#Peter prior
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Reader being a spoiled brat living off of her rich parents money and getting driving tickets any chance she can just to see Peter in the police office. And Peter being first confused then resigned cuz this bitch clearly can’t drive (even if she does this on purpose) and then finally realize what it all was about when she asks him out on a date (in this he’s single!!). He’s really worried for her bank account after all the stunts she pulled though. And then when they get together and she still shows up with a ticket in the police office Peter goes through five stages of grief every time he sees her bratty smile.
FRESH OUT THE SLAMMER (VIII) —Peter Prior Peter Prior x wife!reader content: Peter is forced to stay late on Christmas Eve, but as the night progresses the worse it seems to get. words: 1.9k cw: feeling of neglect, sadness, Peter is lowkey about to catch hands , lmk if I missed any a/n: I’ve lowkey been staring at a laptop screen trying to work on updates all day and now I’m going to go enjoy fresh air before my eyes start twitching again Previous Part Next Part seventh day of darkness Some days you wondered if Liz made Peter stay late to punish you, it was silly and irrational, but still something that crossed your mind. The fact that she always used to make small remarks about your happy marriage and now it was falling to shit because of her seemed too personal to be a coincidence. But you knew better than that. Deep down Liz cared about you in her own self-destructive way. You clutched the wrapped plate in your hand, Will in the other as he picked as the fuzz that lined the inside of your hood babbling away as you made your way into the station. The heat of the building, a nice change from the cold winds that raged on outside. You looked around noticing that most of the building seemed to be empty other than the cleaners and of course your husband. Peter sat slumped in his desk, his eyes scanning the computer in front of him, no doubt performing the task at hand with precision. You swallowed all the snide remarks trying to break and instead settled on, “Hi,” you greeted. Peter’s head shot up toward you, his face instantly softening at the sight of you and Will, “Hi,” he greeted immediately standing to his feet. “Dada!” Will exclaimed, reaching out for the man. The father scooped him up as his eyes went down to the plate in your hand, “I brought you a plate I did not figure you would be home in time for dinner from the sounds of it,” you said holding it up. “Did you eat?” he then questioned. “Not yet. Kayla and her grandmother are coming over and we’re going to eat together.” “I am sorry.” The words instantly brought a sorry feeling to you, causing you to look at the floor. You only nodded moving around him to set the plate on his desk as Will babbled slightly to the man. He looked at his son with a fond smile, stealing a glance at you. He frowned watching you, as you set the plate on his desk your eyes locked on the pictures. One of yourself and Will and the other of you and Peter in high school, skating around together with a large grin on both of your lips. “Do you remember that?” he asked, nodding to the older of the two. You nodded, and he watched a smile tug at your lips, “It was right after Christmas break Senior year. It was when you forced me to go back out on the ice,” you replied, staring at it a moment longer as if you were lost in the thought of the happy memory, but then you shook your head and were brought back to reality. The smile vanished from your face instead replaced with the frown that had been on your face so much recently it was starting to feel as if it had been carved there. Will then decided at that moment he wanted to be back in his mothers arms, whining slightly as he reached out trying to grab you. You reached out scooping him up with ease, showing how many times you had done it. The boy settled on your hip as his head moved to rest against your shoulder. “What time will you be home?” you then asked, bouncing slightly trying to keep the boy away, and trying to keep yourself from bawling. The picture was a happy memory, but now comparing it to the present it made you want to cry. Because Peter was still the exact same boy you had fallen in love with. You knew exactly what you had gotten yourself into, but nonetheless you were so tired. You missed him. You missed Peter who would put Will to bed every night before coming to the living room and lying beside you on the couch. You missed eating dinner together. You missed sleeping in the same bed. You just fucking missed him, but you did not even know if being able to see him again was anything that was remotely in the cards right now, because he had chosen his priority right now. And it wasn’t coming home early enough to eat dinner together. It wasn’t being there to put Will to sleep. And it most certainly was not you. Not now. “Not too late. I will be home before you go to bed,” he promised, with a firm shake of the head as if his word was final, but you knew better than that. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” was all you said before turning away leaving him standing there watching after you retreating form. You left without saying goodbye, without a kiss, and without telling him you loved him. It felt as if he had been smacked in the face as the realization, pushing his lips together to stop them from quivering. You had just sat in the driver’s seat when your phone was buzzing in your pocket, a text from Leah asking for a ride and to stay at your house for the time being. “Oh, Liz,” you sighed knowing it must have gotten bad between the two of them again. You know Liz loved Leah, and cared for her the best she could, but Liz already had difficulty showing emotions properly before everything. Now was only ten times worse and throwing an angry teenage girl in the mix you might as well have been watching a barn burst to flames. You drove toward the house waiting outside, for Leah who texted and said she would be out in a minute. The door flew open as Leah came stomping out toward the car as Liz stepped outside watching you for a moment before turning back to the house slamming the door. You put the car into drive glancing at the girl in the passenger seat, “Do you wanna talk about it?” you asked. “Do you want to talk about Peter?” she countered. You frowned, pushing your lips together, ‘Sorry,” he immediately apologized knowing she hit a sore spot. “Leah and her grandmother are at the House waiting for us. We’re gonna make cookies after dinner,” you instead said. “Are you going to leave him?” she then asked. Your shoulders tensed at the answer as your eyes flickered to the back seat in the mirror looking to Will, “I don’t know,” you answered honestly. You loved Peter, you truly did, but if you continued to have to do everything alone. If you were going to feel like a single mother constantly you might as well be one without the constant heart ache of not knowing if he was coming home or not every night. “I’m not even angry at him. I understand the way his fucking mind works…I am just tried of feeling like he is constantly choosing Liz over me.” “Because your mom did the same?” she asked. You stared at the road a minute before answering, “Probably, yeah. If we keep talking I am going to have to call my therapist,” you cried to joke, not wanting her to worry about you. “You should call your therapist,” she suggested seriously. “I already have an appointment on the 27th,” you muttered, but alas you pulled into your driveway, turning toward her as you forced a smile on her face. “Enough with all this heavy stuff. It’s Christmas lets go have a nice dinner and then we can make cookies or watch a movie whatever you want to do,” you promised, because you actually meant good on your word. Will had been put to bed as you pulled the second batch of cookies out of the oven, shutting it off. Leah, Kayla and her grandmother sat at the table icing and decorating them sharing a small laugh at the monstrosity Leah was currently conjuring. You smiled fondly as you moved the cookies from the baking sheet to the cooling rack. You turned to hear the calling of your name. You turned to see Kayla was holding your phone up to you Peter’s name flashing across the screen. You moved forward wrapping your hand around the device with a sigh. He had already asked for Hank to come over for the night to which you begrudgingly agreed to only for his sake, but now you could feel a pit growing into your stomach. You made your way out toward the living room away from the kitchen. You stared at his name for a minute debating letting it go to voicemail before you decided against it, “Hello?” you answered. “Hey, baby. Listen…I-I uh…I am going to be later than I thought,” he immediately said. You stared at the wall for a moment not replying, “Hello?” he questioned wondering if you heard him correctly. You immediately pulled the phone from your ear hanging up the call. You made your way to the front door, opening it, dropping your cell phone on the steps before turning back in to finish making cookies. The door woke you up like it always did, but instead of Peter coming straight to the bathroom his steps still you would guess somewhere near the living room or perhaps the kitchen, and he did not move. Curiosity got the better of you as you stood making your way out. He stood with his back toward you, eyeing the Santa present that sat underneath the Christmas tree, the only brightness anywhere in the dark home, the flashing lights of it. He had something clutched in his hand which you recognized to be your cell phone that you had thrown back outside even after Kayla had brought it back in. “Your phone was outside,” he then said, breaking the silence. “I am aware I put it there.” “I’m sorry,” he instead replied. You scoffed, “You’re not or you wouldn’t keep fucking doing it,” you hissed. “What do you want me to do?” “You know exactly what I want from you.” He said nothing at first, only staring at you, the silence quickly became suffocating. You nodded before turning back to head toward the bedroom, “Why don’t you just say it?” he asked, causing you to freeze. “That I ruined your life and you didn’t wanna have the baby.” You turned back toward him slowly, “You are fucking pathetic. Sleep on the couch tonight I don’t want to look at you more than I fucking have too,” you muttered making your way down toward the bedroom. He called after you, but you did not stop getting to the bedroom and shutting the door, and locking it. You looked at the ceiling with sigh, there were no more tears left in your system to cry. Only anger at the thought that was what he thought was the appropriate thing to stay. All you wanted was for him to make as much effort at home as he was doing to work. All you wanted was to see your husband before fuckign midnight every night, but it didn’t matter. Nothing you said, nothing you did seemed to matter. “Merry fucking Christmas,” you muttered, before making your way to bed another sleepless night awaiting you. fresh out the slammer taglist: @mommyoftwoo @julczimozart @libra-2409 @saritanotserena @umadirectioner if you would like to join the fresh out the slammer taglist feel free to comment :)
AKOTSK Hockey! AU I have been going insane about this AKOTSK Hockey AU and my friend convinced me to write about it so I am going to post the logistics of the AU that I have figured out so far and see if anyone is interested in it. I also, unfortunately, have begun drawing it. Setting: Modernized! Westeros (NOT modern earth, just Westeros but in modern lens) Ships: Absolutely none right now, but I might play around with some x readers or other ships. I would do them as spin-offs, keeping the original AU shipless for the most part. Context: NHL Hockey rules and set up. Stanley Cup rules for the championship. 16 teams go through a fixed bracket of “best of 7” gamesets. Teams play each other seven times and whoever wins 4/7 of the games wins and moves on, the loser drops out. Note: I have also been going insane over Peter Prior,,,,so he’s here. He’s Aerion’s twin because I said so. Do not get me started on how emotional Maekar would be having a son who looks like his late wife. Do NOT. Gist: The Kings Landing Wildfires and the Storm’s End Guardians have always been rivals. A playoff series turns tense as the teams are tied 3-3. With the Seventh game a tie-breaker that will decide who gets the Dragonstone Cup. The “Trial of Seven” refers to the seventh tie-breaking game that results in a team-wide brawl. Team: Kings Landing Wildfires Owner: Baelor Targaryen. A retired Center who inherited the team from his father. Head Coach: Maekar Targaryen. A retired Right Defense player who took the Head Coach position after his brother inherited the team. Constantly stressed over both his sons out on the ice. Shouting and cursing 99% of the time. Heart stops when Aerion or Peter go down, holding his breath until they get up and walk it off, always thinking about how Daeron got hurt, how his eldest went down and didn’t get up. Baelor and Maekar Targaryen were hockey legends, nicknamed “The Hammer and The Anvil” after their signature moveset. Maekar, as Right Defense, would hold the back, dropping an opposing Forward or Center at the line. While Baelor would sweep in and swipe the puck in their confused daze, pushing to the enemy goal. One keeps you down, the other finishes the play. Goalie Coach: Daeron Targaryen. Recently retired Wildfires Goalie. Nicknamed “The Last Line” for his impenetrable defense in the net. Even if you could fight your way across the ice, he held fast. An equipment malfunction with his helmet led him to suffering a blade injury on the ice. The traumatic event left him with nightmares and a fear of returning to the ice. After a season long bender, he sobered up and returned to the team as Goalie Coach. Specializing in developing, training, and preparing the team’s goalkeepers technically, mentally, and physically. His jersey number (#1) was retired after his accident. Constantly anxious about Peter and Aerion’s safety. Dreams about them getting hurt sometimes. Players: #31- Goaltender: Peter (Paetyr is his birth name, rarely goes by it.) Targaryen. Twin brother of Aerion Targaryen. Nicknamed “The Dragon in Chains” because he remains “chained” in his goalpost net and is always carefully restrained, keeping a lid on the classic Targaryen Temper. A fight involving him is rare, but not impossible. Gets along with most people, friends with Storm’s End Guardian goalie Duncan Tall and Right Wing Raymun Fossoway. Got his nickname because he was always very in control until someone with a bone to pick with his brother took Aerion down and tried to slam his head into the ice after ripping off his helmet. Peter immediately dropped his gloves and came from the very other end of the ice just to start WAILING on this guy. Aerion was very proud his brother finally “proved he was a true dragon” but he said it with a bloody nose stuffed with tissues so it just made Peter laugh. #13 - Right Wing: Aerion Targaryen. Twin brother of Peter. Gave himself the nickname “The Dragon of the Ice” or “Brightflame” but no one calls him those. Skilled in a way that makes it hard to hate him as a fan, but he is completely reckless and a huge agitator. Think Jamie Tartt from Ted Lasso. Learns he can “get away with” getting into fights if it’s because he is “protecting his team”. Do not even LOOK at his Goalie bro, he is just waiting for an excuse to fight. Peter can and will scruff him and gently pull him out of/away from brawls. (Think Stolarz dragging Zegras from a scrum, video here: https://youtube.com/shorts/NyOhJKug7S8?si=C0r7PWFVmeyUlwUF ) #30 - Left Wing: Steffon Fossoway (yes his number being 30 is a reference to the 30 pieces of silver Judas betrayed Jesus for like him abandoning Dunk’s side in the show for lordship). New player on the team who just left the Storm’s End Guardians. Keeps the team alive when Aerion overextents. Will reluctantly join in the brawl when he sees Aerion get in trouble. Annoyed because he left his old team to chase glory and feels like all he is is a babysitter. Gets humbled by his Rookie cousin on the opposing team all the damn time. #12 - Center: Valarr Targaryen. High End Hockey Strategist. At first, he clashes with Aerion(who hated being told what to do) but after some Ted Lasso themed bonding learned how to use Aerion and how to get Aerion to actually listen to strategy over being flashy. Once Valarr and Aerion click? The team becomes truly elite. Think about the scene from The Blind Side where she tells him that the team is his family and he has to protect them except it’s Valarr giving in to Aerion’s Edgy ah Dragon Obsession and telling him the team is his hoard or some shit like that, allowing Aerion to be an agitator but to only fight in defense of his team. Takes advantage of most of the attention being on Aerion to do sneak plays and scores with him. Aerion is trying Very Hard to learn to share the glory. Valarr is under a lot of pressure to lead the team. Won the Dragonstone Cup in his first debut season last year. Tries to live up to his father’s legacy. #28 - Right Defense: Donnel Duskendale. Covers the gaps Aerion leaves when he rushes forward, also ride or die for his Goalie. Mindful not to block Peters visibility while also providing great coverage to the goal. Complains that Aerion is always getting into fights (the interview where he said “The pretty ones are always temperamental” goes triple platinum on TikTok). However, he is still the first one to drop his stick and gloves when someone hits his goalie or starts hard targeting Aerion in a way that is no longer funny. Older, used to be on the team with Daeron. Does not forgive himself for Daeron’s injury, and as a result, is extra protective of Peter. #23 - Left Defense: Roland Crakehall. The ever annoyed and grumpy defense that gets into arguments with Steffon just to see him get annoyed. Does not like the media, refuses to do any of the social media girl’s trend videos. Does not know what a TikTok is. Insults people and always complains about the travel accommodations. Has 4 fake and repaired teeth, will stand and watch when a brawl or scrum breaks out. Will, at some point, eventually join in. Mainly just drags Peter off if the brawl gets too close to the kid. Team: The Storm’s End Guardians Owner: Lyonel Baratheon. Retired Right Wing who got left with a limp after a horrible injury. Walks with a cunty antler cane. Head Coach: Tanselle Sand, the first female head coach of the league. Goalie Coach: Arlan Pennytree. Passed away right before the seventh playoff game. Replacement has yet to be found. (Rumors say retired goalie Robyn Rhysling is being considered for the role) Players: #30 - Goaltender: Duncan Tall. A rising star recruited recently. Chats with Peter whenever their teammates start brawling. Goes viral for his Mic’d up moments where he talks and sings to himself in the net. Will join a fight if his rookie, Raymun, gets handled too roughly. Aerion hates his guts, but secretly respects the results Duncan gets and the challenge he presents. Really makes Aerion have to work hard to get scores in. Duncan originally has a fanboy attitude towards Aerion because he respects his skill, but that fades quickly once he realizes Aerion is fucking annoying. Got the nickname “Dunk the Hunk” by Tiktok. Mainly referred to as “The Wall of Storm’s End” as he takes up nearly the whole damn goalnet. #15 - Right Wing: Raymun Fossoway. The newest recruit to the team to fill his cousin’s spot. Often goes directly against his cousin (as he is RW and Steffon is LW, they are face to face a lot). For an anxious little guy that everyone is worried about he takes to the ice like a BEAST in his debut game. Shoulder checks Steffon hard enough against the sides he almost breaks the glass. Likes Peter, they have playful twitter banter and occasionally practice together, which pisses both Aerion and Steffon off to no end. The team is very protective of their Rookie. #42 - Left Wing: Humfrey Hardyng. Always facing off against Aerion (Aerion being RW of the opposing team means they are facing off often) and always gets into fights with him. Once broke his stick and still managed to score a goal with the stubby broken piece. Suffered a broken leg last season when Aerion checked and fell over onto him, his leg getting caught at an odd angle. Was out for the entire season. Earlier in the game, Hardyng had accidentally collided with Peter, resulting in a full team brawl. Rumor is Aerion hard targeted him the rest of the game because of it, leading to the injury. #4 - Left Defense: Pate Smith. Nicknamed “Steely Pate” by fans because of his steel defense. Despite his age and size, he protects the house (area in front of the net) and holds the line hard. Is annoyed by how skilled Aerion is, but enjoys checking him hard into the wall when given the chance. Ride or die for his Goalie, Dunk. #24 - Right Defense: Humfrey Beesbury. Has a reputation for breaking sticks, kinda lives in the penalty box. Recently went viral for getting called on Embellishment and his collapsed pose on the ice quickly turned into a meme (think Crosby’s recent embellishment penalty). Dunk has to warn him when he is Mic’d up because otherwise Beesbury will curse too much or do too much shit talking. Leans into the bee puns on social media. Does honey company ads. Loves to do the social media girl’s fun videos, TikTok king for REAL. Thinks a pic of him grinning after his front teeth got chipped is the best picture of him in the world, made it his profile picture on everything. #91 - Center: Daemon Blackfyre II. A highly controversial pick, especially for games against the Wildfires. Valarrs biggest rival, always taunts the Targaryens if he can. Went viral when his Grindr profile was found and everyone realized he’s been flirting with Dunk the whole damn season. A PR nightmare once he’s out. Just fueling rumors about him and Dunk. One time he flirted with Peter, who didn’t realize, and that led to Aerion starting a fight with him over daring to “besmirch” his brother’s honor. Aerion then had to go out and explain that he does not give a fuck if anyone is gay, he just hates Daeron completely unconnected to the gay thing. Wore pride tape the next 6 games to “show his allyship” (suggested by the PR team), which just ended up making everyone think he’s Bi. Edits on tiktok of the entire situation go viral. Teases Aerion constantly about it. Just a giant shit eating grin on his face while Valarr and Aerion are seething. I hope I am not the only one going insane over Hockey AUs… Anyway, I already have art on the jerseys and helmets and scenes planned and little headcannons and moments all ready to be written, including the scene behind Daeron’s injury. Please, gods, let me know if this is interesting to anyone else…
m i s s i n ‘ t e x a s ৎ ୭ c h a r a c t e r s . peter prior x fem! texan! detective! reader ৎ ୭ s y n o p s i s . 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. ৎ ୭ w o r d c o u n t . 5.7k ৎ ୭ w a r n i n gs. 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. t hey’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.”
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