Lagoon○19yo○Pro ♀️✊🏿🍉🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️🇲🇽 Multifandom○Writer/Artist/Silly Posts ANTI AI/EM DASH ADVOCATE/PROSHIPPERS DNI○Reposts are ok so long as you don't claim anything as your own!
Lagooneah Intro, What I Won't/Will Write, Req/Ask Info Post!
OK!!! Let's do this (hopefully) one more time.
Hello to my previous followers and to any newcomers! My name is Lagoon! I go by She/Her Pronouns, and this page is a safe space for all!
You've probably seen me on my alt blog Lagooneah or "Creativity is the Mind's Water"- and though I don't plan on deleting or totally leaving that blog, I want to have a main blog where I can be active and possibly have more fanfic, reqs and ask answers, and so on on this main while I mostly just screw around on that alt.
I have a passion for the arts- I love films, shows, video games, books and so on, but I myself particularly create Fanfiction/Stories and Artwork the most; and that's what I aim for this page to be about for the most part (aside from the common silly posts or reblogs)
I am completely open to requests/asks of any kind, though disclaimer, i can ber extremely inconsistent with my busy schedule, but i try my best to reach everything! Before that, I wanna set some boundaries on what I will/won't write! Content Warning for some more Mature Themes below!
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What I WILL write about/for!
Any Gender Identity/Sexuality (When I write for a reader I mostly keep it Gender Neutral!).
Any body type/insecurity/otherwise what many might consider "unconventionally attractive" traits.
Any Reader with a specific Culture, Race, or Ethnic Identity!
I can give Mental Illnesses, Disabilities, Disorders a try for sure- though I am not fully educated on every aspect of those things so those will likely take longer/need more of a back and forth so that I can be sure to do it correctly!
I can write about Traumatic/Semi-Problematic topics so long as they're acknowledged and painted as problematic! (I.e. If mentions or implied happenings of SA are part of the Reader or a characters development, and there is growth and healing involved and it is not in any way romanticized, fetishized, or sexualized- then that is ok! And that goes for most other problematic scenarios!) However, I reserve the right to say that I am uncomfortable with fulfilling the request if it requires too much intimate detail.
I can write with mentions of blood, implied gore, etc- but I WON'T write about any of that for any real life true crime, stories, or just anything horror or crime-ridden related to anything in real life! (If you sexualize real life maniacs, block me. istg)
PLATONIC FICCCSSSSS— I love a silly little fic or a cute platonic/familial relationship, and I'm totally down to write those too!!
(Subject to update!)
What I WILL NOT write about/for!
Proshipping/any sort of problematic/illegal pairings, I'm so serious- I will block tf out of you and you better block tf out of me if you ship minors with adults, victims with perpetrators, etc etc. Don't request this.
Real People- sorry but I find real people and celebrities x reader's to be quite a bit parasocial and I feel uncomfortable with pushing their privacy in such a way!
Serial Criminals, Well-known Criminals, etc etc... Don't ask me please.
Won't write hateful rhetoric, slurs, etc (Not even if I'm "given a pass" because I'm writing about how bad it is. I will NEVER use genuine slurs)
Smut- I can do some spice and implications, but no actual smut!
(Subject to update!)
Now I can write from a LOT of fandoms, I am in way too many, however my hyperfixations vary, so I shall only list ones I can feasibly get into and write for for now to minimize disappointment!
Media I'm accepting Reqs/Asks for!
Dune 1 & 2
Gachiakuta!! (Mainly early/what the anime covers but im reading now!!)
Jujutsu Kaisen
Witch Hat Atelier
Lies of P
Trigun Stampede
The Hunger Games
Resident Evil
Spiderverse (Primarily Amazing Spiderman, MCU Spiderman, first Spiderverse film)
The Promised Neverland
One Piece Live Action
My Hero Academia
Devil May Cry
(Subject to update!)
(Disclaimer: Some of these medias for reqs/asks may take longer to fulfill or really fast to fulfill depending on my current hyperfixations!)
nero as your boyfriend and just silly little things. dmc4 nero because i like this guy a lot. 582 wc.
the first dates with nero are often filled with awkward silence, yet they're the sweetest moments.
nero is awkward in the beginning of the relationship. he turns completely red whenever you make the first move and touch his hand on dates, he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly when he gifts you something —necklaces and handmade stuff most of the time—, dropping you off to your apartment and won't leave till you're inside, flinches when you touch his demonic arm— he has no clue why are you always touching this arm specifically.
your dates are more likely to just walk around fortuna while eating ice cream, or going to a concert, or just taking kids from the orphanage for a walk with you. even though nero turns into a tomato when a kid says that his partner is gorgeous.
over time, he would open up to you too much and treat you like you're his dude or something. nero would shove his whole hand into your mouth when you yawn, he would punch the air really close to your face when he got bored, he would carry you like you weighed nothing and throw you to the other side of the couch to just sit where you were sitting.
nero does have his romantic moments when he feels you're everything in his world and he appreciates you so much for staying with him and loving him despite his reality and such, but he acts like it's nothing and looks at you weirdly when you tear up at his gift and cover his face with kisses.
nero isn't the best when it comes to words, so he prefers to show his love to you with physical touch and acts of service. you had a long day yesterday and you're tired? you're waking up to breakfast in bed and your coffee— just like how you like it— is ready too. your car broke down and you can't afford to fix it? don't ask how and when, but nero knows how to fix it and he'd do it for you— shirtless too. (and he has the audacity to act confused when you oogle at him shamelessly and kiss him after he's finished with your car because—in his words—he's covered in dirt and car oils and he does not look good with all of that.)
also, he's very flexible with the places you pick for your dates—even though he prefers staying indoors and going to places where there aren't many people). if you wanna go to a cafe or a restaurant that opened not so long ago and you wanna try it? sure, no problem! but he is paying and would peck your lips to shut up about it. you want to go to the mountains in Fortuna and see the whole island from above? he'd be so down— but he's bringing his red queen and blue rose with him just in case. he does not joke about your safety. you wanna spend the whole day indoors instead of going out? it's ok, he'll stay with you and do whatever you want to do, watch a movie, play video games, or just sit around doing nothing and not talking— and he'd have his hand drawing circles and squeezing your thighs all the time. And please play with his hair if you want him to purr and be on cloud nine. —and yes, Nero purrs, and I'm a firm believer of this.
this has been sitting on my drafts for nearly a year and i just had the urge to finish it, expect more nero silly blurbs like this because im not normal about nero.
Craziest thing about people saying superman is woke now is that the movie doesn’t even have a minor plot point of anything “woke”. He’s just nice. He’s just a good fucking person like he always has been. Nothing has changed about his character.
WOKE BLAST!!!! 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️EVERYONE DESERVES CLEAN WATER AND FOOD🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️🏳️⚧️EVERYONE DESERVES BODILY AUTONOMY ⚧️⚧️⚧️❤️SUPPORT ONE ANOTHER🎨🎨🎨DISCRIMINATION HAS NO PLACE IN THE WORLD🧑🏼❤️💋🧑🏿👩❤️💋👩👨🏿❤️💋👨🏿HUMAN RIGHTS👩🏽🦯➡️👩🏻🦼➡️🧑🏽🦽➡️EVERYONE DESERVES HEALTHCARE💪💪🏿💪🏾💪🏽💪🏼💪🏻🦾 WE DESERVE SUNSHINE
the racism against indians is just overwhelming and insane. its everywhere. people go out of their way to talk about how indian immigrants are 'the worst kind of immigrants' when its people working their ass off to get a medical degree while working underpaid jobs in delivery just to get a better life.
people are literally chomping at the bit to say indians are the reason their wages are falling and their life is getting worse because indians are ready to work for less money or some shit. it's actually very disturbing
ৎ୭ characters. peter prior x fem! texan! detective! reader
ৎ୭ synopsis. you’re a young detective from texas but your life gets turned upside down after being sent to ennis — out of all places. there, you’re working on a case with peter prior and it takes you exactly 28 days to share your first kiss.
ৎ୭ word count. 5.7k
ৎ୭ warnings. case is not solved in the end
november 20th
fuck alaska.
fuck whoever transferred you to alaska.
just fuck everything.
you lock your apartment for the last time with the texas sun burning the back of your neck. even though it's autumn, the thermometer next to your door shows eighty-four degrees and you can practically see the heat radiating off the street.
the uber you have called thirty minutes ago, already stands waiting for you across the street. just as you grab the door handle, you pause for a moment, taking a slow breath, before you climb into the back seat.
"you're y/n?", the driver asks you and you give him a quick nod to confirm that you are indeed not a random creep.
the engine sputters to life as the driver grips the wheel. while he eases the car forward toward the airport, you take a final glance at your old home.
every red light feels like a deliberate attempt to make you stay, and every idling car in front of you pushes your patience to the brink. you curse them under your breath, a frantic rhythm to mask the uncertainty settled deep in your gut.
by the time you reach the terminal, the quietness of the car is replaced by the loud crowds walking around the airport. it is a chaotic blur of shifting gates and the endless, shuffling purgatory of the security line. you spend almost an hour standing in a slow-moving queue at the checkpoint, just to need to sprint through the terminal as your boarding group is called.
the flight to dallas is short, but the humidity hits you the moment you step into the jet bridge. it is a thick, wet heat that makes your clothes stick to your skin instantly. you shove your light jacket into your bag and navigate the crowded terminal, feeling the weight of the move in your tired legs.
in seattle, you put the jacket back on, feeling the first damp hint of a northern winter.
by the time you reach anchorage, the sun is a low, pathetic thing hanging on the horizon, lacking any real warmth.
you sit at the gate with a lukewarm coffee, watching the locals in their heavy-duty gear. they look like they’re prepared for a snowstorm you just look like someone who got lost on the way to a barbecue.
the final leg to ennis is on a plane so small you can feel every shudder of the arctic wind against the fuselage. the cabin is cramped, and as you look out the window, you watch the world simply disappear. the green of the pines bleeds into a jagged, monochromatic nightmare of white and grey. the further north you go, the more the landscape simplifies into nothing but ice.
the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing the descent as you instinctively check your watch. the hands point to mid-afternoon, a time that should be filled with the amber glow of a waning sun, yet the view through the plexiglass is an impossible, ink-black void.
the realization hits you: the long night has begun. for weeks, the horizon will remain dark. and you are already sick of it.
november 23rd
you had exactly three days to settle into your new home in ennis before your first day at the police station. but those three days were hell. your heater didn't work yet, so it had been freezing in your home, and you had absolutely no motivation to unpack the moving boxes. the only time you truly left your house was to buy your new car.
now, the wind hits you the second you step out of the vehicle, cutting through your jacket like a serrated blade. you clench your jaw, pulling your collar up, but it doesn’t do a damn thing against the alaskan freeze. it's really time to buy a thicker jacket.
your knuckles are white from the cold and the sheer, bubbling anger in your chest. you are pissed. whoever signed off on this transfer back at the department is on your permanent list, but right now, you are stuck at the edge of the world.
the sign on the station building looks bleak, half-buried in drifting snow.
you push through the heavy double doors of the ennis police station, the sudden heat making your skin sting. you stomp the snow off your boots. a few (exactly three) officers look up from their desks, their faces tired, worn down by the dark and whatever local misery they deal with every day. they know who you are. the new transfer from the south.
"can i help you?" a woman at the front desk asks, looking at your dangerously thin coat with mild amusement.
you don't smile back.
"i'm the new transfer," you say, your voice sharp and totally out of place in the quiet, grim room. "can you tell me where your chief is?."
you cross your arms, ignoring their lingering stares. you know you are going to hate every single second in this frozen hellhole, but if you have to be in ennis, you are going to do your job and figure out how to survive.
the woman hesitates for a second, taken back by your sharp tone. she finally jerks a thumb toward a frosted glass door at the back of the bullpen. "chief danvers' office. good luck."
the station smells like stale coffee and old sweat. it's not that different from your station in texas, you notice. at least it smells the same. you walk over to the office and push the door open, maybe a little harder than necessary.
liz danvers doesn't flinch. she is sitting behind a cluttered desk, clicking a pen and staring intently at a crime scene photo. she doesn't even look up at first. she just lets the silence stretch, a blatant power play. you don't take the bait. you just stand there, letting the dirty slush from your boots melt onto her floor.
"chief denvers?"
finally, danvers drops the pen and leans back in her chair. her dark eyes rake over you, taking in your completely inadequate jacket, your pale, shivering frame, and the deep scowl etched into your features.
"you're the texan," danvers says. her voice is flat, thoroughly unimpressed. "thought the brass was sending me a detective, not a popsicle."
"i'm a detective," you snap. "and where i come from, the sun actually comes up. you want to critique my wardrobe, or do you want to point me to my desk so i can start counting down the days until my mandated rotation is over?"
danvers smirks, a sharp, humorless expression. she stands up, crossing her arms. "we don't get a lot of sunshine here. we don't get a lot of sunny dispositions, either. if you're going to survive the long night in ennis, you need to lose the southern attitude and buy a real parka. otherwise, the cold is going to eat you alive before the locals do."
"i can handle the cold," you lie through your teeth. your toes are completely numb and your jaw aches from shivering. "please just give me my assignments, chief."
she tosses a file across the desk. it slides and hits a half-empty mug of black coffee. "desk three out there is yours. don't touch the thermostat. and if you see trooper navarro, tell her to stop ignoring my calls."
you snatch the file. the manila folder feels like ice against your stiff fingers.
"welcome to the end of the world," danvers adds, already sitting back down and dismissing you.
you turn on your heel and walk back out into the bullpen, heading straight for the empty desk she mentioned. you drop into the squeaky chair, dropping the file onto the scratched metal surface. you stare out the window next to you, but there is nothing to see. just absolute, pitch-black nothingness. the wind howls against the glass, rattling the window frame like it's trying to get inside.
you close your eyes and take a slow, shaky breath. you picture the oppressive, suffocating heat radiating off a texas highway in july. you hold onto that memory, hoarding the phantom warmth in your chest. you are going to need every ounce of it to survive this godforsaken icebox.
november 24th
you are still huddled at your desk a day later, the heater under the metal frame clicking and groaning as it struggles to push out lukewarm air. the file danvers gave you is open, but the words are blurring.
right now, you are thinking about breakfast tacos.
"detective?"
the voice is soft, startling you. you look up, your eyes narrow and defensive.
standing there is a young man, looking entirely too bright for a place this dark. he’s wearing a thick, high-quality parka and holding two steaming paper cups. he has an earnest face—the kind of face that hasn't seen enough of the world's rot yet. he looks like a boy scout who wandered into a noir film.
"i'm peter prior," he says, offering a small, tentative smile. "officer prior. the chief said we’re working the leads together while the rest of the team handles the station."
you stare at him. he looks like he’s about twenty. they’ve paired you with a kid who probably still gets a christmas stocking from his dad.
"you're the partner?" you ask, your voice raspy from the cold. you don't hide the skepticism. "they sent me a kid?"
he pauses, shifting his weight. he doesn't look angry, just faintly amused. "i'm actually a year older than you."
oh, this is embarrassing. you swallow down the sudden spike of humiliation, refusing to break eye contact or apologize.
peter doesn't flinch. he just sets one of the cups on your desk. "it's cocoa with a double shot of espresso. you looked like you were about to go into stage two hypothermia, so i took a guess."
you look at the cup. the steam smells like heaven. you want to hate him for the pity, but your fingers are so stiff you can barely turn a page. you wrap your hands around the cardboard, soaking in the heat.
"i'm from texas, prior," you say, finally meeting his gaze. "i don't want to become depressed because i’m never going to see the sun again."
"it's just the long night," peter says, pulling up a chair and sitting down with a notebook. he’s focused, ignoring your hostility with a practiced ease. he’s probably used to danvers snapping at him. "you get used to the dark. it’s the silence that gets most people. it’s too loud."
"spare me the arctic philosophy," you snap, though you take a long, desperate gulp of the drink. it burns your throat, and for a second, you feel a spark of life return to your limbs. "just tell me why we're looking at these reports. danvers said it was a routine transfer, but this file is thin as hell."
peter’s expression shifts. the boyishness fades, replaced by something steadier, more grim. he opens his own folder.
"a young woman just... vanished. left her clothes in the closet, dinner on the table. two weeks later, she reappeared. dead. she was found in some back alley with bruises covering her whole body." he says quietly.
you look down at the crime scene glossies spread across the desk. the first few photos show her apartment. a yellow cardigan hanging over the back of a chair. a book face-down on the sofa.
then, there are the other photos.
a black-haired woman laying on the snow covered street behind a dumpster. she was propably in her early twenties when she died.
you look at peter. "can you show me the forensics?", you mutter.
peter pulls a heavy blue folder from a drawer and drops it onto the desk. the thud echos in the cramped office. he flips past the initial crime scene shots, moving straight to the medical examiner’s report and the close-ups from the morgue.
"the bruising isn't consistent," he says, pointing a pen at a photo of the girl’s torso. "some are yellow and fading, some are deep purple, almost black. the m.e. says she was beaten systematically over the course of the two weeks she was gone."
you lean in. "no ligature marks on the wrists or ankles. she wasn't tied up."
"no," peter agrees. "and the tox screen came back clean. no sedatives, no booze. she was awake and mobile for the whole thing."
you look back at the photo of her apartment. the yellow cardigan. it looked so domestic, so safe. "so she walks out of her house, leaves dinner on the table, and spends fourteen days getting the life kicked out of her without being restrained. why didn't she scream? why didn't she run?"
"maybe she knew him," peter suggests. "or maybe there was nowhere to run to. it's ennis. you go a mile in the wrong direction and the cold kills you faster than a person would."
the radiator in the corner hisses, a rhythmic, metallic sound that feels like it was keeping time with the ticking clock on the wall.
"her name was maya," he says after a moment. "she moved here from anchorage six months ago. worked at the fisheries office. quiet, kept to herself. neighbors said they didn't hear a thing the night she disappeared."
"they never do," you mutter before taking another sip of the cocoa. it is too sweet, but at least it's still warm. "let's go back to her place. i want to see that closet. if she left her clothes, she didn't plan on being gone long. but if she left her boots... then she didn't leave on her own feet."
"the closet can wait." he intterupts you before you can say another word.
peter doesn't pull the door open. instead, he turns back to you, his eyes scanning the dark circles under yours. "actually, the whole case can wait six hours. you just got off a flight four days ago and drove here in a blizzard. you haven't even unpacked, have you? or have you even seen ennis yet?"
"i'm fine, prior. i've worked on less sleep," you mutter, though the warmth of the office is finally making your limbs feel like lead.
"i’m sure you have. but if we go to that apartment now, you’re going to miss something because your brain is half-frozen," he says, his tone shifting from partner to something more grounding. "go home. get some sleep. start fresh when the clock says it's morning."
you open your mouth to argue, but a shiver racks your frame before you can get the words out.
"you don't even know where your heater intake is, do you?" he asks, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "tell you what. i’ll drive you back. i’ll make sure your pilot light is actually on and help you move the heavy trunks so you aren't living out of a suitcase in a cold room. call it a professional courtesy."
you look at the stack of crime scene photos, then back at him. the thought of your dark, empty rental is daunting, but the thought of doing it alone is worse.
"i don't need a mover, peter," you say, though your voice lacks its usual bite.
"good, because i'm a terrible one. but i'm a decent mechanic and i know how to rig a space heater so it doesn't blow a fuse," he replies, finally opening the door and gesturing for you to lead the way. "come on. let's get you home before you actually turn into a statue."
the walk to his truck is a brutal sixty seconds of biting wind, but once inside, the heater is already blasting. as he pulls out of the lot, the tires crunching over the packed ice, you lean your head against the window.
"third house on the left past the mercantile," you murmur.
"i know the one," he says softly. "the blue house with the porch that sags. don't worry, detective. we'll make it a true home for you."
the blue house is as cold as the street outside when you step through the door. the air inside feels thin and stagnant. peter doesn't wait for an invitation; he head straight for the utility closet in the hallway, his flashlight cutting through the dark until he finds the furnace.
"man, how have you even survived the past few days in here?'"
you just shrug.
"unloading is easier if you can feel your fingers," he calls out. you hear the metallic click of a lighter, then the low, steady huff of the pilot light catching.
you stand in the center of the living room, staring at the towers of moving boxes that have sat untouched for three days. with a heavy sigh, you kneel beside the nearest one and rip back the packing tape. it’s a disorganized mess of the things you've brought from texas.
you reach for a particularly bulky crate near the hallway, your fingers straining against the cardboard, but before you can even get a grip, peter is there. he maneuvers around you in the cramped space, his presence cutting through the stagnant chill of the room. with a low grunt, he heaves the crate up and carries it closer to the center of the rug, setting it down with a heavy thud.
"where do you want these? bedroom?" he asks.
"just leave them there. i'll get to them," you say, but your voice is flat with exhaustion.
he ignores you, picking up a smaller box and carrying it toward the back of the house. he finds the bedroom and sets it on the mattress. he doesn't pry into the contents; he just starts a steady back-and-forth rhythm, moving the rest of your gear from the truck to the house while you stand in the kitchen, paralyzed by the sheer volume of work left to do.
when the last bag is inside, he doesn't leave. he walks over to the kitchen sink and turns on the tap, waiting for the pipes to rattle and spit out lukewarm water.
"pipes aren't frozen yet. that’s a win," he says. he looks at you, leaning against the counter. his hair is messy from the hood of his parka, and there’s a streak of grease on his thumb from the furnace. "you have sheets in one of these boxes?"
"somewhere," you mutter.
he helps you find them, pulling the plastic off a set of gray linens. together, you stand on opposite sides of the bed, snapping the fitted sheet over the corners. it’s a domestic, quiet task that feels strange given the gruesome photos still sitting on the desk back at the station. his movements are efficient.
'so," he starts, glancing at you. "texas. you ever have a case that didn't make you want to quit? something... not grim?"
you lean your body against a drawer, closing your eyes. a small, genuine smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.
"one time," you begin. "i got a call for a suspected meth lab in a trailer park outside lubbock. neighbors were reporting 'toxic fumes' and 'strange glowing lights' at three in the morning. they were convinced the whole block was gonna blow."
peter turns in his seat, fully invested. "you go in with tactical?"
"oh, we went in full riot gear," you say, shaking your head. "gas masks, shields, the works. we kicked the door in, and i swear to god, prior, i thought i’d walked into the sun. the heat hit me so hard i thought my skin was peeling off. and the smell... it was like being pepper-sprayed by a ghost."
you pause for dramatic effect, and peter leans in. "and?"
"it wasn't a lab. it was a guy named bobby ray. he was trying to win the state fair chili cook-off, and he’d rigged up an industrial dehydrator to process ten pounds of ghost peppers in his bathtub. he was standing there in nothing but a gas mask and a pair of neon green speedos, stirring a vat of liquid fire with a boat oar."
peter stays silent for a heartbeat, processing the image, and then he loses it. he lets out a real, chest-deep laugh that echoes in the room. it’s a sound that you haven't heard during your days in ennis yet.
"a boat oar?" he gasps, wiping his eyes.
"a boat oar," you confirm, laughing with him. the tension in your shoulders finally gives way, the anger at everthing receding just an inch. "we had to evacuate the three nearest trailers because the air was literally incendiary. bobby ray cried when we confiscated his peppers. said we were the reason he'd lose."
peter shakes his head, his smile lingering. "god. at least your weird cases involve people trying to be happy. here, the weird stuff just... it just stays in the dark."
he looks at you then, and for a second, the humor fades into something softer. he reaches out, his hand brushing against your sleeve but you pull away before he can actually touch the material of your cotton jumper.
once the bed is made, he stands back and surveys the room. "the heat will take an hour to really kick in. keep your socks on."
you look at him, standing in the middle of your half-empty bedroom. "thanks, peter. for the lift. and the heavy lifting."
"don't mention it," he says, heading for the front door. he stops at the threshold, his hand on the light switch. "get some sleep. i’ll be here at eight to pick you up. don't bother making coffee; i'll bring the good stuff from the bakery."
he closes the door softly behind him. you listen to the sound of his truck engine turning over and the crunch of tires on snow as he pulls away. for the first time since you crossed the state line, the house doesn't feel quite so empty.
november 26th
the floorboards of maya’s apartment groan under your boots. it is cold—the landlord had already cut the heat—and your breath mists in front of your face like smoke. peter stands in the kitchen, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. he isn't poking around like a rookie; he is just standing there, looking at the two plates on the table.
"she wasn't eating alone," he says. his voice is low in the hollow space of the room.
you walk over, standing close enough to feel the radiation of heat off his heavy parka. "you think it was a date?"
"maybe. steak, green beans. two glasses of water. no wine, no beer. keeping it simple." he moves the light to the closet door in the hallway. "you wanted to see her clothes."
you pull on a pair of latex gloves, the snap of the plastic loud in the silence. you open the closet. inside hangs a heavy, fur-lined jacket and a pair of professional-grade arctic boots tucked neatly in the corner. you reach in and felt the lining of the coat. it is dry. bone dry.
"she didn't leave on her own," you muttered. "nobody walks out into the night in this weather without a coat and boots unless they’re being carried or they’re out of their mind. even i have learned that in the few days i’ve been in ennis"
"or unless they think they're just stepping into the hallway for a second," peter added.
you turn to look at him. he is watching you, not the closet. his eyes are tired, rimmed with the red fatigue of a man who hadn't slept since the body was found, but there is a steadiness there. he doesn't look away when you catch him staring.
"you have something on your face," he says quietly.
you reach up, confused, brushing your cheek with your gloved hand. "what?"
"no, the other side. hold on." he steps closer. he doen't use his hand; he reaches out with his thumb and gently wipes a smudge of charcoal—likely from the crime scene photos—off your cheekbone. his skin is rough and warm. the contact lasts a second longer than it needs to, a brief tether of heat in a room that feels like a tomb.
you clear your throat, stepping back toward the kitchen. "right. thanks."
he clears his throat too, clicking his flashlight off and on again. "we should check the back exit. see if the snow depth from two weeks ago matches the height of the scuff marks on the frame."
you head for the door, but stop at the threshold. "peter?"
he paused, his hand on the light switch. "yeah?"
"the cocoa wasn't bad. just... less sugar next time."
he lets out a breath that was almost a laugh, a small cloud of gold in the dim light. "i'll make a note of it, detective. less sugar. more misery. i’m learning."
december 12th
the truck engine idles, sending a steady vibration through the seats. the interior smells like the double cheeseburgers sitting in a white paper bag on the console. the windows are fogged over, turning the world outside into a blur of grey and black. inside, the dashboard lights cast a dull green glow over everything.
you reach into the bag, grab a handful of fries, and lean back. the seat squeaks under your weight. peter is already eating, his movements quiet. he has his parka unzipped, draped over the back of his seat.
he reaches into the bag and pulls out a fry, offering it to you. when you take it, your fingers touch. he doesn't pull his hand away. he leaves it resting on the center console, inches from yours.
"you still haven't unpacked your kitchen boxes," he says, shifting the conversation away from the pump house. "i saw them sitting on the floor this morning when i picked you up."
you shrug, focusing on your food. "there isn't much to put away. a few plates. a coffee maker i haven't figured out how to plug in yet."
"i'll do it," he says. "after the shift. it takes five minutes to set up the kitchen."
you look at him. he’s looking at you, his arm resting on the back of the bench seat. he looks steady, relaxed in a way that makes the small space feel less cramped.
"you don't have to spend your off-hours fixing my house, prior," you say.
"i'm not doing it for the house," he says, "you spend all day looking at crime scene photos. you should at least be able to make a cup of coffee when you go home."
you lean back into the seat, letting your shoulder rest against the door. "is this how it works here? the locals just move into your life until you stop noticing they're there?"
peter laughs, a quiet sound that fills the truck. "mostly just me. the others usually keep to themselves."
he picks up his soda and takes a drink, then sets it back in the holder. the silence between you isn't heavy. it’s just quiet. he reaches over and adjusts the heater vent, making sure the air is hitting your hands where they rest on your lap.
"you haven't looked at your phone once since we parked," he says. he isn't looking at you anymore; he's focused on his burger, but there’s a small dent in his brow like he’s thinking too hard.
"nothing on it i need to see," you say. "you?"
he shakes his head. "just my dad checking in. and a missed call from the station. i'm ignoring both for twenty minutes."
you watch him for a second. he looks different when he isn't standing under the fluorescent lights of the bullpen or waiting for danvers to bark an order. he looks steady. you reach for the salt packet on the dash.
"what do you do when you're not at the station?" you ask. "besides bringing espresso to people who look like they're dying."
he huffs a short laugh, his shoulder moving against yours. "i help my dad with the house — which is a nightmare. i read. i drive. there isn't exactly a nightlife in ennis unless you count the bar, and i try to stay out of there if i'm not on the clock. it's mostly just quiet."
he turns his head then, his face close to yours. the distance is small enough that you can see the light reflecting in his eyes. he doesn't look away. he sets his food down on the center console and shifts his weight so he's facing you more directly.
"it's different having someone else in the truck," he says. his voice is a notch lower. "usually it's just me and the radio. i like this better."
you look down at his hand, resting near the gear shift. his fingers are long, his knuckles scarred from working on the furnace or the truck. you put your hand down next to his. you don't touch him yet, but you can feel the heat coming off his skin.
peter moves his hand, sliding his fingers over yours. his palm is dry and warm, his grip firm. he doesn't make a big deal out of it. he just holds your hand while the heater hums and the wind rattles the door frame. it's the first time since you got to alaska that your heart rate isn't up because you're angry or stressed.
"we should probably check the logs at the power station," you say, though you don't move to start the truck.
december 18th
peter is in the kitchen. he doesn't ask where the mugs are anymore. you hear the familiar clink of ceramic against the counter and the sound of the tap running. he knows exactly which cabinet holds the good tea and which floorboard near the sink creaks if he steps on it too hard.
he walks back into the living room, dodging the stack of case files you’ve left by the sofa. he sets a mug down in front of you and sinks onto the cushion, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours.
he came over an hour ago with a box of pizza that was mostly cold by the time he navigated the ice on your driveway. over the last few weeks, his presence has shifted from a professional necessity to a domestic constant.
you’re mid-sentence, complaining about a piece of paperwork on the still unsolved case, but the words trail off when you notice him watching you. he isn't looking at your notes. he’s looking at you with a steady, unblinking intensity that makes the air in the room feel suddenly very thin.
"what?" you ask, your voice losing its edge.
"nothing," he says softly. he doesn't move away. instead, he closes the gap between you, sliding across the worn fabric of the sofa until his knee is pressed against yours. "i just like hearing you talk."
you should make a joke. you should roll your eyes and tell him to get his head in the game. but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing worth seeing in the whole town—stops the sarcasm in your throat. his hand moves, fingers brushing against your wrist before sliding up to cup your jaw. his skin is firm and steady.
you find yourself leaning into his palm, your breath hitching. the frustration you've been carrying since you left texas seems to quiet down, replaced by a different kind of tension.
he leans in slowly, giving you every chance to move. you don't. when his lips finally meet yours, the world outside the house completely disappears.
peter exhales a shaky breath against your mouth, his hands coming up to frame your face. his palms are calloused but gentle, holding you like you’re something precious, something he’s been trying to protect from the frost since the moment you walked through the door of the police station almost a month ago.
your hand finds the front of his sweater, pulling him closer as you sink into the cushions. he sighs against your mouth, his other hand coming up to tangle in your hair, holding you there like he’s finally found exactly where he’s supposed to be.
the heat of him is everywhere. it’s in the way his fingers slide into your hair, the way he pulls you flush against him until the cold air of the room can’t find a way in. for a few seconds, the the case, the missing girl, and the three thousand miles back to texas don’t exist. there is no long night. there is only the pressure of his lips and the way he’s breathing your name.
when you finally break away, you don't go far. you lean your forehead against his, your eyes closed, both of you trying to catch your breath in the thin, recycled air.
"holy shit," you whisper, your voice a low, jagged mess.
peter lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. he looks at you with an expression so open and honest it almost hurts to see. "better than any cowboy you've ever kissed, huh?"
you huff a laugh, your fingers lingering on his chest.
"shut up, prior," you mutter, though you're smiling as you pull him back in. "don't ruin it."
