Thank you. I swear it'll only be a few minutes. I need guidance, and if you're willing I think you're the best person to offer it.”
You give him the opportunity to interject but when he doesn't, you continue. “There's someone in my life that I care very deeply about. He's just been arrested for connection to the Jigsaw murders. But…it's not him. I know it's not.”
Gordon nods and passes a pen between his hands. “Detective Lieutenant Mark Hoffman.”
Your eyes widen.
“Yes. You know him?”
“Not really. We've only met a handful of times.” Gordon puts down the pen, leans forwards on his elbows. Sighs. “Sometimes, we think we know people, know them to the very marrow of their being, and then the next moment they're a stranger.”
You look at the floor. “I know. But I've known bad men. I've been with a very very bad man. And Mark is not a bad man. He's hotheaded, and can be misguided sometimes but his intentions are good.”
“May I say something that might upset you to hear?”
You obviously want to say no. Your hands are starting to shake.
“Sure.”
“That same thing could be said about Jigsaw. John Kramer or any of his accomplices.”
“But not him. Doctor, isn't there someone, anyone in your life that you would do anything for?”
And though you don't know it, in that moment, he thinks of Adam Stanheight.
“There was once.”
“And?”
“I couldn't save him.”
Your throat begins to close up.
“I need to. Please.”
Gordon pushes back from the desk, seems to go over something in his head before clasping his hands together.
“I know someone who may be able to help. May. I can't legally give you any personal information but if you can find it, give her a call. Jill Tuck. John Kramer's widow.”
You recognize the name upon hearing it.
“She's a clinician, right?”
Gordon doesn't respond, doesn't even nod, but doesn't deny it.
“I hope I was able to help.”
You smile. “You did, in some measure. I really appreciate it.”
You get up to leave.
“Can I ask you something before you go?”
You turn.
“Of course.”
“What happens if you're wrong? I hope you're not. But, what if?”
You falter. “Not even a possibility I can entertain.”
Gordon nods in an understanding you don't know. You thank him again and leave the office.
-
You worked very hard to get Jill's home address. Not wanting to bombard her at work, you got the name of a reporter from Gerri, who got you Jill's address. Probably from some past or current harassment over her dead husband. You feel guilty for being the next in line.
She's in a nice complex and you knock on the door. After a moment of waiting, you hear approaching footsteps and the door opens. Your eyes widen when you recognize she's the woman you served at work.
“Oh, hi! Um, are you Mrs. Jill Tuck?”
She leans on the door. “Miss. And yes.”
After a moment, you shake your head.
“I know you. From the restaurant.”
“Oh yes, you're that nice waitress. What can I help you with?”
God, you really hate to do this to her now.
“I'm really sorry to do this but I'm desperate. Someone I care for very deeply needs my help. And I was told you'd be the best person to ask.”
She adjusts her posture and you notice that she keeps a sturdy blockade between you and her apartment.
“What's this about?”
“Mark Hoffman? He's a detective-”
“I know who he is.”
It's a clipped response.
“Oh. Well, he's been arrested. I need to prove his innocence.”
“And who told you to come to me?”
Her bubbly demeanor from the restaurant, even the positivity when she opened the door, has given way to a coldness. You understand, but it's still jarring.
“I don't know if I should say…”
“If you managed to find where I live, I think I deserve to know.”
“Dr. Lawrence Gordon.”
“Ah.”
You shake your head. “I'm sorry. I think coming here was a mistake.”
“Look. All I can say, and if the police ask I'll tell them the same thing, is that I don't know anything about Jigsaw other than he was my husband. I don't know about any accomplices.”
You look at this woman and really see her. She's gorgeous, a kind face, weathered by what was likely the relentless stress of having a serial killer for a husband. You also distantly recall hearing something once about a baby, when everything came out…
And to think, here she is, collected and living.
“Okay. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Have a good rest of your day.”
“You too.”
She closes the door and you take yourself back down the hall. Another dead end. You check your watch and curse at the time, running out of the building and hailing a cab. You're almost late for work.
-
Half a shift in with decent tables and tips to match, and running drinks from the bar when your night manager catches you.
“Jesus, Jake! I'm not paying for these if you make me spill them.”
You're half joking but the look he gives you is full serious.
“I'm getting pretty tired of cops showing up around here. Got one asking up front.”
Your stomach knots and you return the drinks to the bartop. Wiping your moist hands on your apron you peek around the corner and blanche when you spot Gibson. And you have half a mind to go duck into the kitchen when he spots you and beckons you over.
He gets a good look at you, rubbing his jaw. He looks as worn as he did when they arrested Mark.
You lead him outside into the cool night air. The neon sign of the restaurant hums above you and casts yellow onto the wet pavement.
“What is it?” You ask and wrap your arms around yourself.
“You're being called in for questioning. Is it okay if I drive you?” He hooks his thumb in the direction of his car. You smudge a hand across your cheek and sigh.
“Can I finish my shift first?”
He looks at you, his eyes softening a little, before he nods.
“Sure.”
You do finish your shift and throw your apron in your locker before walking out with Gibson. He actually opens the passenger door for you, something that gives you pause, before seating himself behind the wheel.
“Sorry it's so late,” he mutters and cranks up the heat.
“It's fine,” you lie. You did make him wait, and you're still a little surprised he did so in the first place. “I've actually been wanting to talk to you. I need you to tell me what evidence you have against Mark. And if you need incentive, I would be very happy to go to the chief and tell him about you assaulting me if you don't give me what I want.”
You're at your wit's end about helping Mark and you know that until you know for certain what they have against him, you don't have a leg to stand on.
Gibson's hand, still on the stick, positions it back to parked. He turns to you.
“When I take you to that room, I'm going to give you that evidence for free. You can even tell the chief too. I won't try to stop you. Believe it or not, regardless of my unprofessional and inappropriate behavior choices, I have no ill will against you. The disdain I harbor for Hoffman carried over into our interactions and I regret it.”
You're stunned into silence. He's looking at you, too, not avoiding your eyes.
“I say all of this so that hopefully you'll trust me when we get in that room. You can hate me, you can tell me to go fuck myself. But before that, can you at least listen?”
In the short time you've known him, Gibson has proved an enigma to you. Bad temper, bad mannered, but quick, sometimes smart. Downright nasty in some situations. But in the moment, when it counts…
“Yeah…okay.”
-
He doesn't lead you to the interrogation room. Instead, he takes you to a conference room with warmer lighting and comfortable seats. There's coffee ready, and the blinds are pulled. And sitting across the table is a woman you've never seen before. Her curly black hair is pulled up and you can very clearly see the scars that mark her face and neck, like she'd been cut relentlessly.
“This is Special Agent Perez with the FBI.”
The rises to shake your hand. When she smiles at you, you manage to remember watching the TV reports. One of the first federal agents on the Jigsaw case.
“Holy shit. You're- I thought you were gone.”
“I took a sabbatical to distance myself from…Peter. but when Jigsaw started killing again I came back in.”
Peter… Strahm. The supposed official Jigsaw accomplice. Those details you were a bit shaky on.
Gibson invites you all to sit.
“I figured it would help to have her here. Make this a bit easier.”
You look between them. She seems warm and inviting judging by her resting face giving you attention and a soft look in her eyes. And…he's put another woman in the room with you.
You blow out air. He's really trying.
“Okay…What evidence?”
Perez speaks first. “Let's start with Peter- Agent Strahm. The FBI had reasonable suspicion of him due to…physical evidence being left at the scene of an earlier trap. But, through some medical dating, we were able to determine that the particular piece of evidence would have only been left after Peter was dead. In short-”
“You ruled him out.”
“Yes.”
You look between them again.
“So you're saying he was framed.”
Silence. They're waiting for you to connect the dots.
You do.
“You're saying he was framed by Mark.”
Perez nods. You clench your fists around the fabric of your pants and focus on your breathing.
“So what about this new evidence?”
It's Gibson's turn now. He's sitting next to you and softens his posture to face you. “DNA samples, personal items, both found at the newest crime scene. Irrefutably Mark's.”
You're staring at the woodgrain of the table. You can't seem to blink.
“So that's it? That's enough to damn him? If Strahm was set up, why couldn't Mark be set up? Why do you get to believe Strahm but I can't do the same?”
For a moment, they're a little shocked at your words, stuttering between them before Gibson takes over.
“Well, with all due respect, you're not a detective or an FBI agent. And Agent Perez new Strahm for years. You've known Mark for a month. You've put in a lot of effort to gather support for Mark, but what have you found so far? Who's vouching for him?”
Your head begins to shake.
“No. I'm sorry, but no. I don't believe it. It's too easy.”
Perez leans further over the table.
“Have you heard of Occam's razor? That sometimes the simplest answer is the right one?”
“But, he cares about people. About his sister, about me.”
“Enough to kill his sister's abusive and murderous ex? To kill your ex?”
Ted.
“No…”
He promised.
“Let me ask you this. Has he ever acted out of the ordinary? Kept strange hours… acted violently or maliciously? Said strange things?”
“Yes but…”
“Is it possible you've suspected this and you don't want to believe it?”
Tears are forming and you don't think you can hide the wavering in your voice.
“I think… I think I should call a lawyer.”
“Why?”
“Because these questions- they're scaring me. Confusing me.”
“You're more than welcome to call a lawyer, but is a lawyer going to be able to ease your mind? These are the facts, this is what we know is true. Everything we know points to Hoffman, more than likely, being an accomplice to Jigsaw, and now taking on the mantle.”
It can't be true. Your hands move from your trousers to the table top, shaking against the smooth surface. You're suddenly very hot and Perez must notice this because she pours and slides you a glass of water. You consider it, reach out fingers, then draw back knowing that you can't possibly hold it.
“…can I see him?”
Gibson stutters.
“I'm not sure that's a good idea.”
You feel the tears return. You aren't entirely sure what you think talking to him will do. Maybe just seeing him will unlock the vice grip threatening to squash your heart? That this internal pain is the only thing you can consider managing?
“Please? I won't repeat any of what you just said, I promise. You can be in the room. But I need to be able to look him in the eyes.” They're silent, avoiding your eyes. “Gibson, please.”
He clicks his teeth, nods at the table.
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
Gibson walks out of the room, leaving just you and Perez, who reaches a hand to yours. Not to hold it, but like an extension of sympathy.
“Hey, I know what it's like, to go through life with everyone telling you that the person you trusted more than anything is a killer. It's hard. You're gonna get through it.”
You pull your hands back into your lap.
“You have the comfort of knowing for sure it wasn't Strahm though. And isn't it a comfort?”
You don't mean to harden your glare but it can't be helped. She knows this.
“It is, for what it's worth.”
-
The Chief agrees to five minutes between you and Mark with him in the holding cell and you a safe distance away, with Gibson's presence. You note that Perez is not invited.
Mark's sitting on a bench inside when you enter. The must've gotten some of his clothes from the lockers because he's changed into a shirt and jeans. You wonder if they've given any attention to his wounds or kept up with his pain med dosages.
He doesn't move when he sees you and it's suddenly very difficult to move your feet so you end up almost shuffling with Gibson at your back. You stop in front of Mark, plenty of space between you and the bars.
He looks up at you. Doesn't stand, doesn't speak.
“How's your leg?” You ask. He doesn't break away.
“Still hurts.”
You turn to Gibson.
“Have you been giving him pain meds? The hospital said-”
“We know. We have.”
You nod and turn back to Mark.
“Mark-”
“Don't ask me.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“I have to.”
“You know what my answer will be.”
“Maybe, but I need to hear you, to see you say it.”
He doesn't move.
“Mark, did you kill-”
“Let me finish-”
“No, I can take accusations hurled from everyone but you.”
Your mouth drops. “I'm not accusing-”
“How many times and ways can I say it before you people get it? I didn't kill anyone!”
When he stands up your back hits the wall. You've heard him shout before, but never like this…never at you.
“It looks really bad from here, Mark.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you should maybe calm down instead of scaring the one person you've got on your side,” Gibson snaps. Mark stills. Sees you and the way you've turned yourself inwards.
“I- I'm sorry. I'm tired. It's not an excuse but there it is. Hey,” he comes closer to the bars. “Thanks for coming. I mean it.”
How badly you want to go to him. But even if Gibson wasn't standing right there waiting to prevent it… you're not sure you would.
It's almost like every once in a while you suddenly remember who Mark is and always has been. He's a cop, he knows he has power, he has a temper. He can be kind and loving or he can be cold. It's confusing to see both battling for control in front of you.
You turn to leave without thinking. Gibson is surprised but follows you out. You press the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle your crying when you hear Mark calling after you.
Occam's razor. Sometimes, the simplest answer is the right one.
And the answer was just staring you in the face.
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serially-wayhaven · 2 months
Text
Writing Masterpost
The Wayhaven Chronicles
A list of the things I am writing / have written for Wayhaven. All links go to AO3.
_________________
RATED E - 18+ only
Routine Body Maintenance (Mason/f.detective) Rated E. What could it even be between them? She’s a fuck-up turned mechanic turned detective and he’s an immortal vampire. Love. It might just be love. (in progress longfic)
Station Duty(Mason/f.detective) Rated E. Phone sex. With Mason. At the station. (complete one-shot)
Always for the First Time (Mason/F. Detective/Nate) Rated E. Threesome / polyam with many feelings. (complete)
Present (Mason/F. Detective) Rated E. A holiday party with lots of X-rated teasing, and the gang tries to have fun. (complete one-shot)
Natural Progression (Nate/f.OC) Rated M. What if Nate fell in love with a dryad and also quoted poetry? (in progress drabbles)
RATED G or T
Sweater Weather (gen) Cursed sweaters & found family. (complete one-shot)
Glacial Erratic (gen) Adam is so old it's hard to calculate. (complete one-shot)
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lykegenia · 1 year
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Like Glitter And Gold Ch.10
Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters/Pairings: Nate x f!Detective, Unit Bravo, Rebecca Warnings: Mild thalassophobia I guess?
Read on AO3
--
Back at the warehouse, Adam is still adamantly refusing to believe Russell was killed for anything other than being a selkie.
“It is still possible this was a Trapper kidnapping gone wrong,” he insists.
There’s a groan around the library as the rest of Unit Bravo, settled on various pieces of furniture for the debrief, voice their collective opinion.
“We’ve patrolled both nights and found nothing,” Mason growls, an unlit cigarette between his lips.
“Martin Johnston said there was only one attacker,” Leah adds. Of them all, she’s the only one out of place, keeping a careful distance from Nate. With the memory of their argument still a hot itch across the back of her neck, sitting in his embrace like nothing’s wrong grates on her nerves – but at the same time, she can’t sit elsewhere because it’ll only sting more, and worse, everyone else will clock the reason for the weird tension in the room. So instead, she sticks to a compromise: she paces.  
Felix is watching her with worried eyes. “Leah has a point, oh glorious leader,” he points out. “Trappers swarm like rats.”
“It is looking more likely that Russell being a supernatural was incidental to his death.”
At that, even Rebecca siding against him, Adam straightens from his lean against the mantelpiece, ruffled like a cold pigeon. “So what’s the answer, then?”
“We’re still missing pieces.” Leah turns, paces in the other direction. “The text to Russell’s phone, the sunken treasure…”
“And now an affair between the victim and one of the suspects.”
“At least Walter Greene seems less likely now,” Rebecca offers. “It would have complicated things.”
Leah has to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep her retort at bay. Even in the little time she’s known about the supernatural, the Agency has taken care to craft an illusion of control, smashed apartments and rogue vampire killers bustled out of sight lest any of the messy edges be noticed. It’s hardly a surprise, considering Rebecca’s love of composure, of practicality.
The vampires tense, and she lets the thought go.
“Is there anything about this woman in that secret diary?” Mason asks after an awkward moment. “Her name surrounded by little love hearts, maybe?”
Nate carefully doesn’t look at Leah. “He mentions her, though not by name. He… he thought it was a soulmate bond.”
Instantly, the energy in the room shifts. Mason curses, Adam and Felix both go still, and even Rebecca’s hands curl into fists on her knees.
Completely at a loss, Leah chooses to focus on Unit Bravo’s leader. “What just happened?”
“A soulmate bond is… powerful.” It’s Rebecca who answers, suddenly hunched and brittle on the edge of the armchair she’s perched in. “It’s possible for two souls to find each other, and when they do they bind together. They don’t… complete each other necessarily – they’re whole on their own – but once the bond is made, a separation is… unpleasant.”
“You’re telling me soulmates are real?”
“Here we stand,” Adam points out, “and you’ve seen werewolves and fae.”
“Yeah, but…” Leah tears her gaze away from this new, unsettling vision of her mother. “You’re real, I’ve seen what you can do. You’re not some ephemeral concept that exists to sell Valentine’s Day cards. Besides,” she adds, pacing again, “are you sure? She said it was just a fling – she broke it off.”
“Could she have been lying?” Felix asks, anxious.
“She was lying about her husband not knowing about the affair, I’ll tell you that.” She shrugs. “Is it possible it was just a one-way thing?”
Nate is frowning at the carpet. “If their souls were bonded, they should both have felt it.”
“Sometimes there’s more than two in a bond, but never less,” Felix explains, then waves a hand as if the whole subject is an annoying fly he intends to swat away. “Enough about that. If you’ve finished reading that journal, Natey, do you know where the treasure is?”
Leah’s phone buzzes in her pocket and she turns away before she can hear his reply.
“Are you sitting down?” Tina asks on the other end of the line, before she can even manage a greeting. “You’re going to want to sit down.”
“Is this about the husband?” Behind her, four pairs of supernatural ears perk up.
“You bet it is. For starters, he has a record. Drunk and Disorderlies – four of them.”
She frowns. “I don’t remember arresting him.”
“Before our time.” Tina’s shrug is almost palpable. “Reele was the arresting officer. But that’s not important. The real kicker is that the text Russell got just before he died came from his phone.”
Leah goes still; she’s always found it strange how often one detail can suddenly shift the whole perspective on a case, the way lighting a face from a different angle can reveal a whole new identity.
“Do you want backup?” Tina asks.
She glances over her shoulder. Unit Bravo is already rising, waiting for her instructions, having clearly heard every word. “I think I’m good for backup.”
“Oh I see how it is,” comes the dry response. “Don’t need me anymore now you’ve got Unit Boyband to do your backing vocals, do you?”
“Tina…”
She knows they can hear her – she’s having far too much fun with it. There’s going to have to be a conversation about that.
“I’ll get the fanciest suite prepared for our guest in the meantime, shall I?” she asks, as a peace offering.
Leah nods. “Complete with bubble bath and pillow mints? I’ll call you when we’ve got him.”
She clicks off the call and can’t help a smile at the mix of incredulity and affront that faces her across the room.
“Unit Boyband?” Felix whines. “That’s not fair.”
“We do not provide ‘backing vocals’,” Adam adds in a peeved voice.
Mason grins. “I know some vocals that –”
“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Nate grinds out, covering his embarrassment with a hand.
“Will someone please explain what’s going on?”
Ignoring the heat in her own cheeks – because she absolutely knew where Mason’s comment was going – Leah turns to her mother. “Stanley Harris sent the text that led Russell into the ambush that killed him.”
Rebecca’s eyes widen. “The Agency will want to know. Excuse me.”
The others are still gathered around as she leaves, all eager for the chase.
“Are we all going?”
“If this man killed a supernatural, better safe than sorry,” Mason points out, having already tucked his cigarette back out of sight. He leads the way out of the library with Felix fast on his heels, all but bouncing at the prospect of a real, human arrest. Even Adam seems tenser than usual, though he spares a flat glance for Leah’s hopeful expression and tosses the SUV’s keys once in his palm.
Before she can retort, a gentle hand brushes against her wrist to halt her in the doorway.
“Leah…”
Her fingers curl around Nate’s, though she’s too much of a coward to look upwards into his face. “We have to go.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “But once this is over… will we talk?”
“We haven’t really done that yet, have we?” She sighs, bites her lip. “Sometimes… trying to figure out what you –”
“I meant what I said at the carnival.”
He’s stepped close enough that to see him she’d have to tilt her head all the way back, expose her throat and the way her cheeks flame at the memory of the Ferris wheel. Of course, he can read her pulse regardless, and the bright flood of adrenaline through her veins, hear the slight catch in her breath as his fingertips reach up for the edge of her jaw.
“I still want to focus on the case,” she manages, though she sways forward. In between one heartbeat and the next, her eyes slip closed. “For now.”
“Of course.”
His hand falls away. The loss of his presence hits like a blast of icy air, but it gives her space enough to lead the way after the others before anyone comes looking.
--
“We’ll be questioning him at the Agency, not the station,” Adam announces as the sat nav tells them to take the final turn along the boatyard track. His knuckles are white enough on the steering wheel to suggest he’s expecting a fight, and there’s a flicker of a glance sideways to gauge Leah’s expression. “Regardless of whether Seakirk was killed because he was a selkie, the killer saw him without his Veil. We need to see how much he knows.”
“And then you’ll make it all go away, right?” A huff blows through her cheeks, her boot taps in the footwell. “Just like Murphy.”
With an uncomfortable cough, his hands readjust their perfect nine-and-three position on the steering wheel, while in the back seat the silence deepens at the reminder.
“It’s for the best,” Adam rallies. “There would be panic if people knew. We’ve seen it before.”
“I get it,” she snaps. “The intelligence of a crowd is the intelligence of its biggest idiot divided by the number of people in it – but I don’t have to like it. Just don’t break any Geneva Conventions where I can see you.”
It’s petulant to hunch down in the seat but she does it anyway, bearing the jolt of the suspension as the rough silhouettes of birch and pine flash past the window. Eventually the view opens out as the terrain switches from forest to scrubby lakeshore, and the track ends in the concrete facing of the guest car park. The chainlink gates are padlocked shut, the yard deserted.
“Well that doesn’t seem promising,” Felix comments, leaning through the gap between the front seats.
Adam lets out a rumble of agreement. “Nate?”
“On it.”
The flash of movement is too quick for Leah’s eyes to catch before there’s a ping of snapping metal and the grind of rusty hinges, with Nate stepping back to wave the SUV through. Even before it crunches to a halt on the gravel, Felix and Mason pile out and speed off to check the perimeter.
“There’s no one in the shed!” Nate calls a moment later.
“Not along the shore either,” Mason confirms.
“Something isn’t right,” Adam grumbles. A deep scowl creases his forehead as he joins the others on the foreshore, the green eyes beneath scanning for whatever must be out of place. As ever, the gulls jeer in the air above, their flight an effortless slice through the wind churning up the water beyond the little bay.
“Russell’s boat is missing,” Leah notices, and turns to Nate. “Isn’t that where it was moored?”
“It was.” He frowns. “You don’t think Stanley is –?”
“He must be after the treasure!” Felix cries.
“How would he even know where it is?” Mason scoffs, though he, too, is looking out over the water, one hand shading against the glare. “We’re the ones with the journal, aren’t we?”
“Nate?”
“The second-to-last entry says Russell found it,” comes the hesitant reply. “But I don’t see how… wait.” He jerks his head round to the shed. “The GPS readouts. Stanley must be tracing them back to the wreck site.”
Adam hummed. “You said there was diving equipment on board?”
Taking in the vastness of the lake, it’s not the salvage they need to worry about. The problem is the far shore, the craggy miles of coves and wooded inlets where someone on the run might drive a boat into hiding and then lose themselves in the endless stretch of hills beyond. Even with supernatural senses, Stanley might make it halfway across the country before they even found the start of his trail.
“Does anyone know how to drive a boat?” Leah asks.
“We don’t need a boat.” At her confused look, the corner of Adam’s mouth twists into his equivalent of a smirk. “We can catch him on foot.”
“How the…” Her gaze alights on Nate, hunched and shifting his weight, and it clicks. “You mean on the water? You can walk on water?”
Mason grins. “We can move fast enough not to sink.”
“Of course you can,” she says weakly. “Why not? That’s still only about the fifth weirdest revelation this week.”
A moment later there’s a commiserating pat on her back as Felix hands Nate a pair of binoculars from the SUV’s equipment store. Ahead, Adam pushes aside the security gate to the dock with the ease of a child crushing eggshells, before leading the way to the edge of the dock.
“Check comms,” he orders.
“I see the boat,” Nate says, his expression hidden behind the binoculars.
He points to a white speck bobbing in the distance, and an instant late both he and Leah are soaked by a plume of spray as the rest of Unit Bravo blink and take off like comets across the surface of the water. An instant later she has to grab at Nate’s arm as the ripples assail the pontoon and throw it upwards, slapping hollowly on the boards and against the hulls of the vessels moored closer to the shore.
“Are you alright?” he asks, as the waves subside into the fizz of innocent, foamy bubbles.
She takes in the tightness at the corners of his eyes, but nods. “Glad to see you kept your sea legs. Can you see what’s happening?”
“Yes,” he says, squinting through the binoculars again. “They’ve reached the boat. Adam is being his usual charming self.” A pause. “They’ve gone inside the cabin, I can’t see anymore.”
There’s noise coming over the comms though. A clatter and the smash of a lock; heavy footfalls. Someone yells, and then there’s a muffled thump, followed by the voice of their suspect, shrill and thick with fear.
“How did you get… You’re like him, aren’t you?”
“We have no desire to hurt you, Mr Harris.” Adam, low and even, probably with his palms spread wide, blocking the doorway with his huge frame as he waits for an opening.
“Stay back!”
“Mr Harris –”
“No! You can’t have it – I’ll shoot, I swear I will!”
Shit.
“He’s got a gun,” Leah hisses, turning to Nate.
His jaw clenches. “I should be over there.”
“No.” She touches his arm again, more gently this time, and turns his face towards her with the other hand. “Adding another person now won’t help.”
“But I –”
“It’s not your fault,” she interrupts, firm. “Let the others handle it.”
Her heart skips at the way he leans into her palm, how the line between his brows softens and the corner of his mouth lifts as he drinks her in. So many colours reflect in the wistful brown of his eyes.
“Uh, guys? Guys?”
Nate shakes himself and straightens, pushes the button to activate the comms. “We read you Felix.”
“You know we’re still in the middle of a case, right?” the younger vampire teases. “There’ll be plenty of time for longing gazes later.”
“We weren’t –” Nate bites off a sigh. “What’s the situation over there?”
“If you two lovebirds had been listening, you’d know everything’s under control. Mason found the controls for the submarine thingy – it’s already at the bottom.”
“Has he found anything?” Leah asks, far too quickly for nonchalance.
“Lots of mud,” Mason grunts. “Thought there’d be more fish.”
Nate licks his lips. “Is there any sign of the wreck? Can you see it?”
“Hang on –”
Felix’s voice drops away to an indistinct mutter, leaving silence in his wake until Leah’s pocket starts buzzing, the echo of the call clear over the audio. He waves when she swipes to accept the call, his grin bright in the dim light of the cabin.
“Thought I’d cut out the middleman,” he explains, before turning the camera towards a grainy image of the bottom of the lake. Some kind of frondy weed drifts in the foreground, but most of the screen is taken up by an expanse of illuminated grey-brown muck, and beyond the arc of the ROV’s lights, a halo of almost absolute dark.
As Leah tilts her phone to let Nate see, the view shifts, the undulations of the lakebed broken by smaller lumps of hazy matter that cast black shadows behind them. An eerie, expectant silence accompanies the drift of disturbed silt, and even exposed to a brusque wind and the cry of gulls above, it’s far too easy to imagine being down there, with the cold, crushing void, the weight of the water a prison with no escape. When Nate presses closer, his hand anchored to her waist, she slips her fingers between his and pulls his arm further around, eager for the barrier of his warmth.
“Wait, what’s that –” he starts. “Turn around.”
Obediently, the ROV swivels on the end of its tether.
“Go forward.”
Mason still hasn’t entirely figured out the controls. Some part of the sub hits the bottom hard enough to scare up a cloud of debris that blocks the camera, but as they wait for it to clear, breaths held, slowly the unnaturally straight edge of something coalesces out of the gloom.
“Is that a… crate?” Felix checks. “That’s not very exciting.”
Mason huffs. “People put things in crates, dummy.”
“I knew that.”
The crate’s size is hard to tell without anything to give it scale, but the wood it’s made from seems almost like new, solid, with only the thick layer of mud settled on top to show how long ago it was lost. As Mason carefully directs the ROV around to the other side, the torchlight reflects off the jagged edges of what must be another crate a little way away, this one fractured, its boards opened at harsh angles like the ribs of a carcass picked clean. Something glints where its guts should be.
“That looks like glass,” Leah murmurs.
“Not gold?” Felix checks. “Jewels?”
“Get closer,” Nate says.
Mason is behind the camera, but his eye roll is obvious. “Aye-aye, captain.”
A few fragments are scattered about, glittering like stars revealed by a rolling-back of cloud where the ROV has passed over the stillness of the lakebed, still sharp, and still recognisable.
“So much for sunken treasure, it’s just a load of old bottles,” Felix complains, as the broken neck of one comes into focus, the top still sealed with cork and wax.
But Nate is tense as a wire at Leah’s side. “People put things in bottles,” he says.
“Valuable things?”
“Look.”
Nestled in the bottom corner of the broken crate, another bottle rests on its side, the label faded but the smoky-dark glass is intact, spotless, sheltered even from the drift of time.
“What is it?” Leah asks, because Nate’s eyes have blown wide and his lips have parted in something akin to rapture.
“It’s whisky,” he manages, hoarse. “Century-old, perfectly preserved whisky. If that crate is intact, it’ll be worth… I don’t care to guess how much.”
Dazed, she turns back to the unremarkable image, the small fortune illuminated in the depths of the lake. For something with such an unremarkable appearance, it makes one hell of a motive.
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webfics · 1 year
Text
Marathon
Pairing - mcu!peter parker x f!reader
Warnings - None really, just a ton of oblivious mutual pining and a few curse words. Usage of Y/N.
Summary - Peter and y/n have been friends for a while, but have never admitted their feelings for each other. It's been a year since Peter first showed you star wars and you have planned a re-watch to celebrate. What Peter doesn't know is that you've been harbouring a crush on him since the first marathon and were finally going to tell him.
A/N - This is my first peter parker fic so I apologise if I don't do his character justice. Mentions of reader wanting to become a detective but its not really that important.
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GIF by thosekidswhohuntmonsters
You and Peter had met each other during middle school. He had noticed Flash Thompson trying to steal your notebook out of your backpack when you weren't looking and decided to stand up for you, and although it resulted in his unfortunate nickname, it was worth becoming friends with you.
Since then, the two of you had become inseparable and spent almost every day in each others company. Along with your mutual best friend Ned Leeds of course, whom you met not long after meeting Peter. The two of you were so close that you were the first person Peter told when he became Spiderman.
You had developed feelings for Peter towards the end of your freshman year. The two of you had decided to have a Star Wars movie marathon as you had never seen the franchise. Peter was in shock and naturally, he forced you to watch them all. His scarily accurate impression of chewie and constant nerdy facts had made you swoon. And that god damn laugh of his could of killed you then and there.
You would never let him know that though. You had seen enough movies to know that dating your best friend was never a good idea. Plus, you knew that Peter saw you as nothing more than a friend. He makes that very clear anytime somebody brings up how close the two of you are.
Which is exactly what he was doing right now.
"I'm just saying... the two of you would totally be a cute couple". Liz had came over to speak to Betty, who was eating with you, Peter and Ned, and had referred to you as Peters girlfriend. The mistake had made you blush at the thought until Peter harshly shut it down.
"Oh no, Y/N and I are just friends. She's basically my sister at this point". You had laughed it off but Ned, who knew about your long time crush on Peter, noticed the disappointment in your face.
What you didn't know was that Peter had feelings for you too. He had since before the two of you were friends and it was the reason he stood up for you in the first place. He had tried hinting towards it quite a lot during the early days of your friendship, but you never seemed to notice. Peter had just assumed that you hadn't liked him back and decided he was happy being just your friend.
Ned was obviously aware of this, which made this situation a lot tougher for him. Anytime the two of you dismissed your feelings, he wanted to just blurt it out, but he was adamant that the two of you would work it out eventually and decided to just allow it to happen naturally, no matter how painful it was to watch.
The lunch bell rang and you said your goodbyes to everyone. Checking in with Peter to make sure your plans were still in place for later before heading to your final lesson of the day.
Your lesson had dragged on for what felt like a week before the bell finally dismissed everyone. You grabbed your stuff and headed to the front of the school, where you were set to meet Peter.
When you arrived he was already stood there waiting for you. His tattered bag was slung over his shoulder and a few strands of his hair were covering his face as he was looking down at his phone. You walked over to him and when he noticed you approaching, he shot you one of his annoyingly adorable smiles.
"Hello there". You said, now standing next to him. He smirked slightly before replying "General Kenobi". You laughed at his Grievous impression and then the two of you started walking back to Peter's. The two of you were planning on re-watching the original trilogy in honour of it being a year since the first time you had watched the franchise together.
"I can't believe it's been a year since our marathon" you say to peter, walking into his home.
"How does it feel knowing you've been a star wars nerd for a whole year? Honestly dude it's kind of sad." Peter asked, teasingly.
"Coming from the one who practically came out of the womb reciting empire" you reply, rolling your eyes sarcastically.
------
You were now sitting on Peter's bed with him, watching Return of the Jedi and all you could think about was how much you liked Peter. Every comment he made about the films, his darth vader impression, the way he was so enthralled and passionate about the franchise... you loved everything about him.
Well not everything, you weren't too happy about his tendency of risking his life every night. But that's besides the point.
You really liked him.
And you needed to tell him.
"You know what's funny?" you say, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.
"What?" Peter turned to you and popped some popcorn into his mouth.
"Our first marathon was when i started liking you" you reply, trying to disguise how nervous you were by turning your attention back to the movie.
Peter choked on his popcorn for a moment and quickly composed himself.
"Liking me?" he asked.
"Yeah, i had a huge crush on you back then" you say, searching his face for any form of reaction but he just sat there, shocked.
"Still do" you added, and this time you got a reaction.
"Wait, you LIKE me?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused.
"I really like you Peter" you reply, emphasising the 'really'.
He smiled suddenly.
"I really like you too Y/N" he said, mimicking your emphasis and now you were smiling. "It's kind of the whole reason i defended you in middle school"
"You've liked me since middle school?!" you asked him, as shocked as he was moments before.
"I thought it was obvious, i flirted with you constantly" he admitted.
"I honestly thought you were just being polite" you said, now realising how blind you had been.
"And you want to be a detective" he joked and you punched his shoulder lightly.
"Shut up, i was a child okay" you laughed.
"Just saying" he said and you rolled your eyes.
"Wait," you say and Peter turns to you again "so you couldn't tell me you liked me but you could tell me you were spiderman"
Peter paused for a moment. "In my defence, I didn't exactly tell you i was spiderman, you figured it out"
"Which is exactly why i'd be a great detective" you say, crossing your arms and Peter laughs.
"I'm serious" you say.
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evilbunnyking · 1 year
Text
You as You Were
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Adam x f!Detective, book 3 canon divergence.
An unclaimed bounty, an ambush, a girl. Events spin out of control.
---
Chapter 4.
Read the first three chapters here.
---
Adam returns to the car first. He searches for a blood trail in the surrounding forest, any sign of where she was taken, but like Felix said, there is little, not beyond the car. She’d fought her attacker, he sees. There are spent shell casings in the bruised grass, and the remains of her gun, crushed beyond recognition. Rumpled up dirt where her heels had kicked, and then… nothing. The traces end, leaving no trail to follow. There’s only old blood and the feather he still holds, larger than the span of his hand and smelling of gunpowder and old magic, like a penny pressed against the tongue.
He bites his cheek hard enough he tastes blood, using the clarity of the pain to think. This was a planned ambush; it could be little less, with how effectively they split their team; which means that this creature, this Anunnaki, was being controlled by the same group that stole the children. There will be an auction, if he knows their ilk at all, and after so many centuries, so many repeated patterns, the lives stolen and used…
He drags his thoughts back, away from remembered horror, away from how they’d found Mason a century ago, a nightmare the other chooses to forget. First... first there will be an auction. The buyers will want to inspect the “goods”, and so there will be those that know where the taken are kept, where the wares will be paraded, before the bidders make their choice.
The survivors and the prisoners were taken to the agency's main facilities.
There’s a hunting rhythm in his ears and a beating in his chest, hard and fast, where his heart was supposed to be.
He turns to the woods and starts running.
--
If the agency has been told to expect him, they do not attempt to stop him. The door to the lower levels gives way to his key pass, swinging open into the opposing wall so heavily that he suspects the wall cracks. He does not stop to confirm it. He stalks to the heart of the facility, and sees no one else as he goes, the halls empty, all activity located elsewhere. He is glad of it. He does not know what he must look like; what someone might see, if they were to look at him now.
He stalks past the corridors that branch towards the hospital wing and the basement cages, through a false door, and into the belly of the beast, the back wing that houses the interrogation rooms. It is only here that he finally finds resistance, two guards stationed in front of one of the rooms and stiffening when he enters their view. Their eyes flash as he makes his way down the corridor, what little he can see of their expressions tightening. Closed doors line either side of the hall, followed by dark windows, spelled glass that allows viewers to see in and none to see out, but Adam pays them little heed. He only sees the light in the room ahead. The bloodied human seated within, bound to the metal chair by buckle restraints and waiting for interrogation.
It will not take long to secure the information he seeks.
But one of the guards steps forward as he approaches, placing themselves in front of the door, volt charged and braced for a blow.
“You are not authorised to be here, Commanding Agent,” they say, their voice stronger than they seem. They are a shifter, a wolf if he were inclined to guess; they wear the agency spelled armour adapted for their kind, the silver chainmail swapped for spelled steel. An admirable effort, but a useless one. In the face of brute force, it will give the same way, remoulding like fresh clay.
Adam finds his voice, the words rasping from him as if he has not spoken in a long time. Perhaps he has not. “You will admit me.”
Their grip on the volt trembles, but their stance remains firm. “That is not possible. Specialist Agent Hapworth has been charged with the interrogation—”
“You know who I am,” Adam says, the drumbeat of his pulse still in his ears, his hands flexing at his sides. "I will be taking control of this interrogation." He steps forward, and sees the wolf's throat work, a nervous swallow. “Stand aside, ensign.”
"Our orders..."
“It would be a mistake," Adam says, feeling the rumble of a growl in his chest, "to presume that you could prevent me.”
He sees the flutter of their pulse through the thin skin of their neck, taste their spike of fear. And yet they raise their chin, a stubborn gleam in their eyes. Admirable, useless. Adam steps forward again and sees the both of them flinch, the electricity of the volt crackling between them. They will try to stop him, but he will be faster.
He gives them a final warning: “Stand aside.”
“We can’t—”
“Commanding Agent du Mortain,” comes an amused voice behind him. “How… unexpected.”
He snaps his head back, shifting on the balls of his feet. An agent walks down the hall towards them, the light from the strip lights highlighting the sharp lines of her profile, crafting features with shadow. Her white, clouded eyes manage to find him, milky in the reflected light. She is blind, but it is not her eyes that she uses to see.
“Hapworth,” he says. He has met her only a few times, in passing, but he is well aware of her reputation, and the extent of her abilities. She is a powerful witch, skilled at memory magic. There is little that can be hidden from her, although she is limited by the need for touch. 
“Specialist agent,” the guard hastens to say, sidestepping around Adam to be able to see her. “I told him—I informed the agent of his lack of authorisation, but he still—”
“It's alright,” she says with a smile that is deceptively gentle for the sharpness of her teeth. Magic drifts around her, latent, as if it were as familiar as breathing. “I can handle Commanding Agent du Mortain.”
Adam curls back his lip, folding his arms tightly over his chest. “I will take the interrogation myself.”
“You will not.” She passes by him, close enough for him to feel the hair on his arms stand up, placing her hand on the frame of the door. Magic tightens the air between them, pressing like nails against the skin. Sharp enough to warn, but not yet enough to draw blood. “You can, however, watch. If you must. I know what it is you seek. I will give it to you, but I will not have you in my interrogation room.”
And she opens the door, stepping into the room beyond and shutting it behind her with a definitive snap. There is the click of the lock; protocol rather than an actual safeguard, for both of them know that he could easily rip the door from its hinges, if he deigned. He finds himself with his hand on the doorknob, the metal moulding to the shape of his palm. 
“Commanding Agent—” The hum of a volt activating crackles at his back, sharp with ozone. For a wild moment, Adam contemplates doing it, regardless.The wolf could not stop him for long. Hapworth would be harder, but there would still be enough time, he thinks, for him to get the information he needs. There is his duty and what he’s built here, a lifetime of work that he would cast aside if he continues, but he would gladly sacrifice it, he thinks, he would sacrifice more, because he cannot… he cannot lose Eve again. He will not lose her.
He sees Hapworth through the metal laced glass, her back to the door. These rooms are constructed in parody of the human police interview rooms, and the only individuals brought in here are those who have already been rendered powerless, bound until the ‘interrogation’ can begin. Adam sees Hapworth begin, the air thickening and slowing with the magic, softening the overhead lights. The human relaxes into his chair, slumping until he is held up only by the restraints. His expression slackens until he is somewhere between awake and a dream.
“Commanding Agent, step back,” comes another voice behind him, the other guard, tone wavering slightly in its warning. “Please.”
Agent Hapworth raises her hand, lazily rolling her wrist. The human straightens, wholly at her mercy, a drunken flush to his cheeks as he leans unconsciously towards her as far as the restraints allow him. She never turns around, and as surely as she knows Adam is there, Adam knows that these men, these ‘trappers’, pawns as they are, would know little about the mechanism of their whole organisation. It is not worth the sacrifice.
He releases the door handle and turns, stalking to stand in front of the two-way mirror and the microphone equipment there, ignoring the guards’ shuddered breaths of relief. Adam waits, senses trained on the room beyond.
“Where,” Hapworth is coaxing, her hand on the man’s wrist, her veil slipped away and her long blond hair unbound and floating around her. She is ethereal in the trance of her magic, her skin translucent, retaining as much as reflecting the light of the room. Her charge sways, eyes wide and dull. “Where do you take the ones you steal?”
“I—” he is frowning, stupidly, the exaggerated expression of the drugged. “I don't—”
“His mind has been wiped,” Hapsworth says aloud, for both Adam and the audio-visual feed that is streaming to other parts of the facility.  “But it is sloppy. Tore out only the known, not the roots. I will go deeper, but…” and she is speaking for Adam's benefit now, “it will take time.” And then she focuses again, her voice slipping lower, speaking in a tongue he doesn't recognise and the man sways in his seat, head obediently drooping.
“Hapworth,” he growls through the microphone. They do not have time. The wolf at the door shifts uncomfortably. There is a ripple in the thickness that has gathered inside the room. Her head tilts towards the window, an unconscious, habitual action. 
“Patience, du Mortain.”
“A location. Or a name.” (A lead, to follow)
The throb of that hypnotic light. “I will try.” She steps closer, releasing the man’s wrist to press her fingers to his temples, instead, the human stiffening at the contact. The light beyond the glass undulates, as if thick with pollen on a sunny day. The human sits rigidly in his seat, his body tensed and strained while his expression remains vacant, the barest hints of pain tightening his eyes and his mouth.
As time passes, the spasms of pain grow more apparent, more violent. A flush rises up his neck, sweat trickling down his cheeks, and then he cries out, almost jerking from Hapworth’s grip. She holds him in place, his face between her palms, almost obscuring him from view. The magic roils around them like an agitated sea.
“...O’Leary,” she says finally, not turning around. The human gasps again, the sound wet and pained. His hands spasm against the restraints. “Georgy O’Leary. A sometimes-lover. He is more heavily involved, and will give you more. This one,” and she draws her hands away, letting him slump in the chair. The human collapses forward with something like a sob, his eyes squeezed shut. His cheeks are coursed with tears, blood and spit dripping from his open mouth as he gasps for breath. “This one knows little more.”
Adam's fists flex. “Location?”
Hapworth turns to the window, a pitying expression on her features. “You should wait for backup, agent. You should take your team, in the least.”
He growls as much as says, “Hapworth.”
She sighs, turning to leave the room. The light seems to shutter out, dim, and the man she was interrogating relaxes in his seat into a more natural sleep, still vaguely conscious. Exiting, she walks to Adam and offers him the flat of her palm, the air around her oscillating like a shimmer of heat. 
“I will give you what I’ve taken,” she says, lightly, “if you will let me.”
He stares at her outstretched hand, unmoving. He knows her magic. He will not be able to control what she sees, what she takes.
“I promise,” she says, her voice lightly amused, “that anything I see on your part will remain between the two of us. I am not in the habit of sharing others secrets; or rather…” She tilts her head. “Not unless I must.”
And there lies the warning, the reality. As he has made himself a creature of the agency, so has she, and if he gives the agency cause, she may be forced to share what she knows, fragmentary as it may be. But every hesitation is another moment lost, less of a chance of finding Eve. He does not have time.
So be it.
Setting his jaw, he touches his fingers to her palm.
And it happens—it happens all at once. Sensation, feeling, a rush of images, memories. The immediacy of touch. There are lovers, interlocked in the dark, laughed words, a gasp—the memory of slick skin sliding over his own (no—not his. The memories feel real and feel like his but they are Adrian's, this man who makes the deals and sweet talks clients and veers his thoughts away from the reality of what he was doing). Don't think about it, he tells himself, they're not really children, it’s business, it's you or someone else—think of George instead, in the light of the bedside lamp, in the hotel in their borrowed bed. Not far from—but the memory scrambles. Slides in and out of focus, before again, that refrain—Th-thi—ink of George, and skin and skin and skin. I want you—fingers in his hair, in his mouth— I love you, I want you, I want all of you—
(Another voice, a woman’s voice, Eve's voice, breaking with emotion. Eve, her mouth warm at his neck, her words in his ear, searing herself into his skin. Safe—safe—I will keep you safe—)
He feels Hapworth’s fingers twitch and the memories shift, meld, all at once and all too real, and then they are gone, and Adam is again Adrian, and he is half-awake in a bunk when shouts explode through the hideout, sending him lurching for clothes. And then he is in the woods, running towards nowhere, alone and afraid with a phone and a taser he has never had to use before now. We’ve been made! —yells, screams, from between the trees, as they are hunted by monsters too quick to see, let alone stop—Run! Run before they—
A gap in the trees. The meadow. And a woman, a woman (Eve) who fights alongside monsters and who has a monster’s price. She isn’t human, he reminds himself, as he sees her (Eve!) stagger and fall. She's not real, even as she screams and jerks as a taser finds home. But then the real monster comes, stronger and faster than his eye can follow, a beast with a man’s face. Blood-streaked and wild eyed and savage as he breaks through their ranks, snarling like an animal, and when one of them goes down, the man that is not a man follows, teeth bloodied and bared. He will kill them all, Adrian thinks, he will tear out their throats, and he thinks of George, in Lafayette, the last time he'd seen him, a moment stolen between meetings. He remembers the taste of coffee on his tongue and wonders—why he had not stayed another night, why he had not asked—
He runs, Adrian runs, back towards the trees and into the forest, blue with smoke and burning pine. He dives into the grey and the trees are thicker, the forest darker, old moss dripping from branches. In this forest there is a keep, broken in and burning. In its courtyard he will find a beast, bloodied and panting, surrounded by the dead—
Movement—Hapworth's grip tightening over his, pulling him close as she whispers a secret in his ear.
“You are not as you were,” the witch says, in a tongue he has not heard in centuries, and to hear it—
Adam tears his hand away, staggering back and away, until he feels the cold press of the glass against his back. Hapworth lets him go, her eyes glowing like stars.
“You have what you sought,” she says lightly, as he regathers himself. As she turns away the air ripples, the updraft of a rising flame, her hair drifting behind her like ash. “I will forward you any further information I find.” She nods to the guards. “du Mortain will be leaving now.”
A moment's hesitation, where he can see the guards weighing potential orders against the threat he poses. Her features crease with her smile, sweet, delicate. “It’s alright. I am authorising it.”
The guards step back, the wolf's eyes flashing silver behind the helmet that obscures their face. 
“Hapworth,” Adam says, or tries to say, but his throat doesn't work around the words. Your promise, he means to say. She has seen, taken, more than she should. For Adam knows that forest. He knows what beast lay in wait and the memory of it squeezes his chest, echoing pain he can’t get distance from, and he can’t forget.
“Your secrets are safe with me, agent,” Hapworth says with her dreamy amusement, and she flutters a hand over his shoulder, a fleeting reassurance. “Go. You do not have much time.”
And she is right—he is too late; already too late, and for all the memories would seize him, he cannot afford—
He turns, and strides down the corridor. He lets the door slam shut behind him, shuddering in its frame.
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theetherealbloom · 1 hour
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NO BODY, NO CRIME | TIM ROCKFORD
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No Body, No Crime | Tim Rockford x Fem!Reader
Summary: You investigate a series of murders and the disappearance of your friend, Este. Suspecting Este's husband, Adam, you take matters into your own hands, orchestrating a scheme to frame him for the crimes as you hide the truth from your boyfriend-Detective Tim Rockford.
Paring: Det. Tim Rockford x Profiler Fem!Reader
Warnings: Violence, Crime Stuff, Angst, FLUFF, Kissing, Established Relationship, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Flattery, Blood, Character Deaths, Awkward, Plot Holes,
Word Count: 1.3k
A/N: This is for @beskarandblasters drabble challenge! Thanks for letting me participate in the Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge, I had so much fun writing this. I’ve never written for Tim Rockford before, so I hope I did him some justice. 
Song: no body, no crime by Taylor Swift (feat. HAIM)
Main Masterlist
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WILLOW’S CREEK – EVENING
The faint drone of the TV news reporting a surge in local murders filled the room, but you quickly drowned it out, lowering the volume. Seated on your couch, legs tucked in, you and Este cradled glasses of wine. "You look like you’ve been losin' sleep," you observed, noting Este's tired eyes and lack of color in her complexion.
Este sighed heavily, her voice tinged with frustration. "My husband's actin' different, and it smells like infidelity," she confessed. "That ain't my Merlot on his mouth. That ain't my jewelry on our joint account. No, there ain't no doubt, I think I'm gonna call him out."
Concern furrowed your brow as Este voiced her suspicions. "I think he did it, but I just can't prove it," she added, her words heavy with uncertainty.
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At the station, you found yourself immersed in a case alongside Detective Tim Rockford, the FBI had sent you, a profiler to collaborate with him to work on the case. Together, you were tackling the investigation into a chilling serial killer plaguing the area.
"All similar-looking... died the same way too," you remarked, studying the evidence on the board. Tim nodded grimly. "I reckon the unsub might strike again soon."
A shiver ran down your spine as you surveyed the photos of the victims, their hauntingly familiar faces unsettling you to your core.
"You alright there, sweetheart?" Tim's voice broke through your thoughts as he approached, wrapping an arm around your waist. Weary, you leaned into his embrace, finding solace in his warmth.
He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, his concern evident. "Is it about the case or somethin’ else?" he inquired softly.
Meeting his gaze, filled with understanding, you began, "Remember when Este came over last Tuesday?"
Tim nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. "Had your girl talk?"
You affirmed with a nod. "Este suspects that her husband is cheating on her."
Tim let out a low whistle. "Shit."
"Yeah," you agreed, worry etched in your features. “I might message her later, try and meet up with her at an Olive Garden next week on Tuesday or something.”
Tim nods, “I can drop you off.”
“You don’t have—” He cuts you off before you can finish, “I’ll drop you off, sweet girl. I know how stressed you get when you drive.”
You grumble with a small pout, “Some people shouldn’t have a license.”
He plants a kiss on your cheek before gently turning you to face him, his lips meeting yours in a tender embrace. "Let’s go home, darlin’, and we’ll tackle all of this in the mornin’," he murmurs softly.
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Friday, 8:34 PM
You: Olive Garden next week, Tuesday?
Este: Sure, see you soon!
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Tuesday, 7:38 PM
You: Hey, got us a table. Let me know if you’re on the way! <3
8:34 PM
You: Are you running a little late?
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WILLOW’S CREEK – THURSDAY, MORNING
Este was nowhere to be found—neither at Olive Garden nor at her workplace.
You're on the phone, dialing Este's number for what feels like the hundredth time, only to be met with silence. Suddenly, Este's husband, Adam, strides into the station to report her disappearance to the sergeant.
Fury bubbles up inside you, and you're on the verge of lunging at him when Tim intervenes. His arms encircle your waist, guiding you away from Adam and into a nearby conference room. With a gentle touch, he pulls you close, kissing you until the world spins a little less wildly, calming your frayed nerves.
"He did it, Tim. I know it. All the murders, Este missing, it’s him. He did it," you whispered, your voice trembling, as Tim held you close, his arms a comforting shield.
"What do you mean?" Tim inquired, his brow furrowing in concern.
"All the women, they were surrogates for Adam to perfect his crime. To get rid of Este. And I noticed when I passed his house, his truck has got some brand new tires," you explained, determination shining in your eyes despite the fear gnawing at your insides.
"Let’s get to diggin’ then, darlin’," Tim declared, pressing a reassuring kiss to your temple as you swallowed down your nerves. You knew facing Adam would be dangerous, but you were willing to risk it for justice.
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"His mistress moved in, sleeps in Este's bed and everything. No, there ain't no doubt. We gotta catch him," Tim remarked grimly as you both surveyed the evidence board, the weight of the unsolved case heavy on your shoulders.
Weeks had passed, and still, you hadn't found a body.
"No body means there’s no crime," you murmured, your voice tinged with frustration. "We need reasonable cause to detain him, evidence to bring before a judge. Without a body, he can't be tried for murder."
"I think he did it, but I just can't prove it," you admitted quietly, your words echoing the frustration of your fruitless search.
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Another week slipped by, and as Tim slept soundly beside you, you meticulously planned your next move. With wide eyes and clenched teeth, you gazed up at the ceiling, every detail of your scheme playing out in your mind.
Thank the stars your daddy insisted on that boating license when you were just fifteen. And all those years cleaning houses? They taught you exactly how to cover up a scene. Then there's Este's sister, willing to swear she spent the night with you for a girl's night. And let's not forget the icing on the cake—the mistress and her hefty life insurance policy.
With a smirk, you loaded the boat with the evidence of your carefully crafted plan. After all, taking out a life insurance policy shortly before someone's demise raises more than a few eyebrows. It's a motive so strong, it practically screams guilt. And that policy? It's as circumstantial as it gets, proof that the suspect knew the end was near.
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THE STATE COURT
WILLOW’S CREEK – AFTERNOON
You sat beside Tim as the trial reached its climax. Despite the defense's best efforts, they couldn't shake the suspicion surrounding you. But proving it? That was a different story altogether.
As the jury delivered their verdict, condemning her to a lifetime behind bars, you stood outside the courthouse, watching the chaos unfold. Cameras flashed, reporters clamored for a statement, but you remained composed, a smug smirk playing at your lips. Tim stood steadfast by your side, his arm draped protectively around your waist, a silent testament to his unwavering loyalty.
Then she saw you, desperation flashing in her eyes as she lunged forward, restrained by the police. "You did this! It was you!" she screamed, her accusations falling on deaf ears.
Arms folded across your chest, you merely smirked as she was ushered into a patrol car. She may believe you're guilty, but without proof, her words were nothing but empty threats.
Tim pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, and you leaned into his embrace, knowing that together, you were untouchable.
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seeing angels in the architecture (fox mulder x f!reader) - part 3
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Summary:
"I'd imagine that’s the case," You say, resting your elbow on the console box and your chin in your palm. Mulder looks at you again finally. Funny, you’d thought his eyes were green for the longest time, but when his lids raise in some sort of self-contrived slow motion, you can see that they are an alluring hazel. And that his lashes are unfairly long.
Or, a strange case brings you to South Florida, investigating a series of crucifixions. You and Mulder would like nothing more than to gaze into one another's eyes all the while.
ao3, if you prefer
part one part two
word count: 2,274
FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH OF LANTANA 2:57 PM
Mulder finally parks in front of the building, next to the sidewalk. He had almost gotten the two of you lost, trying to remember the half-assed directions the clearly smitten old lady in the Winn-Dixie parking lot had told him. It was pretty funny. Unfortunately enough, you had only witnessed the flirting part due to your being in the store, and not the part where she tried to give him her number.
You peep at the overgrown, eroded steps of the church. Grass sprouts from every crack and corner, long green blades limp underneath the oppressive sun. Despite the bad landscaping, the building itself is pristine and taken care of. Well-scrubbed brick with a wooden steeple spiraling into the air.
It's sweltering in the car right now, especially with your proximity to another living breathing human being and the clothes you have on. You'd burn your coat to ash in a second if it didn't cost as much as your monthly car payment. Taking a giant sip from your water bottle, you clear your throat. 
"Do you think there's any possibility of a religious cult doing the killings?” Mulder says, turning to you, “I talked to Detective Quentin and some of his guys about it, and apparently, some people around town have made complaints."
"Complaints about what?"
"A man named Evan Kane. Frequents several of the churches in town. He doesn't seem to care what denomination. All the pastors know him by name, including Thomas Marsh, here at First Baptist.”
You hum and look out the window. Mulder turns the air conditioning up to the max before continuing his spiel, deliciously cool air blowing in your face.
"He and his family live in the west end of Lantana on a decent plot of land. Isolated and the like."
"And what does 'the like' entail?"
"Well, they have a self-sufficient farm, nobody sees any of the rest of his family outside, and there is a 12-foot barbed wire fence surrounding their land. It’s electric. Allegedly."
"Allegedly. PD give you an address?"
He hands you a piece of paper, his chicken scratch scrawled across it in blue ink.
"That and a kind word of warning: the Kanes are fond of their guns. All legal, fortunately, but you'd think they were preparing for the damn apocalypse."
"How lovely that he’s only informed us of this now."
Mulder chuckles and lays his head against the rest; his eyes close. A bead of sweat rolls over his brow. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing just above the collar of his shirt, and tugs at his garish tie to loosen the press against his throat. You watch him, checking that his eyes are still closed every couple of seconds. You sincerely, whole-heartedly, doubt that he'd let you live this down if he caught you.
"Were you raised religious by any chance, agent?" Mulder asks after a few seconds, over the hum of the air conditioner. 
"Were you?"
"A question with a question. That's not very fair, is it?”
"Life's not fair. Answer." You say, tongue in cheek.
"Love it when you’re all domineering with me, agent. Gets me all tingly inside."
"The question, Mulder. Please.”
That earns you an amused smile. " Alright, jeez. To answer your question in response to my initial question, I wasn't. My mom's a secular Jew. My father's the son of two Dutch immigrants who came here in the twenties. Catholics. I went to mass, maybe, twice as a kid, at the insistence of my dad. Never been back since.”
"I'd imagine that’s the case," You say, resting your elbow on the console box and your chin in your palm. Mulder looks at you again finally. Funny, you’d thought his eyes were green for the longest time, but when his lids raise in some sort of self-contrived slow motion, you can see that they are an alluring hazel. And that his lashes are unfairly long.
"I don't seem like the religious zealot type? What tipped you off?"
"You grimaced when I offered you up to come with me to the church. You're certainly a zealot, anyway."
"Ouch. A man has a passion, something he cares about, and you reduce it to him being a zealot. How cruel of you." He winces, holding his hands over the left side of his chest dramatically.
"I just call it like I see it." You pull open the passenger door and step out onto the sidewalk.
Mulder exits the car as well, resting his arms on the roof of the car. He straightens out his shirt, his jacket long since abandoned in the backseat of the car. A curl of sweat-soaked hair clings to his forehead. 
“Hm, but you still haven’t answered my question, agent."
You turn around, raising an unimpressed brow.
"Gotta keep up the mystery, Mulder. I'm sure you understand something about those."
He rolls his eyes.
"Whatever, keep your secrets for now." He nudges you, "I'll get you one day."
Mulder leads the way up the aged stairs as you smile to yourself, walking down the paved path and into the church. The door slams closed behind the two of you, a clamor breaking in the silence.
Inside, the church is a refuge, an oasis in the desert: cool and as dark as possible. It smells of old paper and cigarette smoke and old ladies who wear elaborate Sunday hats. Light streams in from giant stained glass windows, diffusing through striking colors placed in a beautiful mosaic. Dust particles waltz through the air. You shuffle by row after row of hardwood pews, each identical to the last.
"Churches have always given me the heebie-jeebies," Mulder whispers, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks. A sense of reverence sits heavy in the air. There’s always a sudden pressure on your chest as you enter a church, overtaken by an inexplicable feeling.
"And not much can do that."
He nods. "Not much can."
Advancing toward the front of the building, your hand graces the pulpit, balsam smooth and lacquered beneath your fingertips. Fine crafted and made with a lot of love and care.
Behind it sits the largest stained glass work of all: Jesus’ crucifixion in an astonishing amount of detail. Vibrant colors intertwined with a combination of bold lines and soft strokes. Just the faces alone are impressive enough.
Your partner comes up beside you, his entire arm brushing up against yours. Mulder has no concept of personal space; without fail, he's in a suspect's face or as close as humanly possible to whoever he's working with at the moment. You'd never met such a touchy man. 
“It’s beautiful, Mulder.”
”Yeah?” His eyes flit around, lip wedged between his teeth.
“The colors are amazing.” 
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Puzzled, you look at him. He nods toward the window. 
”Red-green color blindness. 1 in 12 men, but I’m sure you know that already.”
“Never knew that. That you were colorblind, that is.” 
“Guess today’s ‘Learn about Mulder Day’, hm?” 
He examines you, smirking, with a look in his eyes that makes your stomach tighten. You aren’t sure what it means in the slightest, but you offer a coy tilt of your head anyway.
“Guess so.” 
You pivot to meet his half-lidded yet intense gaze. His pupils swallow his irises. Black, all-absorbing. He nudges a piece of your hair out of your face with warm fingers. They ghost over your skin. 
The two of you have moved closer together, so close that you can feel his breath fan over your collarbone and scent his cologne. Some kind of fresh citrus you can’t pin down and heady lavender that has your brain going fuzzy around the edges. Mulder’s pink lips part, breath shallowing out even more. He wets his lips.
You blink and prepare to say something, anything, just as a door opens on your right. The hinges squeak, knocking you out of whatever moment you were just having.
A wiry old man dressed in a button-up and slacks exits the shadowy corner, squinting at the two of you. The man flips a series of switches on the wall. Light floods the room, shattering the previous ambiance. His bushy grey eyebrows hang over his eyes in a way that reminds you of Sam Eagle. 
”What are y’all doing in here in the dark?” 
Almost by instinct, you scoot away from your partner, caught in the act of absolutely, positively nothing. As you attempt to locate your badge, Mulder beats you to the draw.
“Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. My partner here is having trouble finding the badge, but rest assured, she is an agent as well.”
You glare at him, your face warm, and give up on your search, letting your hands fall back down to your sides pathetically. “You Thomas Marsh, by any chance?”
Marsh grunts. “I assume you folks are here about Evan Kane and those kids dying?”
You and Mulder look at one another and then back at the man. 
“Does he have something to do with the murders?” You ask, surprised at his immediate mention of Evan Kane.
He looks at you for a second before waving you over. “Let’s talk in my office. Please.”
Shuffling in one after another, you sit in one of the two chairs in front of the pastor’s desk. Mulder sits in the other. Books are shoved into every shelf in the room, some put back in with spines facing inward. A thin layer of grey covers the surfaces, the occasional fingerprint visible. The only neat place is the desk—perfect stacks of paper on the right-hand side and an assortment of trinkets on the left. A window is open, but it does nothing to banish the smell of cigarettes soaking into the porous surfaces in the room. 
Marsh’s hands push together into a pyramid, his wrinkled face grim.
”Mr. Kane is a…troubled man. I’ve been a friend of his family since he was a boy.”
”What do you mean by ‘troubled’?” Mulder asks, leaning forward in his seat.
The man swallows shakily. You reach out, a placating hand face-down on the desk.
”Reverend Marsh, please. Two people went missing in April. Four people, in May. God knows how many will turn up this month. Anything you can tell us could help save these people.” 
Marsh looks heavenward then back at the two of you. He points at his head.
“He’s not right up here, he's not. Not since his momma died. Evan was a momma’s boy through and through—attached to her hip.” He says, solemn. “But when he was about eighteen, she got sick one day while out shopping, and the Lord took her the next. Just like that.”
”What’d she die of?” 
He shakes his head. “Don’t know. Hell, I doubt the Kanes themselves know. They never took her to a hospital. But, from what I heard, they had some faith healer come in. But we, uh, don’t promote any of that here.”
Mulder looks at you, that familiar thinking look on his face. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Evan Kane?”
”Well, he became head of the household after his momma died, his father had walked out on him as a baby. Then he started to shut out the world. He only started coming here to First Baptist a couple months ago, talking about Christ and how he’s due to be back soon.”
”Do you know anything about him visiting other churches in Lantana?”
Marsh shakes his head. ”No, I don’t. I just figure he needs as much guidance from the Lord as he can get to cure whatever is plaguing him.”
Your chair screeches across the floor as you stand, Mulder popping up beside you.
“Thank you for your time, Reverend.”
“Call if you remember anything that could be helpful to our investigation.” Mulder shakes his hand and slips the card into Marsh’s palm as you take your leave from the office. 
Wandering back down the pews, you wait for your partner to catch up with you. In the nauseating brightness of the LEDs, the church is a different place. Too empty and too large of a space.
“Faith healing. Know anything about it?” A hand curls around your waist, guiding you as you walk. You almost miss a step, but he catches you before you trip.
"No, not much. But I'm sure you're about to enlighten me, Mulder."
He pushes open the door to the church with one hand. You murmur a thank you. Sunlight floods in through the doorway, a rush of hot meeting the cooler air from the church. A drove of chills wind down your back.
"Some evangelists, like Reverend Marsh, typically try to distance themselves from faith healing practices. Catholics believe in something called intercessory prayer, praying to a higher power on behalf of others, to cure ailments."
You slip away from Mulder, pulling open the passenger side door. The spot where his hand was goes cold.
"Where are you going with this?" 
"Christian Scientists have something called practitioners, people who devote their all time to healing the sick. I'm thinking that could be the 'faith healer' he was talking about." He slips into the driver's seat and puts the key in the ignition. 
"By the way, did you see any motels on the drive in? Forgot to ask the reverend."
A sigh escapes your lips as you buckle up. As if the reverend would know about the best motel in the city. "There was a motel off the I-95. Spring Glades. I’ll call Scully and let her know we’re coming.”
15 notes · View notes