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kiwisbell · 2 months

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helen ; chapter one

dear joel

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the inciting incident.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, (retired) hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), blood + injuries, murder, cars, joel lifts reader once, reader has hair, oral sex (f receiving - aka munch!joel returns), married fluff, angst, threats of rape/SA, home invasion, disgusting awful men, childhood/religious trauma, the typical alcohol + smoking + profanity, erotic paintings, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 8.2k a/n: so i'm posting this and sprinting away because i'm terrified. that being said, this story means more to me than words can say and i sincerely hope you enjoy what i have to offer. thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!! gigantic thanks to @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter and being generally incredible throughout this whole process. i couldn't have done it without ya baby ❤️ next

PREFACE

“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”

— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Joel Miller grins as the punch rocks his jaw.

His opponent hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, the man stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

The man drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's about to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of the man’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, the man drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves the man’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his own broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

Joel staggers backward to pick up the knife, clamping his hand over the curve of his opponent’s shoulder, and drives the blade down into his neck.

“Yeah.”

He leaves him slumped against the railing, choking on his own blood, and limps his way to one of the beaten-up Range Rovers whose front right bumper was totaled in the crash. Joel groans as he settles into the front seat, gnashing his teeth together as he lifts the hem of his dress shirt to inspect the damage.

The bullet has pierced the soft flesh of his stomach. Blood blossoms bright through the white fabric and spirals outward. Joel blinks away rainwater and pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen smeared with blood. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him.

He grits his teeth and makes a call.

In the back of his head, Joel vaguely recalls an old song of prayer. He used to watch others sing it while he lingered in the shadows at the back of the cathedral. He would memorise the shape of the words leaving their mouths and wonder how a benevolent God, who had shaped man—perfection—from red clay, could have made him.

He would lower his head as if swept up in a tide of repentance, examining the bones beneath his hands. The flickering of tendons. The bulge of veins as he delicately folded his fingers into a fist.

Red clay. Blood. The old dance of serpent and man.

He was fourteen when he escaped.

Joel looks down at his bloodied hands. They’ve grown since then. They’re stronger, thicker, scarred. There are no pictures of him as a young boy, but if he saw one, he knows he would not recognise himself. Not his eyes nor his hands nor the set of his jaw. God makes man makes boy. He is destined for Hell.

The call goes to voicemail.

Joel curls his hand into a fist and whispers a prayer.

Something cool and wet collides with Joel’s forehead as he stalks into the airport. It’s begun to rain.

His target gate is close, and he's early. The press of bodies begins to crowd him. Prickling body spray and sickly-sweet perfume and sunburned skin from Spring Break return flights. Joel shoves through them, unseen, unnoticed amid the rowdy din of reunions. The collar of his shirt sticks to the nape of his neck. It’s the sensation of being strangled, clammy palms slick against his own skin. He adjusts his jacket and tightens his grip on the black fabric dangling from his hand.

Joel waits by the gate, his eyes flitting between its apex and the people milling about him, reuniting with partners and parents and children. Nobody seems suspicious, but his fingers still dance upon the blade hidden in the inner lining of his leather jacket. Those performing wide berths around the scowling man try not to make eye contact. Most don't notice his presence at all.

He waits, flicking his sleeve up every couple minutes to check the time on the inside of his wrist. Every tick of the thin hand registers in the pulse of his heart against his ribs.

He hears the suitcase before he sees it—and it’s hard to miss. One wheel is wonky, and the case stutters in its path along the polished floor. It’s huge, pink, hideous.

His hand dropping from the blade in his pocket, Joel makes his move.

You see him approaching and drop the lopsided suitcase, shrieking as he takes you up in his arms.

He swings you around twice, holding you firm against him, your fingers grabbing desperately at the locks of his curly, brown-grey hair. Joel nestles his face in your throat and breathes in: vanilla and shampoo and the unmistakable scent of a you he can never shake. Home.

You shudder into him, your feet barely scraping the floor as he holds you around the waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. Joel lets his eyes close.

Daisies made of diamonds dangle from your wrist, connected by a fine golden chain. He can feel the faux petals dig into the back of his neck, etching their shape into the phantom pain of the ink peeking out from his collar. Sometimes, his skin would pull back with the needle, briefly protruding from his body like a tent made of flesh, as if grasping feebly onto some innocent time before the black hands of Dürer were permanently his. His to remember. His to loathe.

There is a slight in the way his gift to you, wrapped snugly around your wrist since the first anniversary, kisses the old wound, the tip of the cross, and all he feels is the echo of agony. He holds you tighter.

“Can’t breathe, honey,” you croak, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Joel mutters an apology, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull away and cup your face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you beam up at him, smoothing back the hair you’d tousled with your fingers. A curl swoops back down over his forehead.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” says Joel, already on his way to kissing you, his mouth slanting over yours.

He tastes of mint and smells of his dark cologne, pine, Joel. Your Joel. And you kiss him like it—your hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding up his strong, broad back, your lips meeting in a consuming kiss that knocks you off-kilter. He bends slightly over you, keeping you upright with a large hand on your lower back.

“Never leave again,” mumbles Joel, grinning against your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm to your left hand, where two glimmering bands rest on your third finger. Your hands intertwine, and he bumps his nose into yours.

You give him another short kiss. “Get me out of here.”

Joel slides your raincoat over your shoulders and you slip your arms through. He presses his lips to your forehead and closes his eyes, letting himself linger briefly in your space before he scoops up the handle to your affront of a suitcase and escorts you out back to the car.

He opens the passenger-side door to let you slide into your seat, securing your case in the back, and makes his way around the vehicle. You reach for the collar of his jacket and pull him toward you for a kiss, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. He grins crookedly when you pull away, bushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Missed you,” he says.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yeah? How much?”

He reaches across the console and kisses you deeply, making you gasp into him as his hand slips underneath your silky little blouse and fits his fingers in the grooves between your ribs. Your skin prickles with goosebumps under his touch as his exploration migrates to your belly, sliding south, ever lower, his hand playing at the waistband of your panties—

“Okay,” you laugh, smacking his hand away. “Okay. You’re paying for parking, Miller.”

“I’ve got money,” he says plainly, dipping his head to kiss you again, his pupils fattening as he tries to gorge on all of you at once. You place a hand on his chest, enjoying the strong pulse of his heartbeat where you typically rest your head, and gently push him back.

“Take me home,” you coo, your gaze sweeping fondly over the face that hasn’t changed, that you cannot forget, “and show me how much you missed me.”

His wedding band coolly kisses your cheek as he retracts his hand, reluctantly turning his key in the ignition. “Yes, ma’am.”

He’s always been a meticulous driver, expert in the way he flattens his palm on the wheel, his other on the back of your headrest, turns the car out of the spot, and merges onto the freeway. When he no longer needs his other hand, he gives it to you, and you bring his long-scarred knuckles to your lips.

His hands are marked by years of use, of abuse, speckled with little white scars, freckles, divots, curves. You already know the lines in his palms, have traced them and painted them and put them under sensitive study with your body. But you turn his hand over nonetheless, your own fingertips careful in their examination, following their contours as if searching for a change. But they’re the same—he’s the same—and so you tuck your fingers between his and bring your palms together in a warm, awaited kiss.

It’s only been a month, but you study his profile as if years have passed. He’s still Joel, still surly, plush lips curved into a permanent pout, the space between his brows marked by a ponderous gash, the vein in his throat fluttering in silence when a driver cuts him off or he spots a car following too closely. He’s a good study, practised in his stoicism.

His nose is artful. Its convex slope, pronounced, strong, curves deliciously into his upper lip, the soft greying hairs in between a space of waiting. His mouth, soft, learned, often languageless, is what you know best of him. You know it like your own—can trace its shape in the dark, hands behind your back. The strong jawline, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, ones he never had before you met him, the patches of skin disrupting the fullness of his beard: they’re the picture of the man you married, and there’s always something you’re disappointed in discovering you’ve missed. A something you’ve never noticed, a something you wish you could go back and add to all your canvases.

When you left him at the airport, it was a freckle just beneath the hollow of his throat. Now, it’s the frayed hairs just behind his ears, crimping in frizzy patterns that don’t match the languorous curls on the rest of his head. They look singed, as if he’d put a match to himself.

Maybe it’s making up for lost time, for all the days you’d missed being away from your Joel. But there’s a second, smaller something: the little round scar beneath those wild hairs. You lift your hand to it, and before your thumb can make a pass over the white, puckered skin, he speaks.

“It’s a burn.” Merging off the freeway, he pulls into a gas station. His fuel ticker is tapping gently at the E. “From a cigarette.”

Your heart tips off the edge of a yawning chasm, and your hand pulls back in a wary twitch of your fingers. Throat tightening, you feel a distinct pressure behind the T of your nose and forehead. “From the people who raised you?”

A muscle in his jaw spasms, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. “None of that,” he says softly, meeting your eyes that well with unshed tears.

No tears for me, he once said to you. Not until I’ve earned ‘em.

You sniffle, watching him nuzzle his cheek against the soft flesh of your wrist, his lips finding your vein and following it halfway up your forearm.

“Tell me about your show.”

You let him tuck your tears away in the grooves between his joints and smile. “Successful, but lonely. So many people knew my name, and I’m pretty sure I knew about a quarter of theirs. Made me feel like some snobbish pig.”

“Nah, that’s my job,” says Joel. “Everybody loves you, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “Either way, the gallery was a hit. The triptych sold for the highest at the auction.”

Joel smirks. “The nude ones?”

“Yeah, dirtbag. The nude ones.” Your smile is dry, still somehow saccharine.

“I liked those,” says Joel, fingers playing upon your upper thigh.

“Perv.”

He playfully smacks your thigh. “Goddamn right.”

“It was good. It was. But I missed you.” Your voice breaks, and Joel squeezes your fingers in response. “Could hardly sleep without you there.”

He nods like he knows. And you know he does; he barely sleeps, even if you’re on top of him. “I know everybody loves you,” he says, “but next time you go away, remember I love you most.”

You blink away the shimmer of tears so you can see him clearly. “Casanova.”

“That's right,” he says, nosing his way into another kiss. “Don't ever leave me again, baby. My heart can't take it.”

You shake your head, laughing into his mouth as your tears slip onto your tongue. “Never again,” you whisper, “unless the hotel food is good.”

He nods. “I’ll make an exception, long as I can go.”

You grin. “You know… if I’m at home all the time…”

“We’re not getting a puppy.”

“Joel—”

“No.”

“Don't you want to make your wife happy?”

He faux-snaps at you like a dog, catching his teeth around your earlobe. “As a goddamn clam.”

You gasp as you feel his mouth suckle gently at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I… I want… We should at least talk about…”

“Hmm?”

He’s playing with the hem of your blouse, deft fingers leaving warm imprints on the soft skin of your belly, fingers enveloping your precious heart when he places his hand on your upper back. The organ pounds under his touch, pouring its blood into his palms.

You haven’t felt his touch in so long.

“I want…”

Joel hums again, prompting, his pinky finger dipping under the strap of your bra and pulling back, snapping it against your skin.

“What was I talking about?”

He chuckles, bringing his lips back to yours. You grasp for him greedily, trying to fix him to you this time, your fingers bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. But he’s pulling back, his forehead falling against yours.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you can convince me.”

Giddily, perhaps stupidly, you smile. “I’m very prepared to convince you.”

“Uh-huh. I don't doubt you, baby. How ‘bout you let me fill up the car first?”

The throbbing bass of house music Dopplers as another car approaches the gas station. Three men exit the vehicle, one of them already lighting a cigarette while the other two make for the convenience store. One is wearing a backwards cap and the other a pressed suit.

Nice move, you think, sinking back in your seat a little as Joel slides out of the car, smoking by a gas pump.

“Nice ride,” says the man at the opposite pump, puffing at his cigarette.

“Thanks,” says Joel with a polite smile, locking the nozzle in the fuel tank and folding his arms over his chest. He’s hovering by the passenger door, halfway to blocking you from view.

The man surveys the hood, his fingers gently tracing the cool silver. “Boss Mustang 429. She a ‘70?”

“‘69,” says Joel.

“Very nice,” muses the man, drumming his hands on the hood. You feel the crude vibrations in your spine and straighten in your seat. This man—this kid, all his puffing and grinning and loud music—is bad news. Your stomach coils taut when his gaze shifts from Joel to you, staring hard through the windshield.

“How much?” he asks Joel.

You notice the minute stiffening of the muscles in Joel’s shoulders. “What?”

“How much for the car?”

Joel pushes off the car and dislodges the pump, brushing the kid aside on his way back to the driver’s side. “It’s not for sale.”

The kid wanders to the passenger-side door before Joel can turn on the car and roll up the window. He leans his elbows just inside, his face mere inches from yours, and you can smell the sickly, cloying smoke of his cigarette as he blows it in your direction.

He says something to Joel in Spanish that makes your husband’s hand still on the wheel.

And your Joel, your courteous Joel, your never-the-shit-stirrer Joel, narrows his eyes at the kid and says something in kind, his voice a low scrape that shudders through you.

It’s too fast for you to hear, and you never learned Spanish, and you were under the assumption (until right fucking now) that Joel never did, either. But he starts the car and rolls up the window, and you’re peeling away from the gas station before the kid can reply.

“That was…” You cast around for the words and instead rest your eyes on Joel, whose jaw looks ready to snap. “Joel, honey, when did you learn Spanish?”

He’s silent for a long while, and you would assume that he didn’t hear you—if you didn't know that he has stellar hearing. When he pulls onto the long stretch of road, signalling your first firm tug away from the stifling noise of civilization, he finally speaks.

“Picked it up in the Marines.”

“What did he say to you?”

Joel’s skin is stretched taut over his knuckles. “Somethin’ stupid.”

You hum, letting him linger in silence for the remainder of the trip. Scenery, green and grey sky and the drizzle of rain, swoops by the window, and you're going home. It isn't much different from what you found in Vancouver, but it's familiar. It’s the smell of the air after the rain and the way your shared home comes into view the same way it always has.

It isn’t a modest home. You and Joel had it built before the wedding, both eager to get away from the city and exist in relative peace when your job allowed it. It sits low and broad, geometric pillars framing the front porch, sleek modern lines in black and white. Your compromise: he assumed responsibility for the exterior, and you took everything within. Joel pulls into the garage, next to your beige SUV, and helps you and your hot-pink luggage out of the car.

The walls are littered with canvases. Mostly, there are paintings of Joel. The first time you brought him to your studio, a few weeks into the relationship, he’d sat stone-still for hours. You don't recall even a twitch of a finger. He’s in shades of blue, red, green, grey. He’s sitting, standing, lounging, sleeping. His lashes lie in repose over his cheeks, eyes closed, sometimes open, often averted. You’ve captured him in bed, by the pool, in the kitchen, in your studio. Like a spider, you’ve ensnared his shyness, his care, his devotion, weaving it into a tapestry of oil, watercolour, pastel.

You’ve never sold a single one. This Joel—whose eyes are sometimes closed, sometimes open, often averted—is for your eyes only.

The curls at the nape of his neck are creeping under the collar of his jacket. Winding your finger around a rich brown lock, you give him a tug. “You haven't been taking good care of yourself.”

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the rings on your finger that bind you to him. “You told me you liked it long.”

“You told me it itches.” You shrug his jacket off his shoulders and trail your hands up his muscled arms. “It's not about me, honey.”

Joel hums, cradling the crown of your head in his palm and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “When will you learn”—another hand around your hip, tugging you forward by the small of your back—“that everything is about you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That's a good answer, Mr. Miller.”

He grins crookedly, backing you against the kitchen counter. “Yeah?”

You scratch his scalp and feel his mouth descend on your jaw. “Mhm. You’ve been practising.”

“Didn't have much else to do,” he grumbles, fisting the fabric of your blouse and untucking it from the waistband of the old jeans sitting low on your hips. “My wife was gone.”

“You're getting whiny,” you chide, smacking his hand away from your fly.

“Is it working?”

“You really wanna make your wife happy?”

“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” He looks down at you like he's close to pleading.

“Then you'll let me cut your hair,” you purr.

His pout lasts as long as it takes for you to get his hair soapy and your fingers in his curls, massaging slow and sweet. You take your time ridding him of the excess length, chopping carefully, your hands assured of their strength. You tell him to tilt up and look down and to the side, honey, and he obeys because it's your hands, and your voice, and he's pliable as molten glass.

You get lost in the musical shhhick of the scissors cutting through hair, humming a tune that does not match, and he's reminded of ballet. Watching you in the mirror is like seeing the dance through a glass he cannot permeate. You may be touching him, but most times he's struggling to grasp you in your entirety.

He sees an angel in his sleep, reaching out with a hand made of gold to guide him up from hell.

You tell him more about the gallery. You tell him about whale-watching and being too seasick to take photos for him like he'd requested. Joel wants to shake his head but he stays still and tells you it’s okay, baby, all I wanted was to know you were happy.

And you tell him I was happy. But it would've been better with you.

And he's joking, telling you I’d be throwin' up on the other side of the boat, but his body feels cold when you set down the scissors and leave his side.

“How’s Tommy?” you ask, rubbing gel between your palms. This, he knows, is your favourite part: styling him up all pretty like your personal doll.

It’s his favourite part, too. He holds you around the waist while you work. “He’s panicking.”

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “He's read every book on the shelves. And your brother doesn't read.”

“Books can't prepare you for the real thing,” says Joel. “‘Least, that's what Maria told him.”

“Maria’s probably right.” You thread your fingers through his locks and watch with a smile as he closes his eyes, his forehead dropping to your belly. “But that doesn't take away from the fact that Tommy will make a great dad.”

Joel hums, pressing a kiss to your belly. “He’s been askin’ after you to paint their nursery. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”

You're beaming, curling one lock of hair around your finger and dangling it teasingly over his forehead. “Tell Tommy I'd be delighted. Maria shouldn't be doing any of that, pregnant as she is. You should smack some sense into your brother.”

“I tried every day when we were little. Didn't take.”

You give his styled hair a finalistic tug and brush it back from his ears. “Such a good model for me,” you coo, dropping into his lap, “just like always.”

“And what do I get?” he says, watching his own hand cup your breast, thumb ghosting over the soft swell, obscured by layers of fabric.

Your wicked eyes feel heavy on his skin. “What you always get.”

You take his hand in yours and lead him to the bedroom. You’ve done this a thousand times, it seems, this methodical undressing, made new with every hour spent apart. The dance replenishes in the sunlight, coming alive as spring blossoms, never stale, never withered. There is something new to discover each time.

Joel kisses you, staggering backward until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. You climb onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your arms winding around his neck as he tucks you into him. His cock is a hard, heavy weight between your thighs, accustomed to the touch of his hand alone in the month you've been apart.

The revitalising warmth of skin-on-skin strikes him true, blooming like blood from his heart. He clutches you so close that your heartbeat skitters from your chest to his, your mouths exchanging breaths, your bodies sharing heat. He knows nothing but the shape, smell, sound of you.

He trails his knuckles up and down your spine and wonders if he can make certain that he will die like this. He doesn't want to know an afterlife. It will spoil the memory of his very last moment, when he brings you in close and kisses your soft cheek and lets the darkness gently pull him down.

The sisters at the orphanage would tell him things. You will never know peace until you know Him. You cannot know a person’s love until you know His. You will never understand, child, what it is to breathe, until every breath you take is in His name. Joel drags his open mouth up the column of your sternum, its golden pillar, his tongue dipping to taste the nectar that pools in the hollow of your throat. He tastes you instead, and he feels he has not cheated God.

You gasp his name as he licks molten salt from your skin, and he feels the golden hand curl around his heart. His lids grow heavy with every taste. Intoxicated, he seeks more, putting his mouth to the crook of your neck. Your back arches, your chest flush with his own, melting and moulding together. Every second of time spent apart withers and dies.

You have taken Joel to bed and felt him angry, happy, morose, insatiable—but the Joel you’re feeling now is tired. A drowning man finally cresting the surface, he touches you like he never will again. Your skin bunches and folds under his too-eager hands, rubbing you raw. Your muscles pull taut as you try to accommodate his frantic mouth. He bites you and your lips part in a silent scream. He pulls your hair and you gush, your chest hot, prickling with friction and sweat and heat.

There is anguish in the way he holds you. It feels deep as a wound, old enough to still ache when it rains, old enough that you were never around to know him when it was cut into his body. You want to rescue him from the wordless pain, the agony that has no name.

You want to know what has made him this way. Because there are times when you see your husband and it strikes you suddenly that a different person exists in the black of his eyes. Because there are parts he keeps hidden, for your sake or his. Because there is a little boy in his chest who's been hurt and you do not know how to save that sliver of him.

Leftover hairs from his trim sting as your bodies slide together. Your scalp prickles at the desperate way he holds you at the crown of your head. You whisper his name and he looks up at you in the darkness, and there is water brimming beneath his irises.

“Tell me what you need,” you say.

He brings his hand between your thighs and touches the wet, warm place he seeks. You nod, letting him roll you onto your back, his mouth trailing kisses down your navel. When you squirm, he pins you by your belly, his palm flat to your skin. When you mewl his name, your chest heaving, he nods his head in reply, dipping his head and sliding his hot tongue through your slit.

Joel is the prayer you chant. He kneels at the edge of the bed, bringing your thighs around his ears, closing his lips around your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair, tugging him closer, eliciting a groan from his chest. It rumbles through you, his face buried in your pussy, his hands fastened around your thighs. He places searing kisses between your legs, lighting you ablaze, leaving scorch marks wherever his lips touch you.

“Tell me you're mine,” he says, and the fractured sound of his voice cuts into your skin. He's watching you, his pupils puffy and seeking, hands squeezing, desperate. “Please.”

You whimper at the sight of the kiss he places on your clit. “I’m yours,” you tell him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. “I’m your wife, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours and I love you.”

He lowers his head, an apostate seeking redemption, and his tongue slides heavily over your clit. At the suction of his mouth around the slick pearl, you gasp, “Oh, God,” your head thrown back, your spine arching into his palm. The cut of the diamond on your finger is sharp against his skin.

Joel relishes the cool bite of the gem as he licks through your folds and his saliva mingles with your wetness. He kneels with fervour, presses his mouth to you as if whispering his confessions through the lattice, and makes you his.

The flat of his tongue is scalding, his palm a brand. He licks and sucks until you’re quivering, suffocating his hand in yours, and he wants to bare the imprint of your sigh forever. He should be the one submitting to you, and here you are, lending him your body to please, if only for another moment. Joel flicks his tongue over your clit, takes it into his mouth, and makes you sob his name.

I’m yours.

Yours.

And it sounds so permanent that, for a second, he believes it himself.

You come with your back curving and your hips grinding and your nails in his skin. Joel doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, until you push yourself onto your elbows and tell him to come here.

You swing your leg over him and bring your mouth down to his. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and kisses you so deeply that it bruises him somewhere he cannot reach. His hands cupping your face. His cock heavy between your bodies. The sun lowering, casting you in bronze. He loses his grip on the world.

“Now,” you whisper in the growing dark, “it’s your turn to tell me.”

You lift yourself onto his cock and bring yourself down, and Joel’s fist opens against your back. “I’ve been yours since the restaurant,” he rasps.

You beam at him, and dusk ends.

There is a thumping beyond your bedroom door.

Joel hears it before you. In a flash, he hooks his leg under your knee and rolls you over, pinning you under his body. He reaches for the nightstand on his side, throws open the drawer, and pulls a gun.

You grasp his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. Eyes meet in the slippery darkness. Wide, careful. Words wordlessly exchanged.

Your fluttering heartbeat begins to pound in your ears. The noise migrates down the hall.

Footsteps.

In the kitchen, glass shatters, and your stomach swoops, down and back up, lodging in your throat.

“Joel,” you whisper, your own voice trembling out of you. He shakes his head, his finger coming to his lips. Your body begins to tremble. The chill digs a pick into each knob of your spine as it climbs up to your brain stem.

Your home begins to pound with its very own heartbeat. You can hear its tightly-wound tension in the walls. Nobody breathes except for your husband, slow and steady, hovering over you with a gun in his hand.

You hadn’t known he owned a gun.

His hips ground you against the bed and his fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand to his chest. His heart pounds strongly into your palm, his eyes narrowed, fixed to you. But you know his focus is split down the middle, divided between keeping you safe and listening.

Your breathing peters out until it’s silent as the breeze outside the window. A man’s voice carries from the kitchen, and another answers. Joel shifts slowly off the bed and brings you with him, handing you his T-shirt and boxers. He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls another shirt over his head while you silently dress. The fabric slips from your hand as your trembling fingers struggle for a purchase. Once you’re dressed, Joel pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“Under the bed,” he whispers.

Oh, fuck that.

“You want to go out there and confront them by yourself? Are you fucking crazy?”

He shuts you up by lowering his mouth to yours in a scorching kiss. “Do not fuckin’ argue with me,” he rasps, his teeth scraping against yours. You open your mouth to do exactly that, but another glass shatters, and you flinch away.

“Under. The. Bed.”

And he’s gone, leaving you alone, helpless, the predatory prowl of his gait something unfamiliar to you. It’s learned, utterly silent, the curve of his elbow guiding your gaze to the gun held behind his back. His head juts out before him, peeking around corners.

There are dust bunnies underneath the bed. You’re a better cleaner than Joel, but he makes an effort. He gets lost in it sometimes, sweeping his way through the house as if there’s a grid on the floor, precise in his methods. He doesn’t attend to the details, like the corners of the trim or the grooves in the floorboards. And yet, your floors are polished. Your plants are watered. He cares for you in quiet ways, when words fail.

Your heart thuds against the hardwood through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It smells of rain and him. There are no more noises coming from the kitchen.

You drop your head into your folded arms and will yourself to breathe. The claustrophobic space between the bed frame and the floor edges in on you. The only light disrupting the vignette is the small lamp. You’re alone.

When you lift your head again, a pair of heavy black boots stares you right in the face.

You bite down on your scream as your heart swoops down into your stomach, pressed hard against the cold floor. Though you do not breathe, the thrum of your heart echoes in your throat as the sputtering of an engine in the dead of winter. The boots leave scuff marks on your floors, the boards groaning under the weight. The owner is heavyset, likely male from the size of his feet. And he's calling for you.

“Here, pretty kitty.” He pitches his octave high as he taunts you. “Come on out, sweet girl. Don't make me mad.”

You watch the path of his boots across the floor as he approaches the nightstand, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through your belongings.

Objects roll under the bed with you as he periodically drops them, careless in his vandalism. Your journal lands next to your head with a thunk, and you hear the low buzz of your vibrator in his hand. “Hmm, kitty likes to play.” And it lands on the floor, rolling to a cool stop in the groove between two boards.

Petrified, you can only watch him stalk across the room, his heavy footfalls thundering in your ears. He whistles a tune you don't recognise, and you wonder what's taking your husband so fucking long.

Joel, cries your heart as the man halts in his tracks, lowering himself to the ground, taking a knee. JoelJoelJoelplease—

And there's a spark of recognition when your eyes meet in the dark, like you've been acquainted with their black depths, before you're scrambling out from under the bed and kicking him square in the face with the heel of your foot.

He grunts, holding his nose, free hand grasping for you like wisps of smoke. You crawl to your feet and begin to run, only for him to wrap one cold hand around your ankle and pull.

You crumple back down to the floor with him, barely saving your own skull from cracking on the hardwood as you throw your hands in front of your eyes. The impact to your elbows radiates up to your neck, and you scream your throat raw, kicking out at your assailant, your blood roaring, weeping.

With a firm kick to his throat, you force him to let go, his hand flying instinctively to his windpipe. He wheezes something crude, probably, but you’re running—limping, mostly, slamming the bedroom door behind you with a shattering thud that quakes the frame.

“Joel!” you cry, turning the corner in the hall, feeling the walls as you go as if your own home has become foreign to you. What if he’s dead? What if you’re about to stumble over his body in the dark—the only body you’ve ever been able to know as something more than a vessel for art, for a painstaking study? That body, the body you could trace in the black with fingertips, not brushes, does not make itself known.

“JOEL—!”

A hand comes to rest on your cheek. It is not Joel’s hand. It is no hand at all, but the edge of a blade, a cool stinging thing that nicks the tender skin beneath your eye.

Blood from his nose drips down his mouth, staining his teeth red. You feel a small thrill of victory.

Joel is on the kitchen floor in a heap, vaguely stirring from the impact of a baseball bat to his ribs. The bat which a second intruder now uses to smash the framed pictures on your wall. Glass rains down on him. Shards have cut Joel’s soft belly, shredded the fabric of his shirt. Your captor holds you by the hair.

A third man smokes a cigarette, sitting on your countertop, swinging his feet back and forth, and it strikes you that he’s really only a kid. Twenty-five at most. You know young hands, young eyes. Your pencils and paper know them better.

“Nice of you to join us,” says the man from the gas station, making shapes of the cigarette smoke. You watch the way it curls around the low-hanging light.

“Joel,” you whisper, the salt of your tears stinging in the wound on your face. “Baby, please… get up…”

“He’s fine, chiquita,” says the kid. “Don’t waste your energy.”

Joel’s eyes peel open, his hands blindly grasping for something he does not have. He’s curled in on himself to protect himself from the inevitable next swing of the bat. You wonder if he’s been struck in the head, and you can feel pieces of your heart slowly wilting as petals untended.

His gun, you realise, your eyes dropping to the belt of the man who holds you hostage. It’s tucked into his waistband, but you cannot reach it with your arms trapped in front of you. His arm is a heavy band around your chest, glueing you to him, helpless. You’re fucking helpless and you cannot get to him and he will die.

Your Joel will die and he will know pain in the way you want him to know love.

“Let him go, please. You hurt him.”

The kid sniffs, tossing his cigarette to the floor beside Joel and jumping down from the counter to stomp it out with an expensive sneaker. “He disrespected me,” says the kid, leering down at your half-conscious husband like a speck of dirt on a polished glass. “But he doesn’t matter.”

You choke on your sobs, writhing in your captor’s grasp in a futile effort to feel not-so-suffocated, not-so-stuck. “You can have anything you want. Please, take anything. We have money, we have cars, we have paintings. They’re worth something, I promise you. Just—just look up my name. They’re worth a lot, please, just take them and leave us alone, please—”

The anger explodes through the gash in his face where he’d put the cigarette, that yawning maw eager to swallow blood and pain. “I don’t want your fucking paintings!” he screams, stalking toward you and yanking you free of the other man’s grasp.

Your stomach swoops as he shoves you, hard, to the floor. This time, your arms do not take the blow. It is your temple that absorbs the impact, striking hard on a floor already flecked with blood. Black seeps through paper. Your eyes darken. A man—you do not know which—is speaking.

“Go on, Emil, have some fun with the bitch,” he says. “We can put her up in the kennel when we’re done with them both.”

You hear the rustling of a belt as the man above you flicks open his fly, laughing all the while.

You're still blinking hard to clear the fog when you hear a growl rumble in your husband’s chest, the faraway noise of a fist meeting flesh, the scuffle of feet across your freshly-washed floors, the first gunshot.

Your cheek meets cool hardwood as you succumb, the shape of your Joel’s rage etched into your eyelids.

There’s a painting on the wall depicting two bodies in orgasm. Curved spines, feverish hands, dimples where fingers meet flesh. There is a hole in the canvas where the woman’s heart should be. A splatter of blood taints the image where the man drags his open palm down her back.

His face is obscured, but his mouth is on her throat, exposing the cut of his jaw. The scruff of his beard. Careful strokes of oil paint join their bodies in harmony. It’s knocked askew on the wall.

He’s rusty.

He can feel it in the taut pull of his shoulder as he brings his arm back for the death blow. The blade comes up against the rough skin beneath the man’s chin, slicing him open just beneath the scruff of his beard. Blood bruises the hardwood floors, and although the man is already dead, Joel grasps him by the hair at the crown of his head and brings him down against the wall.

His shoulder aches. His finger joints crackle. His knuckles are already bruised, his abdomen sore. He spits out pinkish saliva and turns his attention to his next job.

His gun now back in his hand and its thief dead, Joel puts a bullet between the eyes of the third man, and another in his chest. The baseball bat clatters to the floor.

He thinks of the first time he wanted to kill for you and couldn’t.

A man at the bar had groped you while you were out with friends. A little tipsy, you told Joel as he tucked you gently into the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a pretty black dress, and fell promptly asleep. He remembers the cool flutter of your hair from the air vent. He remembers the way your lashes spread like spider legs on your cheeks at every red light, the way the street lamps turned you golden.

He remembers the man’s name. His face. His address. Some of the little wrinkles in his brain still hold echoes of information he'll never need again. But he keeps it tucked up there anyway. Maybe it reminds him of what he could never do, now that he had you.

It seems the rules have been bent.

Glass crunches underfoot behind him. Joel turns just in time to see the retreating figure, the fucking coward, sprinting for the door. He fires a shot that chips a piece of drywall and goes nowhere significant. Cursing himself, Joel hears the roar of his Mustang come to life as the kid leaves with his fucking car.

Everything has a price, he'd said, blowing smoke in your face. Including your bitch.

Joel curls his hand around the hilt of the knife. Blood begins to crust along the edge. Some of the blood, he realises, has been stolen from your sacred body. There is a cut on your cheek.

And does your bitch have a price? Joel had replied, glancing behind the kid at the lackey he'd brought along. He seems to like you.

You teeter on your way to standing, and Joel rushes to catch you before you can hit the floor. He flicks on the safety and sets his gun aside, cupping your face in his bloodied hands.

Your eyes, blurred with tears, struggle to meet his. They're fixed to the man in a heap over Joel’s shoulder—the man who'd cut you.

“Baby,” he says.

Trancelike, you shake your head.

“Baby, I gotta see you're still with me. Don't look at him; he ain't important right now. You’re important. Hear me?”

His voice is gentle, guiding, his thumbs hooked just behind your ears, hard eyes flickering between each of yours.

“You killed them.”

“Yeah,” says Joel as the pad of his thumb traces the soft skin beneath the cut on your cheek. Your fingers curl around his wrists as if you’re trying to strangle him, temper him.

“You’re hurt.” Your soft cry inverts his ribs, sits heavy and wrong in his chest. When your glassy eyes slide to meet his at last, Joel remembers the second time he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t.

A man from your past had visited your apartment and told you he wanted to try again. You'd politely escorted him out and laughed it off. Terrible in bed, you’d joked.

Joel remembers kneeling in the cathedral, surrounded by the lick of a thousand votives coaxing sweat from his glands, as he tried and tried to find faith and only felt the agonising scrape of the floor against his kneecaps.

He remembers the first time devotion meant something to him. In the name of your second gallery showing. Paintings lined the walls depicting couples in embrace. “Which one is us?” he asked.

“I don't sell those,” you’d replied.

“Why not?”

“Because you're only for me,” you told him. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

He’d ached to hear it. Even leaned in, a co-conspirator.

“There isn't any devotion in these paintings. They're all hired models.”

“Then why bother at all?” he'd asked. “Why call it that?”

“Because I like showing people that there’s love in the world. And because devotion means something to me now.” You’d looked up at him and tucked your hand in his and he knew what all those nights spent kneeling meant.

Faith, he thinks now, glaring at the shallow cut on your cheek, is knowing your purpose.

The wound is his purpose.

“I’m not hurt, baby girl. We need to pack a bag, okay? I have somewhere for us to stay.”

“Are they—are they coming back?” you ask, your bottom lip wobbling.

Joel swallows bile and a bit of blood. “No. No, they won't be comin’ back. But we need a safe place while I take care of things.”

“Take care of things.”

Your echo is ominous in his ears, and when your eyes leave him again to watch the way the blood trickles into the grooves between the floorboards, Joel knows what you will say next.

“Who are you?”

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #john wick au #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fic

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johnwickb1tsch · 5 months

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John Wick x You │Tarasov's Daughter

You are the eldest daughter of Viggo Tarasov. You’re smart enough to take over the family business, but you’ve always been overlooked because you’re a girl (their loss). But John Wick sees you. In fact he saw a lot of you, once, when he’d been your bodyguard for a brief time during a turf war back in the day. You’re not sure who seduced who really, but you’ve never forgotten the feeling of his big hands digging into your hips or his teeth in your shoulder while he fucked you against the marble top of your bathroom sink, watching you go to pieces for him in the mirror. Maybe he was even your first! You seethed with jealousy when you heard he left the Underworld to get married to a nice normal American lady and settle down in domestic bliss. You were actually allowed to DO that? No one in this life ever really got out. You can’t help but think that you could have made him just as happy as some boring middle-aged photographer. Helen. What a stupid name. So when the shit hits the fan after your dumbass brother Iosef disrespects John Wick (and kills his dog, what the actual fuck?) you wonder if John will come after you.

Pick your poison: Canon!John Wick │ Dark!John Wick │ Yandere!John Wick

18+, all the warnings, dead dove do not eat! Predator kink, size kink, kidnapping, dub-con, brat taming, dark!john, mean!John, yandere!John , jesus fucking crist tumblr u have broken me…🙃

Canon!John Wick

John doesn’t hurt women unless they are really REALLY giving him no choice (Looking at you, Perkins!). But you are the means to his end, so he doesn’t hesitate to take you for bait for Iosef and your father’s men. He is raw and back in full predator mode after taking a hiatus for five years. Of COURSE you piss him off, and when you try to escape he snaps. He still calls you moya milaya printcessa (my sweet princess)tho while he fucks you against the wall with his hand on your throat. When the idiots your father employs do finally come for you John kills them all, and your brother, and your uncle after taking back his car. He lets you go, and a part of you forever wishes that he’d kept you…

Dark!John Wick

You were always such a fucking brat back when he had to watch over you, and finally he can get his revenge. When you mouth off he undoes his tie and uses it to gag you, something he’s always wanted to do, and as you watch him whip off his belt with such calculated flourish you are practically sliding off your chair. He bends you over his knee, the way someone should have a long time ago, and he taunts you when he finds you’re soaking with slick in between whipping you. Is it just you, or is he not hitting you half as hard as he could tho? You don’t know and you don’t care, you’re 98 percent sure you’re not getting out of this alive, so you at least want to die having had his magnificent manhood inside you one last time. You are delirious by the time he soothes the welts on your ass with the light touch of his fingers. “Are you going to be my good little girl now?” he demands as he tosses you on the bed like you’re just a ragdoll. Like he wants to hear your reply, he removes his tie from your mouth.

“If you fill me up with that big beautiful cock of yours.”

He laughs at you, and you get the feeling he’s delighted by your sass, even in this cruel mood. “You don’t get to make the demands anymore, milaya.” He slaps your thighs apart and goes down on you, licking you relentlessly, bringing you to the edge again and again but never letting you cum.

“Please, please, please,” you beg and tears stream down your face as finally you watch him undo his pants. He has utterly broken you.

“You always were such fucking whiner,” he hisses, pulling your hair hard as he plunges himself inside your swollen cunt. You hate him for how good it feels as he fills every last inch and corner of you, and if you ever get your hands free you’re so going to make him pay for this.

Yandere!John Wick

John always carried a torch for you, but you were so off limits. The boss’s daughter. A sure death sentence, but it almost would have been worth it. He’d thought about you constantly for a good long while, your beauty and your body was burned into his brain, but then he met Helen, and that fire smoldered to red hot coals he kept in the back room of his twisted black heart. But when Iosef starts shit there is absolutely nothing to stop him from taking what he’s always wanted. He’ll make you his perfect little pet, one last bit of revenge against the Tarasovs for disrespecting him after all he’d done for them.

When you see him materialize from the shadows in the mirror behind you, you try to go for the gun you keep in the top drawer of your vanity. You’re half certain he’ll kill you for it, but you’re y/n Viggovna Fucking Tarasov, and you will not fucking beg like your little bitch of a brother undoubtedly did. You’re not surprised when he manages to disarm you in the blink of an eye. You wait for the blade in your throat or the gunshot in your gut but he just holds you in those inexorably strong arms, looking down at you with those burning dark eyes. He’s so tall, he’s so much bigger than you and that always turned you on.

“You’re mine now, printcessa.”

You know you’ve always been his but you hate being helpless. He kisses you hard, unforgivingly, possessively, and you try to bite him but he knocks you out with a headbutt. Ouch!

You wake up in a luxuriously appointed room that you just know in your gut is now your new prison. Wick is no fool. There are digital locks on the doors. There are windows that you know will be unbreakable. Your hands are bound above your head, and though you try to worm free it’s impossible. After a while John enters, straddling you on the bed. Even though your legs are free his weight pins you down, you are trapped, and you’re embarrassingly certain he can feel the heat that’s pooling between your legs for it. His face is covered in cuts, his knuckles are torn. He’s been through Hell, but he came out the other side, the way you begrudgingly knew he would. “Your family’s dead,” he tells you. “No one’s coming for you.” He doesn’t really seem to take any joy in it, his handsome face stoic as stone. “You belong to me now, and I hope your father rolls over in his grave every time I defile you.”

You try not to enjoy it while he rails you into the soft mattress, or when he touches you while he does it, his long fingers so exacting. He is a master of manipulating the human body, for pain or for pleasure. You think he makes you cum out of ownership over anything remotely tender, but he makes you see God so often it almost feels like he cares about you. He becomes your dark deity, the altar you worship on, even if just in the deepest depths of your heart. You still have some pride.

You still try to fight and still try to run, even though he punishes you every time. Maybe you’re made bold by the fact that he hasn’t killed you, where he killed everyone else. They were kind of assholes though. John kept you, after all, and you can’t fault his taste. You think he secretly loves the chase, maybe even admires you for fighting him when there really is no hope. He loves reminding you who is in charge though too, and on nights when he’s in a particular mood you know you won’t be able to sit without feeling it for a week.

#john wick #john wick x you #john wick x reader #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #john wick fic #john wick x you fic #keanu reeves #yandere john wick #dark!john wick #john wick imagine #john wick imagines

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undercoverpena · 1 year

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it's you. it's me.

simon ghost riley x f!reader (reader!helen) wordcount: 5.3k (i have zero self-control) summary: he never wanted to get married. he’s not sure when you became the exception. an: mention of loss, blood. smut. emotions. angst. fluff (usual jo-shit)

simon ghost riley masterlist

He never wanted to get married. Marriage meant paperwork. Paperwork meant leads. Leads led to death. Not just for him, but for the poor soul he’d chain to him. The one who he’d rather not have than know their life was ended because of him. Because he’s supposed to be dead. He’s not sure when you became the exception. Unsure when you buried yourself so deep into his veins he needs you more than blood, oxygen and bullets.

Shit hit the fan.

Some missions were worse than others. Some leave more than scars and nightmares.

Today was bad. Even he knew that.

Alpha 0-3 lay on the floor, unconscious proof of it.

Half the soldiers they’d gone with—dead, KIA.

His jaw is tight, almost cracking as he stares at Johnny—unsure how they’ve walked away from it. How they’re both here, surrounded by silence as the few who have survived try to process.

He almost says something, spits it out. But then he hears it—your orders.

They’re piercing and direct. Coming over the radio as the blades overhead slow, guiding them down to the ground. He feels it—the itch to get to you. To bury his hands in your hair and pull your face to him.

Ghost makes do with meeting your eyes when the rear opens, your eyes scanning him, the briefest mist of relief over your lips, cheeks and eyes before you nod.

“Later?” Later.

He responds in the same silence, puncturing it with a nod.

The two of you had your own spoken language—something he’d mastered quicker than he had any other language. But then, speaking Helen had more pros than cons. More benefits than listening to enemies talk shit about him and his mask.

All he could do was watch as you followed the carried body.

Unsure what version of you he’d find later—what fragments of you he’d have to scoop up. If there would even be pieces left where they were supposed to be.

Secretly, and selfishly, he just hopes the pieces of him match with the pieces of you. Praying they slot together until the two of you can both return to some semblance of a whole.

It’s then he has to remind himself it’s a luxury having you. War takes so much—the darkness takes so much more.

It’s a reward to pull you close to him after a shit show like this; it’ll be a gift to feel your breath on his chest. Even more so for your fingers to draw those bloody shapes on his side—dancing over healed scars and your needle stitching.

“C’mon, Johnny,” he snaps, filling the air with something other than failings, disappointment and held breath. “Briefing. Now.”

You crumble.

Lost it. Lost them.

Losing is part of the war, part of the battle. But, it doesn’t sting any less, doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

Call it. But— I said call it.

Your gloved hands clenching and unclenching. Desperately clinging, digging your toes into your boots as you try to not unravel. You could do it alone. When they’d left. When the room was emptied and there was only you and your failure on the table.

They moved to leave. Quickly. Announcing they’d check the others—the ones who had wounds but still had air in their lungs. Your eyes blinking, the machines turning off, their boots squeaking before the door to the theatre squeals.

That’s when you look at their backs, firing a quick, but soft thank you. Something those above you didn’t do when you were in their position—when you were them, head hung down, feeling the weight of another loss.

Both of them meet your eyes, and you reward them with a smile, one which tells them it’s not on them—a smile which says you can’t win them all. Something you don’t believe, have never believed but can understand why it’s a comfort.

They nod, and they leave.

Not knowing you’re ticking, that you’re a bomb. Emotions bubbling, fizzing and hissing. Time ticks as you wait. For what you’re unsure.

Silence? The moment to snap?

It would have needed a miracle. The damage was extensive—you knew that, you’d already calculated it before you’d begun. A life, was a life. A person had people.

You stare at the corpse—the one which had a beating heart minutes ago, the one which had the slimmest chance, but a chance all the same.

You could feel it crushing you. The weight of loss. The failure pecking at your bones—good soldiers lost. Gone.

Because your fucking hands weren’t quick enough.

You’re not in your office.

Not in the infirmary or the utility cupboard you often hide in.

The one he’s somehow crammed himself into when you’ve needed a minute—hands grasping at his belt buckle.

He’d counted the bodies hooked up to machines.

Realised quickly, but not quickly enough. The soles of his feet hammer down, and it dawns on him how shit shit was.

He’d felt the thrum in his chest earlier. The knot of something undoing—his gut telling, screaming and kicking that something was wrong. Now he knows what.

Because he knows you. It’s why he cuts down corridors and passes soldiers who almost flatten themselves to the wall as he passes.

Doing so until he finds you, and finds you he does.

If someone told him he grasped his chest at the sight of you, he’d have crushed their windpipe with his palm. But, as he stepped through his open door, spotting you pressed into the corner of his room, he unclenches his hand from his jacket.

You’ve been broken. A shattered raft out at sea, lost and delirious in grief.

But this is worse.

His foot closes the door, waiting for a reaction—finding none. Nothing. Not an arch of your brow, not a snort.

Your knees remain bent, elbows hanging over them. There’s a distant, empty look in your eyes. Both of them almost glazed over, like the light in them has been snuffed out.

Exactly how Johnny had described them to him when he’d come looking for him, having passed you…

But, it’s that plus the fact your bloody apron is still on, your blue gloves crumbled before you—boots removed, white sock-covered feet flat on his floor.

The only way he can even tell you’re alive and awake is from the slow rise and fall of your chest—the occasional blink here and there.

He knows how often you’ve taken care of him. You’ve stitched him. Stapled him.

You’ve listened and you’ve sat as he had shouted.

Most of all, you have looked for him—found him. You’ve saved him from falling into a hole. Even going as far as to find him behind the mess, cold ebbing at him as your fingers snake under his mask—not to remove it, but to touch the back of his neck.

I’ve got you. Ghost, I have you. Simon. Simon, I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.

Your eyes staring into his, saying those words over and over until he can blink a little easier—he can move your hand under the mask to his lips so he can kiss them.

And he knows it’s his turn now.

He crouches, sliding a glove from his hand, brushing his finger over your cheek, watching your eyes flicker—registering him, acknowledging.

“Helen.”

Your lips twitch.

The name usually does that. The one he uses more than your own. At this point, he’s unsure if you truly hate it or just hate that you love it. He prefers it, personally. Not because he dislikes your name, but because he’s the only one who calls you this. The only one who gets that glint in your eye, that twitch of your lips.

His fingers trace down your cheek, running to clutch your chin. You’re cold, so impossibly cold, watching your teeth nip at your lip, watching for the tremble, the quiver he knows is due to come. Not taking his eyes from you as they stare back at him, all sunken and sad, but still somehow more beautiful than any fucking sunrise he’s ever seen.

He whispers your name—your real name, stroking the skin under your chin as he feels you swallow against his little finger.

“Y’know why Price likes you?”

He wraps his other hand around your arm, feeling you move with him—allowing him to lift you to your feet. Your plastic apron is crinkling, feet shuffling until he can lift you with ease.

“Cause I’m cheap for saying I’m good with a scalpel and a PC?”

Ghost shakes his head, wanting to chastise you—but he assumes you’re doing that enough to yourself for the two of them.

Instead, he forces his fingers to lift your chin. “Because you give a shit, Helen.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

Your hands gently clutching his mask-covered cheeks, staring into his eyes as you silently stare. Not saying anything with your lips, but plenty with your eyes.

“What do you want, hmm?”

You. I want you.

His hands take your wrists, holding you, not letting go.

“I don’t want to think. Just… make me forget, help me not give a shit, Simon.”

And he knows what you need, what you’re too afraid to ask for. Fuck me like a whore, Ghost. Fuck me until I'm whimpering and begging cause I can't take anymore.

You have said those words once. Albeit drunk, confidence propped up with vodka and fruit juice. But, if you had that same confidence now, he imagines it’s what you’d ask for. And who is he to say no? How could he?

You’ve looked up at him from your place between his thighs, knees on stone and dirt as your hand wrapped around the base of him. Let your tongue swirl over his tip, tasting him, hollowing your cheek, sucking, teeth grazing down his shaft when he needed it the most. When he needed something so similar.

Some drink to forget the bad days.

The two of you fuck until your raw, till you’re both full of something other than regret and sadness.

He’s aware he shouldn’t, not this time.

Ghost should hold your cheeks, stare into those pretty eyes he’d happily burn the world for, and take you for a shower, washing the day from your skin and bones. Because you’re crumbling, the parts of your confidence withering—hoping and needing to feel good, to be good.

And he can prove that to you without fucking you senseless. He can name an infinite amount of fucking things that prove you’re good, that you’re kind, and that you can do what you can do.

Because you’re you.

You've wormed your way inside of him, flooded the darkest parts of him with light and made a slither of him think he deserved you.

Your hand presses to his chest, cold and timidly. All of sudden so aware of how delicate and thin your fingers are, how small and delicate it is next to his scarred, worn skin.

“Please, Simon.”

And he hooks his fingers into the elastic of your scrubs at the whisper of his name—feeling you hold his shoulders as you kick them into some distant corner.

You silently thank him when he rips the disposable apron, balling it before tossing it. Letting your fingers, those soft, slightly calloused, healing fingers slide under his top—run over his skin, over the places you’ve stitched.

He doesn’t move, even if he wants to. Letting you brush over the hair on his stomach, run your nails over the lines of his muscles. Letting you read him as if his scars are Braille, allowing yourself the reminder of the times you’ve saved and healed.

And then he pulls your chin up.

“‘You sure you want this?”

Ghost is rarely gentle, but Simon sometimes is.

The man you have in front of you is some hybrid of the two—masked up, but with the eyes of Simon. All blue, like the ocean, willing to drag you down.

Sometimes they’re like the water you’d expect to be licking a sandy beach, and sometimes they’re so dark you’d fear what breathed under the watery depths.

Sometimes, it’s hard to breathe when he looks at you. When his eyes—all swirls of blue surrounded by charcoal black—curl into you. He’s big, broad and tall, and so much more than you could have ever known you’d have.

He makes heat pool between your legs with one look, and makes you feel safe by just being close. Even if he doesn’t see it—doesn’t fathom it at all—you’d throw away all your values and beliefs of saving people, and rip them apart with your hands to get to him.

You feel his thumb flutter over your scar, the one on your hip from a bullet meant for him. He hates it, and yet always strokes it. A memory forever embedded into your skin he can’t help but press play on, even if he knows how it ends.

You shouldn’ have done that, Helen. I’d do it again. Stupid, woman. You’re a fuckin’ idiot. Only for you, Ghost. Only for you.

Your hands move to his belt, undoing it—the clang of metal piercing the air.

“Helen?”

You look at him, meet him in those beautiful blue eyes. Don’t ask me to talk, Simon. Your lungs are tightening, aching, as if each emotion you’re holding in is made from molten ash.

You crack his belt like a whip with the speed of releasing it from his hooks, eyes holding his more firmly, blinking away the weakness—the emotions, the fucking audacity of the day.

“Be my reason,” you say.

To breathe. To keep fighting. To get up.

For his sins, he’s gentle.

Both in the way he lays your naked frame on his bed and the way he runs his fingers over the inside of your thigh.

He wants to devour you, plunge his tongue into your cunt and taste everything you’ll give him. He almost does—instead he breathes over you, watching your hips try to wiggle, his other hand holding you in place.

He lifts his head, watching, earning the sights he’s about to behold as he eases two fingers inside of you. You’re wet, warm—but it’s the way your lips fall that makes his hip roll against his mattress.

With each movement, he watches for your reaction. Like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and you are.

You whimper. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter, and your mouth falls open. And it’s all for him.

With each rise of your chest, breath hitches, and he runs his mask down your abdomen. Feeling how slick you are against his fingers, how you whimper, both pleading and breathless. Even through the mask, he can smell your arousal, how you want him to take you apart—practically taste it all in the air.

He curls his fingers, watching as your hand grasps his forearm. More, Simon. More. Your other knotting his sheets in between your fingers, a root, something to grip until space, time and life crashes into you and makes your throat sore as you moan his name around his room.

He wants it too. He wants to earn his name, coax it from your beautiful pink, swollen lips and wear it with pride.

But, Ghost also wants something else.

Normally, he’d give you everything you want, and more. From the feral look in your eye, you want to be turned away from him, for him to be rough—and normally, fuck he’d want that too.

He’d want to split you apart, know that you’ll be thinking—feeling—him for the next fucking three days.

He admittedly also likes the sight.

Something about getting to see your arse while holding your tits, and having the ability to suck red and purple welts on your neck. The best, though, is when you try to wiggle to see him—catch sight of him. Your eyes pressed into the corner of your sockets, hands gripping nothing as he takes you apart with his cock.

Ghost likes fucking you like that—likes fucking you when you have nowhere to go. Pinning you. Locking you in place.

Not that you ever want to go, he knows you don’t.

You’re so fucking big, Simon.

You clench around him like you never want him to stop filling you. A vice on him that he never wants to rid of either.

Because Helen likes to be pinned, to be smothered by his body. You like him looming over you, dwarfing you; like him lifting you and fucking you against walls, doors and even fucking windows.

He suspects it’s because you like to surrender control, like for it to be taken from her. So used to being in control, needing to be, and people depending on it. to be taken away from her.

Your thighs quiver, soft protests as he slides another finger inside of you. Stretching you.

“Fuck… Simon, fuck.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.”

He doesn’t lessen, listening to each whimper and moan, lifting his mask so he can kiss your skin—teeth grazing as he curls his fingers, thumb swiping over your swollen clit as your hips try to cant against his hand.

The sensation of your fingers in his hair, makes him groan as he captures your lips. All teeth, tongue and messy, both pushing your legs wider and pulling your hips to him all in one movement.

Needy. Desperate. Hungry.

And then you're clenching, hips tensing before a hand grips his mask—and then you come, hips spasming, thighs shaking.

Often, you let him leave the mask on—partly.

You like to kiss him, like to bury your moans against his mouth. You’ve seen him, know him. You know the shape of his cheekbones and the silver scars.

“Your eyes are enough for me. Never take them from me.” “Never.”

He's being a tease.

Sliding inch by inch of himself into you. His tongue in your mouth, your focus on the fiery stretch he provides as he buried himself to the hilt.

He rears his hips back until he fills you all over again, faster, sharper, more purposeful. And it’s sinful. It’s fucking bliss and a high you don’t even deserve. Not as you begin to meet his thrusts with a squeeze, a clench. Hearing his hiss, watching him place his mask-covered forehead against yours.

Because he’s deep. So fucking deep.

Sheathed inside of you at an angle you’ve not known before. Almost unsure what your body has had to adjust to accommodate him. Not that you care, you never fucking care.

You want him to claim you, mould himself inside of you. Because the sting passes, the size of him is something you never prepare for. Your nails are in the back of his hair, your lips almost meeting him as he ruts into you. Your eyes gazing down, watching where the two of you meet, and you’re not sure you’ll ever tire of it—of him.

You imagine each muscle of his, tightening and flexing—especially as he rocks into you at alternating speeds, your eyelashes fluttering, feeling beads of sweat build at your brow.

He’s everything.

He’s fucking fire and ice, both dusk and dawn and everything in between. Your eyes blink open, seeing his own truth—seeing it as he grunts and his hand tightens on your hip as he seats himself deeply into you.

The words are like licks of fire up your spine, mixing and blending with searing pleasure.

I love you. I love you.

You know.

Fuck you know.

Your lips crash and swallow the words he hasn’t yet said. Feeling him shake, as your toes curl, red-hot pleasure desperate to smother every inch of you and spread along every single nerve.

His hips losing their rhythm, hammering the head of his cock against that spot which makes the sound of him filling you so damn deplorable.

You whine for him.

Biting down on his lip as it slams into you, snapping you, tears spilling down your eyes as his name storms past your lips as he holds you in place.

Fucking you through it.

Holding you, pinning you—until he fills you, his hips shuddering, fingers bruising until they slowly unclench from your hip.

If someone cracked his head open, they’d see that one of his favourite things is holding you.

He won’t admit it.

Not even under the worst of tortures.

But it is. It’s simple. Homely. Something he knows he doesn’t fucking deserve, and yet, has all the same.

“You wanna talk?”

“No.”

You’re quick. The short, sharp no filling the small space between his face and yours. Mask gone, the lamp on his desk smothering the room in soft light.

But he knows you do want to talk. So he gives it a minute.

He lets his fingers draw shapes on your ribs, waiting, letting you settle against him, hearing your mind begin to turn and churn.

And then you talk, as he suspects you will.

Because he knows it’s what you need. Even if you beg him to fuck you into his mattress, even if you tell him to fuck off, you need to talk. The thoughts building otherwise, stealing your confidence, your belief, your fucking hope.

He needs silence, and sometimes needs to be alone. Sometimes, he needs both.

You need to be touched, to be rooted, and to talk it out. Let the thoughts run from your tongue and meet the air—even if you repeat yourself, even if the same thought comes up time and time again. He will just listen.

You’re rambling, talking about the clinical-ness before you move into how there was nothing you could do. So much blood. Too many bullets. You’re good. Not that good. You lost one, and then the other.

On another day it can be more, your hands not good enough today, but will they be tomorrow?

“Simon…”

He doesn’t breathe. Feeling, watching your eyes lift up from your place on his chest, scorching into his. “…They didn’t have a person, Simon. Not one. No Ghost. No Helen. Not this… Not that we’re each other's person. Not like how I mean.”

“How do y’mean?”

Your eyes tilt down, and he wonders if you can hear his pulse.

“I have no one to alert that they’re dead. Not a wife. Not a husband. No children. A parent, yes. But… not a person. They died without…”

You lift up, his fingers falling to your chin, feeling your lip quiver. Tears in your eyes, making them shimmer—a single tear hanging from your lash, dangling, waiting to drop.

“It’ll be the same when I die… no one to legally inform. No one to...”

Then it drops. The tear.

Falling and cascading down your cheek before it lands on his chest. It bleeds out, mixing with the dried sweat and forgotten kisses you’d left before.

And then, like all downpours, more follow suit. Dancing down your skin, too many for him to catch even if he tries.

He’s ashamed it takes him a minute.

Wondering what the hell you even mean until he realises—no one knows. Not officially. Not even fucking unofficially. A secret, one which flickers inside of him and inside of you. Something shared in quick looks and private moments, but never where else.

You shake your head, lifting up from your position on his chest, wiping your cheeks as you try to put on a smile. “I’m… ignore me. Just being daft.”

You’re not.

But he doesn’t say that.

He says nothing, eyes falling to his vest in the corner before landing back on you, watching you shimmy and shift to the end of his bed.

“I should shower,” you mumble, hand brushing hair from your face as you stand.

His hand wants to lift, to take your wrist and pull you back to him—to kiss you, to tell you so many things. But his throat goes dry, silence filling the space his voice should be.

It’s odd, what the two of you have.

Far more than a situation, and way more than convenience.

It’s trouble, difficult—often the hardest thing you could have chosen to do, and you stitch wounded soldiers for a living.

But it makes sense.

He didn’t seduce you. Wasn’t the best out of a bad situation.

He was dry and dark humour and had beautiful fucking eyes that you’d suspected were meant to strike some fear in you, but you’d weathered worse storms than him. You’d first kissed him because you had to—a niggling feeling inside of you that had to know if his lips were soft or whether they just looked it. You’d kissed him again because he stopped you from thinking, from crumbling.

Simon made you feel like you were falling, happily.

His hand taps on your door, clicking your pen as you look up at him. He’s all casual, a sight to fucking behold. Dark grey joggers and a long-sleeve tee—and from the look in his eyes he’s on his way to training which only sparks more sinful thoughts in your hectic mind.

Initially, way back when, it had been about sex.

About providing to yourself you could take him, having felt him, having felt how heavy, thick and long he fucking was. Then, it wasn’t.

Now it’s something big—bigger than his cock. It’s feelings and need, it’s desperation and imissyous wrapped in something you’re not sure you can live without. Now it’s about everything else, it’s about the small things and the fact you can feel yourself wanting to smile just because he’s here.

“Lieutenant, what a surprise! How can I help you?”

You wonder how often he smiles behind the mask.

His reputation of being cold, difficult and sometimes an arsehole—depending on who you ask—is widely known. But you know a different person. One who washes your hair when you’re too tired to stand, one who brings you the milkiest tea on cold mornings, ‘Because you’re fuckin’ bitch without a tea in y’, Helen.”

It still surprises you when he holds it up. It shimmers, sparkles and gleams between a bare thumb and his index finger.

“For this situation, I think you should be callin’ me Simon.”

You narrow your eyes, even if your heart is already pounding. Panic. Dread. Your mind racing, unsure what you’ve done—half-worrying if you’d lost one, even if you never wear jewellery. Not here. Not on base. Suddenly questioning whether you’d drunkenly told Soap to buy you something again, a dare gone wrong.

You hum.

Hiding as best as you can that you’re lost, and confused.

“Are you going to call me by my name?”

“No.”

Snorting, you fold your arms. “Didn’t think so. You going to explain why you’re holding a ring?”

“I think you know.”

“Humour me.”

Because my brain is running away from me.

He’s not romantic in terms of red roses and sweeping you off your feet. He’s romantic in ways like tapping your arm twice, letting you know he’s missed you. Letting his eyes land on you across briefing rooms, nodding—you got this, Helen. You can do this.

Ghost is sweet in ways others don’t see. His hand on your lower back when he can tell you want to leave somewhere, a silent offering to walk you back; bringing you a thicker pair of socks when snow is landing on the sill of your office, knowing you hate being cold.

So, this… him standing holding a ring, could mean many things.

“C’mon, Helen.”

You pull a face, shrugging.

“Be my person.”

Your brows furrow, eyes frowning.

Your mind explodes with a sea of things, darting, trying to remember, thinking of that exact phrasing. It takes a second, and then…

His eyes have that shimmer, that fucking obnoxious twinkle. Likely having watched you come to the same realisation—letting you take your time, proudly standing in your smile and glittering eyes.

“You want me… to be your person, person?”

“Be the one they tell. Yeah.”

It would be easy to get ahead of yourself.

It could be a formality, something small. A gesture but not the actual question.

“I know you liked what I did with my tongue last night, but I didn’t know I was that good at giving head—“

“Helen.”

It comes out warningly.

It makes your lips clamp shut, looking down before meeting his gaze—his fiery, intense fucking stare.

“Look, I know I was upset, but you didn’t need to go steal a ring for me.”

“I didn’t steal it. I had it made.”

“What?”

He shrugs.

He fucking shrugs.

“When?”

It comes out high-pitched. The tone surprises you. So much so, you clear your throat. Repeating it, in a more normal and appropriate volume as you stand, gesturing to close the door behind him as you look at him.

“Does it matter?”

“I think it fucking does.”

“Last time I went home, home.”

You glare.

Wishing you could see his smirk, already imagining it there all the same.

Your fingers take it from him, looking over it as you admire it, feeling how warm it is. He’s been holding it, likely pressed into his palm on the walk over here. Your fingers turn it, feeling the ridges of it.

Mostly, you’re trying to recall when he went home.

The last time, you two had both been released home at the same time. Having half-joked that you’d combust without his cock, that he’d have to visit you, come ruin the countryside with you—only for him to offer to come with you. Come home. See your place—ensure you didn’t die from lack of being fucked senseless.

Your fingers won’t do shit, Helen. Not now, anyway. You’re a cocky shit, Riley. And you’re a whore for my cock.

His hands are buried in his jogger's pockets, questioningly staring at him as you hold it. This little thing, that means something big.

“It’s made from a bullet. One you took out of me.”

Your lips part.

“Not sure if you remember? You told me to keep it as a reminder of what good hands feel like.”

“I remember…” you lick your lips, unable to stifle the way your heart hammers into your ribs—pretty sure he can hear it, the entire base for that fact. “I also remember you showing me how good yours were.”

“Enough.”

You silently apologise, looking at it again before meeting his eyes. “You’ve really had this the whole time?”

“In my vest.”

He says it so plainly like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

As if your mouth shouldn’t be falling open in surprise again, that you shouldn’t be staring up at him in the way you are.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s you and me, Helen. Sometimes we’re the only thing that makes any fuckin’ sense.”

“You know what giving me this means, right?”

He nods—fucking formally at that.

“Ghost—“

“Simon.”

You smile, lips tight. “Simon. Does this mean what I think it means?”

“If you think it means that it needs to go on your finger on your left hand, then yes.”

He’s looking at you, pleadingly.

“I think you should ask.”

“I just fuckin’ did!”

You laugh, watching his large chest rise and fall in annoyance.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re a pain in my arse—“

You say your name.

Sharp, but sweet. Watching the parts of the mask around his nose flex in and out as he snarls and sighs.

“Simon… out there, I’m Helen, I know. But, here… holding this, I think you should say my name too,” you whisper, more fragile, quieter than he’s likely known you to be for a while.

And then he nods.

Taking the ring from your palm, sliding it over your fingernail, on that hand, on that finger—hovering it close to the knuckle.

And he asks—using your name. Will you be my person?

#simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost riley #ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost x reader smut #cod ghost x you #ghost x helen #simon x helen #ghost helen world

2K notes · View notes

esttillie · 8 months

Text

Gerry: *stimming*

Michael: ...

Gerry: *stopping* Oh, sorry. Heh, didn't even reali—

Michael: Marry me.

Gerry: What?

Michael: *already in a wedding dress and holding a bouquet*

Helen: *playing the Wedding March with a kazoo*

Gertrude: *holding a file of statments as a bible* Gerard Anthony Keay , Do you take Michael Shelley as your lawful spouse, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish until The Apocalypse (or I) do you part?

Gerry, somehow in a suit now: WAIT A FUCKING SECOND—

Eric,tearing up and saying in a really high-pitched voice: I'm so proud of you!

531 notes · View notes

arlana-likes-to-write · 5 months

Text

Christmas Star

!!There are spoilers in the warnings!!

Summary: On Christmas day, you had the realization you wanted to give your wife a gift that neither of you have talked about, a baby. In your eyes, Natasha was going to be a great mother and no matter what you had to go through you were going to give her, her Christmas gift.

Warning: birth, labor, contractions, miscarriage, c-section, blood lost, angst with fluff and a happy ending.

Word Count: 3.9k

You were standing on the porch of the Barton Homestead with a cup of coffee in your hands. It was lightly snowing as the Barton Kids and Kate and Yelena played in the yard. It was only 8 am, but you were exhausted. You and Natasha were up late with Clint and Laura to prepare for Christmas morning. Then Nathaniel woke up at 5 am. So, presents were unwrapped, breakfast was eaten, and the kids were dressed for the snow. It was a long day, but your heart was whole. You felt arms wrapped around your waist and leaned into her warmth. “I was looking for you, moya lyubov’.” She said, kissing your cheek. She played with the ring on your finger.

“Sorry, baby. I was watching them.” She hummed, burrowing her face in your neck. Her warm breath caused goosebumps to form on your skin. You and Natasha have been married for two years but together for 7. You weren’t an Avenger, a SHIELD agent, or a mutant. You were just an everyday citizen who happened to catch the eye of the Russian spy. You were a chief, and Tony Stark hired you and your team for a party. Right off the bat, Natasha started flirting with you, but you ignored her, focusing on doing a good job. Somehow, you woke up the following day with a text message from the Black Widow asking you out on a date. The rest was history. “Do you want kids?” You asked. Your wife’s arms tensed up. You spun around in her arms and ran your hands up and down her arms as a sign of comfort. “I know we haven’t talked about it.” The topic danced around as you knew Natasha couldn’t carry kids because of the Red Room. “But do you want them?” Natasha looked over her shoulder to watch the Barton kids. She sighed.

“Yeah, I’d love to be a mother.” She looked back at you. “But I can’t have them. We could adopt. I-”

“I can carry them.” You cut her off. She looked at you in disbelief. You grabbed her hands and rested them on your stomach.

“Are you serious about this?” She asked. You nodded.

“I haven’t been this serious about anything.” You chuckled. “Well, besides asking you to marry me.” Natasha had tears in her eyes.

“I’m pretty sure I asked you to marry me.” You shrugged, put your arms around her neck, and played with the baby hairs that didn’t fit into her ponytail. “We are going to be parents.” She said, pulling you into a hug and lifting you off the ground. You laughed, shaking your head. She was going to be a great mother.

You were pacing the bathroom while waiting for your phone timer to go off. Natasha was in a meeting, and you timed it so you would get the test result by the time she returned. It had been a few weeks from Christmas at the Bartons. With help from Helen, Bruce, and Tony, they combined Natasha’s DNA with a few of your eggs so your child would both be yours. You were extremely anxious. You wanted to give this to Natasha more than anything. The sound of your phone timer going off made you jump. With shaky hands, you picked up the test, and tears immediately ran down your cheeks as you looked at the tiny plus sign. “Baby, where are you?” You heard your wife ask. You whipped away the tears.

“Bathroom.” You turned around as the door opened.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Natasha asked, closing the distance between you and her. Before you could respond, she picked up the test. “Positive.” She said, looking at you. You nodded. The Russian dropped the pregnancy test and picked you up. You laughed as she spun you around. Your wife put you down, knelt so she was at eye level with your stomach, and lifted your shirt. She kissed your stomach softly. Her sweet gesture made you cry harder. She looked up at you with tears in her eyes. “We are going to have a baby.” She said. You nodded, cupping her face with your hands.

“You are going to be a mom.” She turned her head to kiss your palms.

“So are you.”

There was nothing that could prepare you for the weird pregnancy cravings. No amount of books you’ve read or researched online. Pregnancy cravings were wild. So you were in the Avenger’s kitchen making a dough of sugar cookies to drizzle chocolate and hot sauce over the top. It was….different.

As your alarm went off to signify the cookies were done, you put on the oven mitts and opened the oven. Pulling out the cookie tray, you gasped as a sharp pain ran through your stomach, and you dropped the tray. The metal clashing against the ground made you jump, causing another acute pain. “Mrs. Romanoff, it appears you are in a sign of distress. Should I alert the medical team?” The AI asked.

“Yes, FRIDAY,” you gritted out as your teeth clenched. “Tell Natasha.”

“As you wish.”

Natasha ran to the med bay as soon as FRIDAY alerted her of your medical emergency, leaving her meeting with Steve and Maria without another word. Part of her wish was that she could make portals like Strange so she didn’t have to wait for the elevator. As the metal doors opened and she walked into the med bay, Yelena awaited her. She wasn’t sure who alerted her sister, but she was grateful she was there. “Where is she?” Natasha asked her sister. Yelena held up her hands to stop her.

“Cho and Banner are with her.” She said.

“Is she okay? Yelena, I need to see her.” Panic spread through her at how quiet her sister was. You had to be okay. No matter what, Natasha could not lose you. The sound of a door open caused her to spin around, and she watched as Bruce walked out, closing it gently behind her. The Black Widow ran over to the scientist. “Bruce, is she okay?” Natasha couldn’t pinpoint the emotion on the doctor’s face.

“She’s okay, Nat.” he sighed. “But she had a miscarriage.” A miscarriage?

“Okay,” she simply said. “Can I see her?” She heard her sister’s footsteps walking up to her.

“She lost the baby,” Yelena said slowly. “You understand that, right?” She nodded. Of course, she knew what a miscarriage was. Before Laura was pregnant with Nate, she had a miscarriage. She called Natasha in a panic but tried to enforce that she didn’t need Clint. The Black Widow told Clint right away.

“I know,” she nodded again. “And it’s-” there weren’t words to describe everything she felt. “Yeah, but I need to see her, please.” Bruce smiled.

“Helen is with her,” he said. “She hasn’t said much since we told her the news.” Natasha wished they waited to tell them together. She buried the emotions that threatened to take her over and walked into the room Bruce existed from. As the scientist said, Helen sat beside you in the empty chair. She stood up as Natasha walked over to the bed and smiled sadly.

“Please let me know if you need anything.” The Black Widow couldn’t find anything as she moved next to you. You were curled underneath the covers with silent tears running down your cheeks.

“Hi, sweetheart,” You made no indication that you heard her. “Baby,” You silently reached for her hand and pulled her into the bed with you. Natasha moved behind you and wrapped her arms around you. You turned around to press your face in her shirt. Your body shook with sobs. “Sh, sweet girl. You’re okay.” You shook your head.

“I’m sorry.” The two-word phrase took a lot of work to hear.

“Why are you sorry?” She asked, kissing the top of your head.

“I lost our baby,” Natasha shook her head. She let you cry against her, but as your cries turned to quiet hiccups, she lifted your head.

“This is not your fault, my love. These things happen.” Your lips started to tremble. “I can’t imagine the pain you are going through, but this isn’t your fault, and I will remind you every single day.” You burrowed your head into her shoulder.

“I wanted to make you a mom.” You said. Natasha closed her eyes as she felt her tears. You were breaking her heart.

“I know, moya lyubov’,” she whispered, running her hand through your hair. “And we’ll try again when you are ready, or we can figure out another option, okay?” She felt you nod. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Natty.”

“Natasha!” You called out. You were standing in the master bathroom, looking in the full-length mirror.

“Are you alright?” Your wife asked, barging into the bathroom. You looked behind you.

“Oh, I’m fine.” Natasha huffed, placing a hand on her heart.

“You,” she took a minute to catch her breath. “You are going to give me a heart attack.” You giggled, holding out her hand. She took it, and you pulled her close, her front pressed against your back. “What’s going on?” Instead of answering, you placed her hands on your stomach. She looked confused, but her face morphed into awe. “Is that?” She whispered. You nodded. Getting pregnant took three more tries, but now you are carrying twin girls.

“They are little gymnasts.” Natasha laughed, looking down at your stomach.

“Be kind to your mother, little ones.” You turned around to kiss her.

“I love you so much.” You said against her lips.

“Not as much as I love you.” You heard the pounding of footsteps entering your shared bedroom.

“You better not be making me another niece or nephew.” It was your only warning before the bathroom door opened, and Yelena walked in. “At least wait till they are born before you start trying to have another.” You felt your body heat up from embarrassment, burying your head into Natasha’s neck.

“Suka (bitch),” Natasha said. Yelena laughed.

“The party is starting soon. We are just waiting for the guest of honor.” You rolled your eyes, stepped away from your wife, and grabbed your sister-in-law’s hand. When you placed her hand on your stomach, the blonde looked at you confused. "Whoa," she said when she felt the baby’s kick. “That is so weird.” You giggled.

“This is your tetya (aunt) Yelena.” Your Russian could have been better, but with so many people in your life who spoke the language, you figured you should learn it. The blonde had tears in her eyes, but she forced them away.

“I can not wait to get you all the loud toys and fill you with sugar.” You rolled your eyes with a kind smile. “Ya vsegda budu zashcishchat tebya (I will always protect you).” She smiled, whipping away a tear, and left. Natasha stood beside you with an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“What did she say?” You asked. She smiled, shaking her head.

“Nothing bad, I promise. Come on, let’s go to this baby shower.”

Christmas Eve

You couldn’t find the hat you wanted, which generally wouldn’t be a big deal, but at seven months pregnant, your emotions and hormones were all over the place. “Dorogoy, we are going to be late,” Natasha said.

“I can’t find my hat.” You pouted. Natasha was an angel throughout this entire pregnancy. She dealt with every pregnancy craving, morning sickness, and mood swing. You couldn’t have done it without her. She smiled at the pout on your face.

“And what hat is that?” She asked.

“The one Lila made me for my birthday. I wanted to wear it because she’ll be at the party.” You explained.

“I think she’ll understand. Come on, krasivyy (beautiful), we will be late.” You rolled your eyes. The party was at the compound, and since you lived on the property of the compound, it was a 5-minute drive. The house was a gift from Tony and Pepper when you announced you were pregnant. It was far enough from the compound to have a sense of privacy but close enough if Natasha had to be pulled away for Avenger duty.

“Can you go check my closet one more time for me?” You asked, putting on your best puppy dog eyes. Your wife huffed, rolling her own eyes.

“I will go look.” You smiled, standing up and kissing her.

“You are the best.” She kissed your forehead.

“Make sure you grab your coat, okay?” You nodded, walking to the front door as Natasha approached your shared bedroom. You opened the coat closet and grabbed your winter jacket. You heard a pop and felt pressure in your pelvic area. The black leggings you wore felt wet as if you went to the bathroom. You gasped, placing your hands on your stomach.

“I found it,” Natasha said, rounding the corner. You looked at your wife as she had the crochet hat in her hand.

“My water just broke.” You said. She stared at you blankly. You’ve never seen her so speechless. You groaned at the first contraction. “Natalia!” Her name snapped her out of her trance. She dropped your hat and grabbed your pregnancy bag in the same closet. You held onto her hand. “It’s too soon.” You said, squeezing her hand. “I can’t go into labor. I can’t.”

“Sh, dorogoy. We are going to call Helen on the way.” You nodded as Natasha helped you exit the house and into the car.

Natasha kept herself calm. She needed to because she knew if she freaked out, you would freak out. FRIDAY alerted the doctor and was already at the compound due to the Christmas party. You held onto her hand tightly each time a concentration passed. “Are you okay?” She cringed at the question. “Forget I asked that. That was stupid.” Of course, you weren’t doing okay. You chuckled, wincing as another contraction came through.

“It’s fine,” you said and rubbed your swollen belly. “You know I love you, right? Because I’m not sure I want to go through this again.” Natasha laughed, squeezing your hand.

“One way to kick off the holiday season.”

Helen opened up the passenger door and helped you into the wheelchair. “Well, isn’t this a Christmas surprise,” the doctor smiled and put a blanket over your lap. “They sure know how to make an entrance.” She began to push you towards the door to the med bay.

“They get that from you,” you said to Natasha over your shoulder. The Black Widow shook her head. You saw the worried edge on her forehead. She hated any time you were in pain or sick. The doors opened as Helen and Yelena, Wanda, and Laura got closer. The blonde Black Widow smirked.

“You know I was looking forward to getting drunk off of Stark’s expensive liquor,” you smiled, winching as another painful concentration passed through. The smile on your sister-in-law’s face fell.

“There may still be time for that,” Laura said. “Just because she’s having concentrations doesn’t mean the babies are ready,” the small group followed Helen to a room. “It may be a while.” The mother of three hugged you. Oh, you hoped it wouldn’t take forever.

“We’ll be waiting outside,” Wanda hugged you. Yelena placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m excited to get my drinking partner back.” You smiled.

“Alright,” Helen said. “Let’s get you all set up.”

“And on some pain medication.”

“You’re doing great, detka,” Natasha said, rubbing a spot on your lower back that was killing you. “Just keep breathing.” You groaned, hands grabbing the blankets that covered you on the hospital bed.

“Natasha, darling,” you said. “If you tell me to breathe one more time, I’m gonna punch you.” The hand on your back stuttered but never stopped its movement. Yelena laughed, shaking her head at your comment. She never stopped playing a game on her phone that Cooper and Kate got her addicted to.

“Your wife is funny,” she chuckled. The door opened, and Helen walked in, followed by a nurse. Her name was Heather, you liked her.

“Alright,” Helen put on a pair of gloves. “Let’s see how we are doing.” You heard Yelena stand up.

“That is my cue to exist,” she said. “I hope Wanda brought back some good food.” She left the room. Natasha chuckled, kissing the top of your head. Heather walked over to check your vitals with a clipboard in hand. You needed to figure out what Helen was saying. Your head began to feel light and fuzzy. The sound in the room turned to white noise, like in a Charlie Brown episode when the adults would speak. Your head fell against Natasha.

“Dr. Cho, the heart rate of mom and the babies are dropping,” Heather said. You felt Natasha tense up.

“What-?” Helen moved next to you and rested your head on the pillow, then shone a light into your eyes.

“Heather, prepare the team. We need to do an emergency c-section. Take Natasha out of the room.” What? No. You wanted her to say. Please don’t take her away.

Natasha felt the nurse grab her arm, but she shrugged her off. “Helen, what is happening?” The doctor looked at her.

“Nat, I need you to leave to save your wife.” Save her wife? Save her wife? What was happening?

“The-the babies,” you stuttered, your eyes couldn’t focus. Natasha leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

“Don’t leave me, dorogoy,” she whispered, leaving with Heather. The door closed in front of her.

“Nat,” she heard her name but couldn’t pull her eyes away from the door. “What happened?”

“Her uh and the uh twins heart rate started to drop,” Natasha explained. “She needs an emergency c-section.”

“Jesus,” Yelena mumbled.

“Hey,” Laura grabbed her hand and led her to a chair. Her legs collapsed immediately, and she fell into the chair. “C-sections are pretty common these days, especially with twins.” Wanda sat down next to her in the empty chair.

“She’s in the best care,” the witch added. “Helen will take care of her.”

“I can’t lose her,” Natasha admitted. Yelena knelt in front of her sister.

“And you won’t. She is strong. She and the twins will come back to you.”

“Will you stop pacing?” Yelena snapped at Clint. Kate squeezed her hand to keep her calm. The older archer kept pacing, not bothered by the blonde’s threat. As soon as word got out regarding your condition, the party was called off, and the hallway was filled with the rest of the team. Some came and went, but Natasha paid little attention to any of them. Her green eyes trained on the tile floor as she played with her wedding ring.

There was too much time passing. Does this surgery usually take this long? If there were a problem, they would have notified her. Right? Natasha hated feeling this useless. She heard Yelena stand next to her, and the blonde gave her a lap on the back of her head to get her attention. Looking up, she saw Helen.

“Congratulations, Natasha,” the doctor smiled. “You have two beautiful baby girls.” Everyone let out a sigh of relief, but Natasha waited. She was happy they were healthy but needed to know about you. “Your wife lost a lot of blood, but she’ll pull through,” Helen answered the Black Widow’s unanswered question. “We’ve sedated her to help her body recover, but once they wear off, she will wake up.” Natasha sighed; a weight that rested on her chest was gone.

“Can I see them?” Natasha asked. Helen nodded. The Black Widow stood up and silently asked Yelena and Laura to join her. When she entered your room, she saw two bassinets with her daughters, but she made a beeline for you. You were so still and pale for her liking. The only reassurance she had was the beeping of the machines you were hooked up to. Gently, she ran her hand over the top of her hand.

“They’re so small,” Yelena whispered. “Are they supposed to be that small?” Laura hummed.

“It’s because they are premature,” Laura spoke softly. “They’ll get bigger over time. Nat,” The Black Widow looked away from you. “You should be the first one to hold them.”

“Me?” She slowly joined the duo and saw her daughters for the first time. They were a perfect blend of you and her. “I can’t. I don’t-”

“Yes, you can,” Yelena said. “You are their mama,” she’s held a baby before, and that wasn’t the problem. She imagined the first she kept her daughters; you would be healthy enough to witness it. Sighing, she carefully picked up the tiny baby with your hair color. She supported her head and held her close to her chest. Natasha let out a breathless laugh, tears forming at the corner of her eyes.

“You’re a natural,” Laura praised. Yelena leaned against Natasha’s arm to look at her niece.

“I can’t believe you made something this cute,” Natasha rolled her eyes.

“Thank you both,” she said. “Can you give me a minute alone?” They both told her to get them if she needed anything. When alone, she moved the bassinet over to you and sat in the empty chair. She sat in a comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the machines.

“Hi, little ones,” she softly spoke. “I’m your mama. Your mommy did such a great job protecting you, and now she’s resting,” she explained. “Now it’s my turn.”

Soft singing woke you up, but you kept your eyes closed. You knew it was your wife’s voice. It was rare you caught her singing. Sometimes, it was humming a simple tone or singing the words to a popular song on the radio you cherished each time you saw her. She would become flustered, cheeks as red as her hair. The song was in Russian. The fog that was over your brain was allowing a few words in. Slowly, you opened your eyes and turned your head towards the sound. Natasha was so invested in the tiny baby in her arms with hair that matched your own color that she didn’t notice you were awake. “Hi, my love,” you made your presence known. The singing stopped. “Are they okay?” Natasha stared at you, blinking a few times as if her brain wasn’t processing that you were awake.

“They are perfect,” Natasha said. “You are perfect.” You sat up, winching slightly. “Take it easy, data.”

“Can I hold her?” You asked, holding out your arms. Natasha stood up without hesitation and put your daughter in your arms. Once she was secure, Natasha picked up her sister and sat on the edge of your bed. “My girls,” you whispered, your vision blurring with tears. “My beautiful tears.”

“You scared me,” Natasha admitted and kissed the top of your head. “You gave me two healthy daughters, but it wouldn’t have mattered if you weren’t here to see it.” You leaned your head back and kissed her, savoring the feeling of her lips against yours.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized. “Has the team met them?” Your wife shook her head.

“Only Yelena and Laura,” she said. “I was waiting for you.” You smiled and looked at your daughters.

“You have so many people that love you already, little ones. They will protect you, spoil you, and hopefully babysit when your mama and I need a break,” Natasha chuckled. “Our little Christmas stars.”

“Merry Christmas, Elena, and Gabby Romanoff.”

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #black widow one shot #black widow fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x fem!reader

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i-am-trying-my-best-okay · 1 year

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Literally all of The Shadowhunter Chronicle romances are completely unhinged it’s not even funny (I lied, it’s very funny). Here’s just some examples:

William “Will” Herondale/James “Jem” Carstairs + Theresa “Tessa” Gray: It totally would have been a vee type polyamorous situation if it wasn’t for all the death and 1800s London society going on.

Henry Branwell + Charlotte Fairchild: How dare this misogynistic society put us together, I mean, we wanted to get together anyway, but not for those reasons. Welp, time to be as unconventional as possible.

Gabriel Lightwood + Cecily Herondale: Look, you made fun of my sister, it’s only fair that I marry your sister; that’s the rules.

Gideon Lightwood + Sophia “Sophie” Collins: Dad, I have a perfectly valid reason to betray you and go to the other side. What your doing is wrong and – nO tHiS haS nOThiNG to do wiTh tHeIR mAid wHy wOUlD yoU eVEn sAy tHat?

Jesse Blackthorn + Lucie Herondale: Your request to not be brought back to life has been denied, deal with it.

James “Jamie” Herondale + Cordelia Carstairs: He didn’t commit arson we were just having sex – why are you all looking at me like that’s worse?

Anna Lightwood + Ariadne Bridgestock: Listen, there’s a lot of society going on right now, so we’re going to have to get together in secret. Oh, you don’t want to? Okay, never mind, fuck society, let me win you back real quick.

Christopher Lightwood + Grace Cartwright: Oh good, you broke into my house, now we can talk about science.

Thomas Lightwood + Alastair Carstairs: I’d really like to hate you, but I think the biggest problem with that is that I love you. Once I get over that hurdle, I think we’ll be in the clear.

Lucian “Luke” Graymark + Jocelyn Fairchild: Good job on us for breaking away from the genocidal cult run by our best friend/husband; we should hook up, you know, as a reward.

Jonathan “Jace” Herondale + Clarissa “Clary” Fairchild: Ayo the same guy conducted experiments on our blood, that’s crazy; btw so glad we’re not actually siblings.

Alexander “Alec” Lightwood + Magnus Bane: Marrying each other is against the law? Okay, fine, I’m a law biding citizen. Oh oops, I made it legal. I am the law now, and I want a wedding on the beach.

Simon Lovelace + Isabelle Lightwood: It makes sense to have our engagement party on the day of my brother’s death, that’s when we really started bonding.

Helen “Alessa” Blackthorn + Aline Penhallow: Well, I guess we’re going to go in exile together. Yes, I said together; your exile is my exile, what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine, that’s how relationships work.

Julian Blackthorn + Emma Carstairs: Yes, it’s a technical war crime to love each other, but the law itself is not really our main concern about it.

Kieran Hunter + Mark “Miach” Blackthorn + Cristina Rosales: We’re really living that cottage core aesthetic, and all we had to do to get here was do a small war and some amnesia. Worth it.

Gwyn ap Nudd + Diana Wrayburn: I’m going to stand by just in case something happens, but it probably won’t, she knows what she’s doing – WHY IS SHE JUMPING OUT THE TENTH STORY WINDOW OH MY GOD WAIT

Tiberius “Ty” Blackthorn + Christopher “Kit” Herondale: We take cosplaying Sherlock and Watson VERY seriously, so of course we needed to go to all the most illegal places, it’s only natural.

Ash Morgenstern + Drusilla “Dru” Blackthorn: So anyway I saw them in a sort of fever dream like state this one time and they’ve still been on my mind for years.

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iovesia · 9 months

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John Wick being your married professor, who uses his position of power to take advantage of you. He makes you come to his house for some “extra tutoring” and his wife is there and she’s so kind to you and you feel so guilty as John takes you to his study. He keeps his hand over your mouth because you need to be quiet. Afterwards, his wife invites you to join them for dinner and you just want to get away but she doesn’t take no for an answer just like her husband. She has no idea what John is doing with his hand under the dining table as you all eat.

(I’m sorry Helen but being John’s dirty little secret got me feeling some kinda way)

STOPPP this is so evil (literally kicking my feet) — ofc john would never do this in canon, but for smut's sake . . .

୨ ˙ ∘ cw.⠀ cheating & infidelity. professor / student relationship. p in v. this got, like, really long lmfao OOPS !

you're mr. wick's top student in his class— or so you thought. you're shocked to find out, that after being a straight-A, rory-gilmore level student your entire life, you seem to be failing mr. wick's class.

mr. wick (fully aware of your desperate need for academic validation) uses this to his advantage. it first started off harmless enough: giving you feedback after class, meeting in his office during his hours. but he wanted more, he needed more.

an hour during the day turned into late night "study" sessions in his office. he's bent you over his mahogany desk, forcing you to read aloud from your textbook while he pounds into you.

"t—the halo effect is a c-cognitive bias— fuck—," you bite hard onto your bottom lip, toes curling at the delicious stretch of mr. wick's cock in your wet cunt. you try to continue reading, but the words fall jumbled from your lips. his rough hands are all over you, caressing and clutching at your sides, pulling you back onto his cock like a ragdoll.

"don't make me tell you to start over, ms [l/n]," he scolds, but you can hear the teasing in his voice. his hands cup the fat of your ass, watching as he disappears in and out of you. "i know you can do better than that."

yes, of course you felt guilty. he's your professor— your married professor. but that guilt quickly flew out the window, when he's shoved the frame picture of him and his wife on his desk to the side, and laid you on top, gently spreading your legs.

soon enough, mr. wick started inviting you back to his home. his place of sanctuary. a sanctuary shared with mrs. wick. who you've managed to completely avoid (and pretend didn't exist) up until this moment.

for once, he was giving you genuine advice on one of your essays when his wife walked in. your heart dropped to your ass and sweat began pooling on your forehead. sure. . technically you weren't doing anything, but the guilt ate away at your heart.

"wow, this is really nice, mrs. wick," you mumble, giving the older woman a polite smile. she grins, insisting you call her 'helen'. her shiny smile and bubbly personality only make bile boil in your throat. she was sweet enough to offer you a home cooked meal, and in return, you're letting her husband finger you under the table.

"john talks a lot about you! he's very impressed with your progress," helen takes a bite of her food, offering sweet words and polite conversation. you nod, biting the inside flesh of your cheek and john's hand crawls up your thigh.

"she was really struggling this year.. but i guess all she needed was an extra hand." his innuendo flies over his oblivious wife's head as his warm fingers slide under your underwear and in between your wet folds.

you were definitely going to hell for this, you think to yourself, biting down on your fork to stop a mewl escaping your lips.

#love letters.#keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves x reader #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick smut #tw cheating #professor au #*⠀john wick.

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alwaysforevermaybenever · 9 months

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YANDERE EX-HUSBAND: INTRODUCTION

× cw: general yandere stuff; malaysian/cantonese slang; reader is implied ethnically chinese (read her dialogue in Steven He’s accent); reader is also female; obsessive behavior; bribery; stalking; being held at gunpoint(?); threats; felony; implied murder; controlling behavior

× note: it's basically renheng/uncle roger and auntie helen

⌗ your beloved ex-husband? Hah! He’s no better than a plate of burnt egg fried rice with no spring onions or meat from a kopitiam(coffee shop). In fact, you’d pick studying at art school over looking at his face for a single second, even if it means your mother disowning you.

⌗ Unfortunately, even after getting divorced, you still live together. That’s because the house is bought under both your names, so you can’t just kick him out. And it’s not like you’ll have enough money to buy a new house after selling your current one, because half the money goes to him. Tsk. What a nuisance…

⌗ Yala, he’s handsome and rich, but he’s such a jerk and a micromanager! He always insists on telling you how to cook your signature noodles. (Mind you, you grew up learning how to make that. Your ma made sure of that.) He didn’t go to culinary school, so who is he to tell you that, huh?

⌗ You can’t stand being married to such a pompous man like him, so you locked yourself in your room on the wedding night. No way you’re gonna do anything with that eyesore (metaphor). That’s why five months later, after countless arguments and fights, you divorced him.

“Haiya, he CEO of a company, his net worth 1 billion. But he cannot even cook rice or defrost chicken for me when I ask him to? And you ask why I divorce him ah?” *slaps table*

⌗ However, your ex-husband doesn’t really care about your rants or complaints. You’re talking for hours on end about him, so that’s already a win in his book. He’s always on your mind!

⌗ He fully expected you to divorce him. That’s why he insisted on buying the house under both your names - you can’t get rid of him that way. All long as he’s under the same roof as you are, he couldn’t be happier. He eats the food you cook (leftovers because you’re used to cooking for all your relatives during family dinner), rolls on your perfectly made bed while you work your accountant job (in one of his other companies that you don’t know he’s the CEO of) and plays the picture perfect husband when your mom drops by (your 28501864817 relatives marching right behind her) with mooncakes and tangyuan (because she’ll beat you up with the tea set heirloom passed down forty-five generations when she discovers that you’re divorced with no sons!!).

⌗ How did you even get married to him if you hate him that much? Well, long story short, your mother and his mother are best friends, and their husbands are brothers, which made daily reunions even longer because they had so much to talk about. When they noticed that he showed interest in you as a child (one time), they decided that you two would get married when you were of age. While you were resentful that you were essentially forced into an arranged marriage, you pushed through it for the wedding ang pao (red packets) and tax benefits (at least until you divorced, which was when you started working and putting that science stream (not art!) degree to use).

⌗ You hate your ex-husband, but you do admit that he’s a good wallet. Besides, it’s not like he’s obsessive or possessive or a micromanager who stalks you when you go out or a genuinely bad person who commits felonies because he found out you were searching for potential bachelors because after all you’re in your prime! Right? And besides, who wouldn’t want to date and eventually marry you? But don’t worry your pretty little head because he’ll take care of them since he’s the only one you’ll ever need. Yeah, you’re divorced but who’s to say you can’t get remarried? Not the law!

⌗ And if he has to drag you screaming and kicking and cursing him (and his ancestors) to the ancestral plane and make you stand by the altar, that’s what his strength is for! And if he has to pay hush money to all the people present that’s ok, cuz he’s not rich for nothing and the relatives aren’t greedy bloodsucking money nabbers (me) just for show.

“Once again, until death do us part, my love… You at the back - put down that phone. I’ll pretend you weren’t trying to call the police, for the sake of this auspicious occasion. What do you mean my wife is being held at gunpoint and trying to punch me no she isn’t.”

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lovelytsunoda · 1 year

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santa baby // charles leclerc

summary: it's christmas morning, his mother has the kids, and it's been too long since he and his wife got to enjoy a little bit of quality time, if you get what he's saying

pairing: charles leclerc x wife! reader

warnings: festive smut <3, a few jokes about how y/n's dad really didn't like charles in the beginning, mentions of heaven in a pretty unholy context. charles wants another child which turns into mild breeding

authors note: the christmas collection is almost complete!! this is the last christmas based story, and to close out the series I have one that takes place in new york on new years!

the monaco morning was chilly, a light dusting of snow descending on monte carlo as charles leclerc and his wife lay tangled in bed, christmas tree still twinkling and full of light in the penthouse apartment's main room. they always slept like this, with charles' body draped over hers, his arms tightly clutching her around the midsection, legs tangled together.

they'd married young, just nineteen when they eloped in italy because charles was scared that y/n's father was going to kill him. but her father was a traditional man, who thought that his daughter was destined for more than charles, who came across as a playboy f2 driver at the time.

but they had known each other for years, high school sweethearts, if you will. they got married right before charles started his first season with sauber, and the monegasque boy had promised that he would always support and look after y/n. of course, the shit hit the fan once their respective families realized that they had eloped, but it would take a blind man not to see how madly in love the two young adults had been at the time.

had been, and still were.

“mhm, charles…” she whined, feeling the tip of her husbands warm nose at the back of her neck. she lifted the ferrari drivers hand from around her waist, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “good morning, mon amour.” she said softly, pressing back into the monegasque.

“merry christmas cherie.” charles smiled against her skin, eyes still closed as he pressed a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck.

“I wonder if jolie is awake yet. I forgot how nice it was to wake up in a quiet house.”

the couple had always kept their private life just that: private. their rings weren’t flashy, simple bands that didn’t catch too much attention. and a few months after charles had signed to ferrari, y/n had told him that she was pregnant, something they had tried to hide to the best of their ability.

he had been shocked at first, but the glow in his eyes and grin on his face hadn’t ever gone away. they’d kept the pregnancy a secret as long as possible, but sebastian vettel had eventually figured it out, the same way that the german had figured out that the young lovers were married.

jolie helene leclerc was the apple of charles’ eye. from the moment that jolie was born, the infant had charles wrapped around her pudgy little fingers.

“jolie is fine, mon tresor. she’s with my mom and arthur.”

she laughed, sitting up in bed before looking down at her husband, tapping him gently on the nose. “arthur is why I’m worried. he might be twenty one but he’s still a child. just let me call your mom.” she insisted, getting out of the king sized bed and walking across the room to get her phone, the hemline of her green silk nightdress barely covering her ass.

“babe…” charles whined. “she’s fine, come on. when was the last time that we had the apartment to ourselves?”

charles had a point. the night before, the couple had opened a bottle of red wine and binged the new season of ‘only murders in the building’ before y/n had fallen asleep in the couch, curled up against her husbands side before charles had carried her her back to the bed.

she paused, turning back to her husband. charles rarely ever wore pajamas to bed, but for the holiday season he had humoured his wife with a silk set, the top unbuttoned halfway to show off his impressive muscles, the outline of his dick visible through the silk pants.

it was a sight that used to make her mouth water. not that she didn’t find her husband attractive anymore, it was just that she had other priorities. like raising jolie.

“I suppose you’re right.” her voice was sing-songy as she leaned against the dresser, one of the nightgown straps falling down her shoulder. “what do you suggest we do about it?”

charles grinned, hair messy and cheeks flushed as he got out of bed, meeting his wife in the middle of the room as he pulled her in for a kiss, his hands warm against her skin in the chilled room.

“I can think of a few ideas, ma cherie.” he grinned, slipping his hands up the back of her nightdress. “you’re beautiful.” he hummed, pressing kisses to her neck as she flushed pink under the half light, a smile on her face as she giggled.

charles never failed to sweep her off her feet.

she laughed as charles gripped her ass for support as she jumped up, wrapping her legs around his waist before he stumbled back towards the bed. they fell to the sheets in a tangle of limbs and giggles, her husband hovering over her as he peppered her exposed skin with kisses, palming her erect nipples through the silk.

“oh, charles.” she moaned lowly as charles drew back, reaching to undo the last few buttons on his silk shirt.

y/n wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning in close and pressing a few gentle kisses to her husbands chest, his rapidly hardening cock becoming increasingly more prominent through his trousers.

she could feel his muscles tensing and undulating underneath her lips as he breathed deeply, a sensation that only added to the want pooling between her legs.

charles sucked in a breath at the feeling of his wife’s lips against his abs. he would never get tired of calling y/n his beautiful wife. he could hardly contain himself, stomach rapidly rising and falling as she continued to kiss him, her fingertips dancing across his skin as she looked up at him, a bright smile on her face and lust in her eyes.

he knew she would never suck him off. it was a sensory thing, she hated the feeling of having any dick in her mouth, not just charles’. but charles was more than okay with that, as he would much rather be on his knees for her than have her on her knees for him.

charles slipped out of the undone shirt, gently pushing her back onto the bed and climbing on top of her, connecting his lips to hers in a fiery kiss as she slipped her hand down the front of his pants, cupping his erection in her delicate hand.

"mon amour," he rasped. "don't feel like you have to. this morning is all about you."

"but what if i want to?" her words came out in a whisper, eyes like oceans staring back at charles.

"you know that i won't stop you, mon amour." his breathing was heavy as y/n used both hands to push charles onto the bed, reversing their earlier position so that she straddled the ferrari driver.

she slid the silk pants down her husband's legs just enough so that she had access to his cock, running her fingers up and down the length.

she might not give blowjobs, but in charles' eyes, his wife did something even better with her hands, lips on his neck as she stroked his length, drawing a deep moan that bordered on a growl from teh back of charles' throat.

"baby..." he whined, his wife's hand warm and comforting as she pumped his dick in her hand, leaning over his body to press feather light kisses to his skin as charles gripped her thigh. "you're too good to me."

"i mean, you were on the nice list this year." she grinned, smiling against charles' chest as she pressed a kiss to his skin, quickening the pace at which she moved her hand up and down his shaft.

"not for much longer, ma cherie. not for too much longer at all." he cursed in french, bucking his hips into her hand as his eyes rolled back. "i wont last much longer like this, darling. I need to be inside you.”

“how do you want me?” she asked innocently, withdrawing the hand she had on charles’ cock and leaning down to kiss him softly, his hands cupping her ass.

“on your stomach, cherie. let me see your curves.”

every nerve ending in her body was on high alert as she laid on the plush mattress, resting the side of her face against the pillow as she moved all of her hair to one side , tingling with the sensation of anticipation, just waiting for charles to caress every inch of her body.

she could hear her husband fumbling with his pants in the background, giggling as she felt him run his hand up her leg. he slowly pushed her nightgown up, pressing kisses to her bare ass and up her lower spine, taking the silk fabric with him as he relished in how after all these years, he could still make y/n leclerc tremble underneath his touch.

“charles, don’t tease, baby.” she murmured, giving in fully to his touch as she bucked her ass back unit her husbands body. “you gave up the right to do that when we had a child.”

charles laughed, running his fingers along her slit as he readied himself behind her. “I’m here baby, don’t move a muscle and let me show you how much I appreciate you.”

he slid in slowly, y/n moaning softly underneath him as she fisted the flannel sheets. “oh, sweet jesus.” she muttered as charles began to slowly thrust into her, his cock reaching all the places that made her shiver.

“you feel like heaven, mon amour.” charles growled. “god, I love you so fucking much.”

“oh, charles!” her moan was so high pitched that it bordered in a whimper. “faster, please, charles.”

charles grinned to himself, picking up the pace as he leaned down to pepper her spine in delicate kisses, loving the way that her back arched under his touch, the curve of her spine as she pressed her hips back, trying to take as much of his cock as she could.

it was like heaven on earth.

“my sweet girl.” the monegasque hummed, the room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, and the moans of the angel underneath him, the sight of his cock sliding in and out of his wife enough to make his eyes roll back in his skull. “oh, you take my cock so well. almost like we were made for each other.”

“you’ve been using that line for five years, amour.” she giggled, a smile on her face before her lips parted in a moan, her arm reaching back so she could clasp her husbands hand in hers.

he grinned slyly “and it still works, doesn’t it? I managed to get a baby out of you.”

“yes, yes.” she moaned, clutching Charles’ hand tightly as she buried her face in the pillow, goose-down swallowing her moans.

charles paused, pressing his chest against her back, gently kissing her cheek as she brushed a few stray strands of sweaty hair away from her face. “y/n, jolie is three years old already. I think it’s time that we maybe…had another one?”

she smiled, turning her head so she could look at her husband. “and you’re asking me now?”

charles chuckled. “can I put another baby in you, mon amour? I want a family with you, a little sibling for jolie.”

as awkward as it was given their position, y/n kissed charles softly. “put another baby in me, lover boy.”

if anything, the sex got more intense after Charles’ confession, his hips and his dick moving at a relentless pace as he slammed in and out of her. and y/n loved every second of it, fingers digging into the sheets as her moans reached a crescendo.

“should I fill you up, darling? yeah, you want me to put another baby in you?” charles grunted, feeling his climax hurtle closer as her walls began to clench around him.

“god, yes charles! give me your cum, put a baby in me!”

they let go around the same time, reducing charles to a groaning, moaning mess as he released his grip on his wife’s hips, rolling their bodies gently over onto their sides so that they were spooning, out of breath and satisfied, charles’ cock still buried inside of her.

“I meant what I said, charles.” she said softly, plying with her husbands fingers. “I want another child. three sounds like a good number, doesn’t it?”

the driver smiled, kissing her cheek. “two little girls and a boy. our own little karting team.”

“in your dreams.” y/n snorted “jolie hasn’t even looked at the go kart in the garage.”

“all in good time, mon amour. all in good time. merry christmas, y/n”

“merry christmas, charles. now, we should get in the shower and get ready otherwise we aren’t making it to your mothers for brunch.”

Tags:

@magnummagnussen @daydreamingleclerc @libraryofloveletters @flannel-cures @sidcrosbyspuck @diorleclerc

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #formula one x reader #formula one #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #the christmas collection 2022 #Spotify

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dootznbootz · 4 months

Text

While their stories are different , Helen and Odysseus are very similar in "roles" of their narratives

Sounds nuts but hold on. I'm also probably wording that weird. but here we go.

Obviously with the time, the culture, and their genders to consider, they ARE very different but there's just...something that's been ITCHING me about them and their stories.

1.) Both of their homes/lovers are "fighting for them". Obviously the Trojan War is about bringing Helen home through the Oath of Tyndarius. (Also, "You kidnapped my wife, wtf?") Menelaus LITERALLY fighting to bring Helen back home. Penelope is fighting so that Odysseus has a home to come back TO.

2.) Paris/Calypso: Cause them both to weep in their stories, literally keep them captive through the means of an immortal/magic for YEARS. People will fight about how "willing" they are

3.) Deiphobus/Circe: Another "lover" where both were just...going through the motions. Trying to survive. Just another day in hell. Shorter amount of time. Both Deiphobus and Circe "defeats" involve someone's "rescuing" (Odysseus rescuing his men, Helen herself being rescued)

4.) Taken away from their home that they didn't want to leave

5.) Missing most of their only child's childhoods unwillingly

Even then, they are technically the CAUSE of each other's circumstances in life. Odysseus made a deal with Tyndarius to marry Penelope. Helen only got to choose Menelaus because of Odysseus' idea. Odysseus had to leave home because of said oath and still tried to resist leaving. Helen is only able to go home (aka the war is over) because of Odysseus' idea again. Both Penelope AND Menelaus leave the place they were born in (Sparta and Mycenae) to rule with their spouses in THEIR homelands. Even with how they're both an "enigma" could be something.

Obviously, they are not each other's "center of the world" but they both have affected each other with their actions (or actions under duress) Same with their spouses.

JUSt... SOMETHING'S ITCHING MY BRAIN WITH THIS skldjf klsdjf MAybe it's a whole "This is how men and women both "fight"" with their expected roles at the time and comparing the two? IDK I feel like there's something there.

Feel free to say something about this if you know more about this topic or shed some light on this or if you just want to chatter about this.

#I am sleepy and not feeling the greatest at the moment so this is probably all over the place haha #but still something just... there's SOMETHING here. Idk if this was on purpose or what but idk #odysseus #helen of sparta #menelaus #penelope #greek mythology #tagamemnon #iliad #odyssey #Mad rambles #shot by odysseus #essay

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darkestspring · 10 months

Note

Reading your last post of hades x persefone and the idea of a one-shot apollo x daphne, the idea of a one-shot dealing with the abduction of Helen from Sparta came to my mind.

Jacaerys has always been in love with Aemond's sweet and innocent younger sister, so when he returns to King's Landing he kidnaps her and makes her his wife, (clearly he forces her, since she doesn't love him).

And when the royal family finds out, they don't stand for it and burn with anger. Aemond erupted like a volcano full of rage, how dare they take you, the purest and most beautiful maiden, force you to marry and lose your virginity to a bastard? Kidnap the one he loved? His sweet little sister? He would definitely make them pay with fire and blood.

This unleashes a warlike conflict, and you can decide what will be the end of this story.

Whispers had marked the dragon's court from the moment the third princess, [NAME] was born, and then whispers had erupted for years afterwards.

The young princess was a year younger than the second prince but was beloved deeply. By all except her father, the courts would retell. The king had little interest in any of his children that were not Princess Rhaenyra and yet, Princess [NAME] found solace in other things.

When her time was not spent looking for flowers to add to her collection, to be pressed, dried, and documented (a hobby that her queen mother indulged in happily), she was often found with her older brother, Aemond.

And yet, nearly everyone was aware of the strange attention that Prince Jace gave her.

How he would often find flowers and give them to her, how he would resort to acting out to get her attention when that did not work (which more often than not, led to her frowning at him with distaste as she led her brother away from him). How he would always be wherever she was.

Queen Alicent hated it but none hated it more than Prince Aemon, who had to be restrained when rumors broke out that Prince Jace had taken Princess [NAME]'s first kiss.

It had been a relief when Princess Rhaenyra moved to Dragonstone for a permanent stay, even after the incident in driftmark. Princess Rhaenyra had done all she could to attempt to secure a marriage between Princess [NAME] and her son, but Alicent would not budge, so nothing could be done.

Jace wasn't satisfied with that. [NAME] was the only girl he would ever marry, of that he was sure. He had been enchanted by her and would never take another.

But such desires were easily managed.

That was, until they came face-to-face with each other as teenagers.

Jace was taken aback by how much she had grown, with her soft, delicate features and her soft hands clutching onto her documenting journal, her third one (courtesy of her grandfather), jace swore on his deceased father, he would never let her get away.

They say that when a Targaryen loves, entire cities burn to the ground and it was true. Jace would burn the entire world to the ground, just for her. He would slaughter masses for the chance to see her smile and Daemon had noticed it immediately.

The awe ever-present in his step-son's dark eyes, how he deflated at the loss of her attention.

"If you wish for her attention," He started, gazing towards his youngest niece before looking at Jace, "Perhaps more extreme measure,"

"Like what?" Jace was on the verge of begging. What should I do? He wanted to cry. All I want is for her to look at me. He didn't care about his own desperation.

"You're a dragon," Daemon patted his shoulder. "Take what you want? What should you care about the opinions of others. Take her to dragonstone and make her your wife."

That's exactly what he did.

"I will not be held prisoner by you!" Princess [NAME] hissed at her nephew, bristling as he got closer.

Jace held her hands in his grip (his gentle grip surprised the princess as she stared at their joined hands). "Not prisoner, of course not. My wife."

That was almost worse, but she could not think of anything to say before he leaned down and kissed her, softly, and it almost made her want to cry.

She wished he would be as awful as men who held their wives captive were in books. Cruelty would give her a reason to hate him but he was gentle with her, reverence in how he treated her that made her want to cry.

"M-my mother won't stand for this! My brother's will come for me!" She hissed, yanking her hands back.

And stand for it, Queen Alicent would not. When they news broke, that Prince Jace had stolen her beloved daughter away, she collapsed to the ground and screamed a blood curdling scream, one that cried of anger and grief.

None of the Queen's other children were much better and everyone could tell the worst.

It was war.

Truly, beauty is damning.

#house of the dragon x reader #jace velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #yandere jacaerys velaryon x reader #yandere jacaerys velaryon #yandere house of the dragon #yandere hotd #yandere hotd x reader

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kiwisbell · 2 months

Text

helen ; chapter three

the red circle

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the truth.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, mentions of rape/SA, cars, bill is here, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, hitman!joel finally hitmans, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST (still unresolved oopsie), we're getting there though, exposition, conflicting emotions, joel's tattoos are sexy but they're also plot-relevant, Sleeping Together, but not like That, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 7.6k a/n: this chapter marks this fic being halfway done already, which is madness. also, can i just say that i'm loving the amount of people who've specifically been watching john wick because of this fic?? this is my agenda!! as always, thank you so fucking much to mya baby @cavillscurls for beta reading this fic and being, idk, generally the loml. i hope you enjoy chapter 3, my friends! i'm sorry it's been such a long time coming, but life lifed, y'know?? prev | next

“How much?”

“Two million. For now, at least. It’s open.”

“Goddammit, Tommy.”

“I told you to be careful, brother. Now look at you. You’re a loose end.”

Joel resisted the urge to toss his phone. The shower continued running in the bathroom, muffled by the closed door.

He couldn't lose you. He didn't know life without you. Love had no name until he knew you. He'd christened it with that first kiss, maybe even in the first breath he'd shared with you.

If there was a chance Cabrera’s kid could come back for you, even if just to hurt Joel, he needed to see this to its end. There was no choice.

“He tried to rape my wife,” said Joel. “He's lucky I’m only tryin’ to kill him.”

Tommy only sighed, and the call ended.

I married you, Joel.

I loved you.

You lied to me.

He rests his elbows on his knees as he watches you doze. The sunlight shines neatly through the break in the curtains, and you squint against it in your sleep, turning over with a little huff and bringing the duvet over your head. You’ve always needed total darkness for a half-decent sleep.

You’ve been crying. The tears leave remnants on your cheeks, a dryness at the outer corners of your eyes, salt seeping moisture from your skin. He’s never known a thing so soft as the drag of his hand down your back.

I loved you.

You lied to me.

You will never understand. There are reasons—too many to count—that civilians cannot know. He may have gotten you to relative safety in the Continental, but there are a hundred dangerous people in this building who have a long-standing grudge against Joel Miller or the man he worked for. A hundred people who would take you as collateral the moment you stepped outside the grounds. But as long as you remain inside, you’re safe.

He just needs to finish the job. He needs to see it through, and he’ll be out. You’ll realise he’s done it all for you.

I loved you.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he watches the rise and fall of your chest beneath the sheets. He broke your heart last night. He watched you turn in on yourself, your eyes so cold, so far away. He listened to you scream, and inside he pleaded: Keep hitting me, baby. Keep shouting. Be mad. He wanted you loud and furious and spitting fire. If you were angry, you still cared. He could work with that.

And to see you walk away, the fire frozen over, the fight in your marrow sucked out…

The anguish of losing your ire still stirs in his chest. The guilt peels him away in layers. Acid.

She’ll understand, he tells himself, you, anyone who’ll listen. She’ll get it someday—why I did it, why I lied. She’ll forgive me.

Forgive me, baby. Don’t let me live the rest of this life never seeing you smile.

“Stop looking at me,” you grumble, your eyes still closed.

Joel averts his eyes. His throat feels tight. “You sleep okay?”

You haul yourself upright and stretch out your back. Joel studies the curve of your spine and the nape of your neck. You’re the muse painters rave about. The reflections of sunlight on water at dusk. The pond of water lilies.

“You didn’t. Your sheets haven’t even moved.”

“I can’t sleep without you.”

You give him a heavy look, your eyes bleary with sleep. “You managed all those years before me, Joel. Let’s not do this.”

“What if I want to do this?” he says, dropping to the floor next to your bed and taking your hands in his. You try to pry yourself free, but he drops his head and traps you in his rapt vigil.

“Joel…” Your voice is still groggy, but there’s agony in the way you say his name.

“You’re my wife,” he says against your skin. “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved. You’re the girl I saw that night in the restaurant with the pretty eyes and you’re the girl I called every night just so I could hear your voice, and you’re always gonna be the only fucking girl for me. You’re my reason for everything, baby. I need you. Please… please just understand. You have to know that.”

You’re silent for a long while, your legs curled under you as your own husband kneels as if in prayer. Your throat burns with more tears you have little energy left to shed. You whisper his name.

He looks up and you find you cannot meet his eyes. So you stare at one of the patches of skin that disrupt the brown-grey of his beard. “That first night at the restaurant,” you say, trepidation colouring your voice blue, “you disappeared after the second course. When you came back, you told me you had to take a call. Was that the truth?”

Joel’s eyes are frantic in their search for an answer. “Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t lie to me again. Was that the truth?”

“There—” His voice cuts off, his eyes shuttering. “There was a target. That’s… why I was there in the first place.”

Your sob dies in your chest. It doesn’t even make a noise. You wrench your hands out of his, and he lets you, still kneeling at your bedside like a lost sinner. “Love has never been the problem. You might love me, but you’ve never told me the truth. Not from the first day.”

One of his hands wraps around your ankle. “I wanted out. I wanted out my whole life, and you’re the one who made me find the way. Cabrera, he… He gave me an impossible task. I completed it. And I gave you this ring.” He brushes his thumb over the knuckles of your third finger where your bands are still secure. “You said yes. You married me. Doesn’t this mean something?”

The sound of your hollow laugh hurts more than any words you could use to cut him. “It did,” you confess, “when I knew exactly who my husband was.”

He shakes his head, his lips parting in another desperate cast, but you’re standing up and crossing the room, gathering your toiletries for the bathroom. “What happens now?” you ask.

Joel stares at the ring on his finger. “I’m going to talk to the Manager. You have to stay here.”

“Okay,” you say softly. Your back is rigid. “Just tell me something.”

“Anything,” says Joel.

“If I asked to leave,” you whisper, “would you let me go?”

Joel feels his heart crack in two. He remembers the small outdoor wedding, in the heart of May, when he’d seen you walk down the aisle toward him and struggled to find the words, as he always did, that would be good enough.

I vow to love you, he'd said, his hands trembling as he took yours. I vow to be your partner in all things. I vow to show you every piece of my soul, the way you've given me yours, and to be gentle with your heart.

I vow to be the man you want, the man you need, and the man you love.

He’s failed. He knows that. But you smiled at him that day, your eyes brimming with tears that turned black from your mascara, and you kissed him before the officiant said the words.

I loved you.

“I’d do anything you asked me to,” he says, “but not that.”

Joel made a stop at the Continental Tailor before he went to find the Manager in the lounge. He paid the Tailor a bit too much for the new suit, he realises now, the sleeves a bit too tight, the pants not quite tapered. He was dressing a different body than the one he knew all those years ago.

Joel weaves through the darkness as a crooning voice sings something about evil men up on the stage. The band is playing along, a smooth jazz tune, and the bodies around him smell of expensive cologne and perfume and vodka. He remembers with a start why he hated this place so much.

Adjusting his jacket, he finds the Manager sitting in the VIP section on a long curved booth upholstered in crimson velvet, sipping a dry martini.

“Joel,” he says, lifting his glass in toast.

“Bill.”

The Manager doesn't look particularly thrilled. “You know there’s an open contract on your head. Who did you have to kill to end up back here?”

“Just a couple people.” Joel sits opposite him. “I need information.”

“And you're here on more business. Does your consort have anything to say about that?”

Joel curls his fingers into a fist atop the table. “I’m invoking my guest privileges. And she is my wife.”

Bill sniffs in amusement. “So, you did end up marrying the gal. Good for you, Joel. She's a stunner.”

“Fuck you, Bill.”

A short, booming laugh. “Nobody will so much as look her way. You have my word and all it means.”

“Doesn't mean much,” says Joel. “I’m just visiting.”

“Don't be the idiot I know you aren’t,” says Bill, leaning forward and setting his glass aside. “You dip so much as a pinky back in this pond, and you won’t get out so easy. Sometime, somewhere, someone’s going to come to you with another impossible task.”

“And I’ll complete it,” says Joel. “Emiliano Cabrera. Where is he?”

“You really wanna do this, Joel?”

“Yeah.”

“Your wife may be safe now, but she won’t be forever.”

“That’s why I’m going to finish it. That’s why I’m going to kill him.”

The Manager sighs, polishing off his martini. “You know damn well business will not be conducted on Continental grounds, Joel. You may as well go have a drink at the bar, take a load off. I can’t tell you anything while you’re inside my hotel.”

Joel suspected as much. “Then tell me something you can.”

Bill’s nostrils flare and Joel feels some satisfaction knowing he can still push the old man’s buttons. “I’ll tell you what: the game has changed since you left it. Your only chance is to get out now, while you still can. What could possibly warrant the Boogeyman reentering the fold?”

Joel licks his teeth. Your eyes blurring with tears as your skull connected with the ground, your body going limp as he stood above you. The clink of a belt buckle echoes still in his head. If he hadn’t been fast enough—

“It’s personal.”

Bill’s gaze dips. “Well,” he says, “then, unofficially, I wish you the best of luck. But, as a former friend”—Joel snorts —“let me give you a piece of advice. Take your wife home and forget about all of this. I like you, Joel, but for her sake and yours, I’d rather never see you again.”

Joel doesn’t take it personally. “Tell Frank I said hello.”

Bill grabs a full glass from a passing server. “Fuck you, Joel.”

He nods his head, closing the lapels of his jacket and slipping the first button through the opposite slit. As the singer on the stage transitions into the next song, Joel orders a glass of bourbon and watches the bartender slide his drink over on a pristine white napkin.

“On the house, per the Manager’s request,” says the bartender. “Welcome back, Mr. Miller.”

Pristine—save for the small red circle drawn with marker on the centre. Across the bar, Bill raises his glass in another toast, and Joel leaves the lounge, his drink untouched.

It’s a Tuesday night, and the Red Circle is lined up around the corner. One must know someone to get inside, and that someone must be a paying member. Joel had a membership by default, being contracted under Cabrera, but it was revoked along with his other privileges once he had completed his task.

You would hate this place. It’s throbbing bass and flashing neon lights and sweat-slick bodies rubbing up against one another. It’s brick and industrial metal and glass and the people don’t mix, either.

Maybe part of him is hedonistic, too. He doesn’t think he ever used to be. The job gave him wealth to spend that he never cared to; when he met you, he began to understand the pleasure of material things. Gold shone when it hung around your neck and wrapped around your fingers. Diamonds glittered like the jewels in a crown when you wore them on your ears. And when he pulled you close to him for the first time, undressing you slowly, hooking his fingers in the lace panties he’d bought for you and bringing his mouth to the heat between your legs, Joel began to understand the draw of pleasure.

It isn’t that he’d never had sex before you. He’d just… never been interested before you. Bodies always felt… too cold. They were complex. They were things to be followed, things to be killed. They were names on a piece of paper. They would bleed all their warmth and light into his palms and he would return, limping, to a house he never cared about and absolve himself of red. He’d never known the thrill of a body until he tucked his hand under the soft swell of your naked breast and put his mouth on yours and felt your heartbeat bleed into his hands. He never wanted to wash it off.

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

After the orphanage, Joel visited a church only once.

He hadn’t meant to find it. He’d heard an organ humming from within. The cathedral was taller than it was wide, built for a small gathering. He’d slipped inside during a sermon, delivered by a pastor with white hair and a pair of wilting hands. Joel watched the tremors pass through his face, the agonising pulse of the vein in his throat, the way he would gulp down mouthfuls of water. He spoke with rhythm, with melody, and when he was finished, he grasped the edges of the pulpit, his head bowed in silent prayer. Joel thought he had never seen a more devoted man in his life.

When the sermon was over, he waited his turn to speak with the pastor. He did not know why. He hadn’t felt a stirring in his chest at the word of God; he never had.

I’ve never seen you in here before, my son.

Joel shook his head, frowning at the ground. I… left the faith, in a way. When I was young. I’m… sorry.

Devotion is a choice, said the pastor, taking Joel’s hands in his own. They were wrinkled, speckled with age spots. Joel lifted his gaze to find the pastor smiling. As with all things in life. Devotion, my son, is not a birthright. We must find it. Though it may not be His word, you will know someone’s word. And you’ll find it will move you enough that you choose to follow it. To whatever end.

Joel has been slashed, burned, drowned, whipped, beaten, strangled. He could count the telltale black spots in his eyes like dreamers count sheep. He developed a reputation because he was good at what he did. He was efficient, fast, lethal. He once killed three men in a bar with a pencil, they whispered. A fucking pencil. Word in the Underworld spread of a boogeyman who would take your life in your sleep if you wronged the wrong person, if you were just an unlucky bastard.

Their word never mattered. He’d never knelt in the blood of a victim and prayed for absolution. He would never find it, anyway. His soul was black.

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

No word has ever cut so deep as yours. How could he wake up every single day next to the love of his life and lie so easily to your face? How could he put a ring on your finger knowing damn well he’d betrayed your trust every second of your time together and you never even knew about it?

How could he wear the mask of your husband and dream of blood on the very same hands that touched you each night?

Joel checks his watch. It’s one o'clock in the morning. You’ve been sleeping since breakfast. You won’t sleep a wink tonight if this keeps up, but it seems you’d rather do anything in the world than speak with him.

He doesn’t blame you.

He found his word that night in the restaurant. He’d followed it, followed you, wherever you took him. And he will follow you, his almighty word, beyond the grave, to whatever end you decide.

He will not abandon his faith. His purpose. He will not throw up his hands and let you walk away. He’s made mistakes he cannot mend. He can’t go back to the day you met and tell you all he should have, rules be fucked. He cannot fix what he’s already broken. You cannot put a piece of tape over fractured glass, a bloodied hand over wounded skin.

He made his fucking vows. It’s time he lived up to them.

Across the street, Joel watches, turning over the knife in his pocket by the hilt. Emiliano Cabrera and his lackeys step out of Joel’s Mustang and toss the keys to the valet. They skip the line, smacking one another around and jeering at the ladies in line, and Joel feels the hunger pull at his teeth.

His first target is posted by the east entrance. Joel takes the alley, stepping aside trash bags brimming with used needles and slipping the Glock from the lining of his jacket. The weight of it is formidable in his hand. Under the cover of dark, he slides into a second skin, black as the names they call him. Bringing the gun to the back of the guard’s head, he watches those huge shoulders stiffen.

“Francis,” he says politely.

“Joel,” says the guard.

“Workin’ late?”

“Why?” says Francis. “You want in?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I do. You lost weight.”

“Twenty-seven pounds, if you’ll believe it.”

Fuck.

Twenty-seven guards tasked with protecting the little shit. Joel may have a reputation, but it’s been years. He was ambushed in his own home last night. And after it all, he’d let the bastard slip between his fingers.

“Why don’t you take the night off?”

Francis lowers one meaty hand to the piece in his ear and takes it out. Turning his head, he says, “Can you at least lower the gun?”

Joel does. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

“Word’s going around. They say you’re back.”

“I’m just passin’ through.”

“Sure, Joel.” Francis offers his hand, and Joel shakes. “You better make it quick. I don’t feel like getting fired.”

“Understood.” Joel slips inside, letting the door click shut behind him.

Even from afar, the music lives in his chest, a writhing thing that seeks departure by way of his throat. He tries to swallow and it wriggles back up again. The bass throbs hard against his ribs.

There’s a bathroom on the VIP floor. As he sneaks by the frosted glass partition that separates him from the public, Joel hears the squeak of locker doors. He puts his palm on the door and pushes inside.

Did you see the tits on that girl? says one man in Spanish. Emil got a pretty one.

Another lets out a booming laugh. Shut the fuck up, man. Good pussy and you tuck your tail and run.

Yeah? And you're in here because you scored?

I’m in here because bitches prefer to choke on clean dick. What's your excuse?

Neither feels the breeze of the shadow slipping behind them. Neither of them sees the man in black lock his arm around one of their necks and squeeze until there's no air left. By the time the other has turned on the porcelain sink and begun to splash his face, the boogeyman has him by the scruff of his neck, fisting the collar of his fluffy white bathrobe. The sink continues running, and he’s choking on the warm water as Joel holds him down.

“Jesus! Fuck!”

“Where is Emiliano?”

“Vete a la mierda,” he splutters. “Let go of me, motherfucker!”

Joel takes one of the man’s fingers and bends it all the way back. His screams are muffled by Joel’s hand.

“Where is Emiliano?”

“The bathhouse, downstairs,” he groans. “Fuck, let me go, pendejo!”

Joel bares his teeth, breaks the man’s neck, and leaves him slumped over the sink, the water still running.

The bathhouse is doused in red and blue. The water is illuminated from within, and the whites in his victim’s eyes glow where he stands half-submerged, toasting a bottle of champagne to his rowdy friends. Joel flattens himself to the wall, listening for the tread of dress shoes. The music pounds too loudly for him to hear, but he can see the shadow before he sees its owner.

“Clear,” says the voice.

When he rounds the corner, Joel drives his knife into the man’s throat and silences his gurgling moans by clamping a hand over his mouth. He slides down the wall, and Joel holds his gaze while the light slowly dims in his eyes.

One.

Two more men are waiting behind the partition, hands folded in front of them. Joel does not recognise them. Their suits are pressed, Italian; it seems Cabrera has made some alliances. Joel lies his first victim on the ground and prowls toward his next two.

They go easily: unsuspecting, they bleed out under his blade, choking on their blood, and he leaves them lying by the foggy partition. Three.

The music is dreamy, the crooning of two voices set to a throbbing track. In the bathhouse, he hears the sloshing of water and the singing of a group of men nearby. They're singing an old folk song, Joel realises. A song about a ghost.

Hurry, fall asleep, or the Boogeyman will come for you…

They don't sound particularly frightened by the spectre haunting them. Joel watches them toast their bottles of champagne and grab the waitresses’ asses. It's Emiliano and his friends, all right. Joel spots another five guards around the waist-deep water and another two by the doors upstairs.

There's a childlike self-assuredness about him—this kid. He thinks he's protected, safe, almighty as God. He sings about Joel and smiles.

A guard leans over him and sneers. “You need to stop drinking.”

“Are you scared of the fucking boogeyman?” jeers the kid. “I’m not! Hijo de puta.”

The guard plucks the bottle from his hand and passes it off. “You wanna vomit while you run away? Or would you just prefer to get shot in the head?”

Emiliano’s haughty sniff makes Joel wonder if a bullet in the head is retribution enough. “Get me another fucking bottle!” he says to his friend.

Joel picks up a bottle of complimentary cologne and tosses it. The glass shatters, potent liquid pooling on the shiny floor. Three guards flank the partition. The music is too loud to let the sounds of his blade in flesh seep through.

Six.

On the other side of the glass, coloured blue and red and slick with humidity, the singing continues.

From the swamp he will come…

He feels the wet splash of blood on his face.

… and take the children that don't behave.

Another man rounds the corner as Joel is tearing the knife from the last guard’s throat. He doesn't have enough time to slash his throat, so he pulls the handgun from his holster and shoots. He crumples to the floor, but Joel’s cover is blown.

“He’s here! Miller’s here!”

The partition explodes. Glass rains on him as he rolls to evade the gunfire, raising his barrel to strike at the remaining guards.

Seven. Eight.

The men by the stairs are shouting some Spanish, some Italian. The music carries on, but the song they're singing has ended.

Joel finds the man he's been looking for: hiding behind a petrified waitress, Emiliano Cabrera looks like a goddamn child. He's wrapped himself hastily in a bath towel around his waist, and his eyes are wide as saucers. Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m going to enjoy this a little.

He locks eyes with Emiliano for only a moment. The guards at the top of the stairs begin to fire at Joel. He ducks behind the wall as shots chip brick from the wall or plunk uselessly in the water. By the time he flanks them around the other side of the wall and brings them tumbling down the stairs—ten—the kid has already run. Joel growls at the loss of the kill and follows him into the club.

With an eruption of deafening music, Joel bursts into the crowd. Behind him, a gigantic LED screen is illuminated with spirals in red and blue and white. Women dance in elevated cages while the crowd below becomes a sea of skin and sequins and sweat. Joel reloads, checks the clip, and resumes his hunt.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Joel feels the punch of the barrel into their chests as he fires, again and again and again. The commotion is lost in the din of the music and dancing. Bodies connect and grind and Joel kills.

Fourteen. A guard by the wall. Fifteen. Another lurking by the LED spirals. Sixteen, seventeen—two men rushing him in an attempt to ambush, eyes wild with rage and a bit of fear. Joel puts them down like sick dogs and continues to push through the crowd, his eyes locked on the retreating Emiliano, who's waving a gun about like a white flag.

But it's no surrender. It's a beacon, a sign that the deer is spooked. Joel feels his lip curl. So frightened, he thinks.

Eighteen, nineteen…

Your bleary eyes, blinking through the pain, limbs limp and helpless as he unbuckled his belt above you. A cut on your face, barely bleeding. The red still consumes him.

You were so afraid that night.

Twenty.

Twenty-one.

He's getting closer. The crowd parts down the centre as Joel marches toward his goal. But the music is loud and he does not hear the approach from behind.

The gunshot grazes his shoulder, but he feels the flare of pain ooze its way down his arm. Joel grunts, knocked askew from his path, and turns to forge at his assailant.

The man is fast, though, and rushes him. The tackle brings him down to the ground, winding him just enough to briefly stun, to send his Glock spinning along the floor. He’s taller, broader, madder.

But he shoots one-handed.

Joel knocks the gun aside and it misfires into the gap in the crowd. In the dispersing, he sees more guards closing in his periphery. The only protection he has is the hulking body on top of him. So Joel uses it, bringing his elbow to the man’s throat and bunching the lapel of his jacket in his fist. The guard attempts to reach for the blade in his thigh holster, but Joel reaches down and bends his arm backward until the crunch crackles in his ear. The man howls, and Joel grasps the hilt of the knife.

Twenty-two.

He picks up his gun and fires a shot into each of the three approaching guards, but Emiliano has fled to the first floor. Joel grimaces as he stands, blood on his fingertips where he's prodded the wound in his arm. “Goddammit,” he mutters, following his target upstairs.

The air is dizzying. Hot. Joel never liked clubs. He hated the closeness and the bodies in cages and the way skin felt so sticky, too tight, like he needed to step outside of it. He hated the feeling of being suffocated by strangers, as if any of them could be lurking low in the darkness, waiting to strike.

He didn't understand the lure of the scantily-clad body until he saw you wrapped in a tight black dress. He didn't know the pleasure of dancing until you took his hand one night, his old vinyl player crackling out Frank Sinatra, and lay your head on his shoulder. It felt like stepping over the threshold into consecrated territory. He should not be touching you. But you were touching him.

Joel spots Emiliano running for the back entrance, shoving another guard in Joel’s path.

Twenty-six.

The final man, approaching Joel from the lounge, pulls his gun in time to shoot, but not in time for Joel to notice. The bullet shatters a glass of wine and topples a waiter’s tray. Joel fires.

One to go.

He has no choice but to lunge for the kid before he can run out into the street. Joel’s heart is pounding in his chest, his blood electrified. The take-down is sloppy and his ankle rolls, but Emiliano Cabrera is pinned beneath him and yelping like a kicked dog.

“My father will kill you,” he gasps, his cheek pressed to the floor.

“Your father knows exactly why I’m here,” says Joel, “and he knows how stupid you are.”

“Hijo de puta, it was just a fucking car,” he spits. “I was just going to have some fun with your bitch. I would've given her back.”

Joel isn't quite satisfied. He turns the kid onto his back and grasps him by the jaw, forcing him to meet Joel’s incendiary gaze.

“Everything has a price.”

The knife goes in smoothly, the flat of the blade glinting in his gaping mouth. No light flees his eyes. There is nothing but cold slate-grey. And although Joel feels no happiness feeling the pulse slow to a crawl beneath his palm, he does not pull the knife out.

Your body, sacred, helpless, lying on the floor. A predator’s gaze. The clink of a belt buckle. Joel steps over the body and leaves, limping to the valet and slipping him a golden coin. He slips back inside his Mustang, turns on the engine, and drives back to the hotel.

You’re tucked in the alcove by the window, staring out at the moonlit night. Your chin rests on your knees as you hug yourself close. The lamp between your respective beds colours the room orange.

“You’re limping.”

You haven’t even turned to face him.

“How—”

“I know how you sound when you walk.” Your temple is cool where it rests on the windowpane, your breath frosting the glass. Joel staggers to the small table and braces himself on the back of a chair as he watches you.

You’re as warm and bright as the day he found you that night in the restaurant. Your eyes may be a little older, but the glow is the same. He folds his bleeding hands around the back of the chair. Everything around you curls in, darkens, and wilts when it confronts your beauty.

“I’m all right.” He doesn’t deserve your concern. He’ll swallow any bullet to keep you from worrying.

You stand at last and cross the room to face him. His heart jumps like it’s the first time you asked him on a date. Like the first time he kissed you, his chest taut with tension and nerves and the assumption that you’d reject him.

“You can lie to me about lots of things, Joel, but I know this face.” The pad of your thumb ghosts over the crease between his brows. “I’ve painted it a hundred times. It doesn't lie.”

It's the first time you've touched him in days. Joel closes his eyes. Part of him, the part that jolts back to life under the tender weight of your soft skin, means it when he says, “I’m okay.”

You seem to ponder him for a moment. “This wouldn't be the first time I patched you up,” you say, as if resigned. “Go on. Bathroom.”

He winces. “You don't have to—”

“Go. And afterward, you can tell me everything.”

The pads of your fingers memorise the ridges on the gold coin. The time is close to dawn.

He’s no longer bleeding, and although you have nothing close to the Doctor’s prowess, you’ve managed to disinfect and wrap the wound in his arm. You can’t do anything about his ankle, but it’s a sprain; he’ll heal in time. The mangled black and blue on his tender skin reminds you of a night sky without the stars. It doesn’t seem to pain him. It only makes you wonder what sorts of agonies he’s faced—ones you never knew about.

The hurt has festered in your time away from him. He’s an open wound in the shape of a hand on your back, searing cold through to your heart. The hand sports a golden band, and it reflects in the one you still wear. You don't quite know what to make of it now.

He looks exactly like the man you knew. Not a part of him has changed—he's still scruffy, still tired, still jaggedly gorgeous. You paint him with blurred edges, with blues and greys. Your heart still pulls when you look at him. Your chest still gapes wide open, and he digs his thumbs into the bruises. He lied to you. He broke your trust. And there's still so much of your Joel in him, from the skin to the bones.

“It’s beautiful,” you muse, turning the coin over.

“Technically, it’s not money,” Joel says. “It is currency. They can be exchanged for favours, information, relationships.”

“A hotel room,” you add. “Good to know I don’t have to move any savings around. Where have you been keeping these?”

“There’s a safe in the basement,” he says, “under the floorboards. When I left, I buried all of it. Weapons, coins, contacts, anything I had from the Underworld.”

The Underworld. A fitting name, if you’ve made any sense of it at all. “Do the police know about all of this?”

“Most of them are in the pockets of High Table members. Those are the ones who control how it all works. Rules and consequences,” says Joel, “is how they operate. They're what separate us from the animals.”

You lift your brows. “And who sits at this High Table?”

“Twelve leaders. They're the ones who run most of the major crime families and organisations. They control police, politicians, banks—”

Your shuddering sigh makes him stop in his tracks. He watches you lean back in the chair and bends forward slightly, as if tied to you by an invisible thread.

“So… the girl who serves me coffee on the corner by my office could be part of it.” You frown at the coin in your hand. “She could be a witness, a runner, a messenger. She could be like you.”

“She isn't,” says Joel, “but that is the general idea.”

“But civilians are immune.”

“More or less,” says Joel. “There are… heavy penalties for harming them.”

“Penalties like death.”

“Most of the time,” he says. “And there are rules here, too. No business can be conducted on the grounds of any Continental hotel.”

“Any? You mean—”

“There's a Continental in every major city in the world. It's where we go to remind ourselves we’re civilised.”

“Civilised,” you scoff. “Civilised murder, sure. I’m buying it. And now that you’re back—”

“Visiting.”

You just glare at him, and he ducks his head.

“—there's a contract on your head.”

Joel nods. “Two million.”

You curl your fingers over the coin in your palm as your stomach bottoms out. “That's a lot of incentive to put a bullet in your brain.”

“They won't,” he says. “Cabrera holds the contract, and he only opened it because of Emiliano. He’d pull it the second I agreed to stop looking for his son. He doesn't want me owing him.”

“I don't know if I’d call that a debt.”

“Considering everything I did for him,” says Joel, a bite to his voice, “anything short of killin' his kid is a favour.”

Despite yourself, you open your hand and slide the coin toward him. “Tell me what you did.”

His head shoots up, his brows knitted together. “What?”

“Tell me what you did to get out. Tell me about this ‘impossible task.’”

“Baby, that’s…” He rubs his hand across his jaw, and it strikes you then how deep those half-circles colour the space beneath his eyes.

“Stop,” you whisper. It never used to hurt when he called you baby. “Tell me how much blood you thought I was worth.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. His knees barely touch yours under the table. “You don't wanna hear the answer to that.”

“Then start here. What did you do, Joel?”

The sigh he releases feels heavy. “I came to Cabrera, asking him to release me from my contract. He told me he'd let me out, no strings attached… if I hunted down his enemies.”

Your mouth drops. “Which enemies?”

He picks up the coin and turns it over in his palm. The silence drops an anchor on the ground. Your belly churns with the movement of the golden piece as it catches the light.

“All of them,” says Joel. “All of ‘em, in one night. That was his impossible task.”

The scrape of your chair legs across the floor is grating. But you stand anyway, your head vaguely stirring with the beginnings of a headache.

“Oh my God.”

You barely feel your own hand on your cheek, barely smell the iron tang of blood on him, barely see the red cutting through his pressed white shirt. “How many people?”

Joel shakes his head, his shy eyes lowered, still as the paintings you've made of him. “I… I don't know.”

I lost count, he means. There were too many, he means.

Your throat is just wide enough to let your breath escape. The air you take in feels poisonous. He killed every single one of them. All because he wanted to marry you.

All because he wanted peace.

“Is there anyone in the Underworld who doesn’t know your name?”

Joel’s repentant silence, head ducked as if in prayer, is all the answer you need.

“How did this happen?” Your voice is uniquely quiet.

“When I was a kid,” he says, and your heart sinks, “I lived on the streets. Lived like a rat, mostly, but I survived. You know that much.”

You nod solemnly, lowering yourself into the chair once more. “The Sisters reunited you with your brother.”

His dark eyes reflect the lamplight and it resembles a flame igniting in the depths of the iris. “Found me on Canal Street, runnin’ drugs for a mobster I don't even remember. Tommy was only five, but he must've told them about me. They took me to the orphanage and started my training.”

You swallow, your temples pounding. Deep in your gut, something wild and dry begins to kindle. “They were the ones who taught you all of this?”

“They teach the word of God above everythin’ else, but yeah. They train children to thrive in the Underworld. We were taught knives, guns, hand-to-hand. Hell, they even taught us how to dance—how to move faster than the opponent. I knew how to kill someone before I could read.” Joel chuckles, and part of you thinks he actually thinks it's funny. “Probably why I’m so slow.”

You aren't slow, you want to say. You've never been slow, not from the first day.

The kindling curls and you can feel your mouth pull at the corners. He had only been a child. An orphan. A child had no way to choose, to resist how they were raised. He hadn’t been given a choice—his life in exchange for a roof over his head.

“Those fucking bastards.”

Joel’s laugh is mirthless. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it.”

You angrily swipe the tears that warm your cheeks. “No adult should have that power. They should nurture and comfort and protect, not—” Your breath hitches. “You were a child. You didn't deserve that.”

Your fingers have curled into a fist atop the table. With both hands, he gently lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. You expect it to feel foreign, wrong. It just feels like Joel.

“The Sisters were cruel,” he says softly. “But I made myself into a weapon. It was the only way I would survive.” He reaches out as if for a wounded deer and brushes his thumb over your jaw. “They never made me believe, sweetheart. That was all you.”

You sniffle, your head bobbing absently. You don't know what to think. You don't know how to feel. Your own husband has been through the seven circles and crawled back out only to teeter back over the pit once more. There’s an ancient weariness in the black of his eyes, an old hurt, a mansion slowly crumbling at the edges.

“You hid this all from me, and never told anyone,” you say, the ache widening. You find you want to assume, consume, even a modicum of the pain that he's felt.

One of his shoulders lifts in a mild shrug. “I wanted to forget all of it. I wanted to make something of the new life I’d killed for.” He meets your gaze and you swear part of the open wound in his pupils has sealed. “I didn't want any of it to touch you.”

And you remember lying in bed with him that first night, after that first time, tracing a scar on his back. White and ridged, it spread like lightning feelers from the middle of his spine to the dimples in his lower back.

You'd put your mouth to his shoulder blade and felt him melt into you.

What happened?

The silence that followed could have heard the brush of a feather over skin.

I was raised in an orphanage. In a church. They weren't kind.

And that was that. You'd prodded and fussed and he'd said I’m fine. It was a long time ago.

“But that's what you do, Joel,” you tell him. “You hide your hurt and you bury your feelings and you do it all because you're afraid it'll make everyone leave you.”

Sometimes he would wake in a cold sweat, heaving, tossing aside the sheets, but he would never make a sound. You'd see him, pretending to sleep, and place your hand over his chest. His fingers would grasp yours as if marooned on the water, seeking driftwood, his hand suffocating yours. He'd keep it pressed to his heart until the beats slowed.

You regret those times you never pressed. In a way, you were afraid, too. If you opened your eyes, if you asked him to confess, he would close the lattice and turn his back to you. You didn't want to lose him, either.

But you did.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it doesn't hold the weight you want it to. It doesn't blow out the candles in the cathedral. It doesn't pluck the scared little boy from the streets or give him a warm bed. It doesn't stop the beatings and the lashings and the pain.

It does not pry the pain from his heart and bury the shrapnel in your chest instead. It is something he bears, as he always has, and must. It is something you cannot take from him. And you feel more helpless than you ever have.

He shakes his head. “I know we can't go back,” he says, tracing one of the little daisy charms on your bracelet. “But it feels… good. It feels good to finally tell you. Even if we were too late.”

The sound of his voice breaking shakes your heart loose from your rib cage.

“Come to bed.” Your voice is raw and used. “Just… come to bed, and sleep.”

He doesn't dare look hopeful, though you can see the tremor that courses through his hand. He wants to take yours, the way he did the day he proposed, dropping to one knee with your palms flush.

He looked a little hopeful that day, too. With rapt attention, he'd taken hold of you and said, I love you. I love you more than anything. You’re my best friend. Will you marry me? Will you let me be your husband?

You realise now why he'd let himself hope. He'd gotten out. He'd started his new life. With you.

You can see his old scars, even in the dark. You think, in all your time together, you've learned his body as you learn the earth you tread upon. The praying hands of Dürer lie beneath the name inked in small black lettering.

Your name.

You gingerly reach out and place your hand on his back. Joel shudders. He does not turn to face you where you both lie on your sides.

“If you bleed on the bed sheets,” you say to the darkness, “will management make us pay?”

He chuckles. “Strongly worded phone call at best. I’ll take the hit.”

You frown, ghosting your fingers over the tender skin around the makeshift patch job on his shoulder. “Does it still hurt?”

“No,” he says, leaning into your touch, “not anymore.”

“You never told me about this scar on your back.” You touch the edges of the puckered skin. “I never stopped wondering. But I should never have stopped asking.”

“Don't,” he says quietly. “Don’t say any of that like it's your fault.”

The silence bleeds as viscous as an open gash into the dry air. His watch broke the day of your wedding. He told you it was all right, that we've got all the time in the world, and you'd kissed him and laughed. He’d replaced the battery since then, but sometimes the little hand lags behind, as if afraid to chug forward. Afraid to let time, of all silly, trivial things, consume your world.

“Do you remember your vows?” you ask him.

“‘Course I do.”

“Do you remember mine?”

His head bows slightly on the pillow. “‘I vow to be your partner in all things,’” he recites. “‘I vow to protect your heart like it's my own. I vow to take your pain, and to shoulder it so you don't have to.’”

The tears saturate the pillowcase beneath your cheek. You fall asleep with your arm around his waist, your hand next to his, not touching, but nearly.

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