#Savoring the Olde Ways series

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

Part I: The Prophecy — June 25, 2011

Part I: On her daily morning run, Y/N wonders if she’ll ever have someone who wants her simply company. Spencer promises her just that, the only catch: she has to wait seven years.

Rating: Eventual smut, fluff and longing

Word Count: 3.5K

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My Mind Turns You Into Folklore: The Prophecy — June 25, 2011

Running, somehow, still made her feel like a child. Perhaps there was something unadulterated and carefree about losing yourself in the pounding of pavement. When Y/N felt the wind rush in her ears and the familiar burn throughout her body, she truly felt alive.

Her entire body ached— no, screamed— as she approached her fifth mile for the day’s session. For Y/N running wasn’t about getting to the destination fastest, but about finishing the race altogether.

She wished she could apply such wisdom to very particular aspects of her life. Namely, her love life. For Y/N, relationships with men were unpleasantly predictable. From terrible blind dates with friends who she honestly can’t tell if they meant well to men with habits so strange Y/N could only plead insanity by a drunken state as to why she entertained even a second glance. Unfortunately, for her the sea of men seemed to solely be comprised of rather the unfortunate sort of men that made her skin crawl.

Her knees burned as her mind ran through the five weddings and babies that were impending. Between cousins, college friends, and even her own sister all either, Y/N never more lonely than when she was surrounded by her people. There was something particularly voyeuristic about watching those you love move along the carousel while you’re left in the dust. She was a casual observer, marooned to the sidelines. And someone where along the way she forgot to even care.

Her chest burned as she wondered where her aunt, a woman born and forged from pure spite and hefty lack of tolerance for anything progressive, would sit her at her cousin’s wedding. Y/N heaved forward imagining what would be worse; the discarded old widow’s table with wives whose husbands’ expiration date had come and passed. Or with her unruly nephews who would have to be wrestled into a tiny tuxedo and bribed with fried food and the majesty of Red40 to maintain the semblance of civility.

Being 27, husbandless, boyfriendless, and childless didn’t usually bother Y/N. She loved her peace. But somehow it put her into this plane of existence where she straddled youth and adulthood. She had one foot jammed deep into the rich, sodden earth of childhood and one toe dipping too all too calm to be safe waters of adulthood. Yet being uncoupled was as if she purchased overnight shipping to the elephant graveyard.

It was antiquated. It was downright sexist, yet there was a small part of her heart and her entire being that craved to be taken care of by a man. She wanted someone to bring her flowers just because, to hug her from behind while she stirred soup for dinner on a chilly day, to brush her hair from her face as he brought her to the brink of pleasure time and time again.

There was only so much her vibrator could do.

But a heart that ached to be loved, that problem didn’t come with a WebMD link. There wasn’t a quick and easy fix to change something that defined her on a molecular level.

She savored the sweet breeze that reminded her of summer and childhood. The houses, various shades of blue, gray, and beige blurred past as she maintained her steady pace.

Y/N rounded the corner and pounded the pavement that led to Betsy’s Cape Cod. She was the Head Librarian and took Y/N under her rather Mother Goose-like wing three years ago when she took the position at the small, sleepy library. A suburb of Quantico, many of the patrons were families in public service.

She even stumbled across someone who quickly became her best friend, Spencer. He was some sort of former child prodigy turned adult wunderkid. After racking up more diplomas than most extended families collect, Spencer worked as a special agent for the FBI. But looking at him, you would never have guessed. He was timid and shy in a boyish way that made him seem much younger than 32. He was tall and lanky, yet despite his slender frame he seemed to completely light up every single room he walked into.

Both Betsy and Spencer buried themselves into the fabric of her life. Betsy sat on the front porch, slowly swaying on the large, wooden swing. A crocheted blanket lay over her lap, keeping her warm under the brisk morning’s chill.

“Y/N!” Betsy called, as she ascended the stairs with a bright smile, “Dearie, it’s far too cold for you to run out here.”

“I could say the same about you, Bets,”

Betsy dismissed Y/N with a coy smile and a wave of her hand. “It’s good for my old bones to get a little chill. Make sure everything is in working order.”

Betsy scooted over on the porch swing, making more than enough room for Y/N to sit.

“That tall kid? Hmm, Spencer? Yes. Spencer. Was in there looking for you yesterday. Poor kid’s entire day was ruined when I told him you were on a date. Now, is there a reason why you didn’t tell me you didn’t tell your best friend?” Betsy asked, not hesitating to ask a question that went straight for the jugular.

Y/N offered Betsy a weak smile. “There wasn’t anything to tell him. He’s not interested in my love life. We talk about books. And work. And… I don’t know…”

Betsy nodded, but her pointed look pressed Y/N to continue. There wasn’t anything romantic between her and Spencer, but that wasn’t to say the connection wasn’t the most important thing in her life. When she met him three years ago he simply waltzed into her life; a tall, gangly man with a large appetite for baked goods and an excellent taste in literature.

“Besides, he has a thing for his coworker. Even though she hardly acknowledges his existence.”

From the time she met Spencer, he constantly was talking about his teammates. Growing up, Spencer didn’t have a stable family life. His mother tried her best, while his father never tried at all. He grown up not knowing what it was like to belong anywhere and now he finally found something resembling a family.

JJ was blonde and skinny and perfect and Spencer was completely enamored with her. Y/N met her only a couple of times, the first after a football game. She shared a plate of cheese fries and gravy with Spencer’s other coworker, Penelope as Spencer attempted to spout an almanac’s worth of facts about football to JJ.

“Hmm,” Betsy murmured, swinging back and forth. “Well, he said he has to talk to you about something. Maybe he’s getting to his senses, finally.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, sipped some of the ice cold lemonade Betsy handed her, and gave her a pointed smile.

“This isn’t a romance novel, Bets. You’ve been sneaking too many of those bodice rippers.”

She stood up and felt some relief as her weary muscles stretched. Betsy waved another annoyed hand.

“Quiet down, Missy. I’ve had my chance at love. And I fully intend on you and Spencer being an item. My Arnold, may that old bastard rest in peace, never gave me children, so you and that boy are my only chance to fill this house with grandkids.”

“Oh my God, Betsy,” Y/N groaned, her head tossed back, “It’s not like that between us. And I promise you, it never will be.”

Y/N took off before Betsy had the chance to respond. But she couldn’t shake the funny feeling tugging at her heartstrings. She thought that maybe if she just focused her mind on feeling the wind blow her hair and her body burn as the third mile turned into a fifth, she could wash away the thoughts of one or two little children sitting on Betsy’s porch, sandwiched in between her and Spencer.

***

Gary, as it turned out, wasn’t a nice guy. First of all, he showed up precisely 23 and a half minutes late and hardly bothered to greet her as he sat down at their two seater table. He barked a drink order to the waitress, who graciously threw Y/N a sympathetic smile.

“So you work at Walter Reed?” Y/N asked, attempting to make conversation with the man seated in front of her. He was a couple years her senior and an Attending Emergency Room Doctor. On paper Gary seemed wonderful. He had a nice family; older sisters were always a green flag in Y/N’s book and seemed to have a basic grasp of personal hygiene practices.

Gary mumbled as the waitress brought him his drink: whisky on rocks. He downed it in about three minutes and signaled for the waitress to return.

“Sorry,” Gary apologized, his voice so close to resembling being embarrassed, but it, somewhere along the line, made a beeline in the opposite direction, “There was some bitch in the ER today complaining about how her boyfriend didn’t believe her when she told him she was pregnant. Took me a god damn hour to shut her up. Jesus, reminds me why I don’t date.”

Y/N felt her face freeze. It was like his harsh words poured ice water over her shoulders. Her skin practically crawled as Gary’s carelessness settled in. Wasn’t this a date? Or was this simply the means for Gary to get into her pants.

“Hold up,” Y/N said, gesturing with her hand held up to stop Gary’s rant, “I was under the impression this was a date. Is it not?”

Gary shrugged. “As long as there’s a happy ending with you, babe I don’t give a fuck.”

He was crass. Y/N was far from a prude. She enjoyed her time in college and didn’t mind the occasional quick one night stand when the opportunity presented itself, but there would be something completely debasing and revolting about sleeping with the man sitting before her.

“I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression.” Y/N said, her words clipped and stern: there wasn’t room for Gary to mix up any bit of her message. “I’m not looking for a fuck-buddy. And even if I was, it certainly wouldn’t be you. We’ve been sitting here for all of twelve minutes and you’ve already drank two whiskys, been rude to the waitress, insulted a patient, and offended me.”

Gary, in a lackadaisical way that could only be described as a fuckboy with the worst case of Peter Pan syndrome, shrugged his shoulders. He downed the rest of his second whisky, “You’re a frigid bitch anyway.”

He left.

And Y/N laughed. Then she ordered two slices of double chocolate cheesecake and asked the waitress where the closest liquor store was.

***

Silently, she cursed Spencer’s charming love of buildings with character. She bounded up the steps to his apartment, the plastic bag with the two slices of cheesecake banged against her leg. Her other hand clutched the neck of a cheap, screw top rose.

Her date, disastrous, was nearly comical, and she couldn’t wait to recount the details to Spencer.

They share a sort of sadistic penchant for relaying moments for their occasional first dates. Typically, Y/N had more than Spencer. On the rare occasion Spencer did have a date, Y/N found herself trying to explain that any girl in her right mind would attempt to flirt with Spencer, but he refused to see her points.

Not bothering to knock, Y/N opted to use the spare key Spencer gave her. She figured he’d either still be working at the office or would be too engrossed in his latest fantasy novel to bother answering the door.

Spencer’s apartment was painted a dusty, sage green. The farthest wall was lined with built-in bookshelves. A prewar relic, Spencer’s style mixed perfectly with the vintage quality embedded within the walls.

Up until recently, Spencer’s kitchen was hardly used. But Y/N had taken it upon herself to teach Spencer the basics in prepping meals. He was a quick study, as with almost everything he tried. And it gave her some peace knowing he would be able to provide himself something more satiating than granola bars and frozen lasagna.

“Spencer! Spence!” Y/N called out, dipping her head into Spencer’s second bedroom. There was a queen bed in there with a cream colored quilt splashed out on the bed.

On late nights spent watching old, black and white movies or binging episodes of The Twilight Zone and The X-Files, she would crash there. It was a fight for her to even concede to allow Spencer to purchase the queen bed. Y/N claimed that she was fine just sleeping on the couch, but Spencer insisted that she sleep in a bed.

And if Y/N had been born into a braver soul, she would’ve suggested they share his bed three years ago.

Spencer shuffled out of his bathroom, eyes red and weary. He wore a tattered Cal-Tech shirt and plaid pajama pants. He wore his glasses. They rested on the bridge of his nose and made him lose at least four or five years on his already young looking face.

“She’s pregnant.”

“I brought wine. And chocolate cheesecake.” Y/N replied, kicking her shoes off. “And you better have done laundry already because I am not sleeping in this dress. I feel ridiculous in it.”

Spencer’s eyes raked over Y/N’s frame, as if he was internally debating his thoughts on her outfit. His brow furrowed. “You’re date?”

“Asshole.” Y/N said, walking into the kitchen. She plucked two wine glasses from Spencer’s cabinet and two plates. “Arrogant and only wanted a quick fuck.”

His voice disappeared as he went into his room for a change of pajamas. They were freshly washed. She continued to listen to Spencer as she shut the bathroom door and changed behind. His voice was no longer muffled when she came out of the bathroom, but she did notice how Spencer’s eyes still were heavy with something unfamiliar when he looked over her baggy, old pajama-clad frame.

“You’re not the girl for that.” Spencer commented, reaching for the corkscrew. His large hands twisted around the device and the bottle of wine made a satisfying pop.

“You don’t know that.” Y/N countered, her defiance made a crop of red appear on Spencer’s cheeks. “Besides, that’s not the point. JJ’s pregnant. With that New Orleans guy’s baby?”

He nodded. It was as if grief washed over Spencer as Y/N changed the conversation. She knew that Spencer was harboring feelings for JJ. Jennifer was nearly perfect in every way. The only imperfect thing about her was that she didn’t realize how perfect Spencer was. He would’ve adored JJ if he got the chance. He nearly did.

“And how do you feel about that?”

Spencer groaned, pouring himself a healthy cup of rosé. “Unsure. It’s not like I’m going to confront her about this. She’s practically engaged to Will. And now there’s a baby in the picture? A baby who’s very well going to grow up seeing me as Uncle Spencer.”

He sounded exhausted. Y/N touched his hand and squeezed. She understood the pained loneliness that plagued Spencer’s voice. “I don’t love JJ anymore. It’s just, my whole life I felt like I was so far beyond my peers. And now? They all finally have caught up, this time the tables have turned. God, I’m excited when a girl smiles at me, let alone goes on a date with me.”

Weakly, Y/N smiled. She sipped her rose, “So it’s more of feeling like you’re far beyond in life? Despite having two PhDs and like three undergrad degrees? You’re one of the most accomplished men I know, Spencer. And we all move along at our own pace. Don’t compare JJ’s story to yours.”

He nodded, spooning a bite of the double chocolate cheesecake. “It’s just…I’m nearly 32. And now I’m watching JJ and Hotch and Morgan talk about babies and husbands and wives and houses. And I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be lucky enough to get that one day. Sometimes… I think I’m too me for anyone to fall in love with me.”

Y/N felt her heart shatter into a million little pieces as Spencer’s honest confession striked her entire system. She wanted to reach out and push away the stray curl that hooked itself in front of his eyebrow. She wanted to reach out and wipe away his tears. She wanted to tell her friend that if no one married him, she would.

She stalked off the to couch, needing a stable place to sit. Her chocolate cheesecake stuck to the roof of her mouth and the bitter rosé did nothing to remove it.

“Holy shit, Spencer. Do you not realize that you’d make any girl happy? You’ll find her one day, I know it. And if you don’t, we can just say fuck it and get married. I mean, I know it wouldn’t be romantic love, but we could at least live together. Through a big fancy party and get dressed up nice and getting drunk on mojitos with my best friend. My person? Sounds fun.”

“You mean that?” Spencer asked, half in disbelief and half in wonderment. “You mean that we’ll get married if neither of us have someone…say seven years from now?”

She must’ve drank more than she thought as she waited for Gary to ruin their date. “I meant it. But why seven?”

A smile toyed on Spencer lips. She noticed the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

“It’s my lucky number.”

Her lips were so loose that it threatened to crack open her heart. She had a nasty habit of wearing that on her sleeve.

She gave Spencer a sheepish look as his eyes met hers. He looked half between incredulous and hopeful. His fingers ran across the rim of his wine glass as the wine sloshed around. It mirrored Y/N’s stomach.

“Is this idea like bad shit crazy?” Y/N asked. “I mean it. I mean, why not. It’s not so different from what we do now. Just all the time. And I’d be thrilled to be spiritually required to spend more time with you.”

“Should we….shake hands or something. I’m not the biggest fan of that, but I think my wife would serve as an exception to the rule. To every rule I’ve got?”

Y/N laughed. She felt the wine creep up a nice, warm flush against her skin. It matched the light and easy way her limbs felt. It might have very well been the wine, but there wasn’t much of anything that could trump laughing with your best friend. Especially when that best friend slipped and called you his wife.

Her feet somehow ended up in Spencer’s lap. His thumb rubbed gently against her ankle, barely touching her bare skin. Yet it sent shockwaves that she didn’t quite understand.

The corners of Spencer’s eyes crinkled as he reciprocated that laugh. They shared it and Y/N had the strangest desire to bottle it up. She wanted to store this moment in her mind and come back to it. One day. Some day.

“We’ll get married,” Spencer started speaking as if it was a prophecy that he could set in stone, “if neither of us has anyone, we’ll enter this rather odd, rather complex, yet completely entirely normal and simple marriage in seven years?” His sweet, yet coy smile was boyish, it only reminded Y/N just how far away 35 was for her.

“Should we draft up a contract?”

“Have your lawyers contact my lawyers. I never sign documents without the proper legal support. In the meantime, could we settle on our first stipulation: never watching a new episode of our current favorite show without the other?”

“I agree to the terms and conditions you’ve set out.” Y/N said. She grabbed the blanket that rested on the back of the couch as Spencer turned off the lamp light.

“Oh and I washed the sheets in your room. I used the detergent you like. And your pajamas. The lavender vanilla one with the scent beads?” He flipped on an episode of The Twilight Zone.

She smiled from the way Spencer naturally called the guest room her bedroom. There was something very domestic and peaceful about him using her favorite detergent to wash the sheets in her room in his apartment. It resembled the exact something that she was craving: being taken care of.

She sipped her rose again, watching as her friend smiled at the gray scale painted on the screen. It was too bad she only had to weight over half a decade to feel it and not feel guilty and like she was lying to herself.

—

Taglist:

@reidsbookclub @boldlyvoid @mrs-dr-reid @reid-ingandweeping @candlesandsoftrain @foxy-eva @queermaxwooo

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction

[cauliflowercounty]

Knives Dance (Part III)

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader

Summary: It was hard to have a prose summary so here are some bullets of what’s happening in part 3

Baron Feyd missing you + heartfelt reunion 

Feyd being totally infatuated with you

SCIENCE!!! and POLITICS!!!

Rabban being pitiful

Reader being a badass

Feyd vs Paul on Arrakis (what will happen? You’ll never knowww… [unless you read this chapter **wink, wink, wink**]

Warnings: Violence, blood, death (woohoo)

Word Count: 10.3k (whoops… I went typey-type)

A/N: I wanted to say a sincere thanks to everyone who's read Knives Dance up to this point. This series is some of the most fun I've had writing in a long, long time. Sending lots of love your way :)

Part I | Part II | Part III

--

Stirring gently in his bed, Feyd recoils slightly as the light from Giedi Prime’s black sun hits his eye line through the wall of windows that separate his bedroom from the private balcony that overlooks the cityscape.  He extends his arm to your side of the bed and runs his hand languidly across the surface, feeling the cool, silky sheets under his fingertips. His heart feels heavy in his chest, and he lets out a low growl of frustration into his pillow. It has been a long three weeks without you.  

You’ve been off-world on a visit to Youra to see your father and bring back equipment for the laboratory you’re constructing on Giedi Prime. He knows that he doesn’t have to worry about your safety because he insisted on a full Harkonnen security detail accompanying you, which should have put his mind at ease, but he’s laid awake each night since your departure, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think of disasters befalling you during your travels. One night it’s asteroids colliding with your ship, tearing gaping holes in the walls, and sucking you into the vacuum of space. Another, it’s an ambush by an undiscovered society, hellbent on killing alien peoples for sport. Perhaps a novel virus wiping out the entire population of Youra and you with it in a matter of days?  No farfetched scenarios were off limits when Feyd allowed his mind to wander.

The foreign feeling of loss due to your absence has not only plagued him with anxiety, but allowed Feyd to slip into a state of abject melancholia. None of his old vices have come close to fulfilling him, let alone make him feel much of anything.  Watching his servants cower in fear or making foreign ambassadors quake in their seats wasn’t giving him the same gratification as it once had.  Even hearing the roar of the crowds in the arena didn't given him any satisfaction. Everything had felt unbearably pedestrian. The only thing that brought a smile to his face was the thought of having the other half of his bed full again and listening to your tranquil voice. With every passing moment, he’s yearned for the life you had built together on Giedi Prime to resume.

Your mornings together were simple and easy. They were a time when he could always experience a drop of serenity within the political quagmire he’d gotten himself into since assuming the title of Baron. He’d wake up with you already in his embrace, your head laid delicately on his chest. He'd listen to your soft breathing and savor the way your limbs would entangle with his. The image of you blinking your eyes open to look at him with the special glimmer of affection reserved just for him never failed to make his heart flutter. 

Overtime, Feyd noticed you had been taking very well to Harkonnen dresses, which you now wore more often than not. He had the best seamstresses on Giedi Prime make and tailor custom outfits for you, though he didn’t expect you to always wear them, knowing how important your heritage was for you.  Nevertheless, you continued to grab one of the black gowns from your shared closet for your daily tasks and tell him with a smile “I’m Baroness Harkonnen now.  Shouldn’t I dress the part?”

Before leaving your quarters each day, Feyd always took the opportunity to take your hand in his and bring you in front of the floor length mirror in your shared closet. With his hands around your waist, he would pepper gentle kisses from your cheeks down your neck, whispering in your ear “you are a vision today, my Baroness.” You'd always smile and blush bashfully in return, returning his kisses in kind. Moments like those when it was just the two of you had become one of his favorite parts of the day.

You made the meetings, filled with diplomats groveling to win his favor, bearable. How he loved to watch you as you sat on the grand Harkonnen throne beside him. You never failed to command the room with your head held high. Power and dignity seemed to drip off of your being and fill every room you entered. You were truly worthy of the title of Baroness, and with every passing day and every interaction, there was more and more for Feyd to admire about you.

In private, you took to training together, where he would bask in your shared might. With every blow he endured from you, all he could think about was that he, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, was the only person alive to witness you so animated with ferocity and passion from battle, as all others who have seen you this way have been slain and buried. Sparring sessions between the two of you almost always ended with you both on the floor, limbs entwined and chests heaving after one of you would get the best of the other and take the opportunity to pin the other to the floor. 

At the end of the day, you'd always assume your position on the balcony in a flowy, white nightgown. With a gentle gesture, you’d beckon him to accompany you while you observe your shared domain, watching the shuttles flying through the gaps in the dark architecture and the stark white floodlights passing over the cityscape.  He’d hold you close by your waist and whisper sweet nothings into your ear until you start to shiver from the evening chill, at which point he’d tug at your waist to take you back to the bedroom to retire for the night. Every day, Feyd was falling deeper and deeper into you, and he’s loved every moment. 

Bringing himself upright, Feyd stretches his arms and stands up, walking over to the closet. Across from his sets of Harkonnen formalwear and battle gear, your gowns are neatly hung. Half of them are the sleek, black Harkonnen designs he had made for you. The other half are gorgeously vibrant Youran gowns. He sighs, imagining sharing one of your moments again in front of the mirror like always, but alas, you are not beside him. Once he’s dressed, he emerges from his quarters and is met with a nameless servant.

“Good morning, Baron,” the servant says, bowing deeply and trying not to give Feyd an excuse to kill him. “I am here to inform you that we have received a signal from the Baroness’s craft.  Her arrival is imminent.”

Hearing those words, Feyd turns on his heel toward the landing docks, dismissing the servant who heaves a sigh of relief because his head is thankfully still connected to the rest of his body. As Feyd walks the halls, his pace quickens, feeling the anticipation rise in his chest. People bow and salute him in the hallways, but he doesn’t pay them any attention. He’s too preoccupied with his thoughts of you; he can already smell the aroma of rainforest flowers you carry around with you. The thought that he’s so close to having you near again nearly drives him mad. 

When he arrives at the landing docks, the fleet of Harkonnen vessels is already touching down. As he hears the machinery’s loud whirring die, the ramps of all the crafts to meet the floor. Lines of Harkonnen soldiers file out first, each soldier with weapons in arms. The steady pulse of their synchronized footsteps echoes through the space with perfect adherence to Harkonnen military standards is satisfactory for Feyd. The commander in front barks orders, and the guards immediately step into formation, making an aisle that extends between Feyd and the craft closest to him. 

He is at a loss for words when he sees you walk down the ramp. You are undeniably gorgeous in Harkonnen clothes, but you look positively ethereal in the Youran gown and golden headdress that adorn your body today. Instead of shrouding yourself in the cloak you’ve worn in the past to hide your weaponry, you’re wearing a traditional dress reserved only for Youra’s utmost nobility. Layers of sheer, olive and cerulean fabric flare behind you to create your dress’s skirt out from under a ribbed bronze and mahogany corset.  Seeing how it’s cinched your waist and accented your silhouette, all Feyd wants to do is hold you and drag his fingers up and down the length of your figure.

Through the abundance of delicate golden chains that are symmetrically draped over your exposed shoulders and chest, Feyd can see how the corset and the off the shoulder neckline cradles your breasts in a way that makes him feel lightheaded. The entire skirt of the dress is decorated in dazzling embellishments and the characteristic Youran golden thread that Feyd has come to love on you. The fabric of the train seems to flow like water behind you as you walk.  

The high front hemline of the gown that ends at your upper thighs gives Feyd a good look at your legs, the lengths of which are delicately wrapped in the thin, tan ribbons from your sandals. The crosshatched pattern of the ribbons allows him to see just how beautifully your legs are sculpted from years of training and exploration. The sight makes his mouth water. He is truly breathless gazing upon you, his Baroness.

You return his affectionate gaze and call his name excitedly, reaching down and bunching up your skirt in your grasp before breaking into a run between the lines of Harkonnen guards. Your footsteps are the only noise reverberating throughout the area. Before he even realizes it, Feyd’s running for you, too. As you approach each other, he extends his arms out to you, and you leap into them, wrapping your legs around his waist. As he lifts you up into his arms, he spins you both around as you nuzzle yourself deeper into his hold.

Your grips on each other are desperate. Without a moment to waste, he cups your cheek with one hand as the other holds you tightly by the small of your back. A tear threatens to fall from his eyes as he considers saying that he hopes that you’ve missed him, but the look in your eyes already tells him the answer. This is truly happiness like he’s never experienced before. It washes over him when you finally bring your lips to meet his. His breath is warm against yours as he exhales into the kiss in satisfaction. He feels your hands come up to clutch the back of his head to deepen your kiss and growls hungrily, quickly losing himself in your embrace while attempting to resist the urge to devour you on the spot. His brow furrows when you finally break for air.

“Hello, my love,” you whisper softly, pressing your forehead against his, as if what you’re saying is a secret meant for only his ears. He grins at the pet name you’ve picked for him.  “How have things been at home?” Your words make Feyd pause. Were you calling Giedi Prime “home?” 

“Everything has been adequate,” Feyd says, kissing you again. “But I do prefer it when my Baroness is beside me.”

“I guess you’re in luck then,” you smile at his words. You rest your hands on his chest, feeling his prominent pectoral muscles underneath his shirt which makes him sigh in satisfaction. You swiftly squash the temptation to kiss him again as you meet his gaze because if you do, you’d never want to stop. Feyd sets you down, even though he’d gladly carry you all day wherever you want. 

“My father sends his regards. He’s very pleased with House Harkonnen. He also sends his condolences at your uncle’s passing,” you say, which makes Feyd scoff silently to himself. “I’ve also gathered all I need for the laboratory.  I hope I didn’t bring too much back with me. I hope it’s not a burden…” you trail off.

“You could never be a burden. We have plenty of servants. They can handle the labor,” Feyd assures as he turns to one of the closest guards. “Start unloading the Baroness’s things. You know where to take them. Don’t you dare damage any of it. There will be repercussions if anything is found broken.”

“Yes, My Lord,” the guard responds before beginning to bark orders to the others. One by one, the guards disappear into the vessel, and emerge moments later, carrying large wooden crates by the bronze colored handles attached to the sides of each. They all file out and disappear into the fortress, headed for your lab. 

“So,” Feyd says, turning back to you. “Home is Giedi Prime now? I wouldn’t have expected you to call anywhere but Youra home. It’s not that I’m unsatisfied that you’ve found comfort on Giedi Prime, but I was surprised to hear you say those words.”

You smile and glance down at the ground before looking back to him, responding. “Younger me would have agreed with you. Youra is my first home and will forever be such. However, my feelings have changed. Home is wherever you are,” you explain, intertwining your fingers with his. At your words, Feyd pulls you in again by the waist for another quick kiss, and he wonders what he did to deserve a wife like you as you both turn to follow your belongings. 

Weeks ago, you and Feyd had set aside the largest of Baron Vladimir’s personal recreation spaces to be converted to a laboratory for you on Giedi Prime. You both had celebrated the initiation of the transformation by gathering all the Baron’s belongings and smashing them to smithereens, which was quite cathartic for the both of you. In particular, you loved bashing Vladimir’s pipe and ripping his bathtubs apart piece by piece. The day of eradicating every trace of Vladimir, except for his portrait in the hallway, culminated in you both basking in the warmth of a glorious bonfire, fed by what remained of the Baron’s belongings. 

You both arrive at your laboratory. The Harkonnen workers have been very efficient installing the necessary infrastructure in the time you have been away. The room that was stripped to the bones the day you left for Youra is now a proper lab, outfitted with fireproof surfaces, chemical hoods, gas lines, and plenty of storage cabinets.  

“Wow, Feyd,” you say. “This is amazing. I can’t believe this got done in the time I was gone.”

“Only the best for you, my love,” he replies as more servants arrive, and you begin to instruct them how to unpack your belongings. Feyd stands back on the sidelines and watches you, seeing the sparkle in your eyes now that you’re able to bring part of your life from Youra to Giedi Prime. Many of the instruments and objects he sees being unpacked are unfamiliar to him, but you seem unphased, perhaps even comforted, by the diversity of items. He marvels at your proficiency with handling all of them. With the help of the servants, you quickly have all the crates unloaded and the items put away and organized. You dismiss all the workers promptly, so you and Feyd can be alone. Once the doors are closed, you let out a sigh of relief.

“Is the space to your liking?” Feyd asks, coming to your side and slipping his arm firmly around your waist.

“It’s perfect,” you reply, looking around with elation in your eyes. You reach into a drawer in front of you and take out a jar. Inside, he sees it’s full of the iridescent indigo scales of the fish you had shown him the night you were attacked on Youra. “I wanted to wait until I got back to Giedi Prime to do the extraction on the scales for your batch of the elixir. …Would you like to stay while it happens?” 

Feyd nods without hesitation. He knows that watching you work is something only the people closest to you ever get to see. “Of course, my love.  It would be my pleasure,” he says. You smile at him, delighted at his interest. You point to a little door in the corner and tell him to wait for you before disappearing into it. A few minutes later, you emerge having shed your gown and jewels for a tan lab coat. When you smooth your hands over the new coat, Feyd thinks to himself how put together you look. You seem even more at ease now that you’ve changed. In your arms, he sees another coat and two pairs of safety glasses. 

“To protect your clothes and eyes,” you say, walking over and handing him the other coat and one of the pairs of glasses.  Inside the coat, he sees “Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen” delicately stitched in with golden lettering.  As he puts it on, he realizes it’s been tailored to his measurements perfectly at your behest. His heart swells once again. Your foresight is obvious to him. Beside him, you take out a mortar and pestle and pour a few of the scales into the mortar. He hears the scales clatter like pebbles against one another as they fall. 

Over your shoulder, Feyd can finally get a closer look at the scales from the fish you had shown him. The scales are shaped like rounded trapezoids and glimmer even in the artificial indoor lighting. Through the striking coloration, he can see delicate silver ribs that flare out from the narrower end of the scales, making each scale look like a pocket of moonlight rays shining through an inky night sky.  Feyd thinks how it’s truly a wonder how nature produced such a creature that bears such beauty.

You grasp the pestle in your hand and start striking the scales with firm, downward motions. Upon impact, the scales fracture at the ribs. Little by little, the scales become smaller, and you change your technique, beginning to roll the pestle around the bottom and up the sides of the mortar. You reverse the direction of the circle every few times. Because of your expert hand, the scales are soon reduced to a fine powder in the bottom of the mortar.  The dust glistens beautifully as you pick up the mortar and tip it around in a rolling motion, observing the results of your grinding.

“It’s time to perform the extraction and then the purification. Hopefully the crystals will be well formed,” you say to him, taking the mortar over to the fume hood behind the two of you and flipping the on switch to the hood.  “Have you ever watched any of your scientists work before?”

Feyd shakes his head as he follows you, memories of his childhood passing through his mind. “My uncle always instructed me to remain in the arena and the training grounds growing up. The laboratories on Giedi Prime were never our places to be. Our scientists would always come and report to us rather than us going to them. It has always been that way. Everyone in House Harkonnen works for the Baron. Everything they do is in service to him. It is inappropriate by our standards for him to go to them.”

You nod at his words, reaching for the glass sash that separates you and Feyd from the compartment of the fume hood. “Unsurprisingly, it’s the opposite on Youra,” you say, putting the mortar with the powdered scales inside before lowering the sash again until it’s almost closed, leaving gap a couple inches tall for continued access. “Yes, all workers serve my father and me, but we are all colleagues, in a way. They are the workers and my father is the hub for all of the departments on Youra. Much of my father’s success is tied to them, so he would often visit our workers to acknowledge their efforts and dedication. He always wanted to see their work for himself, too. He’s always been the curious type. My father had me follow him to the laboratories as soon as I was old enough to understand safety protocol. I’m sure if it wasn’t for regulations, he’d have brought me into the labs in a baby sling.”

The image of young you in a laboratory, holding your father’s hand as Youran chemists show you both what they’re working on comes into Feyd’s mind.  Even though he didn’t know of you when you were children, he can imagine you then, much shorter with a rounder face but with the same bright eyes brimming with curiosity.  The idea makes his heart warm and a smile tugs at his lips.

“I’m sure those laboratory visits were most influential for you,” Feyd says. You nod in return as you put on a pair of gloves and reach under the sash to grab an amber bottle containing a clear liquid from the side of the hood.  

“Absolutely,” you reply as you transfer all the powdered scales into a glass Erlenmeyer flask and add enough of the liquid to cover the solids. You move the flask onto a raised plate in the hood and press a few buttons to begin the heating process.  “I loved watching them do their work. They knew so much about our world, but were still determined to know more.  The way they moved in the lab was like a dance. I desperately wanted to be a part of that, so I began working with them when I was fourteen…”

As Feyd listens to you talk about your past as you work, his admiration of you grows. Your determination and tenacity through failed experiments and stalled projects are astounding to him, and the fact you’ve been able to become a swordswoman on the side this is truly a marvel. Your skill and years of training are evident today, as your body seems to know this process by memory. This in front of him is the product of all those years of effort.

The liquid in the vessel begins to bubble gently. As the moments go by, the liquid takes on the iridescent nature of the scales and becomes a vibrant blue. Removing it from the heat, you strain the liquid through fine mesh into another container, removing all the powdered scales from the mixture.  Looking at the collected solids, Feyd can see the scales have lost their original coloration and turned a chalky off-white. You smile to yourself, knowing that the extraction was effective while you prepare a large volume of a different liquid, also clear and colorless, in a large beaker. 

“Are you ready for the recrystallization?” you ask him, grabbing a syringe and drawing up some of the extract into the barrel. You return to the beaker of liquid and gently tip it sideways with one hand while pointing the tip of the needle at the side of the beaker. Carefully, you begin to squeeze the syringe and the indigo liquid begins to drip out the needle’s tip and trickle down the side of the beaker. As the extract hits the surface of the clear liquid, deep purple crystals seem to flutter out from the point of impact into the liquid instantaneously. Feyds lips part in amazement, unable to tear his gaze away from the process

“How does it work?” he asks, watching as a batch of thin, needle-like crystals start to gather at the bottom of the beaker while the bulk liquid remains colorless. It’s as if all the color of the extract has been contained within the crystals. 

“I use the first liquid to remove the compound from the scales and make a concentrated extract. I then add the extract to a bulk solvent which our compound of interest is insoluble in. The compound forms crystals when the liquids meet because the second liquid is in great excess compared to the first,” you explain, drawing up more extract and adding it to the beaker in the same way. Once you’re out of extract, you squat down to bring your eye level to that of the beaker. “It’s perfect. I don’t think the crystallization has ever gone that well.” 

You’re absolutely beaming as you swirl the crystals suspended in the liquid, admiring how they twinkle in the light. He can’t deny that your excitement is contagious. You collect the crystals by filtering the mix through another filter and spread out the crystals on a metal sheet to allow them to dry before removing your safety glasses, and Feyd follows suit.

“This is the compound I was referring to that night at the Pools of Ashora,” you say to Feyd.  “If we dissolve the crystals in water and drink it, it allows people to retain their body’s water content and reduced the frequency at which people needed to drink water.”

“Fascinating…,” Feyd trails off, staring at the delicate crystals scattered across the surface inside the fume hood. 

“When I was on Youra, I tested the elixir myself,” you say. Hearing you say that you’ve done that, a bolt of fear goes to his heart at the thought of you just drinking a novel chemical. Feyd’s eyes quickly lock onto you, and his neck stiffens. His mind swirls with distress at the possibility of you getting hurt. You may look okay now, but was the elixir difficult for you to stomach? Did it hurt you in the moment?

Looking at him, you’re immediately in tune with his reaction, and you lift your hand up to rest on his arm to calm his nerves. At your touch, he immediately relaxes. “Don’t worry, Feyd. I am alright. There’s nothing to be worried about. We’ve done plenty of trials since I first introduced this fish to you. I assure you it’s safe. I’ve had all of my best scientists on this project, and I had the best doctors in Youra monitor my vitals for two days after the fact.” Feyd nods, knowing if anyone is competent enough to keep you safe, it's yourself and the Youran doctors and researchers. “We still don’t know the exact mechanism of the compound in the body, but we do know there aren’t significant negative side effects on people. Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Feyd replies, taking the opportunity to bring his hand to your waist and pull you close enough that your lips are almost touching and you’re both staring into each other’s eyes.  “I will always put my faith in you and your work.”

“I’m glad to hear,” you reply, your breath fanning out across his face, which sends shivers down his spine.  “That means a lot, Feyd, we’ve been working hard the last few weeks for this.” Grinning at you, he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and tips your head up toward his, catching your lips in his.  You quickly take off your gloves and hold his cheeks in your palms, savoring the intimate moment. 

A knock at the door sounds through the room. Feyd grumbles in annoyance as the tension between you releases. You and Feyd look at each other before ending your embrace. You call out “Enter!” in the direction of the doors. A military advisor enters the lab in full uniform with his head low. He immediately drops to his knees in front of both of you to show his respect.

“Baron, Baroness,” he says. “I am deeply sorry for interrupting you both, but I bring critical news from Arrakis.”

“Very well,” Feyd says, straightening up and peering down at the man kneeling before him. “Out with it.”

“There has been an attack by the Fremen. They destroyed eighty percent of the most recent spice crop.” You can tell by the way the man shivers that he is afraid. Nobody ever wanted to be the one to break bad news to Feyd-Rautha. “Count Rabban attempted a counterattack.”

“‘Attempted?’ What happened?” Feyd growls, his eyes flashing in dissatisfaction. You catch Feyd’s hand in your palm as it flies in the direction of the knife he keeps on his person. You shake your head. You tell him there is no use in killing this man because it would be a waste with just a look.  

“Y-Yes, my Lord,” the man says, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. You can hear him beginning to hyperventilate despite his best attempts to steady his breath. “Rabban went after the Fremen, but the dust and debris from Rabban’s initial artillery attack made the visibility so poor on the battlefield that only Count Rabban and a few others survived. They were ambushed in the haze; it was a massacre with a casualty rate of seventy two percent and climbing.”

“Over half?!” you gasp, your own fists beginning to clench at Rabban’s blunder.

“Rabban says he saw the Fremen prophet, Muad'dib, on the battlefield before he fled. The Fremen… they are dedicated to him. They kill for him, Baron. Our spice operation is in jeopardy. We await your command.” 

Feyd stiffens, a vein threatening to pop on his temple. He sucks in air through his teeth, infuriated at Rabban’s continued incompetency. The advisor recoils at the noise, shuffling backward toward the door.

“You are dismissed,” you call to him with a huff.  A wave of relief washes over the man as he bows and thanks you before slipping out the door.

“Rabban is a damned fool!” Feyd shouts once you’re alone. “He has had every chance to rectify his mistakes on Arrakis, but he seems to leave his brain behind when he makes decisions and lets this Muad'dib win every time! And now I hear news of abandoning the battlefield at the sight of this prophet? He is a coward! An absolute imbecile! If something doesn’t change soon, the Emperor will take Arrakis from us!” 

You reach your arm out and rest it on his shoulder. In moments, you’ve quelled Feyd’s initial outburst until he’s only seething with fury instead of being on the verge of trashing the entire lab. “I think it’s time to relieve my brother of his duties,” Feyd says after he takes a deep breath. “We shall go to Arrakis to do it. I want to see the look on his face and the hope drain from his eyes when he knows he’s failed. I will take over the operation on Arrakis.  We will do what my brother was incapable of.”

“In that case…,” you say, preparing two glasses of water, adding a pinch of the crystals to each.  The water immediately turns a luminous indigo, and you hand Feyd one of the glasses, which he gladly takes.  You raise your glass in the air. “To victory and to House Harkonnen.”

“To victory and House Harkonnen,” he replies, connecting the rims of your glasses and drinking the entire glass in one go.  The elixir is salty and rich on his tongue as if he’s drinking the essence of the tropical ocean. As the elixir flows into him, he feels a warmth pulsate throughout his body.  He isn’t sure if this is truly the effects of the elixir or just a placebo, but Feyd feels powerful, like he could slaughter a thousand men and still have a hunger for more.  As he meets your gaze, you give him a knowing look. You feel the energy, too. You both shed your laboratory coats and leave the room to prepare for your journey to Arrakis. 

--

The preparations before and journey to Arrakis went without a hitch. You had opted to choose Harkonnen battle gear over your own, but you and Feyd still agreed on concealing your knives under a black Harkonnen dress cloak, still not eager to let anyone know of your true nature. Arriving in Arrakeen, you notice the striking architecture, made up of geometric slabs of tan stone layered to create a fortress to protect its inhabitants.  This time on Arrakis, Feyd doesn’t feel the heat like he used to. It’s as if his body is fighting back against the harsh environment on the desert planet. You feel it, too. You were initially concerned because you had only tested the elixir during the dry months on Youra, which paled in hostility in comparison to Arrakis, but seems the elixir’s protection is more than sufficient.

You and Feyd walk the halls of the fortress side by side, heading to the room where all of the Harkonnen strategists and military officials are. You see them gathered around a digital map projected by a computer in the middle of the room, which shows the locations of all the Harkonnen forces in the north of Arrakis.  Upon seeing their Baron and Baroness side by side, they all freeze and bow.

“Welcome to Arrakis, Baron, Baroness” one of them says. He opens his mouth to continue but Fed cuts him off. 

“Enough,” Feyd hisses at him. “I have orders for you. You are no longer to follow the word of Count Rabban. As of today, he is relieved of his duty as Planetary Governor of Arrakis. You will report directly to and receive orders only from me and your Baroness.”

The room of men immediately shout “Yes, My Lord!” in response. A smirk forms on Feyd's lips at their responsiveness, and he instructs them to hit the Fremen with old-fashioned artillery. As the orders are executed by the Harkonnen military, you watch the map intently as the targets on the map turn green, indicating the Fremen bases are hit successfully. All of the military advisors’ eyes widen in surprise at the genius of Feyd’s strategy as the reports of complete annihilation from the ground forces roll in. 

They all begin to applaud Feyd and as their chants fill the room, your heart fills with pride.  Feyd has finally proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was always meant to be the leader of House Harkonnen.  As the applause continues, you see Rabban appear in the doorway, a look of surprise disgust on his face. You notice he’s still wearing his nightclothes, and your eyes flash between him and Feyd as Rabban approaches Feyd, Rabban’s legs still stiff from sleep. 

“Leave us,” Feyd instructs the others in the room, who promptly file out. They keep their eyes on the floor, not daring to look at Rabban. They know people who end up alone in a room with Feyd after repeated blunders usually don’t exit the room outside of a body bag. 

“What are you doing here?” Rabban growls at Feyd.

“It’s early morning.  What are you doing here?” Feyd quips back.  Rabban lets out a frustrated huff.

“You can’t just waltz in here,” Rabban says through gritted teeth.  “And how can you bring that woman into the inner sanctum?”  

“How dare you refer to your Baroness like that!” Feyd roars, grabbing Rabban by his collar.  “If you have forgotten, dear Brother, I am Baron now.  I will do as I please and take my wife wherever I wish!” 

Feyd throws Rabban back and he falls on his back hard. In desperation, Rabban tries to scramble to his feet again, but as soon as he’s almost upright, he feels his knees buckle from under him as you kick the backside of his knees in. Rabban’s forehead collides with the stone floor with a visceral crack, and he feels his arm caught in your grip behind him. He groans as you push his arm to the verge of overextension. On his neck, Rabban feels the cool tip of a blade threatening to pierce his skin, which sends a chill down his spine, his head still spinning from impact.

“You should learn to respect your superiors,” you whisper to him as Feyd’s gaze is fixated on you.  The picture before him has a fire rising within him. His breath turns thick and heavy, seeing you over Rabban, your blade on his neck and your foot on his back with a fiendish smile on your lips.  “I would have expected more from my brother-in-law… You are a disgrace to House Harkonen,” you drawl, pressing your dagger’s tip into Rabban’s neck enough to draw blood. Dark crimson blood trickles down Rabban’s neck and he squirms. You remove your foot from his back and step forward to place your shoe by his face. You take the opportunity to kick his cheek in a little with the toe of your shoe before the heel of your combat boot hits the floor by Rabban’s face with a firm thunk. “Kiss my feet, and I may spare your life.”

Rabban quivers under your hold, his palms spread over the stone floor. He considers trying to escape. He could try to press his body up and avoid the blade on his neck and try to sweep your legs out from under you, but he quickly realizes that you are in control. Any movement like that would end with your knife in his chest, back, or neck. Despite his position being compromised, he hesitates to kiss your foot  How could he, Glossu Rabban, kiss a woman’s shoe in submission?

“You heard her, Brother,” Feyd hisses, stepping toward you both as he basks in his brother’s terror.  Feyd stops in front of his brother and squats down to look at him. “Kiss her feet.  Now.” 

After a moment, Rabban quivers and presses his lips against the leather of your shoes. As he does, you see how miserable and pathetic this man below you is. It's truly a shock that this oaf is the brother of your Feyd, who is confident, domineering, and skillful in every way.  

“You made a good decision obeying, Rabban,” you say, releasing the blade on his neck. “I would have wasted a perfectly sharpened knife slitting your throat if you hadn’t cooperated.” You step back from him as he clambers into an upright position. His hand flies to his neck, feeling the blood trickle down his neck and seep into his nightshirt. 

“You are hereby relieved of your duties as Planetary Governor of Arrakis,” Feyd grins at the pitiful sight before him. “You will return to your quarters in the meantime and wait for future instruction.”

Rabban leaves in defeat. Once the doors shut behind him, you and Feyd smirk at each other, and Feyd rushes to you giving you a tender kiss.  “I love you, Baroness,” he murmurs, completely infatuated with you.  

--

A few days later, you stare up into the atmosphere of Arrakis. The Emperor’s craft has just entered the atmosphere. You and Feyd share incredulous looks and you immediately make your way to where the emperor will be docking.  

“What could the emperor want?” you ask Feyd as you walk..  “We restored spice production. It’s never been more efficient.”

Feyd shakes his head, deep in thought.  “I do not know, my love.”  

“I don’t like this, Feyd.” you whisper to him, trying not to let anyone else hear and Feyd nods in return.  “What could have summoned the emperor to Arrakis?”

“We shall see,” he replies. Rabban arrives and bows to you both, which makes you frown. Rabban hasn’t been involved in House Harkonnen’s operations since he was removed. Nevertheless, he still proceeds into the throne room before Feyd or you can dismiss him.   

Inside the throne room, the emperor is perched on a large throne up a large flight of stairs with his daughter and a Bene Gesserit standing by him.  Your eyes narrow seeing the witch’s presence, knowing they have tricks they are not afraid of using to manipulate the great houses. You, Feyd, and Rabban kneel in front of them, bowing your heads.  Before any of you speak, the emperor’s voice rings out. 

“I am sure you are curious as to why I have come to Arrakis,” he begins.  “What do you know of the prophet Muad'dib?”  Rabban speaks up first, saying that Muad'dib is a madman.

“Mad?!” the emperor says.

“All Fremen are mad!” Rabban counters, and the Emperor’s fist clenches around the arm of his throne. You and Feyd shoot daggers at Rabban, and he closes his mouth immediately, putting his head down again which casts his face in shadow.

“We apologize for my brother speaking out of turn,” Feyd says to the Emperor. “Rabban has had no part in the latest work of House Harkonnen. He is not a reliable source of information.  We know Muad'dib is a figure of the Fremen, and they follow his command.”

“Yes,” you say. “He organizes their forces, and they have been effective in battle against many of our forces by hiding in the sands and staging ambushes.  They’ve been effective at destroying our spice harvesters in the past, but we’ve been able to successfully retaliate.” The Bene Gesserit flashes some hand signs at the emperor. She must be able to tell if people are lying or not. 

“What of the prophet’s whereabouts?” the Emperor asks, his voice darkening with frustration at your lack of knowledge.  The emperor’s suggested scorn directed at House Harkonnen is sour on your tongue, and you grit your teeth.  

“We control the north of Arrakis and spice production, Emperor,” you reply, keeping yourself collected.  “We believe Muad'dib has fled to the south to hide in the storms after my husband’s last military tactic was successful in neutralizing their northern bases.” 

As you utter those words, you feel a tremendous boom propagate through the air, causing the building to shudder. Everyone in the room looks up. Some of the diplomats that have accompanied the emperor swallow thickly. You and Feyd exchange knowing glances. Something isn’t right. The Sardaukar forces, who have come to protect the emperor, raise their weapons and get into formation with one line in front of the emperor, who has abandoned the throne in favor of shelter. 

The other line of Sardaukar forms a line opposite the entrance way, as more explosions can be heard beyond the walls. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rabban slip away, ever the coward. You feel Feyd’s touch on your arm as he beckons you to position yourself behind the defenses with the other diplomats. From your shared position, you both wait and listen intently. The others in the room are paralyzed in a cold sweat, but you and Feyd are silently watching, waiting, and listening, already gathering information on the situation to calculate your next move.

Dust fills the room as another bang resonates throughout the room and the barrier breaks down. The frontline of the Sardaukar advance, weapons at the ready. As they disappear into the dust, you know they aren’t coming back. The room is almost entirely quiet, but through the haze you hear the barely audible but familiar sound of daggers piercing armor, slitting throats, and tearing flesh. The remaining Sardaukar dig their heels in as a figure emerges through the orange debris, wrapped in tan fabrics caked in others’ blood. His face is concealed by a scarf, and the only flesh of his you see are his eyes, blue from spice. He is accompanied by an army. Judging by the amount of noise they made on their arrival, you and Feyd know there are probably hundreds of them. Fighting your way out is not an option. This must be the prophet Muad'dib.

Muad'dib looks around with his blade drawn, seemingly searching for someone as he enters the room.  You see him and Feyd make eye contact. Feyd’s eyes narrow at him in curiosity. When Muad'dib does not find who he is looking for, he turns the crowd of people behind the Sardaukar guards. Most of the diplomats instinctively take a step back. He makes eye contact with the emperor before turning to his own forces and hissing something in a foreign tongue which you presume to be Chakobsa, Fremen language. He exits the room back into the crowd of Fremen who chant for him, waving their war banners.  You see they bear the hawk insignias of House Atreides. The son of Duke Leto Atreides is alive. 

The Fremen advance, easily slaying the last remaining Sardaukar. Many of the diplomats shudder and jump in surprise as the Fremen plunge their daggers into the Sardaukar warriors, who are powerless to stop them. Once they are all dead and their blood is spread across the floor in crimson red pools, the Fremen start grabbing the rest of you by your arms, and you are all dragged away one by one. You are being taken prisoner. You look to Feyd, who gives you a subtle nod as if to say “go along with it,” and you do.

--

You’ve laid low all in the confinement the Fremen have kept you in all night, not eager to give any of them a reason to kill you. Silently, you’ve been analyzing your situation, trying to figure out a way to achieve an optimal outcome, which you feel is slipping through your fingers. Since you have been taken prisoner, you can only presume that the rest of the Sardaukar and the Harkonnen army have been slaughtered and their bodies burned before daybreak. You and Feyd are likely the last living Harkonnens on Arrakis.  

After sunrise, you are called upon by a faceless Fremen, who orders all of the prisoners to follow. You are reunited with Feyd, who takes your hand, careful not to let the Fremen see this gesture of affection as to not allow them any leverage. His touch automatically makes you as at ease you can be, given that you are both captives without allies. 

Arriving in a room with the other prisoners, you see the surviving Fremen mingling and congratulating one another. The man from before stands in the clearing of the room without his face covering, his black wavy hair framing his face. Feyd turns to you and mouths “Atreides.” You nod in understanding, and watch as Paul Atreides addresses the Emperor, challenging him for the throne. Looking out the window, you see warships in the distant sky.  The other great houses have arrived and Paul Atreides threatens to destroy all the spice fields if the houses intervene. 

“Stand yourself or choose your champion,” he orders the Emperor, who turns to Feyd.  

“I select Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen,” the emperor declares. “Get him a blade.” You inhale sharply, knowing this means Feyd must fight to the death against a man who has already slain many in battle and emerged victorious from the bloodbath of the previous night. You trust Feyd’s skill, but you know not to underestimate Paul Atreides. Feyd’s eyes flicker toward you. He knows what you’re thinking and gives you a slight nod as if to promise he will fight his hardest, not for the emperor, but for you. He is presented with a blade by one of the members of the emperor’s council. To your surprise, Feyd pushes it away and turns to you. Coming to stand in front of you, he gestures downward toward your legs, where your daggers are still strapped to your thighs out of sight.

“Feyd, are you sure?” you say to him, your voice small. 

“I want to use your blade. Please let me fight for you,” Feyd whispers. You nod and reach down to fulfill his request, drawing one of your Youran weapons from your garters. When you hand it to him, Feyd feels the familiar heft of your dagger in his hand, which makes him grin. Just as he remembers, it’s expertly balanced and perfectly crafted, its pointed tip shining in the low orange light of the room. He smiles, recalling the night you handed him the same blade, the first time he saw your true nature. He twirls the knife in his grip with a flourish of his wrist as he stands opposite Paul Atreides. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, cousin,” Paul says.

“Cousin…” Feyd says, continuing to evaluate Paul for his weaknesses. “You wouldn’t be the first family member I’ve killed.”

His words don’t phase you. You’re well aware of Feyd’s family history. You clasp your hands in each other in front of your chest, willing Feyd to be the victor. Paul Atreides straightens himself and salutes Feyd. “May thy knife chip and shatter,” Paul says with a gruff tone, lowering himself into a battle stance and pointing his knife at Feyd. Feyd smirks, raising your weapon. The sight of it in his hand is gratifying for Feyd. Despite standing alone against Paul, it’s as if you are both in this fight together with him wielding your weapon. 

“May thy knife chip and shatter,” Feyd returns and within moments, they're after each other, having an all out brawl in the middle of the room. They each swipe at each other with reaction times like lightning.  The sounds of blades crashing against one another, the low smacks of their bodies colliding, and their grunts of exertion fill the room. You have to admit, Paul Atreides is an impressive fighter. He’s quick on his feet and swiftly dodges and counters many of Feyd’s attacks, but it is obvious that Feyd is the one with strength on his side. The only way for Atreides to win is if he is able to find a way to use that strength against Feyd.

You’re barely breathing at this point. Your facade of stoicism threatens to crumble when you see Paul Atreides’ forehead connect firmly with your husband’s nose. To your surprise, you don’t see any blood on Feyd’s face. Paul Atreides’ head is thrown back after almost bouncing off of Feyd’s nose. Paul’s head seems to be spinning as he stumbles backward on uneven footing.  Feyd recognizes Paul’s debilitated state is fleeting, and takes advantage of the moment, striking Paul again. The tangle of limbs is intense, but in the blink of an eye, you see Feyd disarm Paul, taking Paul’s knife for his own.  

As they break away from one another, Paul Atreides is heaving, struggling to breathe as the leather bound hilt of your dagger protrudes from his abdomen. He’s wheezing as his own blood seeps into his battle gear. His allies gaze upon the sight in shock, some wincing in second-hand pain.

Feyd approaches him promptly, and grabs Paul by the scruff of his neck, raising Paul’s own knife at him. Paul Atreides uses his own gloved hand to grab the blade, trying to push it away, but Feyd leans in, forcing the blade to slip further into Paul’s grip, cutting the flesh of Paul’s hand open with a sickening noise, the tip of the knife getting closer to piercing Paul’s neck.

The next moment, you feel like screaming. The dagger, once poised to slice open Paul Atreides’ neck, is no longer in the air visible to you. Paul Atreides has used his grip on Feyd’s blade to redirect the tip toward the stomach of your husband. Your hands fly to your mouth, tears threatening to spill.  The force Feyd puts behind his blade at that proximity is fatal. 

The memories of meeting Feyd on Youra, fighting by his side against Ozran, plotting into the early hours to kill his despicable uncle, your wedding ceremony in front of House Harkonnen, and the moments of tenderness and affection he’s given you in private flash through your mind. Your stomach writhes, and your heart shrivels into itself, and your mind begins to confront the idea that you now must mourn the life you and Feyd had assembled. Another thought flashes through your mind. You’ll likely be killed after this with the rest of the prisoners in this room, and die alone without your husband, lightyears away from your people on Youra and Giedi Prime. You’ve failed.

Through your tears, you stare at the scene as the air and the people surrounding you are completely still.  However, something gives you pause. You hear something hit the floor look down to the area under Feyd and Paul’s feet. You spy fragments of metal, broken into uneven shards, scattered across the floor. However, there is no blood to be seen.  Your eyes shoot to Feyd, who is also looking down to where they both hold the hilt of the broken knife. 

Without a second to spare, Feyd’s hand flies to your knife in Paul’s side, ripping it out of him. Paul cries out in agony, the removal of the knife causing a blood curdling squelch of skin and muscle ripping. The next moment, Feyd slits Paul Atreides’ throat with a grand swing of his arm, sending blood splatter fanning across the floor. The pregnant woman seated in the wooden throne bearing the Atreides crest lets out a high pitched shriek, and she begins to wail, seeing the light from her son’s eyes fade as his body crumples to the floor. A Fremen woman across from you lets out a shaky breath, her lip quivering and tears pool near her bright blue eyes as Paul Atreides’ fresh blood collects in a puddle on the stone floor under the gaping hole in his neck.

Feyd turns back to you, bloody blade in hand and lets out a deep exhale, allowing the tension in his own chest to dissipate. He had thought he was dead, too, but no. He is alive. He is victorious, and he gets to look into your eyes again, knowing that he has done his job for you.

Kneeling, Feyd presents the emperor with the soiled blade. The emperor smiles and pronounces Paul Atreides, the prophet Muad'dib, to be dead and Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen as the victor. In defeat, the ally of Paul, identified as Gurney Halleck, relays a message to the great houses of the outcome of the fight.  The emperor’s reign shall continue, and your husband is alive. You push your way past the others in the crowd and throw yourself at Feyd, who cradles you in his arms, running his fingers through your hair, whispering to you “Please don’t shed any more tears, my love. I am still here… I wouldn’t leave you that easily.”

“I thought I lost you,” you choke out and Feyd shakes his head, using his thumb to wipe away the tear stains on your cheeks. 

“You haven’t and you won’t,” he replies, his hands holding your body steady. “Let’s go home.”

—

Holding your knees to your chest, you sit in a private chamber on the Emperor’s vessel as it leaves the atmosphere of Arrakis to take you and Feyd back to Giedi Prime, which was the least the emperor could do given that Feyd nearly died for him. One of Feyd’s hands rests on your waist, holding you firmly in his grip while the other rubs gentle circles on your shoulder with his thumb.  Feyd watches as your eyes dart side to side, which happens when you’re deep in though. 

“What is on your mind, my love?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.  

“I’m thinking about your battle with Paul Atreides,” you reply. “The knife broke when he tried to turn the tables on you, didn’t it?” Feyd nods, bringing his hand down to the spot on his abdomen where the knife was. “May I see where it was?” you ask and Feyd obliges, creating a small bit of distance between the two of you so that you can get a good look at his torso.  

You bring your hand to where Feyd’s armor has been sliced open by the blade. Bringing the other hand to his body, you gently spread the layers of fabric and leather apart to look through the hole. Underneath, you see Feyd’s familiar pale skin and his chiseled abdominal muscles that you’ve always loved to drag your fingers across. His skin appears to be absolutely pristine without a single nick or bruise in sight. You bring your head closer to get a better look before saying, “There isn’t evidence of any damage to your skin, Feyd. Your body is like the battle never happened. There isn’t a trace of impact.” As soon as you utter the last word in the sentence, you freeze and your lips part ever so lightly as your mind races to connect the dots. He knows that look on you, and he sees the gears turning in your mind. 

“Impact…,” you mumble to yourself. Your eyes shoot up to Feyd’s  “During the battle there was a moment when Paul Atreides’ head collided with your nose.” Your hand flies to his cheek to steady his head. You examine his nose, using your hand to tilt his head side to side. Everything about his face is unchanged, which shouldn’t be the case, especially after a fight like that and the headbutt he endured from Paul. You tip his head back. Again, there is no blood or breakage. 

Your mind begins to race as you return your hands to your husband’s torso. Your hands fumble as you attempt to remove the layers of armor in between you and Feyd’s skin. Feyd realizes what you’re doing and soon enough he’s shirtless in front of you. You extend your hand out and drag your hand over his stomach. You press your fingers firmly down onto his abdominal region and upper body repeatedly, changing the area you’re putting pressure on each time. He feels solid under your touch and not in the way you’re used to. Feyd has always been bulky and muscular, hardened from years of training, but something about this is different. It’s like his body has the durability of an alloy the researchers on Youra could only dream of engineering, but he’s still flesh and blood. Bring your fingers to your own stomach, pressing your fingers against your own front, and you gasp. “That’s it!” you exclaim.

“What is it?” he asks, knowing you are on the edge of an epiphany. 

“It’s the elixir!” you gasp, standing up and holding your head in disbelief  “It saved your life!”

 “I thought it was only to help the body retain water,” Feyd says as you get up and begin circling the room.

“Don’t you remember? That’s the end result of the elixir, but we were still unsure of the mechanism by which that happens!” you exclaim. “Remember the night I showed you the fish? I said that the fish sheds its scales at the beginning of the wet season. What I didn’t tell you is that the wet season is the only time of year we can get the scales off the fish because they fall off naturally. Our scientists have tried to get the scales before the transition of the seasons, but they've always been unable to pry the scales off or kill them because it was impossible to slice open the fish. No matter how much we sharpened the knives, we couldn’t cut them open!”

“That’s how the fish retain water in the dry season. The fish develop these scales with this compound that transforms their own bodies into a shield from the elements, so that water can’t escape. I’ve always wondered how a fish would be able to survive the whole dry season on a dried up lake bed.  This compound is why the fish species hasn’t gone extinct! When they’re sitting in their dried up ponds, no predators can eat them because their bodies are too tough to pierce,” you surmise, delight filling your complexion. “By drinking that compound, the same thing has happened to our bodies! You were able to survive the battle because your skin became this impenetrable barrier that lets you keep your water that just so happens to be impervious to outside attacks as well! That’s also why your nose didn’t break and why Paul Atreides was so disoriented after he struck you with his head. It was as if he rammed his head into a steel wall.  Researchers on Youra didn't catch this effect in the clinical trials because we don’t just go stabbing all of our test subjects with knives or subjecting them to blunt force trauma, especially not for a study about water retention!”

Feyd hardly believes what he’s hearing, but he knows it's true. Everything you’re saying makes perfect sense.  Memories from the battle flash in his mind.  He remembers his arm is suddenly bending toward himself, feeling the rough surface of the broken blade scrape against his abdomen, but the pain he had been trained to resist since childhood never hitting his senses. He brings himself to his feet and pulls you into his arms, squeezing you as tight as he can muster. “You are phenomenal, my dear,  I can’t believe you figured that out,” he murmurs to you. “Thank you.  I owe you my life.”

He lowers his lips to yours, kissing you like he’s never done before. You both cling to one another, relieved you are both alive and safe. Feyd holds the back of your head and runs his fingers through your locks tenderly, thinking about how far you both have come in this short amount of time. Mere months ago, you were a stranger he had the obligation to meet and marry. He knew he would have to enter a loveless relationship with you in the name of alliances. He tried to convince himself you were a woman he wanted to make a plaything out of.  Before, he was intent on manipulating, breaking, and exploiting you for his own amusement. Those ideas feel so foreign to Feyd now as he revels in your affections and caresses your cheek. 

Looking down at you, he sees you for what you are. You are the most beautiful being to ever exist.  Nothing past or present will ever compare to you, and it brings tears to his eyes, knowing you are his wife and he is your husband. You are the culmination of all House Ronen and House Harkonnen have worked for, a true representation of the union of your two houses, and the pinnacle of all Feyd has come to hold dear. You are where brain meets brawn, where tradition meets modernity, and the pride and joy of Feyd’s life. You are simply everything. 

-- 

Thanks for reading!  I can’t believe the series is over (but I'm also considering writing an epilogue, but I have some requests coming down the pipeline, so we'll see about that. lmk if that's something you might be interested in...). Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed Knives Dance! :)

Also is it obvious I study chemistry yet?

Taglist:

@austinbutlerslovers @rougegenshin @itshype@woodland-mist @tian-monique @torchbearerkyle @austinswhitewolf @allthingsimagines @meetmeatyourworst @nyaaaaa008 @caroline334 @alana4610 @targaryen-madness

Tags that aren't working for some reason??? @roguegenshin @miaraises

#feyd rautha #dune part 2 #dune part two #feyd rautha x reader #dune #x reader

[1111jenx]

𖤓Synastry series: Sun in the Houses𖤓

MASTERLIST — for more quality posts✨

💘Sun in the 1st House: Beneath the celestial canvas of this synastry placement, a tale as enchanting as a dream unfurls. The house person, akin to a night sky, emanates a radiant glow, echoing the Sun person's presence. To them, the Sun is their guiding star, the source of their joy, their radiant beacon in a universe otherwise cloaked in darkness. A profound contentment envelops them when bathed in the Sun's light, an authentic happiness as splendid as dawn's first light. The Sun, in return, basks in the house person's deep-rooted admiration, mirroring it back like a tranquil lake reflecting the midday sun. This tandem, like a pair of celestial bodies, graces the universe with laughter, an exquisite sonnet of shared joy. Together, they shimmer, illuminating the surrounding cosmos with their radiant togetherness, a spectacle of love that outshines the stars. Yet, within this symphony of love, a certain possessiveness persists, a gravitational pull that binds them irrevocably. They perceive the other as their celestial twin, their sole companion in the vast expanse of the universe. An echo of 'mine' resonates between them, an assertion of mutual ownership that is as potent as the heart's deepest longing. But as is the nature of celestial bodies, clashes may occur, ego battles akin to cosmic storms, threatening to disrupt their harmonious orbit. However, even these conflicts are silver-lined, offering pearls of wisdom and shaping their cosmic journey in profound ways. In the radiant presence of one another, they shimmer with unspoken brilliance. They ignite the best within each other, like distant galaxies awakening to their own magnificence. The house person swells with pride in the comforting glow of the Sun, who, in their unerring wisdom, whispers words that elicit pure, unadulterated joy. They orbit in their celestial dance, two bodies radiating love, learning, and laughter, a testament to the poetic resonance of their shared existence.

💘Sun in the 2nd House: In this bond, we find two souls who naturally stir each other's desires and comforts. Together, they revel in life's luxurious offerings, savoring the finest fruits of existence. The Sun person, like a guiding star, helps the House person grasp their true worth, understand their needs, and appreciate their resources. If the stars align favourably, their partnership blooms into something extraordinary, blessed by the gracious hand of Venus. They see worth in each other, a priceless treasure that enriches their shared journey. The Sun person recognizes the unique gifts the House person brings to the table. Yet, there's a shadow to the Sun's warm glow; a tendency to possess, to control, often without realizing. The House person, drawn in by the Sun's radiance, finds themselves doing more to please the Sun, adjusting to their needs, no matter what those might be. In this dance of connection, they move in harmony, a duet of love, desire, and mutual respect.

💘 Sun in the 3rd House: In their shared space, words intertwine like star-crossed lovers, ceaseless, captivating. Little disagreements dance on the edge of their tongues, only to be silenced by the tender symphony of make-up kisses. This placement weaves a sense of familiarity, a strange déjà vu, as if their souls have crossed paths in another life, another time. An unspoken comfort lingers between them, a tranquility that whispers of home. Conversations flow like rivers to the sea, their intellectual discourse as effortless as the wind caressing the leaves. The House person finds a certain charm in the Sun's words, hanging onto them like a melody that never grows old. The Sun, on the other hand, sees the House person as a precious gem, something to shield from the world's harsh edges. Their interaction is a feast for the mind, a stimulation that sings to those who crave deep, intellectual bonds. In this union, comfort abounds. Each word spoken, each secret shared, peels away another layer, revealing the essence of who they truly are. Their openness is as natural as a flower blooming under the spring sun, a testament to their profound connection. Intimate moments are shared in the small details - the clasp of their hands, a language written in the lines of their palms, a silent promise of enduring togetherness. Inside jokes punctuate their interactions, shared laughter blooming in their personal garden of camaraderie. A timeless dance of love and intellectual stimulation, their union weaves a tapestry of memories, each thread gleaming with their shared joy and affection.

💘 Sun in the 4th House: In the embrace of the House person, the Sun finds a home, an abode that whispers of permanence, a space it never yearns to desert. The sanctuary of their presence is a magnet to the Sun, a refuge radiant with solace. This cosmic alignment is intriguing, for it oscillates between providing profound comfort and eliciting the chill of fear, particularly if the Sun's chart is parched of the life-giving water element. There's an undeniable allure in the vulnerability this placement offers. The House person peers into the Sun, seeing its authentic self, acknowledging its limitless potential, and loving it unabashedly. They are the unwavering shield to the Sun, sometimes blindly so, standing in steadfast support irrespective of the circumstances. In response, the Sun flourishes. It blossoms with an ethereal beauty, basking in the adoration it receives, thriving on the nourishment of support. The presence of the House person is a soothing balm, a calming melody that seems to know the right notes to bring tranquility. The House person, in their turn, reveals a clear soft spot for the Sun, perhaps even forgiving their occasional bursts of tempestuous heat. It's a placement that prompts both introspection and reflection, a cosmic dance that sees them turning inward, mirroring each other's steps. Together, they discover a respite from their armor, a space where they can shed their toughness. They become a testament to the beauty of vulnerability, an echo of support and affection that resonates in the celestial symphony of their unity.

💘 Sun in the 5fth House: A placement I hold dear, is a dance of two cosmic entities feeling as though they've discovered their mirrored soul. It's not just a joyous union but one filled with exhilarating thrills and daring adventures. They revel in their shared laughter, their exchanges brimming with the innocence of child-like banter. Yet, beneath this playful veneer, there lies an infatuation, clear and profound, humming in the spaces between their words. The House person transforms into an eternal flame, a radiant beacon matching the Sun's relentless luminescence. The Sun, in turn, gazes upon the House with a sense of awe, often entranced by their seeming perfection. The House, in the Sun's eyes, feels like an equal partner, a reflection of their inner self. The fifth house is synonymous with romance. It's a fixed house, firmly rooted in its position, a steadfast testament to the House person's feelings towards the Sun. Regardless of their playful mind games, their seemingly flighty demeanor, their feelings towards the Sun person persist, burning with unwavering intensity. To the Sun, the House becomes an escape from the mundane, their daily dose of joy, their most ardent cheerleader. It's an alignment at times witnessed in tales of enemies turned lovers to bestfriends, an exciting dynamic where they continually challenge and dare each other to delve deeper into life's mysteries. It's a placement pulsating with positive energy, echoing with shared giggles, and resonating with playful touches. It's a cosmic dance of two entities, navigating the universe hand in hand, their hearts beating in a rhythm that speaks of love, laughter, and endless adventure.

💘 Sun in the 6th House: In this celestial arrangement, the Sun finds itself nestled in a house of pragmatism and routine, shedding its brilliant light upon the practicalities of daily life. These constellations spin tales not of grand careers or cosmic pursuits, but of everyday work, the quiet rhythm of health and wellness, the structure of routines and the serene act of service. In this dance of the stars, the Sun's light illuminates pathways to healthier eating, disciplined exercise, and even companionship with beloved pets. The Sun, in its radiant role, serves as a guiding beacon for the 6th house dweller, leading them towards the sanctity of a balanced lifestyle. It may inspire a shared commitment to physical exertion, perhaps in the form of joining a gym, or ignite conversations about nutritious diets and wellbeing. The Sun person may even act as a catalyst, helping the 6th house dweller establish routines that reinforce physical and mental health. Yet, the orbits of these celestial bodies might lead them down professional paths that intertwine, potentially finding one in the service of the other. However, with the Sun's position in the practical 6th house, a word of caution is warranted. The equilibrium of give and take must be carefully maintained to prevent the transformation of helpfulness into servitude. It's crucial that neither the Sun nor the 6th house dweller feels overburdened, their efforts unreciprocated.. It inspires a mutual journey towards better physical and mental health, encouraging each to uplift the other, illuminating their shared path with the light of practical wisdom and mutual care.

💘 Sun in the 7th House: In the grand tapestry of the cosmos, this placement is akin to a celestial masterpiece, an ideal constellation in the realm of astrology. The Sun, in its radiant glory, casts its golden light upon the 7th house, a house rich with the resonance of companionship, the solemnity of marriage, the intimacy of one-on-one relationships, the practicalities of business partnerships, the binding power of contracts, and the hidden faces of our alter-egos or shadow selves. In this dance of the stars, the Sun person stirs a longing within the 7th house dweller, a yearning for partnership, perhaps even a hankering for the sacred bond of marriage. The 7th house person may perceive the Sun person as the embodiment of their perfect mate, a mirror reflecting all the qualities they admire yet feel they lack. This celestial alignment weaves a balancing harmony in their relationship, as the Sun person displays characteristics and idiosyncrasies that the 7th house person cherishes but doesn't possess. As the 7th house is the celestial realm of marriage and contracts, the potential for wedded bliss, or perhaps a formal business partnership, is a tangible possibility should their relationship endure the test of time. However, as with any celestial arrangement, there are potential pitfalls to navigate. The two may become so entwined that they lose their individualities, their identities blurring until they cannot discern where one ends and the other begins. It is vital to remember that they are unique souls united, not a singular entity. Additionally, the mirage of the ideal mate may only be visible to the eyes of the 7th house person, with the Sun person potentially oblivious to this perception. The entirety of the synastry chart must be considered to gauge the mutual feelings of compatibility and the potential for enduring companionship. Thus, in this symphony of stars and planets, the dance of destiny unfolds, charting a course of love, partnership, and shared dreams.

💘 Sun in the 8th House: The placement of the Sun in the 8th house is a pas de deux that is not meant for those with faint hearts. It is a dance where the dancers—the Sun and the 8th house person—are likely to be pulled in one of two extreme directions. They may find themselves entwined in an intoxicating whirl of magnetic attraction, an intense passion that seizes them, or they may feel an unsettling disturbance, a disquiet that rattles their core, often swaying between these polar opposites. The Sun, in its radiant role, casts an unflinching light on the profound themes of the 8th house, illuminating the shadowy corners of sexuality, the cyclical dance of death and rebirth, the tumult of transformation and crisis, the journey of personal growth and evolution, the undercurrents of psychology and addiction, the intricacies of finance, and the hushed whispers of societal taboos. These subjects, often shrouded in mystery, may either captivate or unsettle the house person. They might either welcome the Sun person into their hidden depths or push them away. The house person might perceive the Sun as an enigmatic entity, while the Sun person uncovers the secrets that the 8th house person keeps hidden from the world. Should both individuals bear the mark of Pluto's dominance, or have a strong 8th house presence in their natal chart, this union may flourish in mutual fascination. However, if one or both harbor hidden trauma or suppressed shame, this intense connection could serve as a deterrent, overwhelming their senses. This celestial arrangement signifies the potential to unravel each other's hidden layers, maintaining a profound bond that might lead to mutual transformation. Yet, caution must be exercised to prevent power dynamics or manipulative tactics from seeping into their relationship. Ultimately, this celestial alignment can flourish if both are open to exploring the depths of each other's souls, embracing growth and transformation, and traversing the labyrinth of shared secrets.

💘 Sun in the 9th house: The Sun weaves golden threads into the 9th house tapestry, infusing wisdom's domain with the vibrancy of its radiance. This divine dance resonates with the seekers, the dreamers, those who chart the star-studded expanse of their fate, guided by an insatiable thirst for depth and meaning. The Sun, a luminary beacon, casts an ethereal glow on the winding paths of philosophy, spirituality, and the rich tapestry of global culture, sparking a flame in the 9th house soul, igniting the tinder of curiosity and wanderlust. In the sacred dance of their divergent or converging beliefs, they find a melody, a rhythm that binds them in an intricate ballet of understanding. Their shared intrigue transcends the constraints of culture, religion, and philosophy, knitting them closer in the vast expanse of human thought. Together, they traverse oceans, cross continents, and journey through the labyrinth of the mind and the world, venturing into territories unseen and unexplored. Yet caution must be heeded, for clashing perspectives may strike discordant notes, marring the celestial harmony. But through the crucible of understanding and growth, they shall rise, bound by a shared quest for enlightenment and truth. Soaring high, they ascend to the sublime realm of knowledge, guided by the radiant beacon of the Sun.

💘 Sun in the 10th house: The Sun, in its radiant glory, casts a shimmering glow upon the 10th house, bathing the lofty pinnacles of ambition, authority, and societal prestige in golden light. The 10th house individual beholds the Sun, seeing within its fiery aura the embodiment of a mentor, a guiding star, perhaps even a paternal figure. In this celestial dance, the Sun nurtures the dormant seeds of promise within the 10th house soul, kindling a fire that empowers them to scale the towering heights of professional achievement and public recognition. Unseen currents may churn, as the tides of power and authority ebb and flow, wrestling for harmonious balance. Should the rhythm of their hearts align, with the melody of guidance and humility ringing louder than the discordant notes of dominance, their shared journey shall carve a path to victory in the grand stage of career and societal prominence. Together, they'll ascend the mountain of success, guided by the Sun's resplendent glow.

💘 Sun in the 11th house: As the Sun anoints the 11th house with its golden kiss, souls intertwined in this celestial ballet discover a fellowship deeper than mere companionship. They merge as confidants, their dreams and aspirations entwining like tendrils of starlight, fueled by a shared devotion to the grand tapestry of humanity. Hand in hand, they champion noble crusades, threading their bond of friendship through a loom of diversity and acceptance. The Sun, a celestial minstrel, serenades the 11th house soul, inspiring them to dance in the unique rhythm of their being. In turn, the 11th house individual perceives the Sun as a lighthouse of acceptance, its unwavering beam illuminating their path in times of tumult. For hearts fluttering to the cadence of romance, seek reinforcement from other heavenly harmonies, for a profound friendship forms the bedrock of enduring love.This cosmic duet, a symphony of souls, signals unity, mutual respect, and a shared pledge to a future as radiant as the Sun. Their shared bond, an ethereal waltz, tells a tale of harmony, shared dreams, and a commitment to a collective dawn where every dream finds its home.

💘 Sun in the 12th house: As the Sun slips into the enigmatic embrace of the 12th house, its bright sovereignty is shrouded in gauzy veils of mystique, spirituality, and the unseen. To the house person, the Sun appears as an ethereal apparition, a spectral force oscillating between healing and bewildering, like a siren's call echoing through the vast and shadowy cosmos. Shrouded in the silken shadows of the subconscious, their connection pulses like a hidden heartbeat, a secret rhythm known only to them. This clandestine bond invites introspection and self-discovery, a voyage into the deep waters of their shared consciousness. For the Sun person, the depths of the 12th house may feel like a labyrinth of twilight, where their radiant essence is held in a silent waltz, yearning for the symphony of expression. When suspicion or paranoia creep into this celestial bond, trust must be kindled like a beacon in the deep, for their connection thrives on the revelation of buried truths and the unearthing of the divine spark within. With hearts aglow and an attuned awareness of their spiritual dance, they navigate the labyrinthine realms of the soul, transcending the mortal shackles, and ascending into an otherworldly romance. This sacred journey, a testament to their courage, becomes an intimate dance between two souls weaving their way through the cosmic tapestry, seeking the divine in each other.

Thank you for staying til the very end loves, I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, let me know your thoughts in the comment🤍

love,

saint jenx🪐

© 2023 Saintz Jenx All Rights Reserved

#astrojenx #astrology #astro notes #synastry series #synastry #saint jenx synastry #astrology observations #astrology notes #leo venus #astro community #astrology community #astro observations #composite chart #sun in composite #sun in synastry #leo #gemini #cancer #virgo #pisces #sun in 10th house

[hunny-bean]

Too Close For Comfort

Pairing: Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank comforts you after he is forced to kill a man in your shared motel room.

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), Gun Violence, Dead Body (Not Frank's. Don't Worry), Explicit Sexual Content, Little Pinch of Angst, Long Ass Flashback, Porn With 3.5k Words of Plot

A/N: This is the first fic I've ever written! I've been wanting to write for the JB fandom for a while and I finally decided to go for it. I'm planning to write for a lot more of his characters in the future, but I figured Frank was a good starting point. Hope you like it! I'm open to feedback if you've got it. XOXO.

Read on AO3

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

After almost three months of living in an old stolen pickup truck and a series of shitty motels, you had learned to count your blessings. An important one, you quickly came to realize, was good water pressure. You were in the middle of your forth shower in the three days you and your new travel partner had been in this town, and you were trying your best to savor the moment. Since the closest companion of long showers is long trains of thought, you allowed your mind to wander back to how your adventure first began.

You took a step back in the cereal aisle in your local grocery store to examine the top shelf and ran directly into someone trying to pass behind you. Startled, you dropped the basket you were carrying full of frozen veggies and canned soups, and watched them roll in all directions. You whipped around so quickly you almost joined your soup on the floor, but luckily a strong hand shot out to steady you before you could.

"Whoa. Sorry 'bout that," the stranger said. And that was how you met Frank Castle. Surprisingly, your first impression of him had nothing to do with his gentle giant aura or his warm, gravelly voice. Your first impression happened before you even laid eyes on him, and that was how backing up into him was like hitting a brick wall with your car. He didn't stumble or falter. He didn't even flinch.

"No, sorry, that was my fault," you replied, your cheeks flushed from creating a loud noise in a public place. The stranger removed his hand from your arm and glanced down at the floor where your bags of peas laid, slowly thawing.

"You, uh... You want some help with those?"

"Oh, I got it, don't worry."

The man mumbled an "alright" and you watched him start to walk away, expecting him to leave the aisle, but he only took a few steps before his foot brushed a stray can, and he bent down to help anyway.

"Thank you. You didn't have to do that," you said when all the groceries had been collected.

"No problem," he muttered. You weren't sure why, but there was something off-putting about him. Later you realized it was the stark contrast between his gruff outer appearance and his quiet way of speaking. He was so intimidating but he seemed so trustworthy. "You have a nice day, ma'am."

Before he could walk away, you found yourself calling out to him, too curious to let him leave without asking any questions.

"Hey, I don't think I've seen you around here before. Are you. . . new in town?"

He seemed amused by your attempt to start a conversation, but decided to indulge you anyway. "I'm just passin' through. So you, uh, you really know everyone that lives here?"

Although he seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say, he kept subtly glancing around like he was about to cross the street or something. When he turned his head, you noticed the remnants of a week-old bruise on his jaw.

"Pretty much, yeah," you responded. "So, life on the road, huh? Sounds pretty exhilarating."

He let out a friendly chuckle. "Yeah, I guess it can be. If exhilarating is what you call lukewarm showers and buying all your food from the gas station."

You smiled back, happy the man seemed to be warming up some. He seemed less on edge, and you weren't sure why, but that made you feel accomplished in some way.

"Well, this isn't a gas station," you remarked, playfully contradicting his earlier statement.

"You're right, it's not," he said. "But I had to make an exception because-" You watched as he pulled a round object from his jacket pocket, holding it up and waving it slightly as if to show it off. "-gas stations don't carry mangoes."

You mock gasped, unable to fight back a smile. "Pocket fruit? I hope you were planning to pay for that. Or are you 'just passing through' because you're on the run from the police?"

You expected him to laugh at this, but instead you saw him staring intently over your shoulder at a man who had just entered the aisle. He seemed to identify the new arrival as some sort of threat. You saw that they were looking directly at each other, and you suddenly felt uneasy. Before you could ask what was wrong, several things began happening at once.

The man at the end of the aisle pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at the two of you. No, not at you, just at the kind stranger, who immediately pushed you behind him as the first shot rang out, followed by a second one. Thankfully, they both missed the two of you, but the second bullet grazed the basket you were still holding which was sticking out from behind the stranger's leg. Instantly, you dropped the basket and began sprinting for the nearest exit with the stranger close behind you.

You ran through a door marked 'EMPLOYEES ONLY,' which the stranger quickly barricaded with a tall shelf packed with bulk boxes of paper towel rolls. As the shooter banged at the door, the two of you found an exit at the back of the stock room, which you flung open and rushed through into the building's side alley. The stranger pulled you behind the building to where his vehicle was conveniently parked, almost as if he'd been anticipating an emergency escape. Too terrified to argue, you didn't protest when he ordered you to get in the passenger seat and jammed his keys in the ignition. He tore out of the parking lot and onto the main road, carrying you away from your home and the man who had tried to kill you both.

It took you half an hour to work up the courage to ask questions.

"Who was he?" you asked, softly. You're sure he heard you, although he seemed happy to pretend he didn't.

After a few long moments, when he realized you weren't going to stop staring at him until he answered, he begrudgingly responded.

"A bad man."

"Why did he wanna kill you?"

"I, uh, took something from him," the stranger said, studying his rear view mirror to see if you were being followed.

"Are you a bad man?" you asked, tentatively.

At first he just sighed, and for a moment you thought that's all he was going to give you for an answer, but then he spoke.

"I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're asking."

"Then. . . can you take me home?"

"I can't turn around yet, not 'till I know we're not being followed. Then I might be able to take you back so you can pack a bag or two."

"Pack?! For what?" you exclaimed, dreading the answer. There was another awkward silence while the man planned his answer. "Why do I need to pack? Tell me!"

"That man, the one with the gun? He has a, uh, habit of targeting his enemies' loved ones."

"But we barely know each other, why the hell would he-"

"He doesn't know that."

"Besides," he continued after a while, "I don't really. . . have any loved ones. So he's kinda grasping at straws to find somebody I'd want to protect."

"So, he thinks you would care if I died, and now we're both in danger?" You stared at him in disbelief.

"Pretty much, yeah," he mumbled.

After that, the truck was silent for a long while. The only time you spoke in the next two hours was to give the stranger your address. You watched the trees and road pass by beside you, trying to figure out what you would pack when you finally made it home for possibly the last time. You were lost in thought so long that you were pulled out of your head by the truck's tires bouncing over the dip in your driveway. You didn't even know you had turned around.

"You get ten minutes. We're traveling light, so don't go crazy." You began to hop out of the truck before the stranger's voice stopped you in your tracks. You turned around and saw that he was looking at you for the first time since you escaped the grocery store. "For the record," he began, contemplating what to say next, "I would care if he killed you."

You just stared back at him, not knowing how to respond to that.

"I'm gonna keep you safe, alright?" he promised, and you believed him.

You nodded, and went inside to gather your belongings. There was just something about this man that made you want to trust him. You managed to fit everything you needed into a large duffel bag and a back-pack. Looking around you, you realized something. You lived alone and all your friends lived out of state. This town had nothing to offer you except a shitty restaurant job. Most likely, the only person who would even notice you were gone was your boss. You took a deep breath before returning to the truck, putting your life in the hands of someone you just met.

You hopped back in the passenger seat, and the stranger helped you toss your bags in the backseat after checking that they were of a reasonable size. "You ready?" he asked.

"Fuck, no. Lets go."

The two of you took off down the road in a different direction than before, hoping to throw the bad man off your trail. After about an hour on the road, you looked over at the stranger to find him smirking slightly, lost in thought.

"What?" you asked, happy the mood seemed to be lightening despite your situation. He glanced over at you momentarily, and instead of providing a verbal response, he just reached into his pocket and handed you a slightly dented but still perfectly ripe mango. You took it from him with a smile.

"What's your name?" you asked.

He looked at you for a long moment, before seeming to make a decision. "Frank. What yours?"

You were brought back to the present by a torrent of freezing cold water, telling you you had been in there too long. You were thankful that Frank seemed to prefer morning showers. As you stepped out and dried off, you thought about the man chasing you. Eventually, when Frank opened up to you, he revealed that his name was Jordan Carlisle, and that his father was involved in the murder of Frank's family. You also discovered that the thing Frank had taken from him was his father's life. It had been so long since that day at the grocery store, and you wondered if you'd ever see him again. Maybe by this point, he'd given up on his revenge, and decided to leave Frank in peace. But Frank said Carlisle wasn't the type of man to just give up, and that if you ever wanted to stop running, someone would have to die.

During your few months together, you also learned that Frank wasn't the type to run away or avoid confrontation. The only reason he hadn't met Carlisle half way and taken him down was to keep you safe. That and the fact that he had been forced to leave behind some supplies shortly before you met and was left with nothing but a handgun, two bullets, and a pocket knife. (All things you could use to kill a man, but probably not a trained assassin).

You were both anticipating the end of the chase, however, because Frank had recently acquired various new firearms and a respectable pile of ammunition, and he was getting a little tired of running. Also, there's only so much distance you can put between you and your attacker before he realizes he's moving in the wrong direction. You had just pulled your favorite cotton nightgown over your head when-

*BANG*

You heard the unmistakable sound of the motel door being forced open. You heard a gunshot and something hit the floor. The sounds of a physical struggle just behind the bathroom door simultaneously relieved you and caused your heart to slam against your rib cage. At least you knew Frank was still alive. Unfortunately, so was the person who broke in. You couldn't see him, but you were pretty sure you knew who it was.

Two more gunshots shocked you into motion. You slid under the bathroom sink and tried desperately to remember what Frank told you to do on your first night together in case of a break in. He told you to get outside and find a hiding spot or barricade yourself in a closet or bathroom and wait for him to come get you. His voice in your head was commanding you, "Do. Not. Move." You tried to do as you were told but the urge to make sure Frank was alright was growing stronger. The muffled grunts and thuds were scaring you. You couldn't tell who had the upper hand and you didn't know enough about guns to determine which shots came from which man.

A loud cry of pain from Frank was your final straw. There wasn't a single thought in your head, let alone a plan, but you couldn't keep hiding while someone you cared about was potentially getting himself killed. You ran to the bathroom door, unlocked it, and threw it open with as much force as you could manage. The door slammed into the wall beside it with a loud crash. A distraction.

Just a few feet in front of you, Jordan Carlisle was caught off guard by the sound and he twirled around to find the source. Almost instantly, his gun was trained on you. Suddenly, you felt consumed by fear unlike anything you'd ever felt before. You heard the gunshot and flinched violently backward, as if you could somehow escape the bullet, stumbling back onto the bathroom floor. You screamed and squeezed your eyes shut tight, waiting for the impact, but it never came. You hesitantly opened your eyes just in time to watch Carlisle collapse onto the dirty motel carpet, eyes open and unseeing. He was dead. The chase was over.

Almost immediately you burst into tears, unable to get the image of his lifeless body out of your head. You knew you should be relieved, but there was something about almost dying that made you prone to emotional outbursts. You gazed up at Frank across the room, who still had his gun pointed at the spot where Carlisle had been standing moments before. He slowly lowered it and looked over at you where you were sitting on the floor, sobbing. He seemed angry, like every cell in his body was infused with a furious energy, and he had just shot the thing he was taking it out on.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!" Guess now it was your turn. "I TOLD YOU IF SOMEONE BREAKS IN, YOU FIND A PLACE TO HIDE AND YOU STAY THERE."

"I was j-just wo-horried about you," you hiccuped.

"I HAD IT COVERED."

"I'm sorr-"

"YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN YOURSELF KILLED. THEN ALL OF THIS RUNNING BULLSHIT WOULD HAVE BEEN FOR NOTHING."

You turned your head away from the shouting and found yourself looking directly at Carlisle again. This time, you were unable to turn away. It was like you were completely frozen, tension locking all your muscles in place, rendering you incapable of even the slightest movement. Your tears began falling harder but you were barely making a sound. Your lungs were tight and burning. You couldn't even draw in a full breath. Frank's reprimanding faded into background noise. You found yourself wishing desperately that you were anywhere but in that room.

"Oh, fuck," Frank muttered when he saw you damn near hyperventilating. He calmed down considerably when he realized yelling at you was only making things worse. "Shit, I didn't want you to see this."

He made his way over to your side of the room and knelt down to be at eye level with you. You barely acknowledged his presence.

"Hey, look at me," he asked gently. You didn't move your head. Softly, Frank cupped your cheek, the one farther away from him, and used it to turn you in his direction.

"You're gonna be okay," he promised. "Can you stand, sweetheart?"

Seeing Frank alive and calm helped you come back to yourself. Slowly, you nodded. Frank stood and held out his hand to you, which you used to pull yourself up with a little effort. You managed to get upright, but your legs were shaking so hard you weren't sure if you'd be able to walk. It was pathetic, and you were quite sure Frank would agree, but he didn't say anything about it. He just took one look at you and scooped you up into his arms. You were embarrassed by your incompetence, but you had finally stopped crying, and that was an accomplishment in and of itself.

Frank carried you over to your bed on the far side of the room and laid you down carefully. On your way over, you passed his bed which was closer to the bathroom, and saw two bullet holes in the pillow Frank had been laying on when you left to take a shower. That was when the relief hit you. You felt no more grief or fear or regret, only solaced by the fact that you were both alive and safe at last.

"Stay here, alright? Don't move," Frank murmured. He turned to walk over to the body again but you grabbed onto his arm before he could leave. He looked back at you questioningly.

"I heard you get hurt," you mentioned shyly. "What happened?"

Frank's eyes revealed that he was happy you were talking again. He seemed touched that your first concern when the shock wore off was for him.

"Ran into the nightstand," he admitted, rubbing his side. "It's just bruised, nothing to worry about."

You had a feeling he wasn't telling you the full story, but you decided to accept his answer. As far as you could tell, he wasn't bleeding anywhere and he didn't seem to be in much pain. Satisfied, you let go of his arm and turned to face the wall. You had a feeling you wouldn't want to see what was about to happen.

You laid there for a while, listening to Frank working behind you. You heard something being dragged across the floor, several grunts of effort and a sickening thud. You heard the faucet running in the sink and the sound of the bathroom door closing. There were footsteps moving around the room. . . the sound of someone changing clothes. You smelled the air freshener left in the bathroom cabinet masking the scent of blood.

Finally, after God knows how long, you felt the bed dip slightly as Frank sat down on the edge. You sat up and moved next to him, resting your head on his shoulder after a moment of hesitation. He put his arm around your shoulder and held you closer to him. The two of you weren't usually this affectionate, but you had certainly grown closer during your time together, and you figured the situation called for it.

"Do you think the police are on their way down here?" you asked.

Frank shrugged. "Probably not if they haven't shown up by now." Frank tried and failed to fight back a small smile. "Either that guy behind the front desk is a really heavy sleeper, or he did something to piss off the jackass in our bathtub. The only other people in this dump checked out yesterday," he said. You couldn't help but smile at that along with him. You were just so happy to be alive.

The more you let that thought run through your head, the more you wanted to be close to him. You needed more than an arm around your shoulder after you almost got shot in the head. You wanted to be held. 'Oh, sue me,' you thought. 'Who wouldn't?'

But you tried to let it be enough. You weren't sure how Frank would react to more than what you were already doing and you were too nervous to find out. You felt Frank shift next to you and realized that overthinking had caused you to become tense. The silence between you grew slowly thicker and you were worried he was about to pull away from you. In that moment, Frank standing up seemed like the absolute worst thing in the world that could happen to anyone, and you weren't about to let it.

'Fuck it', you thought, and with one quick movement, you were straddling his lap with your arms thrown over his shoulders, pulling him closer to you. He was caught off guard for a brief moment, but a second later his arms were wrapped around your waist, holding you just as tightly. You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in and savoring the feeling of his pulse against your cheek.

"We're okay, Frankie," you breathed. "It's over."

"I told you I was gonna keep you safe, sweetheart. I don't make promises I can't keep."

The two of you stayed like that for a while, content to just hold each other until the sun shone through the curtains. Well, you thought you were content, but it wasn't long before the closeness started to affect you. He was just so warm and solid, and suddenly you felt like he was wearing too many clothes. You wanted to feel him. Feel his heartbeat and the warmth of his skin on yours.

Your stomach was tight with desperation and you felt tears forming behind your eyes. You needed to be closer. Your thighs tightened around Frank's hips and he felt your breathing get heavier against his neck. You shifted your position slightly to ease some of the wanting in your veins but you froze when you heard Frank's breath hitch.

As you settled your weight on his lap again, your new position provided a new sensation. There was something warm pressing against your inner thigh. Even through Frank's impenetrable denim jeans, you could feel it heating up.

Frank was just as aroused by your position as you were. He wanted you, too, but you knew he would never admit it because he cared about you too much to do anything that could potentially hurt you.

The worst part was, you could feel it getting bigger and pulsing softly right next to where you wanted it the most, and he knew you could feel it. He knew, and he knew you wanted it, but he still wasn't saying anything about it because he was too damn stubborn. He probably thought you weren't in your right mind and would regret it in the morning but that was just such bullshit. You could never regret him, and you were going to make sure he knew that.

There was still some part of you that was afraid to make a move, and that part of you really wanted Frank to break first. So, you decided to make him unable to ignore it any longer. Pretending to adjust your position again, you settled down directly on top of his bulge, making sure it was exactly where you wanted it. The feeling of his cock hardening against you sent another wave of desperation through your body, causing you to tighten your limbs around him again. Still feigning innocence, you rolled your hips once for good measure, grinding down on him to see his reaction.

You didn't see it so much as feel it, when his arms tensed up around you and he turned his head away from you in frustration. You could feel your blood pumping hard, and you were sure your face was flushed. You wondered if he could feel your heartbeat the same way you could feel his pressed up against your clit. You felt his cock twitch again, even through three layers of fabric, and you could barely take it any more. You rolled your hips again, purely on instinct, and accidentally let out a soft moan.

Frank exhaled sharply and slid his arm from around your waist to pull your head away from his neck.

"What are you doin', sweetheart?" he asked, looking at you sympathetically when he saw your wrecked face. Suddenly, it was all too much for you, and there was nothing you could do to stop a rogue tear from sliding down your cheek.

"Please," you whispered, and that was all you had to say.

He put a hand on the back of your neck and pulled you toward him before lightly brushing his lips against yours. You pushed forward, wanting more, but Frank pulled away before you could really kiss him. He just sat there for a moment, searching your eyes for any signs of reluctance or any lack of clarity whatsoever. In the end, he found nothing but pure desire and maybe, just maybe, love.

This time, when he leaned in, you met him half way. This time, it was more than just a brush of lips. Frank kissed you like you were the most precious thing in the world to him. Gentle, yes, but also tortuously deep. You felt his tongue brush against your lower lip and gently coax your mouth open to kiss you harder, and it was warm and wet and perfect. As your need got worse, you began to grind down on him again, sighing into his mouth from the friction.

The hand he had on your neck moved up to tangle in your hair, tugging gently, while the other one shifted to settle on your lower back as he encouraged harder, slower movements of your hips. As he forced you down against him, the feeling of the rough denim on your clit through your thin panties caused you to whine quietly. Every slight movement sent sparks shooting up your spine.

You shifted your body backwards and reached down between you to tug at his zipper, but it didn't want to come down. Frank let you struggle with it for a moment, but just as you started getting frustrated, he took over for you.

In one swift movement, you were on your back underneath him, your legs still hooked around him. He sat up for a moment to pull off his shirt (revealing his fucking perfect abs that seemed completely unfair and you were about to LOSE YOUR MIND BECAUSE HOLY SHIT) and then he was back on top of you, pressing one last kiss to your lips before pulling away to look you in the eyes.

"You sure you want this, sweetheart?"

"Don't you fucking dare leave me like this, Castle."

Frank snorted, rolling his eyes affectionately. "Yes, ma'am."

With one hand, he reached down to unzip and tug down his pants and underwear, freeing his flushed cock from it's uncomfortable confines. It was bigger than you expected it to be, which is saying something because you already knew he was big from rubbing against it. He was so hard it looked painful, and he gave himself a few tugs to take the edge off. Just watching it drip onto the bed had you feeling dizzy. You were unbearably wet and all you wanted was to feel it inside of you.

Luckily, Frank seemed to tell as much, because he slid his hand up your thigh, kissing your neck gently and pushing the hem of your nightgown up to your stomach. He hooked the fingers of one hand in the waistband of your underwear but he paused there, waiting for some sort of go-ahead. You nodded at him, and he sat back again to tug your panties down your legs and pull them off.

This time, instead of immediately climbing back on top of you, Frank took a moment to admire you from an upright position. He gazed hungrily at your exposed cunt before swiping a finger through your folds and brushing your clit with the pad of his thumb. You jolted at the feeling, whimpering when he did it again just to watch you shudder.

"Frankie, please," you whined.

Frank decided to have mercy on you, and he came up to kiss you as he lined the tip of his cock up with your aching hole. He pushed slowly until the thick head was all the way in, surrounded by your soft, fluttering walls. It was a stretch, and it wasn't even half-way in. You appreciated Frank giving you a moment to adjust, but you didn't want one. You wanted to feel all of him, even if it hurt.

Hooking your legs tighter around him, you tried to push him into you. It didn't work, obviously. You didn't think you could move Frank if you barreled into him full-force, but he got the message.

In one smooth thrust, he buried himself fully inside you, grunting loudly and whispering an "Oh, fuck" into your neck. Your back arched up off the bed and you moaned loudly as his cock hit sweet spots inside you that you didn't even know existed.

Having Frank hovering over you, connected to you in so many ways, was easily the best thing you'd ever experienced. You were both breathing heavily and shaking as you waited for the initial pleasure shock to wear off.

Once you adjusted, you shifted slightly under him, trying to fuck yourself on his cock. Whatever stimulation you managed to get from that was nothing compared to when he actually started moving. Each thrust was slow and deep, sending waves of bliss coursing through you. You couldn't stop the gasps and whimpers that kept escaping, nor did you want to.

Franks arms were on either side of your head, closing you in so all you could see and feel was him. You had never felt so safe in your entire life. Every movement was so complete and perfect. Nothing was rushed or forceful, but it was still all pure pleasure. You were sure you had never been this wet before.

Feeling Frank's back muscles shift under your fingertips as he thrust into you was mesmerizing, and hearing him moan softly and curse against your pulse point was sending shivers through your body. Every time Frank pushed his cock back inside you, you felt yourself ascending further, rapidly approaching your peak. Every time he pulled out slowly so you could feel it dragging against every part of your sensitive walls, you wanted to sob from feeling so good.

It wasn't long before you were crying out from your release, tightening your grip on every part of Frank and leaving long scratches down his back. When your climax finally hit, you swore you were having an out-of-body experience.

"Attagirl, that's it," Frank whispered as he felt you spasm around him. "Oh, fuck, sweetheart. Where-" he began. Reluctantly, you rubbed your hand on your stomach. You hadn't had access to birth control in almost six weeks and shitty motels don't provide condoms. Even the ones with good water pressure.

You rubbed the back of Frank's head gently as his thrusts grew more erratic, grabbing onto and playing with his hair. Suddenly, he pulled out of you and jerked his cock barely three times before he was finishing on your stomach with a quiet groan, painting it with his cum.

Breathing heavily, the two of you collapsed next to each other, coming down from your highs and processing what just happened. Idly, you began playing with the mess on your stomach as you thought about what was next for the two of you. There was no way in hell you were letting Frank drop you off at your house and just take off after that. You know you said "It's over," but it couldn't really be over, right?

"Stay with me," you whispered.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, baby."

"I'm not talking about tonight. When you take me back home, stay with me."

Frank pushed himself up on one elbow, looking at you in disbelief. "Sweetheart, I don't think I can-"

"Then I'll stay with you. My house is a family heirloom, I've only gotta pay for water and electricity. It'll still be waiting for me whenever I need it."

"I can't let you do that. You have no idea how much I want to, but I'd get you killed."

"Then stop moving for a while. No one would find you in that town. Just stay with me. Please. If you hate it, you can leave."

Frank sighed, glancing around the room before settling his gaze back on you. He brought his hand to your face, brushing his fingertips down your cheek like you were a precious artifact. You both knew he wasn't ready to let you go.

"Okay."

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

#jon bernthal #frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle smut #jon bernthal x reader #jon bernthal smut #frank castle fanfiction

[ruskaroma]

ordinary, corrupt human love. | chapter 1: written in blood.

Warnings: this series will include highly disturbing/dark topics such as stalking, unhealthy obsession, graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore, manipulation, gaslighting, large age gap, emotional/psychological abuse, dom/sub undertones, bad BDSM etiquette, etc.

this is a dark fic, written in john's pov and a glimpse of how his mind works. if you still continue to read and get triggered, that is not my responsibility.

Summary: John finds himself a new obsession.

Author's note: this is my first ever fanfic for this fandom and i am beyond excited to share this with you guys! though i must say before you begin, english is not my first language and there might be a few errors in my writing here and there, so i apologize in advance.

but either way, i still hope you enjoy this piece, and i can assure you that once i finish writing this series there will be more to come! i really enjoy writing john wick be a merciless bastard who kills everything that breathes, and i hope you enjoy it too as much as i did.

please, please, PLEASE tell me what you think in the comment and reblogs and likes would be so appreciated. it motivates me to write even more :)

(also this is not edited so all mistakes are on me and i apologize)

Word count: 8.1k

also read on ao3.

It’s one of those days again.

The sound of his watch ticking is the only thing keeping his car from being too quiet. His eyes watch every single movement of his target, never leaving his sight. It won’t be too long for John to finally strike, he just doesn’t want too many civilians seeing the horror that’s about to happen right before their very eyes.

His mind is thinking of many things he could do with this target in particular. A lowlife thug that got himself involved with a very dangerous Italian mob, but then again that’s not the reason why John’s murderous intent is at its peak at the moment.

He’s angry at something, he just doesn’t know what. And this target of his isn’t helping his situation at all. Reading his criminal record made John think this could be a chance to cure his boredom. This man is not only a sex trafficker, but also a pedophile who has a history of targeting teenagers to rape and sell to the black market that’s as fucked up as him.

He doesn’t normally take his time thinking of ways to kill his targets. He points, shoots, leaves. This one in particular though, got him facing a side of him that John himself doesn’t want to face.

He would start by breaking every single one of the man’s fingers. And if that doesn’t do any justice, he’ll cut them off.

One by one, let the man savor the feeling, let John relish the nightmare.

He could slit the man’s throat, watch as life drains away from his body, watch as the man clings to his legs for mercy. John could even pull out the man’s dick, step on it, fucking cut it off and shove it so far down his own throat that he couldn’t scream for help if he tried.

It’s John’s version of Colombian Necktie. A classic, only ever tried it out four times, hopefully this would be the fifth.

John is never the one to take pleasure in killing people, but these past few months have proved him otherwise.

Maybe it’s because of Helen’s death, and the way he was basically forced to sculpt the demons he buried back into himself. His only remaining bit of humanity was taken from him, and he’s coping in the most unhealthy way possible. Perhaps Winston was right about dipping his pinky a little too much into the pond, but it was inevitable.

John has gone back to his old ways. Taking contracts here and there to distract himself from the void in his heart. He remembers how burying a knife into someone’s throat for the first time in many years has ignited something in him he didn’t even know he had.

That’s why he’s here, exiting his car in a swift move, following his target as quietly as possible into a narrow alleyway that stinks of garbage in piss. This would be a nice place to kill a guy like him – right where he belongs.

John’s movements are so discreet the man couldn’t even sense him until John wrapped his right arm around his neck and his other hand went to cover the man’s mouth. He walks them both to the back of a building as the man struggles, where John’s sure no more people are present, and he kicks him on the jaw to stop the man from making any more noises.

John can make this quick. Pull out his gun and blow his brains out. But there’s that sinister glint in his mind that’s telling him to do something unimaginable – grotesque even – a death a man like him deserves.

The man tries to swing his arm at John but misses pathetically. The poor guy’s already shaking and John hasn’t even begun.

John doesn’t respond to the pitiful attempts of questioning who he is and who sent him here, he simply pulls his knife from his pocket and wastes no time slashing it against the man’s throat, the blood spraying all over his face. The man tries to stop it by shakily covering the deep cut with his hand, but it’s useless.

He’s gargling, choking on his own blood, and John’s watching it all unravel with a familiar glint in his eyes.

John is contemplating if he should follow the plan he made in his head or just leave it like this. Somehow, the sight looks rather incomplete to him. He knows what he’s done is not enough, but that could be just the rage talking. The man’s already dead, and surely cutting off his dick and shoving it so far down his throat it comes out of the wound would leave an ugly reputation on his name. 

Would that be a good thing? John is already feared enough, would it be a good thing to make people fear him even more? But then again, this won’t be the first time he’s done it. Doing it again one more time wouldn’t make any difference.

He glances down at the dead body on his feet before he kneels down to do the unforgivable.

Slicing off a man’s cock is easy. Too easy. John’s knife is perfectly sharpened and stoned, he merely uses any strength to cut it off. The sight is so fucking ugly, too much blood, but nothing he can’t handle.

Once that’s done, John uses his other hand to force the dead man’s jaw open, immediately greeted by the foul stench of blood as he shoves the unpleasant dick into the man’s open mouth. The genitalia is definitely not long enough to reach the throat, but that won’t be any problem for John.

He grits his teeth as he forces his hand in there, not bothering to care even if the jaw breaks and the hole becomes even wider, his goal is the only thing in his mind.

The blood continues to drip and he has never been so grateful for wearing an all black uniform for this occasion. Soon enough, after a few minutes of such a brutal wrongdoing, John sees the tip of the cock reaching the deep wound on the man’s throat as it continues to peak its way out.

A sick, small smile spreads across John’s face. The smile is barely there, but he’s fucking enjoying this more than he’d like to admit. He can only imagine how the news would spread across the assassin underworld like a wildfire.

The Boogeyman’s back in business and he’s scarier than ever.

Perhaps this might be the way to lay his point across. This is a way to show them that it was not a good idea pissing him off, killing what’s his, and bringing him back in business. They’d regret it, but it would be already too late for that.

John uses his other hand to pull the cock right out of the man’s throat but not completely. Half of it is hanging out and John thinks he could even consider this as a masterpiece. There’d be flies and maggots that would make the scenery better, but the cleaning service is there for a reason. He can’t just not use it.

John stands up from his position, pocketing his knife back into his pocket before retrieving his phone with the other. He dials a number, waits for them to pick up, all while admiring his work on the ground.

His previous contracts these past few months all ended in such an unimaginable, ugly way. He figured that by showing them that he’s capable of such brutality, it would increase the numbers of people calling him in for more jobs, because this is exactly what they wanted. They wanted Baba Yaga, the ruthless killer of the underworld who stops at nothing to finish his job, and he’s simply giving it to them.

Someone picks up the call and he straightens his posture, checking the time on his watch before speaking.

“This is Wick. John Wick, yes. I would like to make a dinner reservation for one.”

The news spread faster than anticipated.

The notorious man John Wick, the hot topic of the criminal underworld at the moment, even gained the attention of The High Table, and it all happened in the span of one day. That’s how quick the news spread amongst his fellow assassins, though that’s exactly what he was going for.

John expected it so he isn’t surprised when he receives a call from Charon saying Winston wants to meet him.

He inserts a coin in the door and the small window opened briefly. The guy on the other side immediately recognized him, not wasting a single moment to open the door and let the man of the hour in. All eyes are on him the moment he steps into the club, but no one dared to murmur anything to anybody – not when the man himself is here.

They know better.

John spots Winston at his usual spot drinking his usual order, signaling John to sit beside him where a glass of bourbon is already present. 

“Jonathan,” Winston greets, raising his glass. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

“I figured,” John replies, though not interested. He slides himself to the booth and takes a sip of his own drink. “I don’t understand why though.”

“Are we really playing this game, Jonathan?” The manager raises a brow. 

“I was just doing my job.”

“In a way you don’t normally do,” Winston then adds. “Or should I say, in a way you don’t even do.”

John gives him a look, but he could tell Winston doesn’t know how to interpret it. His face remains emotionless, not letting the mask slip and grant Winston the privilege to take a peak. John will continue to play this game until he’s satisfied, until he feels something again. Surely he’ll find what he’s looking for while doing the only thing he’s ever good at – slaughtering.

“Let’s just say I was trying out a new technique,” John says, voice deep and almost sinister. Winston’s scared, though he doesn’t show it, John knows. 

“I have known you ever since you started, Jonathan. Not once did it cross my mind you would do something so.. horrifying as this. You discarded the body like he was some sort of pig, so believe me when I say I couldn’t believe it at first.”

John has no idea why Winston’s whining about him being horrifying, when that’s all they’ve been saying about him ever since he joined. He didn’t gain this reputation for no reason, now he’s just simply showing them what more he’s capable of.

“You should’ve seen his record.” His tone is menacing, swirling the drink in his hand as he stares deeply at Winston’s eyes. “He’s worse than a pig.”

The drop of the curse word takes Winston by surprise. “So is that what it is, then? You killed him that way because you think he deserved it?”

“Not really,” John simply sighs, leaning back on the leather seat as he takes another sip of his bourbon. He really isn’t planning on staying longer, but Winston seems to be taking his sweet time asking him a bunch of stupid questions. “I couldn’t care less of what he’s done. I was simply… bored. Saying that I did that because I think he deserved it gives people a reason to think that what I did was justifiable.”

The look on Winston’s face says enough. He’s afraid of John, afraid of what he has become. Hearing John say he did such an unforgiving thing just because he was bored is beyond frightening. No man has ever inflicted so much fear on him before – at least not until John.

“I think we’re done for tonight,” Winston finally says, not wanting to hear any more disturbing thoughts of John, but he remains polite and calm for the sake of their friendship. “You have a good night, Jonathan.”

John gives him a nod, standing up from his seat and downing his drink in one go. “Goodnight, Winston.”

He exits the club with an eerie aura following behind him, not caring about the way people are looking at him like he’s got Death himself walking beside him.

It makes him wonder that maybe death doesn’t follow him after all.

Maybe it is him.

Someone offered him five million to fuck up a man who allegedly stole a fuck ton of kilograms of cocaine from their warehouse, and really, who is John to decline the offer?

Hunting the man is easy. It didn’t even take a day to locate where the man lives, and John’s already breaking into his apartment to shoot the guy and leave. There’s no point in rummaging the place for the cocaine, all of it is already up the man’s system by the looks of it, and killing him is John’s job.

John wants to finish this one fast, he’s got other business to attend to. As he backs up the frightened, pathetic excuse for a man against the wall, he takes his gun out of his holster and aims directly at the head, right between the eyes, and he watches in great pleasure as the residue of his brains splatter against the walls and the floor.

This man didn’t even put up a fight. John thinks this is a waste of time.

He exits the apartment with disappointment heavy on his shoulders, slamming the door shut. Although the gun he used has a silencer, the rooms are too close to each other. He’s sure there might be other people who heard the shot of his firearm.

The apartment building is located at the filthy side of New York, where most known drug dealers and junkies do their nasty deals. It’s no surprise that as soon as John steps a foot out of the worn out building, all eyes are on him, but mainly on the clothes he’s wearing. They’re planning on mugging him out, and John would like to see them try.

Just as he’s about to walk to his car, his phone rings abruptly in his chest pocket. He retrieves it in one swift motion, not noticing that a gold coin fell out as he does so, and he continues walking to not waste any more time.

“Sir! Excuse me, sir, you dropped something!” John hears from behind. He doesn’t bother looking.

The call isn’t nearly as important as the business he needs to attend to, so he hangs up the call and pushes his phone back into his pocket. As soon as he does that, he feels a small hand touching his shoulder.

John’s hand immediately flies to wrap his large hand around the person’s wrist, turning around to see a young woman with a bewildered expression on her pretty face, little fingers holding his golden coin that looks far too big on her hand.

She looks scared, terrified, and oh how fucking awful that makes John feel. Like he’s been punched right in the fucking gut. He’s enthralled.

“I wasn’t–you dropped it and I’m just giving it to you, I promise!”

She’s looking at John with big, doe eyes. She also looks freshly showered, wrapped in a black puffy jacket that makes her even smaller than she already is. John lets his eyes linger on her lips, so plump and glossy. Her voice sounds sweet, soft, something John isn’t used to hearing.

John can’t help but to stare.

“Are you–are you gonna let me go, mister?”

The way she stutters triggers a hot feeling in John’s guts, and can’t help but to rub his thumb on the girl’s dainty wrist before slowly letting her go.

So delicate, he could snap them in half.

“Sorry,” John apologizes, taking the coin from her hold, and his fingers itch at the way her skin feels so soft against his rough hands. “Force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles a little, and there goes that hot curl in John’s stomach once again. “That thing looks expensive so be careful next time.”

Just like that, John doesn’t get the chance to reply back. She makes her leave and patters away from him, and he watches. He watches until she’s out of the view, taking a turn to a corner, leaving John with something he can’t quite figure out yet, but he soon will be.

For the first time in a while, he feels something new.

Suddenly, everything is too good to be true.

John will find himself staring at his hands for too long, still feeling the ghost of her soft skin on his fingers, fantasizing about her pretty face and soft, plump lips.

It’s scary for him to feel something again because that only means destruction. John likes to believe he has a gift of ruining everything he touches, especially the pure ones – like her. It’s a proven statement. Just look at Helen and Daisy.

This little one won’t be any different, he’s sure of it. John’s whole body is heating up everytime he thinks about her. The look on her face when she saw John’s chilling expression, her wide eyes, so glossy and innocent.

John wants to see her again.

His fingers itch, yearning to touch her again. 

Why he’s suddenly interested in a young woman he just met a few days ago, he has no idea. John’s a bit confusing – fucked up, even. He long accepted the fact that his mind is nowhere near healthy years ago. He tried to push those thoughts away when he met Helen, but now he’s out of his shell and back in business, there’s no need to.

He’s always been one of the wolves, and now that he’s laid his eyes on his next meal, he will make sure there’s not a single thing that will get in his way to hunt her down.

He had a crisis for two days before doing the unexpected. It didn’t take long for John to find her. 

Now, John has been following her around for a week, and he noticed a certain pattern his little one likes to follow as she goes on her day.

The very place where they met is where she lives, surrounded by a bunch of goons who have no idea what to do with their lives. John begins to wonder why she’s living in a place like that. He could take her, put her somewhere safe, under his care and protection. Make sure no one will dare to lay a finger on her.

John knows where she works. At a veterinary clinic not too far from her apartment, which is why she walks to work every three in the afternoon, but not without stopping by in her favorite deli and getting a large order of her favorite sandwich. She’s a part-timer. She’d be at school from seven to twelve, and at work from three to eight.

John finds the little things she does amusing. He’d be seated in a cafe right across from her work, watching how she moves around her office through a big window, petting and cooing at the animals who come and go.

She’s so perfect, so pure, so naive. She has no idea that a monster is lurking ten feet away from her, watching her every move like a hawk, thinking about the ways he could destroy her, make her his.

John is not delusional. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing and he’s aware of what people might call him. 

Stalker.

Creep.

They don’t know him though. They don’t know why he acts this way. They’d do the same if they were him, that’s for sure. He’s not the bad guy here, he’s simply just protecting her little one, even from afar. John went as far as destroying a whole Russian Bratva for a mere puppy and a car, he’d do even worse if she’s somehow taken away from him.

John sees her exiting the building and his first thought is to follow her. He stands up from his seat, the cup of coffee long forgotten as he makes his way out of the café and keeps a safe distance between the two of them. It’s risky, especially in the broad daylight, but John knows she’s too oblivious to notice.

She’s with her friends this time, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by John how she clings at the shirt of her co-worker as they cross the street, small hands fisting at the fabric. He thinks about how he won’t ever let go of her hand once she’s his. He’s not big on physical affection, having to grow up with no parents and a rather strict orphanage, but maybe he could be gentle. Engulf her hand in his, stroke it with his thumb, tuck her hair behind her ears, show everyone that she’s already owned.

They wouldn’t dare to lay their hands on her again.

John walks in the middle of the sidewalk, not bothering to move away despite seeing people approaching. He doesn’t need to, the look in his face is enough for people to give him the way. It’s interrupted however, when someone does try to get in his way, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back a little.

John clenches his jaw, pissed. He takes his eyes from his little one and on the person who so rudely interrupted what he’s doing – it’s Marcus.

“John? I was just looking for you at the Continental.” Marcus has a small smile on his face, clearly not aware of John’s expression.

His eyes dart behind Marcus, where his little one is supposed to be, but she’s gone. John feels something curl in his stomach, his fingers itching again, eyes rapidly searching for her in the sea of people.

He looks at Marcus again, deciding he’ll just find her later, but he worries that something might happen to her now that John’s attention isn’t on her.

“Why?” he almost snaps, voice deep and laced with no emotion.

“Why? Because it’s been quite some time, John. I haven’t heard from you since the Iosef situation, but I did hear you’re back in business,” Marcus replies, but when he sees how distracted John looks, his voice falters. “You working?”

“Yeah.” The lie comes off smoothly. “I’ll see you around.”

John taps Marcus’ shoulder, trying to sound as polite as possible even though he badly wants to break a couple of his teeth for taking his attention away from her. He knows Marcus is probably noticing something, but John’s never the one to care.

Marcus drops the subject. “Alright, John. I’ll see you around.”

With that, John disappears in the crowd with no looking back.

It’s been awhile since John last took a job.

He can’t seem to take his eyes away from his little one. He can’t stop fucking stalking her from morning to night time.

John’s afraid that once he takes his attention from her even for a second, something bad might happen to her. It’s engraved in his mind that she can’t protect herself and he’s solely there to be the protector.

No one would understand. He’s doing this for her own good.

John’s absence at the Continental doesn’t go unnoticed by Winston and Charon. They’re his favorite, after all. Watch his every move carefully ever since that ugly murder John did. Perhaps he could make his next kill even uglier. To them, it’s vile and grotesque. For John, it’s special and unique.

This time, it took a good self-beating before John decided to take a contract. Three million to hunt down a rival crime lord, nothing he can’t handle, but somehow it brings an unusual feeling on his shoulder he isn’t fond of. Perhaps because John’s leaving his little one for a while and he isn’t quite sure what to feel. Worried and pissed – but mostly worried.

That is why he hired someone to trail his little one on his behalf. Everyone in business would do anything for a coin despite how fucked up disturbing it is. John offered a generous amount of coins to keep the assassin’s mouth shut, but he also held him at gunpoint and gave him a good talk before he sent the dog out in the field.

His only job is to keep an eye on her, report everything he’ll see to John, and maybe even take pictures for safety purposes.

John has been overseas in the last three days, and everything that’s been sent to him has been his only form of entertainment. There’s videos of her giggling with her friends, videos and photos of her in the library, outside her school, her work, and even in her apartment. There’s also information sent to him about the background of her friends – every single one of them, because John didn’t pay so much for nothing.

There’s one particular friend that ticks off John in all the worst way possible. He’s young, around her age, and the way he hugs and touches her just fucking sets him off. John wants to break his fingers in half. He reminds himself that once he’s home, he’ll make sure to take care of that boy himself.

“What else have you got?” John questions through the phone, and it doesn’t take long for his precious dog to respond.

“Oh, he is one creepy motherfucker. I’m starting to understand why you’re so riled up with this guy, boss. The urge to strangle him every time he gets in the picture gets stronger and stronger everyday.” He hears a laugh at the other end. The guy that’s working for him – Alex, if he remembers correctly – is young, new in business, knows not to fuck with John so he keeps his job adequate. If Alex ever notice how fucked up John is for making him follow a young woman to keep his life in order, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Just tell me when I can shoot this guy and I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

“Leave him. Keep an eye on him, but don’t kill him,” John advises, his tone leaving no room for discussion. “I’ll handle him myself when I get back. For the meantime, focus on Y/N and keep any troubles out of her way. Fail that task and I’d serve your head hot on a platter.”

“You got it, boss.”

John is playing nicely.

He’s not going to force his way into her life. He’s gonna be welcomed, with open arms, desired.

There are times he’d thought about giving in to his desperation and act with his dick instead of his head. There are times he’d thought about following her to a dark street, where no one’s around, he’s on the prowl and ready to pounce. He’d put a fabric against her mouth and nose, laced with enough chemicals to make her pass out and for him to carry her in his car with no problems whatsoever. John thinks about how he’d make it look like he’s just picking up his very drunk and passed out girlfriend and no one would know a goddamn thing.

John would keep her in his house where she won’t need anything but him. 

But of course, he’s not that cruel.

They’re only thoughts. Thoughts that he tries hard to keep away, but at the end of the day he reminds himself that he’s better than that.

John is not going to force his way into her life.

He’ll make sure to get her addicted enough to come crawling at his feet herself. She’ll be dependent on him, won’t be able to live without him. John will make sure his plan will go out smoothly or otherwise he’ll be the one bringing Hell with him on this land and seek as much havoc as he possibly can.

The death emissary himself will strike tonight.

A Friday night out with her friends has John on high alert. That’ll only mean she’s constantly surrounded with people, god knows what could happen if John even takes his eyes off her for a second. He lurks on the side, blending himself with the crowd as much as he can all while keeping his gaze on her. 

He doesn’t need any drugs to keep his mind insane, because the sight of a specific man getting very close to what’s his is enough to make him visualize all the ugly and twisted ways to kill a man.

She’s wearing a thin silky dress that’s low on her cleavage and shows her perky breasts. She’s currently the flame in a room full of moths, John included. Everyone’s eyes are on her, observing the way she sways her hips and sings along to the loud music – John’s fingers itch.

The itch to kill is back again, driving into his veins, his hands twitch on the table. John wants to pull out his gun and shoot everyone in this fucking room. He wants to stab them in the eyes one by one and make them feed it to themselves. He wants to grab this guy on the neck and slam his head against the wall repeatedly until his brain scatter all over the fucking place and there’s nothing left for him to ruin.

This guy is getting on his fucking nerves.

John watches as the man smoothly brings his arm on her shoulder, whispering something in her ear that doesn’t make her look so impressed. In fact, she looks disturbed, uncomfortable, tense. Despite the guy being her friend, John could tell she doesn’t feel comfortable with the way he’s showing her affection.

It’s hard to see her like this, but he knows he can’t just jump in between the two of them and beat the shit out of the guy until he chokes on his own blood. He’ll have to wait, maybe after this party, he’ll strike and discard the body in a way that’ll make even Winston spook in his sleep. It’s not a major offense to kill a man that’s not in the game anyway – or at least that’s what John tells himself.

This guy wouldn’t be able to be three feet near his little one once John’s done with him. He’ll be six feet under.

John sees her swiftly moving away from his touch, trying to make her rejection look as polite as possible, which receives a not-so-amused reaction from her little friend.

This guy doesn’t deserve her at all. No one does. Except maybe John, but that’s because he knows he’s capable of actually taking care of her and keeping her safe. Nobody would understand what he feels, what he yearns, what he wants.

Good girl, John thinks. Walk away.

His gaze follow her as she makes her way to the backdoor and out to the cold air of the city. John follows in a hurry, keeping a safe distance between the two of them, then opens the door as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t let his presence known.

There are a few people on the street, either having a smoke break or making out against the piss stained wall, but she stays just beside the busy road as she wraps her arms around herself.

His gaze burn daggers on her exposed back, the urge to cover her up with his jacket and take her home. A drunk man comes stumbling out of the club, accidentally tripping over his steps and he pushes her hard enough to make her yelp as her heels lose balance and almost making herself get run over by a passing truck.

Almost.

Everything happens so fast. One moment John is standing five feet from her, the next is he’s grasping her wrists in his hand and pulling her back to her feet and dragging her back to the curb. He was already on the act once he saw the man exiting the club, he knew exactly this would happen.

The scene looks strangely familiar, one John could never forget. The same position, same hand placement, same rough fingers around her wrist and dark eyes boring into hers – their very first meeting.

“You!�� she gasps, not caring about the fact that she almost just got hit by a fucking truck. “I know you! You’re the guy outside my apartment that day! What are you doing here?”

John stares. Predictable. Of course she’s talking to him like they’ve known each other for years. She’s too friendly.

“Hello to you too,” John replies, though his tone is blank as well as his face. “You remember me.”

“‘Course I do,” she giggles, a little tipsy, pupils dilated and licking her lips nervously. “You’re pretty hard to forget. I remember asking my neighbors around the area if you’re new there, turns out you were just visiting.”

John furrows his brows, hand still not letting go of her wrist. What does she mean by she’s asked around the area about him?

His face must’ve looked confused, he sees her grinning childishly. “It’s a coincidence that I see you again!”

Not a coincidence, but fate.

John doesn’t believe in a lot of things, but he believes in fate. Fate brought him Helen, and now fate is bringing him another angel. If she really went as far as asking the neighborhood about his existence, then it must be fate.

“I’m Y/N. I figured if we keep bumping into each other then you should at least know my name,” she says, completely oblivious that John already knows everything that has to be known about her. From her little mannerisms to the last name of her fucking grandmother. “May I know yours or are you just gonna stare at me all night?”

“It’s John,” he gulps, not wanting to look like a loser in front of her, not after everything he went through for her. “It’s really nice to see you again.”

He sucks at this. He fucking sucks at this.

“You haven’t answered my question, by the way. What brings you here?”

It hangs in the air, John lets go of her wrist. Luckily, he thinks fast enough and says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Work.”

“Ah, work,” she nods. “You work here? In the club? What are you, a bouncer or something?”

“I don’t. Someone I work with is in the club.” A lie, but it’s not like she would know. “We had a talk.”

“Not really a man of words, eh?” she raises an eyebrow teasingly. 

“This is the most words I’ve said in the past few days,” John says. “I’d say you’re special.”

The look on her face is enough to make his entire night even better. Blushing, lips opening and closing, not knowing what to say. John wants to graze his thumb on her lips, thinking about how good it would feel stretching over his cock.

He blinks. Where did that come from?

“For someone who doesn’t talk much, you sure make it sound smooth when you do. Are you always this slick, John?” she giggles again, music to his ear. “That’s actually better than what I heard from my friend earlier, so thank you.”

“That’s good to know.”

Before she could say anything back, the door of the club opens once again and her friends appear, waving a hand at her and beckoning her to get inside. She looks at John, gives him a sympathetic look, as if apologizing that their talk gets cut off too soon.

“I’m really sorry but my friends want me back in there. Hopefully we can continue this again, yeah?” she smiles cheekily, tucking her hair behind her ear. “If you want, you could give me your number so we can talk someplace else? You know… with no one bothering us and all that.”

There it is. John didn’t think it would be this easy to sink the hook in. All he needs to do is pull and take what’s meant to be his.

“Sure.” He enters his number swiftly, feeling that familiar burn in his guts once again when he sees the wallpaper being her pretty face. “Feel free to message me whenever you want. I’ll make time for you.”

She looks at her phone and smiles before starting to walk away from him, waving a hand goodbye, but it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. John knows it isn’t. She’s already his the moment she started talking to him again.

“Of course! Get home safe, John! I’ll see you soon!” 

“You too.”

She doesn’t know John won’t be heading home any time soon until he knows she’s safe and sound in her apartment.

Jay Lopez.

The name burns on his tongue. Bitter and resentful. He stares at the photos his precious dog sent to him and he has to stop the impulse to burn every single one of them.

Jay Lopez is the guy that’s been leeching on his girl since the dawn of time, and thankfully John is here to put an end to it. 

He’s hideous. It’s interesting how John stooped this low that he’d be willing to kill a college student for being too near his little bambi, but alas, he’s never the one to care for such things. Morals and righteousness have never been in his book, not now, nor ever.

It’s only a matter of time until he gets rid of this pest. He’s fucking creepy, follows around not only Y/N but a bunch of other women. 

John doesn’t want his death to be quick and simple. He wants to do it in an ugly way, make sure his body will never be found, make sure he’ll never get to lay his hands and eyes on what’s his. The way Jay stares at her in these pictures ignites something evil within John’s veins. It’s been awhile since he felt something like this.

“Alex.” he looks at his pet standing by the door, waiting for the next command. “Bring him to me alive.”

“Can I at least rough him up a bit?”

John doesn’t answer at first, looks back at the photos on his table. “Do what you want, just make sure he’s still breathing when you bring him here.”

“On it, boss.”

Truth be told, John doesn’t need a pet to order around for this job. He has himself – a labeled attack dog of the Tarasovs for years, their hellhound, chained and muzzled unless they need him to kill. He’s a one man army as some would say, he doesn’t need Alex running around doing tasks for him, but it sure does make the job a lot faster.

It’s not a way to downgrade his reputation nor skills to hunt, he really just needs this Jay guy gone as fast as possible.

On the same day, Alex manages to haul a very brutally violated Jay to the floor of his basement. He stinks, pants wet from piss and a face John is having a hard time recognizing.

“You said rough him up a bit, not make him look unrecognizable.”

“Same thing.”

Jay is sobbing his eyes out, his cries of pleas falls to deaf ears and John just wants to fucking bash his skull with his own foot. “W-who are you guys?! What the f-fuck did I do?! Get me out of here or I’ll tell the fucking police–”

John kicks him on the chin hard to stop the goon from rambling. “You’re not telling anybody any shit, tough guy.”

“So, what are you planning to do to him? Can I watch?”

“Can you handle it?”

Alex shrugs. He’s in the presence of the most dangerous assassin in the underworld, wouldn’t hurt to learn anything from his skills and techniques, doesn’t matter how fucked up it is.

John nods towards the chainsaw sitting at the corner of the room, and Alex turns to face him with wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, man. You serious? Last time I heard you’re a hitman, not a serial killer.”

“Same qualifications. Same thing.” John grabs the man by the arm then drags him to a chair. He takes a rope from the table and swiftly ties him up securely. “We start with the head, then arms and legs. It would be hard to put his entire body in a drum full of acid, so we need to cut him off one by one.”

Alex looks like he’s about to run off somewhere safe from what he’s witnessing. “You’re talking like you’ve done this before, holy fuck.”

John gives him a look, and Alex immediately shuts his mouth. Right. He’d done this before. This is completely normal.

“I’ve been following you for a while, Jay. You’re a creep who befriends pretty girls, then you’ll drug them and make them have sex with you,” John taunts, the sound of his heels hitting the concrete floor is enough to send shivers down his spine. “Is that what you’re also planning to do with Y/N? Be her friend and fuck her once she’s drugged up and vulnerable?”

It’s a bold statement coming from John himself since he’s no better man than Jay, but at least his intentions come from a different place.

“You-you’re fucking sick!” Jay spits.

“I’m sick? I’m not the one going around making girls uncomfortable now, am I?” he picks up the chainsaw, then watches in enjoyment as Jay widens his eyes in fear. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, Jay. You won’t be able to use your pathetic little dick of yours to any woman ever again, and most importantly –”

John fires up the chainsaw, adrenaline coursing through his veins when he sees the horrified look in the man’s face as he tries to get up and scream for help.

“I can finally sleep well at night knowing you’re not in Y/N’s life anymore.”

As John steps into the light, a roaring chainsaw in his hands, Alex could only watch in horror as the basement gets painted with blood in mere seconds.

There’s a vacant apartment just across her room, giving John the perfect view of what she’s doing while she’s alone.

Most of the time, John will pull up a seat beside the window and take pictures. The other half of the time is just him staring, observing. It seems that she’s too comfortable knowing there’s no one across the building so she doesn’t close the curtains, leaving John no choice but to keep his eyes on her.

He found this place just three days after following her. He couldn’t help it. Following her to school and work suddenly wasn’t enough for John that he had to find a way to somehow watch her even in her sleep. 

He should be ashamed of himself. He should feel guilty for what he’s doing – he should stop, but he just can’t. John’s already done too much. This is like being pulled back into the underworld all over again but this time, there’s something good that’s waiting for him on the other side.

Maybe it’s the delusion that comes with it that’s not stopping John from whatever he’s doing. Lately, he’s been thinking about how life would turn out to be if his plan goes out smoothly. They’d live happily ever after, she would end up loving him just the way he planned it out to be, and John will make sure no one will ever dare to take those peace away from him again.

He’d make sure no one will ever come close to her again once she’s his. She’d be isolated but protected. Just how John likes it.

It’s been two days since John gave his number, but he knows she’s just giddy and nervous to text him. He’d seen her staring at her phone, biting her bottom lip anxiously, thinking if it would be a good idea or not. He knows she’ll give in one way or another because he sees it in her face. She’s too easy, too gullible, too naive.

She’s lonely, just like him.

John could tell she’s waiting for someone – she’s desperate, no wonder she asked for his number the second time they met. She wants someone to take care of her, to hold her, tell her that she deserves the world. That someone is John whether she likes it or not.

This isn’t just any unhealthy obsession. John finds himself too deep to get out. He knows her little mannerisms, studied her every action, has a red room full of her pictures and no one can’t say he’s not ready to give up anything for her. John has already given up his sanity ever since he mutilated a man for being too close to her.

She’s his life now, his everything.

John watches intensely as she shreds her clothes in her room, baring him the full view of herself naked, and John grips the side of his chair too hard his knuckles turn white. This is the first time he’d seen her naked, it’s so sudden and so… perfect.

His cock fattens in his pants as he observes every curve of her body. Her waist is fucking perfect and her body is thick yet delicate. John thinks about bruising her sensitive skin, leaving a mark that will show everyone that she’s owned. He would love to see her in a collar, hear it jingle when she crawls. 

She’s completely fucking naked that John wonder just how naive she is to think there would be no one seeing her like this. What if John isn’t the only one watching her? What if somebody else sees her like this? His fingers itch, jaw clenching.

He’d kill them. He’d kill them in front of her, and the thought somehow made his cock hard even more. He grimaces, disturbed at the reaction of his body.

John doesn’t really understand the sexual aspects of killing, but now he’s thinking about how she would react if she sees him working. He’d kill someone in front of her and he’d see the look of disgust and betrayal in her face. He can already imagine how her eyes would well up with tears and fuck, his dick shouldn’t be this hard.

She’d fear him, and John would be turned on. How fucked up would that be? Just how fucked up can his mind get?

He resists the urge to wrap his hand around his cock because fuck no. He would not stoop this low, he is not a teenage boy. No matter how strong the thoughts get, the thoughts of wrapping his own hand around her neck, squeezing it hard and cutting off her airflow as John forces his cock in her cunt, hearing her mewl and scream and beg to just –

John sucks in air, eyes back on her in her room, wrapping a robe around herself and heading to the bathroom. This is fucked up. His cock is incredibly hard and leaking, and his mind won’t stop thinking about how good her pussy would feel around him.

He’d talk her through it. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear as she releases around her cock, praising her for being such a good girl. Then he’d fuck her again, in a different position, debauching her in different ways not even the devil himself could think of.

John would ruin her, and she will have no choice but to accept it.

He brings his hand to his face as he sighs deeply. He wonders what Helen would feel of what he’s doing. Disgusted, no doubt. This is not the same man she fell in love with years ago. He would never do something like this, but fate has its plans, and John believes everything happens for a reason.

She was brought into his life for a reason and it’s up to him whether he takes.

John doesn’t realize that he’s been staring at nothing for too long until she comes back in his view once again. Her hair is still wet, still wrapped up in a fluffy pink robe, and John’s fingers itch to grab, squeeze, possess.

He sees her picking up her phone, staring for a moment before her fingers start typing. John has been anticipating this moment for so long, the time has finally come.

In his chest pocket, his phone buzz silently, the vibration sending excitement in his whole body.

There it is.

13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : hello! this is Y/N from the club the other night

13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : also that Y/N who returned your super expensive looking coin hehe ;) i hope you didn’t forget about me!

There it fucking is.

John’s lips curl into a small smile. His efforts are finally paying off. 

All he needs to do is to get what’s his.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick fanfiction #john wick imagine #john wick fanfic #john wick chapter 4 #john wick x you #john wick 4 #keanu reeves #john wick smut #ochl #my works

[deliciousbasementtrash]

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Artist Nick Robles **Thank you for the correction @miraculous-panic **

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. Batman has offered you a job. You are now a nurse for the entire Batfamily. You bump into Jason. How will your first meeting go?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x Female!reader

Warning: Adult language, knife injury

Word Count: 1.7k

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

Part Five: Hello Sailor

I opened my eyes and had a face full of an exposed chest. I hadn’t run into a wall. I ran into a man. A man with wet jet-black hair with a white streak. His full torso was exposed revealing a white Y-shaped scar and a very defined body that was glistening with water. He had various bruises and cuts along his body making an instinctual part of me want to reach out and heal him. Although, I refrained from that urge. He only wore a white towel that was wrapped low against his V-cut hips. My face heated and words failed me. 

“I’m… I’m y/f/n. The healer Bruce hired,” I stammered. God how embarrassing. I could face a level one trauma without a blink of an eye but put a man fresh out of the shower in front of me, and apparently my mind turns to mush. 

“I figured,” he reached out a large hand; I took it. He nodded, “Jason Todd. If you wanted an introduction you could have asked, you didn’t need to tackle me.” 

“Pfft that was barely a nudge. A slight bump if you will.”

He pointed at one of his many bruises, “Look what you did to me! If that is your ‘slight nudge’ I’d hate to see a real tackle from you, y/n.” 

“Oh please, that bruise is at least three days old! You can’t pin that on me!” I tilted my head back and laughed. 

“New girl I can pin whatever I want on you. You tackled me, and bruised me before I got so much as a ‘hi, nice to meet you.’” 

“Hi Jason Todd, nice to meet you. Are you going to let me heal you or do you want to keep your injuries to seem mysterious and interesting?” I asked in a sweetly sarcastic manner. 

“First you bruised my body and now my ego, wow y/n,” Jason drew out the syllables of my name as if he was savoring them. 

“If you don’t take me up on my offer in three seconds I’m going to bed,” I said flatly. My tone might have indicated that I was serious but I knew that the threat was empty. 

Jason threw up his hands in surrender, “Yes ole mighty healer! Please have mercy upon me!” 

I rolled my eyes and started walking toward my room. Jason followed me.

“This is your room?” Jason asked, surprise lacing his tone. 

“Yes, why?” I asked, curious.

“It’s nothing.” 

I ignored his weird comment and sat on the edge of my bed. I motioned for Jason to sit next to me. I could have sworn I saw his eyes widen from across the room. He made his way over slowly as if hesitant.

The bed dipped as he sat down. He was a very large man. Practically a giant. With broad shoulders and thick thighs… okay nope. Not going down that route, you need to focus you pervert. I thought to myself. 

“So how do you do this? Do you wave your magic wand and make my owies go away?” Jason looked at me intently. The question was partly a joke, but I could tell he wanted a serious run down of how it works. Just as I was about to elaborate a fluff ball came hurtling out of nowhere.

Hashbrown practically parkoured herself onto Jason’s lap. Jason’s laugh was deep and smooth like dark chocolate and honey. He reached his hand out and let Hashbrown sniff before he began to pet her lightly. Soon the room was filled with her purrs.

“Who is this?” Jason asked, smiling.

“That attention whore would be Miss Hashbrown herself,” I huffed. 

Jason reached out a hand and grabbed Hashbrown’s front paw. I was shocked she let him. “Hello, Miss Hashbrown.” 

Okay wow. The inappropriate thoughts are going wild. There was something about a man being gentle and good with animals. 

I swallowed hard and focused myself, “In order to heal you I have to rest my hands against you. It works best with skin-on-skin contact but in emergencies, I can make it work through cloth. Or if you are more comfortable doing it through clothing we may do that as well.” I put on my professional Nurse voice which left little room for playfulness. 

I heard Jason clear his throat and then he nodded, “It’s fine. I’m okay with skin-on-skin.” I saw a faint blush in his cheeks as he said it. 

I rubbed my hands together trying to warm them for his comfort. I raised them slowly, “You might feel a slight tingling sensation like pins and needles. It should only last for a moment though. Are you ready?”

Jason nodded and I rested my hands against him. I closed my eyes and concentrated. There were bruises and cuts which I healed with little difficulty. But as I searched there was more, so much more.

“Wow you’re like an iceberg,” I mumbled.

“What?” Jason asked laughter in his tone.

“So much more beneath the surface.”

I felt him tense under my hands, “I guess you could say that.”

I couldn’t talk anymore. All of my energy was going into healing him. Rib fractures. Sprains. Bruised organs. A pinched nerve. Low iron. Low-grade fever. I healed and healed. My exhaustion grew. My eyelids felt like they were being weighed down by sandbags. I couldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t lift my head. Distantly I felt myself leaning forward. But I lost consciousness before my forehead slapped against Jason’s shoulder.

***********************************************************

Jason’s hands quickly reached out to catch the girl as she fell towards him. It seemed like she passed out. Jason anxiously checked her pulse which was strong. She probably just needs some rest. He thought. Because whatever she did to him, Jason felt great. She went beyond the mild injuries and healed more than Jason could hope for. Instantly he was grateful. 

He gently eased her back onto her bed. He pulled up her blankets. He plugged her phone into the charger. And he shut off the light. He made his way out the door and into the neighboring room. His room. He and the healer were so close they shared a wall. A foreign feeling popped up for Jason. He liked that she was so close to him. He felt strangely protective of the stranger. It might just be because she healed him. Or maybe it was something else, something undefinable.

Jason banished other thoughts about her as he got dressed. Soon he made his way down the stairs and into the dining room. Where his entire family was yelling and arguing. Ah home sweet home. 

***********************************************************

A few days had gone by. I haven’t seen Jason since. I found much to my annoyance that I caught myself looking for him when I heard footsteps. Or thinking about him in my spare time. How embarrassing. You have one tension-filled healing sesh and all of a sudden you can’t think logically. 

I paced around the Batcave in my scrubs. I alternated between reading my book, doodling in my notebook, and texting Sam. 

[Girl if you don’t tell me more about Mr. Baddie Skunk I’m gonna have a freakout.] Sam texted me. 

[I literally told you everything. That was it.]

[He has to be hot for you to say something. Does he have social media? I wanna see this cutie patotie.]

[No, just no, you stalker.]

[I’m not a stalker. I’m looking out for my friend. I may also be curious but that is beside the point.]

I heard and felt the rumble of the Batmobile. [Ttyl. Duty calls.]

I stood in my healer’s station. I double-checked my supplies once, twice, three times before the Batmobile came screeching up. Bruce got out quickly, his cape snapping as he moved. He ripped open the rear door and leaned in. When he came out he held a whimpering Tim in his hands. 

I ran up to him with the gurney, “What happened?”

Suddenly Dick was beside me, ripping off his blue mask. “Poison Ivy released a noxious gas created from Manchineel. Tim took the brunt of it.” 

I raked my brain trying to remember the properties of Manchineel. In the hospital most of the time we just tell the patient to call poison control. It didn’t matter. Tim’s airway was the top priority. I rested my stethoscope against his chest as we wheeled him closer to the station. 

A high-pitched turbulent sound filled my ears. Fuck. Stridor. His airway was closing. 

“Bruce go into the red cart top drawer and grab an epi-pen now!” I yelled as I started cutting away his Red Robin suit. I hissed through my teeth when I saw red hives and blisters all along his skin. “Grayson grab saline and rinse his skin! Wear gloves when you do it!”

Bruce deftly handed me the pen and I stuck it quickly into the meat of Tim’s thigh. In a matter of moments, I saw Tim’s breathing even. I listened once again he was still wheezing but it was better than the stridor. Without wasting another minute I rested my hands against Tim’s chest. I ignored the remnants of gas that burned my hands. It took hours but I healed Tim completely. He still was in a deep sleep by the time I was done. His body needed rest. I patched up Bruce and Dick since they also got exposed. 

I felt sweat dripping down my back when I was done with everyone. 

“Here,” Dick said, handing me water, “drink this you look a little gray.”

I nodded and gripped the water. I winced, forgetting that I burned my hands. It wasn’t as bad as Tim’s by any means but the burns were second-degree and hurt like a bitch. 

Dick saw my wince and looked at my hands, “Oh shit! We should wash those off!”

“No shit Grayson.” A flat voice said from the distance. I recognized it instantly. Jason walked up to us, with supplies in his hands. He motioned for Dick to get up. He did and Jason took his spot. 

“Let me see.” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

Taglist: @soundsfunbutno @killxz @morpheus-girl @redhood414 @bungunz @conicoroahre @greenyofthegreens @taytaylala12

Thank you guys so much for the kind words I hope you all enjoy it. If there is anything you would like to see with Jason in particular comment below.

#batman #batfam #batfamily #jason todd #dick grayson #barbara gordon #duke thomas #tim drake #damian wayne #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #nightwing #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #x reader #female x reader #whump #whumptober 2023 #whump writing #dc comics #dc universe #dc fanfic #fluff

[watermelonlovershigh]

Friends Who Share Mutual Emotions {part 3.} (housemate!harry series)

Arguments and Confessions {part 2.} (housemate!harry series)

AN: i've been in a writing mood lately so i hope you enjoy me spitting out these stories left and right lol. anyways, here is part 3 to my housemate series. before you ask, yes there will be a part 4 and hopefully a couple more after that. let me know how you liked it and make sure to leave your feedback. thank you and enjoy!

This story contains: mentions of one-night stands, confessions of feelings, slight angst, fluff

{ housemate!harry - friendrry - soft!harry - au harry }

word count- 1,372

Harry confesses that you're the women he likes and after giving you some time to think, you have an eventful conversation about your mutual feelings and how you'd like to move forward within your friendship.

Looking deeply in your eyes, Harry answers clearly, "Her name..... her name is Y/n." The weight of his confession leaves you standing in the kitchen, completely shocked. When you initially asked him about his love interest, you never anticipated that he would reveal his feelings for you. Although he described some of your qualities, you didn't think much of it, as many people can possess similar traits.

Realizing that you need some time to process his words, Harry rises from his stool and states, "I don't expect you to feel the same way about me or anything. I'll give you some space to think, alright?" With that, he turns around and retreats back to his bedroom.

Now standing alone in the kitchen, you find yourself torn about what to do. On one hand, the man who kindly allowed you to stay in his home as a housemate, who eventually became your friend, and whom you've developed feelings for, has just confessed his affection for you. It seems like the ideal outcome, but what if something goes wrong? You would risk losing your best friend and a place to live.

On the other hand, if everything goes well, you could finally experience a fulfilling relationship. You could put an end to the casual encounters and truly understand the intimacy that others have experienced in Harry's bed. You would have the opportunity to feel his touch on your skin and savor his kisses, something you had only imagined during fleeting encounters with strangers.

---------------------------

You head to Harry's bedroom and upon reaching his door, you give it a hesitant knock. A soft voice responds with, "Come in." and you take that as your signal to enter. Inside, you find him sitting up in bed with his cat Pixie beside him, and the TV showing old episodes of Friends.

Approaching his bed slowly, Harry gestures for you to sit beside him. After a deep breath, you confess, "I want you to know that I have feelings for you too, Harry. How could I not? You're kind and sweet, and anyone would be foolish not to have a crush on you. But, I'm afraid."

Harry turns off the TV to focus on you. "Afraid of what, Y/n?" he asks, "We both like each other. What's there to fear?"

"It's not that simple, Harry," you respond with a hint of frustration. Why can't he see your concerns? Maybe it's a gender difference. Men don't worry about relationships as much as women do. Well at least from your personal experiences.

"Can you explain then, please? I want to understand your fears so we can move forward in a way that works for both of us."

Shifting uncomfortably on the bed, you express, "Harry, what if things don't work out between us? What happens then? I could lose a friend and I might not have enough money to cover regular rent in London."

"Y/n, our mutual feelings don't automatically require us to rush into a romantic relationship. We can proceed at a comfortable pace, one day at a time. Even if we don't progress beyond friendship, I value our bond too much to risk losin' it. As for your concern about losin' a place to stay, rest assure that I would never evict you if things don't work out romantically. You were my housemate first and foremost, and that won't change. Well, unless you want to move out someday that is."

Hearing his words have made your eyes gloss over. You can hear the sincerity in his voice and it makes your heart swell. But, you still need some clarification to move forward. "So like, where do we go from here, Harry? I don't want to think we're one thing but you assume we're something else. I don't want to constantly be questioning where we stand. What's too much or what's not enough."

Harry adjusts his posture, leaning closer to you. He carefully reaches out for your hands and clasps them within his larger grasp, holding them gently as he begins to speak. "As I mentioned earlier, Y/n, we can take this slow. Let our connection develop naturally. At this moment, I would describe our relationship as friends, but friends who share mutual emotions. And in response to a question I know you may have, no, I will not be sleepin' with anyone else. And I don't expect..."

Anticipating his next words, you swiftly interject, "No, neither am I. I mean, being involved with someone else intimately. I can promise you that. Besides, I never truly enjoyed having one-night stands. I only sought them out as a means to conceal my feelings for you. But now that my feelings are out in the open, there's no reason to hide them any longer. From now on I only want you."

Chuckling in relief, Harry murmurs, "Just me, huh?" He was incredibly anxious that you might still have the desire to sleep with other people, even though that didn't make much sense after you had confessed your feelings for him. However, he couldn't be entirely certain.

You lean forward, wrapping your arms around Harry's body, embracing him tightly. "Of course, Harry. I would never do that to you. Besides, most of the men I slept with were unsatisfactory, so I'm perfectly fine with giving up my one-night stands."

Harry reciprocates the embrace, then teasingly asks, "Unsatisfactory? Are you tellin' me those muscular, macho men you brought home hardly ever satisfied you?"

You respond, your voice filled with affection against his neck, "That's right. And when they did, it was usually because I was thinking of you."

"Alright, let's end that conversation right here or we'll have a problem on our hands and break our 'takin' it slow' rule." Harry remarks, trying to maintain a sense of caution. If you kept talking about how you always thought of him while having sex with all those strangers, he'd get hard in his pants and he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable right now. Nor does he want to move that fast. Like he said, he genuinely would like to take whatever you are, slow.

You laugh at his words and playfully say, "Can we take a nap? I'm feeling tired. Didn't get much sleep last night."

Harry nods in the embrace you still hold and replies, "Yeah, we can take a nap if you'd like. I didn't get much sleep last night either."

As you sit up, you carefully shift towards Harry's side where he's preparing a space for you to rest. "Seriously?" you inquire. Although you noticed his exhaustion when he entered the kitchen earlier, you didn't consider that it might be due to a lack of sleep.

"Yeah," Harry begins to coo while helping you under his duvet, "felt awful with how I spoke to you last night. The guilt ate me alive and I couldn't sleep."

Now laying side by side, facing each other, you whisper out, "Awe, well you can rest easy now. I forgive you." As your eyes flutter shut, Harry can't help but think about how you're too far away from him. Even though you're literally just six inches apart in reality.

So without thinking, he draws himself closer to you and wraps you in his arms. Which in turn has you pressed up against his clothed chest. "Is this alright?" Harry whispers quietly. Although he wishes to take things slowly, cuddling is typically considered a leisurely activity, isn't it? It remains innocent and platonic.

"Yes, very much alright." you reply and soon after fall asleep. The musky smell Harry produces along with the warmth of his body lulls you right to sleep. It may be only nine in the morning but with your lack of sleep the night before, have no trouble falling unconscious.

Harry also falls into a deep slumber. The comfort of having you in his arms lulls him into a state of relaxation, leading him to quickly doze off. His cat Pixie has now settled at the foot of the bed, peacefully asleep alongside you both. Harry's once anxious room is now filled with tranquility. The unfolding of your friendship will become more apparent when you wake up later today.

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

(no more tags are allowed because i've hit my number limit. sorry : ( )

tag list: @one-sweet-gubler // @harryscherrysugar // @hsfanficsrecss // @lollypopsx // @harrycanyonmoonn // @allthelovehes // @damnasstyles  // @mrsstylesharry // @softmullet  // @meetmyblondemuffins  // @thegirlnextdoorssister // @stanleystyles  // @haarrrys // @michellekstyles  // @skyangel57   // @the-gardener-31 // @lhharrylilpumpkin // @yousunshine-youtemptress // @clairestylessss  // @kissmyaxe140  // @goldenmelonsugar-hi // @kaitieskidmore97 // @florencepughily  // @alienorknight //@dancearoundthelivingroom  // @swiftmendeshoran

 // @luv-flor7777  // @alohastyles-x // @tenaciousperfectionunknown  // @sleutherclaw // @siredtohybrid // @whoscamila // @a-strange-familiar  // @golden-elodie // @mrspeacem1nusone //  @goldenkhae // @lntwithhrry  // @shadowygladiatorlight  // @manifestrry  //@mendesblurb // @sunshinemoonsposts  // @depersonalizationsucks // @academiaghost // @zendayassimp // @reveriehs // @vsnnstuff // @dancinsunflowerkiwi // @quinnsgrapejuice // @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite // @justlemmeholdyou // @hsonlyangelxo // @luvonstyles // @howdey

______________

My Masterlist Masterpost

A Shift Occurs {part 4.} (housemate!harry series) (SMUT)

#harry styles #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fic rec #friend!harry #friendrry #housemate!harry #housematerry #softrry #soft!harry #harry x reader #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles series #friends to lovers #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb

[rinbowaman]

Gurll sunghoon non con pleaseeee 😭😭~

Welcome to the Neighborhood

Warnings: non-con, non-idol! College graduate! sunghoon, college reader, ball slamming, noncon smex, unprotected, fear of unwanted pregnancy, reader takes plan b pill, readers house gets broken into, reader is alone for the weekend, fingering, dubcon, noncon turned dubcon…yeah. Do not read if noncon fics make you uncomfortable. Also not proofread and there is cursing.

"its a nice little neighborhood, isn't it sweetheart?"

your mom and dad step out, leading the way up the driveway to the old home. "it's in need of repairs and renovation, but that wont take too long."

your dad was a gifted contractor that knew his way around a tool belt. the man has built homes for all his life, seeing a project this minor was almost laughable to him. the eye catcher of the property was the heavily wooded surroundings, acres of it. "your mother and i saw this and we just fell in love. here, we can put a nice flower garden for you right here."

you look at the small patch of cleared space that was nicely located across the dining room. with only one neighbor in sight, the rest of the homes were behind the trees, leaving the property secluded with loads of privacy. "its nice." you spoke softly as you admire the entire landscape.

the house was the complete opposite from the land piece, to say the least. it was in dire need of renovation; no doubt your dad will have it good as new in no time.

"since we still have to move everything from the old house, you can stay here and continue to go to school as you housesit. your college is only five minutes away."

you looked confused for only a moment, but was reassured of the safety features in the property after expressing concern of staying back alone.

"the property line has a gate with a security system. the house has a separate alarm, just don't forget to set it."

that week, you and your parents bonded over take out and dining over cardboard boxes. it all seems rustic, but you enjoyed the closeness it brought you three.

......

"well be back in two days, call us if anything happens."

your parents make the long fourteen hour drive to continue the preparations of the old home. you felt a sense of liberation hit as you grew excited of having an entire home all to yourself, regardless that it was a total construction zone.

you spent majority of the day fixing up your floral garden, before calling it a night. with dirt smeared everywhere, you immediately ran the hot water in the shower, not taking a moment of thought to secure the system prior to undressing.

the water felt amazing, and you took your time to enjoy and savor it. lost in the sensation of the soft water drops pouring over your skin, a click of the door is followed by a smooth swing as someone enters the home, all without alerting you.

the intruder swiftly enters, and closes the door. he blends in the shadow and makes his way to the hall, taking his place to hide in the close across your room.

you dry yourself off while humming a tune. once you started to pat dry your hair, you realized...

"Shoot....i should have armed the system before my shower."

quickly, you leave your wet hair plastered onto your skin as you wrap the towel over your body. quickly, you head over ot the front door and enter the code on the security pad. a series of beeps is followed by the intercom system that tells you the system has been armed. in order to open the doors, the code must be added, sealing the protection knowing that whoever breaks in, cannot escape once the police arrives.

you go back to your room, completely unaware that a pair of sharp eyes admired you from a distance. the way your skin glistened from the water, while the strands of your hair surrounded your shoulders made him think of mermaids and sirens. you were so lovely in his eyes...too lovely. he had to have you.

you stood in the center of the bedroom, preparing to discard the towel and change, when suddenly the power goes out. "shit..."

you cling onto the towel as you look around for your phone. fortunately, the peering moonlight peeking through the window was bright enough to light the entire room with a soft glare, making it easy to find your device. "there you are...."

You pick it up and set the flashlight on.

Scanning the area, you hold the light steady as you make your way to the main breaker in the garage. Down the stairs you go, slowly tip toeing while clenching the towel to your chest. You reach the area of the living room; only a simple couch furnished the area as the rest of it remained in tatters and gutted for renovation prep.

A creaky snap coming from the staircase behind startles you, infiltrating a jagged sense of fear rushing through you. A frightening yelp escapes your lips and you drop the phone.

The screen faces down, leaving the light to glow the entire room. Despite the dim lighting present, you didn’t see anything that would have caused the noise. Your breath becomes shaky. As you bend your knees, lowering your weight to pick up your phone, another sound emerges, a footstep.

“Who’s there?!” You shout. Heart pounding through flesh and cartilage as you abandon the act of garnishing the phone. Leaving it behind, you step away until the back end of the couch blocks your path. “Get out…I’ve called the police.”

Steadying your voice, you attempt to instill a confident tone in hopes that the intruder would be fooled by your bluff.

Silence replaces the wooden squeaks of the floorboard, signifying that the uninvited visitor halted their impeding steps. You slowly turn, doing your best to clear the entire room using a combination of night vision and the dim light source twelve feet away. When suddenly:

“Did you now?”

A deep voice responds directly behind. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only thing that challenged your fibbing words. A pair of strong hands reach around and harshly squeeze your waist, fingers crossing over your bellybutton. A large frame pushes against you from behind, and a pointed nose makes its way to the noon of your neck, shoving against your jawline while a pair of plush lips tenderly kisses the smooth canvas of skin under your chin. “Sooomethiiing tells me you d-i-d-n-t.”

He carries a rhythmic tone as he playfully sang the words to a nursery rhymed beat. It was similar to the singing games children would hum out while playing, in fact it reminded you of “London Bridge is Falling Down.”

“It’s okay baby. I’m not mad at you for lying. It’s kind of cute.”

He antagonizes you with his hallow words as his hands drift upwards, smoothing over the curves of your breasts before gripping the edge of the towel. “No! Stop!” You yell upon feeling the fabric being pulled down, exposing your most vulnerable assets. Your hands shoot up, attempting to cover your breasts while cupping your womanhood. “Shh.” He hushes against your ear as he grabs on to both your wrists. “What are you covering up for? Nervous, baby?”

He kisses your ear and nibbles your lobe. You start to sob hysterically as the man remains hidden behind, his face unidentifiable. The only thing you had go off of was the smooth sound of his deep and alluring voice. Despite feeling uncomfortable and beyond scared, you couldn’t help but internally admit that a small piece of you melted each time he spoke.

“Please…d-don’t-“ your whimpering only fueled his desire. He wanted more.

“‘Don’t’ what? Tell me baby, what is you don’t want me to do?” He licks your neck, tracing the entire outline. “Is it this?”

He immediately follow up his act with a sickening tender kiss atop your collar bone. The warmth from his chin resting along the curve of your inner shoulder eased your discomfort, as much as you hated to acknowledge it. “What about this?” His fingers drag down, rubbing circles on your clit, stimulating regions of flesh that you never knew existed.

“Is it this, baby? Is this what you don’t want?” His lips latch onto your neck as his free hand pinches and plays with your nipple. “Or is it this?” His offensive fingers push your clit inwards and slide down, right inside your cavity with no preparation or warning. He thrusts them in and out a few times, forcing your muscles to secrete a natural lubricant that allowed him to go in and out faster…and faster.

“D-don’t! Stop! Please!”

Your whimpers inherit a subtle moaning sense as the feeling of his fingers violating your body. The stinging burn wears off and a foreign sensation takes place inside you. You melt begging for him to stop, only to hear him scoff handsomely as he notices you rocking your hips back and forth, yearning for him to go in deeper. You’re in disbelief and ashamed. How can your body respond this way when your heart and soul wants him to stop?

“You like that, baby?”

You moan out pitifully as your hands attempt to peel his fingers off, but you were too weak from the spectacle going down in between your legs. Your legs begin to shake as you barely pull his index off, only for him to chuckle against your cheek. “Yeah you do.”

He answers for you in a confident tone but not at all cocky. It was almost loving in the way he was serenading you. “Let’s see how good of a girl you are.”

Your eyes widen, a stark contrast from their squinting form since you were relishing the feeling of being penetrated and massaged from the inside. His sense of gentleness takes a sudden turn, and the fearful tremble returns upon feeling him push you forward, forcing you to bend over the couch. “Fucking perfect, aren’t you?” He breathes out as he grips the undercarriage of your rear end, and cups your breast while pushing himself in to you.

Your hair drapes over your cheeks while his rough hands explore your nude body. An attempt to retract your bent position is suddenly halted as he pushes you back down, gripping the side of your waist. “Tsk-tsk.”

He smacks his teeth as he reaches around your face, gently tapping the tip of your nose with his finger.

The sound of his belt unbuckling triggered you to sob hysterically once more. “Please don’t do this…I-I don’t want this. Please I’ll do anything.”

“Oh I know.” He lures out so sympathetically as he traced the tip of his shaft along your clit. “Believe me baby, I know you’ll do anything…and don’t worry, you will.”

A painful rage of heat and friction takes place as he squeezes himself inside. Your legs shake ferociously as he barely burrows the first inch or two in you. Your body grows limp and collapses against the couch from the pain, it weakened you. His hips push in while his hands lift you back up, forcing you to arch your back as he presses his palms down on your lower back. “Deep breath.” He says through heavy breathing. Pushing the extension of his length in, he goes in more, breaking you. “Almost there…fuck.” He gasps.

Your vaginal walls grow incredibly numb as a result of the shock, and you lay bent over whimpering in pain as his balls kisses your taint, indicating he made it all the way in, to your most dreadful horror.

He pauses for a second. There was no relief, even with him pulling out, the sting from the thought friction of his muscle rubbing outward was just as bad as him entering. With his bulging tip remaining inside, he takes secondary pause as he adjusts his grip around your hips. A punch makes impact inside your gut as he rams back in. It felt as if he went much deeper than before. You scream from the shock of the act occurring, not just from the pain. There was nothing slow about his rhythm, he fucked you relentlessly in a brutal manner, it was animalistic.

A handful of strokes in, and you started to feel different. The pain subsided as did the numbness. There was a new feeling that formulated inside your walls, a tingling sense that felt good. Too good.

Your body bounces forward as he repeats his thrusts, going in faster and harder each time. You bite your lip, trying your best to suppress the pleasurable moan lying dormant in your throat. Don’t let him know that you’re starting to enjoy this. Don’t let him find out. Don’t let him…

Your mouth drools as you absorb each thrust. A snowball effect takes place deep inside you. It was a tightening band of pressure that continuously grew, to the point where it was on the verge of exploding. It felt so good. It sounded so good. The way his thick and lengthy shaft re-enters. The quenching sounds of your fluids mixing together and being shoved inside as he pounds away, slamming the firm sacks and mashing them against your taint, damn near bruising it.

He digs his fingers into your skin and picks up the pace. A hand grips onto your pelvis, and that’s what did you in. “Oh God!”

Hearing your moan in ecstatic pleasure excited him, you could hear it through his voice under heavy and deep gasps. “Yeah? Does it feel good baby.”

A prolonged moan of “oooh” is drawn from you as he maintains his momentum. “Pretty girl loves to be fucked?”

You nod as you pant your moans out. His vigor was taking your breath away, and even though you felt it hard to breathe, it was the most powerful feeling you’ve ever felt; a burst of pleasure setting off like fireworks. Your toes curl in, and your fingers pinch the cushion as he went in deeper, harder, and faster.

“Gonna let me cum inside this sweet little body?”

Your mind pleaded ‘no’, but your body yearned for him to do his bidding.

“I’ll take that as a yes, my fucking girl.”

You yelp mon out a pitiful ‘no’ as a last attempt, knowing that it wasn’t going to change anything. The damage has already been done. He’s been thrusting for nearly an hour and was still going strong, stretching you open and ruining you for any future prospects of sexual mates.

“Make me cum baby…fuck!”

He clenches his jaw and leans forward, resting his forehead over on the back of your head as he commits slow and hard thrusts, aiming to go in as deep as possible. The warmth of his secreting strings staining your walls was all it took to snap that band, and a wave of intense orgasm rushes through your bloodstream and sends a tingling spark to your toes and fingertips. “Oh-oh my God!!”

You scream out each word, arching your back and lifting your rear end, allowing for his top to slide in deeper as he shoots out the remainder of his seed. “Fuck yeah baby, take it all inside.”

You gulp with an open mouth as you sing out a high pitched moan. Never have you felt something so strong and beautiful. Too bad it had to go down this manner, but right now you didn’t care. The way he gave you an aftermath of kisses, and rubbed his fingers against your skin, it was all so…

“Fucking beautiful.”

He compliments you as he admits a tender kiss to your cheek. “Next time, I’ll take you on a date and then fuck you—and take my time doing it.”

Another kiss lands on your neck. “I just couldn’t help myself tonight. I’ll make it up to you.”

He gently wraps the towel over your body before slyly waking out, not even fazed by the alarm going off as he nonchalantly walks through the front door. You rush over and enter the pin to cease the beeping, gaining the sight of his back. From that you could see, he was tall, and rather well built. You’re not entirely sure how you felt from the whole ordeal. A sense of chaos riddle through as you became torn from being forced into an act of intense sex, grew into enjoying it, and facing the risk of unwanted pregnancy as a reminder of him drops down your thigh. ‘Shit…what have I done?’

………..

A couple of weeks pass, and you never mentioned to anyone about the incident. How could you? It may have started against your will, but something about the pleasure he instilled was unforgettable and addicting. It haunted your dreams, to the point where you awoke to soaked panties and a throbbing pulse of yearning desire. You would think back to that night, thinking about how he fucked you so good. So-so good.

In a way, a part of you had wished you did get pregnant from it. But your rational and realistic sensibility caused you to take your allowance and purchase a Plan-B pill. It was the right thing to do, but God…was it so wrong to want a piece of him inside you?

“Sweetheart, come outside for a moment.”

You walk over to your father’s voice, and met with him outside the front door. “Yes, dad?”

“Sweetheart, this is our neighbor, he lives in the house right outside the fence line, across your flower garden.”

You look over and see the man your father presented. He has the most handsome face you’ve ever seen, and was of great masculine stature. He was dressed in business casual, and looked so damn good with his hands tucked into his slack pockets. He flashes a smile, flaring sharp canines that elude a strong sense of vampirism.

“This is Sunghoon, he graduated from college last year, the same one you’re going to now.”

Your father continues his presentation as you struggled to break your sights away. “It’s nice to meet you, my name is y/n.”

You shyly introduce yourself properly, extending a handshake. He gently takes your palm and shakes it, almost playfully. His thumb rubs the back of your hand as he gives his proper introduction. Your eyes shoot up and you nearly fall as you hear his voice. That voice you could never forget.

You faintly gasp as he smirks, giving you a wink and pulling you in slightly while your parents weren’t looking. Whispering, the warmth of his breath grazes your face—

“Miss me baby?”

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (pt.68)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Your time is running out. minute by minute, breath by breath, kiss by kiss.

Tags: Angst, Hurt (no comfort yet), illusions to past mental health issues and past domestic abuse, mentions of low-self-esteem, internalized shame and self-shaming behaviors, themes of abandonment, speeding, guns, violence,

W/c: 13.4k

A/N: ahhhhh so here we are! i've been dreaming of this chapter since the very beginning of the series! this is like...the ultimate chapter...thank you for giving me a little bit of extra time to sit with it! we've still got a bit to go! there is a little section near the end where the chapter will prompt you to click on a link to play kate bush 😂 if you feel like you'll be distracted by music in the background you don't need to push it- thats just the song that i always heard playing in my head whenever i heard that part playing.

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

Hobi is sitting on the edge of the nest sipping at his ice water when you come back into the nest room. Someone has drawn all of the heavy curtains over the windows and they pool on the floor at the rim of the room. The plastic pulled up too. The evidence folded and put away for later burning. Like a bad memory or a piece of clothing that doesn't fit right. Shoved in the back of the closet.

The rage and fear and panic are harder to put away. The conviction is not so easy to hide. You can’t put it down the same way that people file their taxes or their children's old scribbles.

You- like a child, have not been able to color between the lines. You- like a child, are messy.

You can’t stop yourself from walking over to him. Drawn to him where he sits nursing his injuries like a moth to a flame. You feel every heartbeat spent in his presence; every breath shared sticky like smoke in your lungs. Every second is savored and every second burns.

You want to ask him if he’s alright, but questions like that seem very pointless now.

Hobi’s not alright- but he will be. He will be okay forever if you do what you have to do. Now that you’ve decided it’s all you can think about. You rarely ever get to know that your last day with someone will be your last day, and now because you know- you look at him a little harder. A little longer.

You wonder what he’ll look like in 10 years and in 20. If he’ll get crow’s feet from smiling so much. If the salt water he loves so much will eventually grow into his features and make him look like something ancient.

You wonder if one day he'll get so many freckles that the tops of his shoulders will be permanently a shade deeper than the rest of his skin- Or if Seokjin’s sunscreen will spare him from the simple pleasure of looking like your favorite thing. Hoseok has always been one part sunshine one part everything else.

He looks pale right now. It hasn't been summer in months and you won't get to see him get all freckly and sun-kissed again.

Growing old is a privilege (you don’t want to grow old) and you’re reminded of that every time you look at his throat and see the bruises there (you wish you and Hobi could stay as you are- like this, in this house- both alive and healing- forever) but you can’t.

You can’t.

You touch his shoulder softly and his head jerks up, body going tense and then slack when he sees it's just you.

It’s quiet up here. The others are just downstairs and they’re making a lot of noise. Hoseok turns, setting his glass of water down on the floor, leaning into your hand in the same movement. It would be cute if he didn’t have black bruises crisscrossing his throat and blood in the whites of his eyes. In truth, every blink only convinces you that this is what you have to do. This is what you need to do.

You know that at any moment the pack is going to come looking for you. That they’ll all come and fill the room with their soothing noises and sweet concern. You're not too worried about finding the right time to slip away. Moonbyul’s given you 24 hours after all.

We didn’t get enough time, did we? I’d have liked more.

Hobi tries to speak and you shush him, he makes a frustrated hum of a noise. You sit down next to him when he tugs you, hand vicelike on your wrist. Your heart is beating really fast. You wonder if he can hear it or at least smell your distress. The whole house is a tangle of distressed scents; your rain, Yoongi’s ocean, Hoseok’s burnt caramel. burning burning burning. It disguises your scent. Hoseok can’t smell how you’re panicking.

You smile at him, and Hobi tries to speak again. unsuccessfully.

“Here your phone-” but Hoseok doesn’t reach for it, he doesn’t reach for anything but you. Pulling you closer to him. His thumb pressed to the pulse point of your wrist, where your skin becomes thin and sensitive. Pulling you until your thigh lines up against his.

The nest up here is the only place in the house that smells somewhat normal, still soaked with your sleepy muted scents from a few days ago (How long will it be until your scent fades from the house?) You take a deep shaky breath, trying to savor it. Hoseok bites his lower lip.

Hoseok starts on your thigh. His hand squeezes it once and then he starts to write. It’s slow going. He can only write one letter at a time but-

“D-O-N-T”

His eyes are positively boring into yours as your breath hitches and you start. “Hobi I-” he repeats it again, writing it out faster. You grab his hand squeezing it. But he pulls it out of your grasp.

“N-O”

You huff, frustrated and close to tears but stealing yourself not to show him your true feelings. How hard this is. You duck in low, kissing over one of the bruises on his neck. He jerks back, furrowing his eyebrows at you. And part of you is just begging him to let it go. You’re half sitting in his lap now all so that he can write out his distress on both your thighs.

“Alright- just stop.” You can hear the rest of the pack on the stairs. It’s getting late, they’ve done all of the cleaning they can manage for today. You can hear Yoongi on the stairway talking to Jin:

“Maybe we should just burn the railing, there’s definitely a bullet or two in it still.”

Jin’s reply is near hissed, utterly scandalized in the way that only Jin can sound. “It is mahogany Yoongi.”

Hobi writes on your thigh, a single tear trailing down his nose. He’s usually a little bit better at keeping himself together but the stress of the day wore him through. Polished all of his usually stubborn edges like the ocean polishes sea glass. He’s too tired to properly argue. Letter by letter as he goes.

“P-R-O-M-I-S-E M-E,” he writes across your thigh.

You have maybe a second before they’re upon you. You have to be convincing. Have to, or else Hobi might tell. You don’t think he’ll get in your way. You don’t want to think about what you’ll have to do if he does.

You dart forward, pressing your lips to his in a way that you don’t really feel, in a way that has him pushing you a little off of him. Trying to reassure him in the only way you know how.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from crying and he tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear. His fingertips skimming soft across your jaw and your lips. Pressing at the corner of your sad smile like he can peel the fake expression away from your face and have you tell the truth for once.

“I promise, okay? I promise.”

Hoseok is not convinced. He doesn’t believe you all the way. But the pack is up here before he has a chance to write out anything more. Yoongi appears in the doorway, smelling of soap and bleach, a bit of it turning the corner of his shirt yellow where it should be black. His eyes cautious but so loving it takes your breath away a little. He treads softly over to the two of you; like he's worried about spooking you.

The moment between you and Hobi passes when Yoongi's hand curls over the back of your neck and you tilt your face up at him. And he interprets the glassiness there as something else. something more sensitive and more like omegaspace than what it is. you falling through space and time, you dying and drowning infront of him.

He probably thinks Hoseok was just comforting you.

Yoongi’s hand settles softly on the ball of Hoseok’s shoulder too. an equally as tender touch. Long fingers splaying against his collar bones, cradling a bruise there forming. Asking softly, eyes all dark with the anguish and apology of it-

“Do you think either of you can stomach dinner?”

As always, you say you can hot because you want to, but because you know it will make him happy to see you eat. You might not get many more opportunities to make Yoongi happy- you should take this one and savor it.

Yoongi loses that vaguely wounded look in his eyes with every bite you lift to your mouth. His scent sublimating into something sweeter as the night darkens and quiets.

You can tell Hoseok is not convinced of your promises when he stays glued to your side through the whole of dinner. Almost stubborn with how he resists Yoongi’s prodding and Namjoon's. Changing out the cool dressings on his throat and shaking his head at Namjoon’s suggestion that he sleep propped up against the back wall of the nest, where it’s safest. Eyes tracking your movements as you get up and brush your teeth.

His focus remains solely on you, even when Jungkook carries Tae out of the bathroom and places her among the softest things in the nest. When Noodle squirms his way out from under the bed and tries to worm himself in between his legs. Nudging under his elbow with his pink nose.

He wraps himself around you as you get ready for bed. An arm slung protectively around your waist to pull you flush against his front where you couldn’t squirm away without him feeling it and waking up.

It feels like buying time even though you're too distracted to properly enjoy it- the way they try to cheer you up. Everything that they do to try and make things better feels far away like a photograph- a memory just out of reach- the colors a little off.

Jungkook needily wraps himself around Tae and croons soft reassurance into her ear about how pretty her hair looks, how soft her pajamas make her. And would she like some of her skincare routine? Jungkook will do it for her, will pat it across her cheeks, and won't drag it under her eyes to preserve the state of her wrinkles.

Tae answers all his requests with a simple shake of her head. Eyes still frighteningly blank, that 1000-yard stare that you've all seen on your faces at one point or another, that you see in the reflective surface of Namjoon's phone in the nest, discarded and not charged.

Tae's scent is something awful- none of her usual roses and all cinnamon. Does Tae smell more like her old self because that version of her was always afraid? Or was being a boy the first thing she hated and that's why she smells like boy tae now?

You hate it. You can tell the others hate it too. Yoongi drags her close to scent her silly. cheek and neck going all pink from how hard he scents her, and then scents you, and then goes back again.

Jungkook can do little more than cuddle Tae with Jimin, his big hands smooth down her thighs, while Jimin brushes her hair gently- careful not to let the bristles brush her scalp. He's learned how to take care of her over the last few months and he's the gentlest when it comes to detangling. Not like you- who's so used to ripping through your hair without thought.

Up and down their hands go as Jin fluffs the nest around you all. Making the edges of it higher, and more protective of the fragile pups at the center (like fluffy duvets could ever block bullets. In his dreams- Jin’s love is enough to keep you all safe).

Yoongi and Namjoon are only too happy to oblige him with the nest-making and the general fussing. But in between Jin’s request for a hairdryer and another cold cloth for your hands. You catch them watching the door like they half expect some new threat to appear.

Certain things are harder to ignore; like Yoongi sitting on the edge of the nest with a gun balanced across his thigh. Or the heavy thud of a fresh box of bullets, rattling in their acrylic case when Jimin sets them down on the floor. The red shotgun casings lined up in pretty lines- just like Tae’s lipsticks downstairs.

You ask for one of Hobi's sweatshirts and Yoongi puts the gun away to go and give it to you. Hoseok fingers the edge of your shirt stroking over the meat of your hip idly. But every inch of him is taught like he’s going to have to grab you and hold you down. You lace your hand with his and turn to give him a look.

Yoongi’s back with a sweatshirt but it’s Jin who demands to dress you- to guide your fragile and freshly wrapped hands through the holes. Jin pulls it down around your hips with a soft huff before he gets distracted looking at the bruises on your back and side. From getting thrown back into the wall and from an errant elbow. Every time you twist even a little bit- they ache.

A tub of soothing cream that the pack usually uses for the more wanted kind of bruises sits open on the edge of the nest.

The pack moves about in pairs, here and there. Going down to the ground floor in sets of two. Unwilling to let anyone out of sight. There are guns everywhere, Jimin must have let loose his hidden stash of them. A shotgun leans up against the bathroom door. A handgun with an extended stock is always close at hand. There's a larger plan lingering here. You hear it in Jin's soft reassurances. Said hushed over your heads.

"Witness protection isn't as bad as you think it is Yoongi-"

"It won't work- don't you think we know how it works? That won't be safe enough."

"We have at least a few hours, we don't need to make any decisions now."

Jungkook’s scared voice, “Are we really going to have the leave? The house and everything?” A pause. A look is shared between Jin, Namjoon, and Yoongi. Jimin's eyes remain focused on Tae.

“Maybe bunny, we have to wait and see.”

“Do we have a carrying case for Noodle?”

“I think it’s in…” Yoongi trails off, but Namjoon answers for him.

“Yeah, it’s in the basement.”

They set about keeping watch for the night. those of you that aren't nursing wounds that is- mainly Jimin, Yoongi, and Namjoon- Guns remain at the ready and loaded. Jimin will go first, Yoongi second, and Namjoon last.

Jin tries but Namjoon nudges at his chest and growls in a way that has all of your ears perking up. The pack alpha’s commands can’t easily be ignored. Jungkook tries too to convince them too but even Hoseok shakes his head at him. No one is under any illusions of how fragile this peace is.

No one asks Namjoon to leave the Christmas lights on- but he doesn’t shut them off all the way- leaving just one string lit as a bit of a nightlight. None of you are quite brave enough to risk the darkness.

Hoseok stays close by, his hand clutching your wrist more often than not. Even when the pack settles in for sleep. He wraps his arm around your waist and settles in behind you, caging you in.

(Hoseok’s arms are not the prettiest cage you’ve ever been in but they are the cage you’ve liked the most. You think you’ll miss his arms and his hands. They’re so pretty and long, you lean down and kiss one where it’s gripping the nest and he makes a small noise in surprise that quickly gets swallowed by the hungry quiet.)

The quiet is very hungry, every brush of fabric against skin, every slight movement of the pack sets you a bit on edge. You think it will be hard to sleep- wound up as you are.

You don’t think you're even tired until your head hits the pillow and you have to struggle to stay awake. You want to stay up and listen to the sound of your pack, their soft and measured breathing, the sound of kisses shared above your head, the feel and safety of being in the nest. You want to commit the rhythm of them to memory.

Hoseok’s soft rasping breath on the nape of your neck evens out the more that his swelling goes down. It goes from hissing to more of a squeak as the night settles. Tae shakes through her aforementioned panic attack with all of you piled around her. You get your hand on her ankle at least.

Yoongi and Jimin’s shushing is the only punctuating sound in the half-light. Because what can you say besides sweet nothings when you know she has a perfectly valid reason to fear falling asleep?

You savor every little twitch of their trauma-worn bodies as you flit in and out of an uneasy sleep. Every slight sigh and hand on you rousing you. Jungkook, brushing his fingers through your hair. Hobi, pressed along your back like a second skin shifting and trying to tilt his neck to a more comfortable angle.

You get too hot with Hobi wrapped around you like that, eventually tugging at his sweatshirt that you wear and almost purring when kind gentle hands help detangle you from it with a soothing little shush sound so that you hardly have to wake. Yoongi, around midnight.

Yoongi’s thin but strong fingers rub a soothing touch along your jaw. Soothing away a small sad noise you make that has him curling around your front. The sound of Namjoon's low voice as he says something to your mate and then takes his place at the helm of the nest to stand guard.

“It’s okay pup, I’m here- I’m not going to let anything happen to you- not now- not ever.”

It’s unfortunate, but Namjoon can’t let Tae sleep for more than half an hour before checking her pupillary responses, making sure that her brain isn’t swelling. Concussions are no joke and Namjoon does not take chances with his prettiest alpha. He sends her back off to dreamland with a comforting scent mark and a soothing grumble. After the 5th hour when the risks turn nominal, he decides to just let her sleep.

But Hoseok doesn’t sleep, he can’t really. The pain keeps him awake and what with the way that his neck is injured he can’t find a comfortable position. He shifts and settles the whole night. Keeping you close with that arm around your waist every time you squirm so much as an inch away.

He’s restless until Namjoon gets up to get one of Jimin’s painkillers.

He’s resistant even then, half asleep still fighting. Trying to move away and shaking his head at Namjoon. Namjoon mistakes his unwillingness for simple fussiness and not for fear. If Hobi falls asleep it will be substantially easier to slip away- you watch from below as Namjoon props hobi up and pinches his jaw to make him open his mouth, encouraging the alpha to show his tongue with a prod of those gentle hands. His eyes are barely open, exhausted as he is.

“I know it hurts to swallow Hobi but you’ve got too.” Regardless of his shaken head, Namjoon insistently nudges his mouth with it. Soothing his gag with a stroke of his thumb down Hoseok’s Addams apple. A kiss to his lips for being good.

“This will help the swelling go down, you’ll be okay by morning.”

It’s minutes before they take effect. Slowly- Hoseok’s arm melts away from your stomach. His grip on you slackens from the drugs and his breath evens out. You say a quiet goodbye to him in your head and turn around to face him and kiss his forehead.

At least the last time you touch, it’s soft like that. At least the last time you touch him- it’s gentle.

Yoongi, Jimin, and Namjoon trade-off. A gun shared between the two of them. Perched on the edge of the nest. Eyes on the vacant stairway Infront of them. Listening for every creek and whisper met with a held breath and hand tightening around the gun. Waiting for the violence that you can all feel coming.

You won’t let it hit them; you won’t let it into this house again. Not while you’re still breathing.

When you're sure that Hobi is asleep you roll onto your back and stare up at the Christmas lights twinkling in the dark. You remember watching Jungkook hang them for you. You remember. You'll always try to remember; you promise yourself right then and there that you'll never let the memory slip away. No matter what happens.

You look over at Kookie, face so peaceful in sleep, a pillow hugged to his chest belly down in the nest, cheek squished close to the top of Yoongi's head on your other side. His back rising and falling.

Jungkook has always been a pretty omega. You reach over to him to stroke down the stiff bridge of his nose, to commit his face to memory. When you turn back to Hobi, you do the same, touching across the heart shape of his mouth, the subtle roundness in his cheeks everything. You look around at all of them- your pack, sleeping softly- sleeping safely. Namjoon's wide back, his shoulders that could hold the world up. Unaware that you're watching him.

You’ll remember all of it, every car ride, every trip to the beach. Every joke and jab. You’ll store each of the memories like a found thing in your pocket. A piece of seashell or sea glass.

You’ll take Jungkook’s laughter and store it- a memory to use when you need to remember that it’s okay to be young for a minute more. When you need to look after yourself you’ll remember how Jin did it and follow his example. And when you need to rest and be soft you'll remember yoongi. You’ll remember Tae like a tube of lipstick and see her every day in the color pink. And Jimin-

Jimin has a hard time sleeping. Even when Namjoon takes the last shift. He sleeps with one hand on a gun, spaced protectively in front of Tae. His bad arm unfolded from his sling. Putting his body between her and the staircase. Namjoon’s heart pulses dully with the knowledge of that when he glances back, just to check and make sure that Tae and Hobi are still breathing. You hide your open eyes from him when he turns, going extra still and feigning sleep.

Namjoon tamps down on his instincts; the last thing he wants is for his scent to go sour and possibly rouse them. But in the quiet, Namjoon's mind has too much room to fan out and overanalyze. Panic is a particularly alluring drug, his mind festers in it. Rolling around in bad ideas the way that Noodle would roll around in a puddle of catnip.

If he got the pack together, put you all in cars, and drove you far far away from here would that be enough to keep you all safe from harm? Or would that only be temporary? Is temporary safety worse when you know what you have to come back to? Or should he just try to talk to these people, barter with them something. Would money be enough? How much wouldn't Namjoon give? 

You are dreadfully similar to him. Only his planning stays in its infancy stage. 

It isn’t all silent. Noises punctuate the night here and there. Namjoon is so on edge that he all but snaps his teeth at the shadows. An alpha on alert.

Namjoon’s ears perk up at every car that dares to drive by your narrow street, the neighbor two houses to the left who leaves for work in the city at 4:05 every morning, right on time. Noodle and the sound of his scrabbly little paws on the stairs, zooming up and down them until Namjoon gets up to scruff him too. 

Your freaking cat does not like Namjoon on a normal day, he's only ever loved you and Hobi and tolerated Tae and Jungkook- condemning all the rest to hisses and claws, but Noodle settles with Namjoon's hand on the back of his neck. "See, that wasn't too hard was it?"

Noodle gives one last half-hearted hiss as Namjoon places him gently in the nest where he stays put after curled up around Tae’s head like a fluffy little hat. Purring and licking at her forehead. All but taunting Namjoon with his yellow eyes. Flinty and knowing in the darkness. Bushy tail flailing every time the alpha glances back.

You think you’re being quiet when you push yourself up onto your hands and knees. Untangling Hobi’s arm from around your waist and pulling yourself to the edge of the bed. He's out cold from the painkillers. Barely even stirring. 

Noodle stirs however, darting from the nest with a small murr sound as if to say, "see- she's awake so why can't I be?" Tail raised high as he prances to the doorway. 

You look striking in the half darkness, a pair of Yoongi’s green flannel pajama pants rolled up several times to fit properly around your hips. A thin white tank top that's almost falling down one shoulder. Namjoon’s heart pulses dully with the need to hold, the need to protect. He makes a soft noise in his throat and your head jerks in his direction.

You swallow, and your lips look dry, eyes glassy and innocent in their tilt when your mussed hair fluffs over your shoulder. Messy from where Hobi was nuzzling it in his sleep. 

“I was just getting a glass of water.”

Namjoon wordlessly holds his hand out to help you get out of the nest without teetering or disturbing the others. Noodle dashes back down the stairs with a soft meow. Tae sighs and re-settles, smacking her lips and Jimin’s arm tightens. Your mate turns face up in the nest, chest rising and falling, mouth opening like he can taste your scent on the air. 

Namjoon doesn't doubt he can, honed in on you and focused as he always is.

Namjoon doesn’t let go of your hand when your feet find the smooth floor. Instead, he checks the wounds on your hands and verifies that they’re clotting. The margins slotted together properly for minimal scarring (he'd redone the glue-suture after your shower with only gentle scolding). He presses a kiss to the bandages after they're re-fastened. Letting his lips linger there for a second.

Namjoon has always had big hands, warm and steadying as they cradle yours. Small and chapped and scarred.

Instead of continuing on downstairs, you linger for a second by Namjoon’s side. Eating up every breath he breathes, his scent, and the comfort of having him nearby. Something you know you won’t have forever. (Somehow- you know that this will be the last time that Namjoon holds you. You can wait one minute more. You can give him one more minute). He sets the gun to the side and pulls you between his legs.

“Joonie?” You ask.

Your pack alpha wraps his arms around your waist and nuzzles forward, rubbing his spiky head across your midriff. Nose nudging the dimple of your belly button and the slight pudge there with a quiet happy growl.

Namjoon will never not be happy that he can see the evidence of the pack’s love on you. Will never not feel proud of you and how far you've come. He nuzzles, resisting the temptation to bite and nip with a breath let out through clenched teeth.

Namjoon feels your quiet laugh against his cheek. Your warm soft skin swelling with laughter. Namjoon’s face is blushing red when he pulls back to look at you in the darkness. Corralled in the safe circle of his arms, fingers digging into your hips and squeezing.

“What are you doing alpha?” 

“Just thinking- just-” Namjoon’s voice gets so much lower in the nighttime, it's a gravely growl. A sound that paints pictures of lightning and clouds hovering low like a blanket.

“When all of this is over, I want to go somewhere new.” Namjoon's hands tighten on your waist. fingers pressing to either side of your spine, thumbs sitting on the soft bones of your hips. “-With you. Just you. Just the two of us. Maybe.” Namjoon fights back a fresh blush at the confused cock of your head. “Maybe- like- a fancy Airbnb? Or something? Would that be fun? Would you like that?” 

You pause, humming. Indulging Namjoon in this as he holds you, fingers rubbing endlessly up and down the sensitive small of your back. Eyes wide and imploring like a child. 

You're only too happy to forget for a second and imagine. What would happen if you didn’t leave tonight? What would happen if you found some way out of this?

It’s easy to go further than just thinking about a simple weekend getaway. You Imagine far into the future; a day that you'll never see. A future with Namjoon and the pack. It hits you with such a profound heartache when you think it that you half expect to look down and see your white tank top speckled with blood. The ache so keen and visceral but- 

Namjoon would be a good father. 

He’d be kind and patient. He’d never snap. He’d never yell. For a moment that’s all you want to think about- not a stupid weekend but a lifetime. A family. A world where you’re never yelled at, where you don't have to be afraid, where nothing is hard, and even if it’s hard you do it together.

If you had pups, you know Namjoon would treat every skinned knee like it was surgery. Would never tell them to walk it off or say it wasn’t that bad. You know that he’d go through every tea party with gusto and stay up late to help them with their homework. That he’d struggle to say no but that you might never need to. It would be lovely- getting to give something small and innocent so much safety. It would be nice to have pups with Namjoon.

You can’t say you don’t want it, but you know in that moment that you won't get it. You'll never get to see Namjoon be a father- even if the pups aren't yours or are just his and Jin's. You’d love them all the same. What use is it to Imagine things that you’ll never get? What good are dreams like this but to tease you, just out of reach. 

Namjoon nuzzles into your stomach again. His nose drawing soft circles just under your belly button. 

You’d be a shit mother anyway. Too fragile. Too nervous. Too hurt. Too much of everything. You'd fuck them up just by being you. You'd fuck them up the same way you've fucked up this perfectly good pack. You've brought nothing but destruction upon them. The evidence of your wreckage is everywhere. The bullets in the ceiling, the blown apart door. Your hands and Hobi's throat. All of this is because of you. 

You snap back to the present, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You’re gnawing at your own leg to survive. All things that bite cannot resist it. What good does hope do at the end other than to hurt?

You can't resist asking Namjoon for more, curled around you like a protective barrier to keep out all the world's hurts (or to keep you in). 

“If we went? Where would we go? If we made it- What would it be like Joonie?”

Namjoon rests his chin on your belly button and looks up at you. Completely unaware of the longing tearing its way through you, of what you’re thinking about. Not just one trip or one year, but ten or twenty or thirty. 

“Maybe south, to see the cherry blossoms?”

“We couldn’t go, not without Tae- cuz of the pink, and Hobi- cuz of the flowers”

Namjoon nods, agreeing. “Yeah- she does really like anything that’s pink.” There is a Tae-shaped smile on his face, you can feel it stretching your lips too. But he shakes it off, head bowed before you. Eyes closed against the image. 

“Still, somewhere safe and quiet just for us, just for you and I to take a deep breath and-” Namjoon trails off, looking up at you. His eyes sparkle with the idea of it, all the little moments he’s picturing.

A private morning where he wakes up to just you. Where you hog his warm spot and his pillow in the chilly spring air. Your cold toes pressed to his shins with nothing to do but appreciate each other and take your loving slow and intentional. Your body and his body and all the space and laughter that you want in between. An idyllic picture of two young people quietly in love. Gently in it.

After almost losing all of it, he wants the chance to properly appreciate you one-on-one. The others too- but they’re asleep, and sleeping vessels cannot reply to Namjoon’s daydreams. You are the only one awake.

(In Namjoon's fantasy, he'll give each of his packmates a different trip. every one of them even if it's just the ones he's recently almost lost that have him thinking of these particular plans.

Hobi would want just a day trip. Namjoon knows the alpha doesn’t really like to be separated from the pack for all that long, a few hours sure. Maybe to some vintage stores that he’s been eyeing to the city or the botanical garden.

Seokjin he’d take somewhere grand and big and full of adventure, maybe to 6 Flags or something. Jin likes to be reminded that he’s allowed to be a kid again, that he doesn’t always have to look after everyone all the time. That he has Namjoon to lean on.

Tae, he’d take somewhere gilded just as she is, like teatime at the Ritz- or maybe abroad to the castle of Versailles. The hall of mirrors and a million pictures of Tae in pretty dresses, twirling. In Namjoon’s head- he watches her turn and flutter slowly like a top. Spinning and spinning).

But none of that is quite your style. You don't really crave outings or adrenaline or gilded things. Your wants are much more simple maybe- because you've always known how priceless quiet and peace is. Gentleness is all you've ever really wanted- not excitement or acclaim or ego.

“A little cabin somewhere in the mountains, a spot for just us. We wouldn’t even have to do anything, A staycation. A night or two.” As the world spins on, you are who Namjoon craves to be still with.

You swallow hard, lingering, still half leaning over him still. Letting him nose at your jaw and purr.

“That would be so nice Joonie."

You swallow, throat thick with something. You lean forward pressing a kiss- too brief, to his lips, Namjoon’s lips part and he breathes gently. You blink back the glassiness in your eye and hope that Namjoon dismisses it as the light from the moon streaming through one of the skylights. All white and black. Wrenching you through something that feels like film. You commit the feel of him and the sound of his voice to memory and then pull back.

“I really need to get a glass of water.”

Namjoon shifts to get up, to come with you, but you just laugh at him and push at his shoulder, he flops back onto the bed.

“I can go on my own Joonie.” He grumbles but stays put. Nosing at the goosebumps on your arms and leaning to retrieve Hobi’s sweatshirt from where you left it in the nest. It smells like sleeping pups and Jin. Milky and soft and safe. Namjoon’s body shivers happily when he sees you put it on.

You squirm out from between his legs. His palm stays wrapped around the tips of your fingers. They slide out of his a little, and then all the way.

“It’s not safe.” You heave a tired sigh, what he thinks is a tired sigh but is actually you trying your hardest not to cry. You lean over him to grab the gun from where it’s rested against the nesting barrier. Getting your phone while you’re at it and sliding it into the pocket of your sweatshirt.

“Is that better?” Namjoon grumbles but still lets you go. Sitting there on the edge of your nest and guarding the others. You look back at him from the top of the stairs and smile.

The house is quiet, with no creeks on the stairs and no winds blowing across the roof. No sound at all in the house beyond your quiet footsteps that Namjoon listens to as you go down the stairs.

Feeling every second of your distance like the sluggish beat of his heart, thump thump thump. Namjoon looks back to look at his pack. Their bodies curled and resting, so gentle in sleep. After a few minutes, there are footsteps on the stairs, small soft ones.

Thump.

“They’re so beautiful” Namjoon comments to you. Waiting for reply.

The silence gnashes its teeth, still hungry.

When Namjoon turns back, it’s not you standing at the top of the stairs- just Noodle with his tail raised high. His yellow eyes glow almost florescent in the darkness, meowing and hissing so loud it might wake the others.

“Noodle, quiet.” The cat just doesn’t quit, batting at Namjoon’s ankles, claws and all. “Noodle- hush.” He scoops up the fussy cat, but Namjoon’s only reward is some claws to his forearms and some more squirming.

Downstairs, he hears a sound that makes him pause. Instincts going from at peace to on edge.

Thump

The front door opens and closes softly with a soft click of the metal doorknob.

Thump

Namjoon goes to the top of the stairs, holding Noodle in his arms before the cat squirms and falls to the floor with a thud. “Pup?” he calls, hushed. You don’t respond. Only silence greets him, sated at last.

Thump, breath, thud.

Namjoon waits a moment, listening for a response that doesn't come before he goes down the stairs, Noodle nearly trips him on the way down, hissing and pacing back and forth in front of the door. The ground floor of the house is completely absent of you- absent of anyone friend or foe. The room is soaked in the blue darkness of morning that is not quite dawn. The white countertops are unassuming and the plates stay in their places.

Thud.

The couch still has its dark spot from where Jin cleaned it. The tangerines are safely in the bowl back on the counter shining like several small suns or planets. Everything is empty empty empty.

Thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud

Namjoon checks the shoe rack. Your sneakers are missing, the same ones that match Hobi's and usually sit side by side with his. The spot where they should be empty.

Thud

Your wallet is missing from the bowl just inside the door.

Thud

Namjoon looks out onto the street and finds it empty.

Thud thud thud

Namjoon does not panic, Namjoon does not head out onto the street and chase you down- maybe he should have. He should have done any number of things. The sun is just barely rising turning the sky into that honey blue-green color and Namjoon just stands there and stares.

Namjoon is frozen. What kind of alpha is he- why kind of alpha freezes instead of fights or flights?

Thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud

A few minutes pass and something must tip off the packmates upstairs- either the empty nest or the sound of Noodle yowling and quite literally trying to bite Yoongi's ear off.

The next thing Namjoon is aware of is Yoongi is on the stairs, looking pissed off, looking terrified. almost falling down them with the speed at which he descends.

He takes the stairs down two at a time, colliding with Namjoon at the bottom of them. He looks like a puffed-up cat, hair wild and eyes equally as glaring as Noodles when he shakes Namjoon, just a little. “Where is she? Namjoon? Where did she go? Where is my mate!?"

Is it Yoongi's scent- acrid and angry- that knocks him out of his stupor? Or is it the top of his ruffled head almost colliding with the bottom of Namjoon’s jaw when the beta shakes him again.

Namjoon stutters, panic making him inarticulate. So scared he repeats it twice. "I don't know- I don't know, I- she said she was just getting a glass of water. I swear-"

Yoongi's fists tangle in the front of Namjoon's shirt. He sounds sick with it. Voice twisting in pitch.

"You were supposed to keep an eye on her- you weren't supposed to let her out of your fucking sight.”

There are other people on the stairs, roused by the sound of raised voices. A lone light flicked on sends everyone into yellow chiaroscuro. Namjoon is still staring at the street, heart thundering quicker than your footsteps as you run. The streetlights wink out behind you as you go. Fleeing with the night and bowing under the weight of oncoming daylight. Running as fast as your body can carry you.

Could he catch up if he started running now?

It's Jungkook, his dark hair pushed up at the side where it rested against the nest, who asks, “What happened?What’s going on?”

Tae’s eyes dart between Yoongi and Namjoon, her pink silk dressing gown wrapped tight around her shoulders. “Where’s the pup?”

"Yeah Namjoon, where the fuck is my mate??" Yoongi grits his teeth, shaking Namjoon so hard it almost knocks him off his feet and sends him careening a little into the narrow dresser table that the pack keeps by the door for gloves and mittens and keys and wallets.

“I don’t know, I don’t-"

Jungkook and Tae have just spilled out from the stairs into the entryway when Yoongi’s hands hit his shoulders, pushing and then digging into Namjoon’s skin. He’s shaking so hard he can hardly speak.

“You were supposed to be watching her. You were supposed to make sure she was safe-”

“Yoongi- hey- Stop” Tae’s not shaking anymore when gets her hands on his shoulders pulling him away from namjoon where he simmers. Jin is still asleep upstairs. Hasn’t been roused by all the tense voices. Too tired from yesterday- from staying up to scrub blood with Yoongi.

Jungkook skitters to the door as Jimin and hobi descend the steps. nearly bouncing on his heels as he opens the front door letting in a gush of cold air. “What are we waiting for? lets go."

Yoongi's face crumples. “I don’t get it, where did she go- why would she have-”

Hoseok swallows but talks softly, the swelling’s gone down enough even though the bruises look a million times worst in the sunlight streaming through the window. It’s not even 6am yet. His soft hiss is gentle, but the pack pauses to hear it.

“A deal- I think she made a deal.”

It's the first words he’s been able to speak since the attack. Vocal cords straining with every word. Everyone quiets to listen to Hobi. Jimin’s got the shotgun in his hands. He leans it up against the doorway. The heavy thunk punctuates the shocked quiet- but hobi continues.

“When the man was here- she tried to barter our lives with hers." Everyone looks to Tae. And her eyes lower to the floor.

“She did say that but I didn’t think she was serious, I just thought-”

The conversation is a flurry, everyone talking over each other as conversation explodes. Yoongi's face twists from devastated to enraged. “Jesus fucking Christ- that stupid stupid-”

Jungkook clings to Jimin's t-shirt, “What are we going to do? Hyung- what should we-”

Jimin hasn't spoken a word yet, and softly draws Jungkook's hands away from his shirt. “Where would she even have even gone?"

“Did someone pick her up?” Hobi’s words seem to ring out, even though his voice is so fragile.

Namjoon shakes his head. “No- I was listening, I didn’t hear any car in the road- not for like the whole hour.”

“So, you were listening enough to hear the street but not to stop her from literally walking away from us, great. Good to know Namjoon.”

“Yoongi that is like- the opposite of helpful.”

“There's still the matter of where would she have gone. She didn't take a car-” Hoseok looks up in Tae’s direction. She sees the realization light across his face.

“Hobi?”

But Hoseok ignores her, lurching to the small cabinet by the front door; the pack’s drop-off points for their keys, their wallets and your fuzzy little purse from your first ever date with jimin and tae as well as a good slice of Tae’s collection of little red pocketbooks. They keep their things this way because Namjoon loses his keys at least once a month a nd having a communal spot always helps the general disorder of having 8 people live in one house.

Hoseok scrambles not for your wallet but for his.

He reaches for his wallet. Opening it and searching but-

The train ticket is gone.

Your train ticket- the one that you gave Hobi for safekeeping so many months ago is missing from where he usually keeps it in the last slot. Right next to that folded poem of Tae's and an old gift card. In its place is just a simple folded note, a new piece of paper that hasn’t been worn soft at the edges yet. Torn from the same pad of paper that Jin writes the grocery list on. Hoseok’s hands shake as they fish it out. 5 words that aren’t nearly enough.

I’m sorry, I love you.

You’d never told him that- that you loved him. Not after you’d had sex and he’d confessed. Not in the tangle of moments that followed with Jimin bloody and the pack breaking. You’d never spilled your heart to him that way. In the back of his head, he realizes that there just hadn’t been time.

This is the first time you’ve told Hoseok you love him and maybe the last. Hoseok’s heart beats quick. She loves me. Thump. She loves me. Thump. She loves-

Hoseok shoots off like a bullet out the open door, thundering across the porch slats. Too fast for the rest of the sleepy pack to properly anticipate and follow. Peering out after him, a little sluggish and a lot shocked. His socks skid and slip as he tries to arrest his momentum and almost falls as He doubles back for his shoes.

The rest of the pack stares down at him blankly as he tugs them on, sprawled there on the floor just outside the door. Hands shaking too much for bunny-eared loops. He doesn’t even bother to lace them before he’s lunging for his car keys in the bowl too. Nearly knocking over the table in his haste.

“The train station- she’s going to the train station.” He gasps.

The words you shared that night ring in his head, playing on repeat. Like a record that’s been scratched too many times. He’s replayed those moments too many times. He’s not sure if he remembers it correctly.

“Give me one chance, let me try to convince you to stay and if I can’t- then I’ll let you go, and I won’t tell Yoongi what train you took.”

The countless times you’d joked with him after that, the moment so light that Hoseok didn’t notice the weight behind them.

“You still got that train ticket?”

“Of course I do.”

Hoseok never thought that you’d use it. He thought that the ticket would have stayed frayed and pretty in his wallet until you framed it or something. Until you could look back on it and laugh and say things like “remember that night? Remember how it used to be before we loved each other?”

“No, I don’t, can you remind me?”

This is not that, this is not the future that Hoseok had imagined for the two of you. This abject terror. Suddenly Hoseok is unmoored, suddenly he is falling. Usually, you can see the end from a mile away. Is it worse if you lose the person you love because of circumstance or because they decide to leave on their own? Hoseok never thought you'd actually do it.

Hoseok thought your promise last night meant something. Later when he’s not so scared he’ll remember that he’s angry about that.

The rest of the pack explodes too. Jungkook doesn’t bother to put on his shoes- just heaves Hobi up by his shoulders and pushes him towards his car. Yoongi snatches both of their pairs from the floor and joins them. Cold feet on the small pea-gravel driveway. Jimin darts forward wrenching off his arm sling regardless of Namjoon’s protests.

“I’ll drive” Jimin doesn’t have to wrestle with Hoseok’s keys for long. Even with his hands numb Jimin is still the best driver. He won’t pull corners or care about hitting curbs. He reeves it with a roaring purr while the rest get in and looks at Tae in the rearview mirror. Standing on the porch looking breakable and not all there still. Her eyes on his have that same peculiar weight, the same weight that makes Jimin’s blood sing with purpose.

If there was ever someone that Tae needed, it was you. Not Jimin. He will haul you back from the edge of hell if he needs to, for her. because this is not the ending that you and tae deserve. Jimin will tear you from hell. Teeth and sin and all.

Jungkook has barely shut the door before Jimin peals out, reversing until the tires screech against the asphalt and leave dark lines in their wake. Tire tracks, strings of fate, shoelaces. He shoots off down the street and out of sight, knocking over a trash bin with a clang and leaving Tae and Namjoon back on the porch.

Hoseok knows the name of the station you were most likely to go to but not how to get to it. It's an 15 minute walk, maybe a 10 minute run and it's already been 8 since you left. Jimin points his car in the direction of the main road while he pulls it up on his cell phone.

With every sharp turn Yoongi and Jungkook slosh in the back seat and hit into each other. Some early morning commuter honks his horn at Jimin but he doesn’t even see them. The scenery flickering by and the asphalt melting away underneath the wheels of Hoseok’s red car. The small grey towns melt away, Break lights bleeding less than they should. The engine stutters and engages but no one cares about the uneven acceleration. Hoseok would total this car in a heartbeat if it meant getting you in time.

At the straightaway Jungkook stoops to slip his feet into his shoes, Yoongi holding his shoulder. The phone in between them slides on the leather seat, spitting out its electronic voice, overly cheerful.

"Re-routing!"

“Wait Minnie- go left.”

“Fuck!” Jimin makes the turn just barely, sparks skittering and burning out as he goes over one of those tiny reflective dividers. Hoseok curses every pothole for damaging their momentum and slowing them down.

“Are you sure? Are you sure that it’s this station that she'd go to?” Hoseok’s heart is thundering in his ears, beating furious and fast.

“Almost positive.” Yoongi holds onto the back of Hoseok’s chair to keep himself in place.

“We have to get to her before she gets to the city. Can’t you go any faster?” Jimin jerks the wheel around a flashy BMW. Almost hitting them with how close he gets. Jimin lets the speedometer answer Yoongi's question. Pushing 60 in a 35 and then 70.

Your note is crumpled tight in Hoseok's fist, a tiny bit of yellow paper that he unfolds and looks at before shoving deep within the confines of his jacket.

Yoongi is not looking at hoseok when he says his next sentence. Hoseok's not even thinking about his old pack, he's just thinking about the fact that you love him and he never got to hear you say it. Not when Yoongi pulls himself almost between his and Jimin’s seat and repeats the same to Jimin again, the same only different.

Thud.

“We have to get to her before Moonbyul does, if she gets to her- I don't know what I'll be able to do Minnie- even with the power that I have Moonbyul still has more-”

Hobi’s flinch is visceral, jerking like he's shocked.

He turns around to look at Yoongi as Jimin blows through a stop sign and then a red light. Jungkook winces and doesn’t say anything. Pushing Yoongi’s shoes across the seat. “Hyung- you should get ready to run.”

Hoseok and Yoongi look at each other. Hoseok's turned almost all the way around in his seat to stare at Yoongi- more specifically Yoongi’s mouth. He’s not sure if Jimin’s painkillers would make him hallucinate but that’s the only logical reason his brain can come up with after hearing that name- her name- come out of Yoongi’s mouth.

“What?"

Jimin's voice is deathly quiet. "Hoseok- turn the fuck around. If I get into an accident at this speed you will die if you're not facing forward to the airbag."

Hoseok turns back to face the road. Jimin grips the wheel so hard his knuckles are white. “Thank you.”

The sunlight is just cresting the tops of the trees. Dotting the scenery blue and yellow. Hoseok’s ears are ringing with her name.

Yoongi pulls himself closer to Hoseok, hands still gripping the headrest, the only thing that keeps him from bobbing and moving with the movement of the car. Eyes locked on Hoseok's face in the rearview mirror.

"I said something- I said something and you're having a thought."

"I fucking hope so-" Jungkook's quip goes unnoticed. Unnoticed through the volley of honking horns as the red car tares through the street. By some miracle, they haven’t passed a cop car yet.

Hoseok looks in the rearview mirror, at Yoongi’s face. Biting his lower lip. “It’s nothing just that name.”

Hoseok looks at Yoongi and all he can think about is how he'd never said- he'd never told Yoongi their names. Saying them or even thinking them reminds Hoseok too much of his own begging. What kind of alpha begs for an omega to hurt them- to stay?

Yoongi just about puts himself in the front seat of the car as Jimin breaks hard to navigate around a tractor-trailer. Riding on the shoulder, the rumble strips vibrating all of them hard and roaring just like Hoseok’s blood thundering through his ears.

“Moonbyul? Moon Byul-yi? You know it?”

Hoseok shivers, the reaction of his body route, unavoidable. Jarring. Trauma builds itself into your bones whether you like it or not. Triggers are not so much a part of you as they are a light switch that makes the worst parts of you turn on.

"Yeah- I do. It’s the name of my ex-pack omega.” Now it’s Jimin’s turn to be distracted, and he almost gets into an accident for his troubles. They’re silent for a second, Yoongi and Jimin look at each other.

“It could be the same name.”

Yoongi scrambles for his phone on the seat right as Jimin makes a turn and it goes flying. He finds it underneath Hoseok’s seat, hands slippery with sweat on it.

“Hang on, I think I have a picture of her somewhere.”

Yoongi scrolls all the way to the back in his phone. Switches to Instagram, going back and back and back through time, and then he's sticking it in Hoseok's face.

Seeing her face feels like Yoongi’s slapped him. Her face is on Yoongi's phone. Why is her face on Yoongi’s phone? Her hair is longer than it was when they dated, she must not have cut it since. But it's definitely her.

Hoseok feels like he's spinning, it's been so long since he's seen her face but it's definitely the one from his nightmares, the one he sees grinning and crooning false praises that have stuck to Hoseok's soul like glue. The face that he sees behind his eyes and sees in every criticizing comment only on his bad days. She's standing shoulder to shoulder with Yoongi, both of them in black suits along with a man that looks enough like Yoongi for him to guess that that's his brother, your ex-husband.

Your abuser and his and Yoongi in between them. Hoseok can only hear ringing in his ears, he knows he sounds accusatory when he snaps. "How the fuck do you know my ex-pack omega?"

“She’s my cousin. Are you sure that's her?”

Hoseok feels like he’s spinning. “Yeah, I'm sure.”

“I thought you said your old pack was all omega’s?” Yoongi knows Hoseok’s lore, knows it like he knows the back of his hand. He looks up, hair falling across his face. Hoseok frowns jabbing his finger at the phone.

“I did. She’s an omega.”

The dissonance hits him and Yoongi almost wants to disagree but then-

Hoseok watches the lightbulb go off, Yoongi’s eyes widening imperceptibly as he paws at the phone and Hoseok’s hand. The car sickness lurches in his stomach as he turns to look back at Yoongi, and the g force hits him as Jimin takes another turn Impossibly fast. The seatbelt across Hobi’s chest engages with a click, digging into his skin and the bruises on his neck with a painful jerk.

“Are you sure? Hoseok- you have to be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

This is all a game of leverage. A game of who knows what secret and what gets exchanged for whom. Yoongi spent most of last night wondering about Moonbyul's motivation, and now he knows why.

Hoseok is holding onto Yoongi’s phone, they’re hands gripping it together. “Is this who she’s going too? The one who tried to kill us? Is-” Hoseok has to swallow to get the words out right. “Is Moonbyul the one trying to take her?”

“Yes.”

Hoseok shivers, eyes darkening, scent spiraling wildly. His muscles trembling as he thinks about it. You and Moonbyul.

Yoongi pulls himself around Jimin’s headrest. Hand on his throat, digging into his scent gland. He doesn't have time to explain to them.

Only alphas can lead the family, only alphas can rule. If Moonbyul isn't one- that calls into question the legitimacy of her rule. The families would never stand to see an omega on the throne, she'd be ousted, probably killed for daring to lie. The families would tear her apart piece by piece and Yoongi would let them.

If Moonbyul is the person who hurt Hobi- and now she's going after you- that's two people that Yoongi loves that she's directly hurt. Yoongi is thinking all sorts of dangerous things. But they have to get to you first.

If Moonbyul isn't an alpha then Yoongi's just found his leverage and maybe the whole reason why the pack was targeted in the first place.

A packmate for a secret. Yoongi imagines the worst-case scenario; Don't tell and I won't hurt her. Don’t tell anyone and she lives.

How long had she stewed and festered- knowing that Hoseok was out there- knowing that he knew the secret that could lead to her undoing. Maybe she thought his knowing would never come back to bite her, and had intended on tying up the loose end later. Maybe she didn't know Hoseok had found his way into Yoongi's arms until after the old Don and Beta had died. She probably thought that they’d never put it together- at least not until it was too late.

Whatever her reasons, this has gone on long enough.

Yoongi opens his mouth, but Hoseok’s body is taught like a spring-loaded and ready to burst. His voice a near growl.

“Jimin, I need you to drive.”

~-~

Tae and Namjoon are left standing there on the porch. Namjoon left staring after them as they hurl away from the house. Running his hands through his hair hard. Thinking of what to do until-

Tae tugs on his sleeve, “Your phone- Joonie- you should call her.”

“Right- fuck-” Namjoon goes and gets it, and comes back to stand with Tae on the porch. “Come on- come on pick up.” Namjoon paces back and forth on the front porch, the snowmelt from the roof drips out an uneven rhythm onto the railing. the cold spray hitting his stress-warm skin.

Tae stands by the door. Frozen, a statue of Namjoon’s distress. Inside, Namjoon hears a voice. Jin coming down the stairs, probably roused by the sound of the car screeching out of the driveway and down the road.

“Tae? Where is everybody?”

“Pup’s being stupid. The others left to go get her before she’s like- really really stupid.”

Jin freezes in the doorway, fist rubbing his eye. He sounds smaller and younger than Namjoon’s ever heard him. “Am I having a bad dream?” namjoon's pacing stutters and then starts up again. Jin doesn't need him right now, Jin he can help later.

Tae takes Jin's hand and leads him to the outdoor furniture. The cushions have to be damp but they sit anyway. Tae pulls her knees under her and rests her cheek on Jin's shoulder. “That’s what I thought too at first.”

Namjoon almost sobs when he hears it- the click of the dial tone and a single breath. He can hear the thud of the train in the background, the hiss of pressure against the scratchy speaker.

“Pup? oh thank god, stay where you are- the others are-”

“Namjoon? Joonie stop- I didn’t pick up so that you could convince me to come back. I only picked up because I never said goodbye.”

Namjoon freezes, and he feels like the snowmelt from the roof has just dripped down his back. Growing frigid more with each word. If there was ever a question on if you’d gone willingly or been taken- it was answered with that.

“Pup, come home right now or I swear to god-”

“No! For once you’re going to listen!” You’ve only shouted at him a handful of times and he’s hardly ever heard you sound so serious.

"No- you can't-"

“Namjoon, The second you say anything to try and convince me to stay is the moment I hang up, so what is it gonna be?”

Namjoon goes silent and stops his pacing. Holding the phone so hard it feels like the plastic and metal might break.

Namjoon’s very being hinges on every syllable you say, Like the ocean hinges on the moon. Water tethered and kept from the shore by something as simple as gravity. Tae is right there. Tae is watching the driveway not saying anything with that same blank look Namjoon has seen on your face countless times.

All at once Namjoon is reminded of you in the summertime back when he first met you and trauma had you all quiet. Staring off into space in much the same way. Small and fragile and worth saving. You’ve always been that for him; worth saving.

Jin scrubs a hand across his face, clearing himself of the last little bits of sleep. He holds out his hand for the phone, but Namjoon doesn’t give it to him just paces right by him as he listens to you.

“I only picked up the phone because I have some things that I want to say to you.”

You sound more settled and less angry but just as resigned and convicted of what you're doing. Like no part of you doubts your choices. Namjoon wishes you sounded angry, that you sounded sad, but you don’t sound like any of those things.

“I'm not leaving because I think I don't deserve a life with you and the pack. I’m not leaving because I think that I’m not worth your love. I’m leaving because for the first time I know that I am.

“For the first time I understand why Yoongi left and why he didn’t come back until he knew it would be safe. Because when you love something the way that I love you, you’ll do anything to protect them. Can you really blame me Joonie? For doing what you might have done?”

You continue on like you’re not wrenching Namjoon’s heart clean from his chest. Like you’re not a hurricane on his very being- dark and thunderous tearing through him as impersonal as wind. Namjoon’s heart thuds and thuds and thuds.

“Before I leave you, I want you to know that if I loved you less- I might have stayed.”

Namjoon’s lungs ache, ache and sting and swell with words he can’t say, he can’t breathe. His mouth screwed into a soundless sob. He actually might be having a panic attack. He's never had one before- he's not sure if he knows what one feels like. If it's like this- if it's like this he can understand why people call them an attack.

It's frantic, like he's chewing off his own leg to get out of your words. The panic is so terrible. Namjoon hasn't been this scared since he was a child. At least Yoongi had the fucking decency not to make his leaving so visceral.

Namjoon is bent over, tears dripping down his nose, sagging almost to his knees. “Why are you doing this to us!? To me!”

Something jiggles the phone, something that makes your voice all warbly- Namjoon imagines you on the train in a window seat. Resting your cheek against the balmy glass while you talk to him. Staring out at the scenery racing by. Hurtling towards your future like a comet or maybe an asteroid (something more destructive- more appropriate for the wretchedness filling Namjoon’s lungs like tar, the desiccated bodies of the dreams he had for you and the plans he made with you in mind clogging his lungs and making it hard to breathe).

Who knows, maybe off between the trees and the road, you see a red car zooming, trying to keep pace with the train.

Namjoon’s heart feels like it’s skipping too many beats.

“Something Jin told me the other day got stuck in my head and I keep thinking about it, would you like to hear it?”

You take his silence for permission and Namjoon does not turn to look at Jin and Tae sitting on the outdoor furniture. They just sit there; they don't do anything. Namjoon wishes there was something they could do or something he could barter for your safe return but you already have all of him and all of him wasn't enough to make you stay.

“Jin showed me this little article the other day- a few weeks ago now. He can tell you it in more detail but basically, it was about these mice.”

Namjoon struggles to say something- unsure where you’re going with this but desperate to keep you on the line. At least until the others get to you. Drinking down your voice, the whisper of your breath, everything.

“They made like- two test groups, they wanted to measure like- willpower- or how long they would try to live before they gave up. It’s kinda dark I guess. I'm not a good judge of things like that you know.”

Your laugh is the prettiest and saddest thing that Namjoon’s ever heard. He wants to record it and save it for later like some hidden track and he never wants to hear it again.

“Anyways- they put the mice and a bucket of water and timed how long it took for them to stop swimming, to stop trying to live. They’d try for a little while but give up pretty quickly. Like- an hour. That’s how much will to live that they had: an hour’s worth of it.”

Namjoon breaks, shouting, “I don’t want to talk about mice I want to talk about getting you the fuck home!”

Namjoon can hear your smile in your voice, And no-no-no you won’t even let him fight- you won’t even let him snap at you and engage with it. Namjoon’s seen you sad, he’s seen you defeated. He’s seen you so hungry you could hardly hold your head up. But seeing you convicted of this punishment is worse than anything.

“Anyway- they just killed the first group for a baseline. But with the second group just before they died- just before they went underwater- They took them out of the water and dried them off.”

Your voice goes hushed at the end. The morning sunlight cuts across the top of the house yellow. The tree too- it’s early morning- Namjoon’s favorite time of day and he won’t be ever able to properly enjoy it again. Won’t ever be able to wake up at this time of day and not think about the morning you left.

“They let them rest and gave them some food.”

Namjoon feels like he’s about to have a heart attack, blood thumping and hitting against his ribcage. Bullying out the flowers and the butterflies in his stomach.

“Cuddled them a little.”

Namjoon stands at the doorway to the pack den. Hands so tight in their fists that they ache and ache. Namjoon’s hands have saved countless people’s lives before, and they’ve saved yours too- but right now they just hurt.

“And when they put them back in,”

Noodle meows dolefully from the door, swatting at Jin’s ankles and then purring around Tae’s. Namjoon’s knees are shaking.

“They lasted for a whole 12 hours longer. Because they thought they might be saved. Because they had some love to remember. They were able to last for a lot longer than they would have otherwise.”

His face is screwed something terrible with how hard he’s sobbing. How is it that just an hour ago you were safe in his arms, talking about getting away from here. Just an hour ago. It's still 5am a time zone away, if Namjoon got on a plane and flew there- would you still be safe? Is there any way to turn back time?

You only get to love people for as long as you get and not a second more. You get what you get and you don't get upset. Yoongi might have been your lifeblood, the air in your lungs and your reason for existing, but you’d still be that fragile creature close to drowning if it wasn’t for Namjoon.

“Namjoon?” You say his name once and then softer, a croon. “Joonie.”

He's sobbing too hard to see, “Don’t-”

“Thank you for drying me off.”

The phone clicks and disconnects.

Namjoon falls to the stairs, ass in a puddle but none of him cares. He remembers the first day he heard you speak, sitting on these stairs while he helped Yoongi fix the railing. Namjoon remembers the summer heat and feeling scared for you for the first time- because the railing felt so rickety and the last thing he wanted was for you or Jungkook or Hobi to fall. Namjoon is the one who is falling, hurtling towards destruction that stops and ends with his heart.

His hands hurt. He remembers laughing with the others and stealing sips of sweet tea. Nibbling on the sour lemons, sweaty and hot and dusty. His eyes feel like they’re going to fall out of his head with how hard he’s crying. He remembers that you’d poked his dimples and called them pretty, he remembers feeling tired after but fulfilled for it.

One scene in summer and the other in winter now. At the beginning of a relationship and now at the end. The stairs still creek, the wind still blows and Namjoon's hands are still sweaty.

Namjoon sobs loudly and it echos across the empty cul-de-sac gut-wrenching. People cry differently when they lose people they love. Namjoon has heard people cry like this after he’s told them bad news, no sign of brain activity. We did everything that we could. I'm so sorry. It sounds different now that it’s coming out of his own mouth.

He actually might pass out with how hard he’s breathing. Teeth dig into his lower lip so hard he tastes blood. He’s still holding the phone to his ear. “Pup- wait- I love you- you can’t do this to us- to me.” But you’ve already hung up on him.

The dial tone tears through him like a bullet. Namjoon should be bleeding, broken hearts don't hurt this much without blood. People don’t hurt this much without actual wounds.

Eventually, something touches his back, a soft furry creature that only makes Namjoon sob harder as Noodle bullies his way under Namjoon’s arm and licks at his fingertips. Before long there’s hands on him. Jin and Tae pull him up and onto the furniture. One hand in his hair and the other on his shoulder. Jin grabs his wrist. Circling it gently before he holds his hands and nudges them until they relax from their clenched fists.

Namjoon cries.

Together they watch the road and wait for the others to return.

~-~

(Hidden playlist ▶ Play track?)

“Shit!”

They miss the first train by just a few seconds. It screeches away from the platform when Jungkook gets out of the car. Standing there for a breath and watching it pull away. The metal thud screech of it drowns out Yoongi’s voice.

Jimin hits the wheel and growls before he revs the engine and turns, almost hitting a fire hydrant with how quick and jerky he backs up and accelerates. Leaning forward through the window to snap at Jungkook.

“Get back in the fucking car!”

Jungkook does, the door barely latching and almost swinging free as Jimin peels out of the parking lot. Slamming back shut when Jimin does a near 180 to accelerate back onto the main road.

“Sorry hyung,” Yoongi doesn’t need to reply- they all know that every second matters.

Jimin almost collides with a car stopped at the light before he drives on the shoulder, spinning around them. The train matches the road at this part of the tracks so it’s easy to follow it. They keep pace with it as Jimin pushes 70 miles an hour and then 80.

Jimin keeps the gas pedal well acquainted with the floor until they're going faster than the train. Weaving in and out of traffic back and forth, getting honked at and almost cut off several times. Leaving his packmates to grip to seats and their handles. Worried about getting thrown off but still- not wearing their seatbelts.

“We’re never going to make it! It’s too fast! We’re going to hit traffic soon!” The closer they get to the city the less likely it is that they'll be able to catch up to you. It's nearly early morning rush hour, another 30 minutes and these roads will be at a standstill.

“Hang on- let me see the map,” Hoseok watches Yoongi look at it.

“If we go to the next station, we won’t make it. But, if we try to go to the one after that and cut it off-” A look around the car says everyone agrees with Yoongi. Jimin steps on it, and there are a terrifying few minutes where Jimin’s driving skills honestly make them all count their prayers and promise things to gods that they’re already not fond of- but when they skitter and screech into the next station he hears it.

“The next inbound train will be arriving shortly, please collect your belongings. And remember-“

Hoseok is hot on the announcements heals. Sliding to get out of the car before it’s really stopped. “If we miss this one just go to the next station without us-”

“-if you see something say something.”

The train is coming- Hoseok can see the lights about a 100 feet down the tracks and it's moving fast. Yoongi almost makes to get out but Hoseok just shoves him back inside. Jungkook gets out of the car too, bolting in the direction of the stairs. “Hoseok-”

“Yoongi- Just go!”

There are maybe three flights of stairs up, then 50 feet across the tracks, and then the same amount of steps down. He and Jungkook book it up them. Making every second count. Hurtling through time and air. Ignoring the sore and tired pulse of their muscles. They’re clearing the top step and the train is below them. A silver bullet careening and destined to do damage but slowing down.

They bolt across the landing past the ticket kiosk and through the push doors. The train is stopping with a hiss of breaks and a screech of metal. A release of pressurized air that billows up to them warm carrying with it the smell of tar and city.

Hoseok’s lungs are burning. Jungkook is usually faster by just a little bit and would be on any ordinary day. They might be roughly the same height but Hoseok doesn't do cardio nearly as often as Jungkook does. Jungkook's the one who runs every day, who does cardio like it's sleeping and marathons like they're mid-afternoon naps. Who works out and hones his body to a lethal edge just because he can.

But he doesn’t run like Hoseok does.

Hoseok runs like his life depends on it- the same way you would run if he was walking into Geumjae’s arms. You’d never let Geumjae touch even a hair on Hoseok’s head and if- if Moonbyul is who you’re going to- then there is more at stake than just your phsyical safety, too much at stake for Hoseok to be held back by his body.

Hoseok thinks of the tiramisu. Of walking with you on the beach. Of making your nightime stacks just the way you like it. Of holding you that one time you almost fell into the water. Telling you that you had to be careful. Hoseok remembers driving out in his car, tugging your seatbelt to make sure it fit snug. Standing with you side by side in the flower refrigerators at work and the feeling the first time you’d rubbed your scent gland to his. Every playlist of his with your name on it, every song that you ever shared. All of that- she’s going to destroy all of that if Hoseok doesn’t get to you in time.

He remembers how small she made him feel. How small you were when he first saw you. He won’t let you get that way again. Hoseok won’t let you disappear.

Jungkook is the one who would win this race on any other day, where the stakes any different, but just this once Hoseok is faster. Hurling himself over the concrete as fast as his body will take him. Hoseok cuts through the air like wind.

They run, feet thumping. Bodies thudding, hearts and lungs delivering oxygen to their needy muscles. Beat-up sneakers gripping the concrete. Down and down the stairs, plummeting. Almost tripping and falling on the slippery concrete steps. The doors start to close just as they round the corner.

By some miracle of blood and sweat, Hobi's the one who overtakes Jungkook. The doors are closing and the train's metal shell is beginning to hum and vibrate as it makes to pull away from the tracks.

In a last-ditch effort, Hoseok throws himself in the direction of the closing doors.

~-~

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~-~

Do i think that hobi could have actually warned the pack what she was planning to do? Yes. Do I also think that he thought he had more time to warn them and really wanted to sleep off his near death experience? also yes. Namjoon giving him drugs obviously didn't help. i honestly don't think he was thinking clearly.

this is one of those chapters where everything could have gone differently if they'd just been given a little bit more- but i digress- we all know life isn't so neat and tidy.

I can't not write thinking about the angsty alternative ending for bily- but you guys should know the namjoon/m/c scene...if things had gone poorly in this chapter- this would have been the last time they spoke or touched each other for 3 years- for those who are wondering about the alternative ending- i will NOT be posting any of it on AO3. Only on tumblr through asks! i'll try to tag the super triggering stuff but yeah.

when i think of namjoon and the m/c and their relationship- i think that what they want most for each other is to just see the other old and happy like- that becomes the foundation for their relationship. thats why it's namjoon who she thanks. it also doesn't escape me that yoongi is not in this chapter very much- this is intentional. just wait for next chapter and his anger! i swear its so fucking hot my god i really wanted them to fuck in the next chapter but i just don't think it's going to happen.

the og version of this chapter called for jimin parking hobi's car on the tracks and literally letting the train hit it- not derail- but just hit it. just to get it to stop for the m/c however i figured that was going a bit too far.

Me writing any part with jimin in it- "what if i added a bit of religious trauma to it?"

the line where namjoon talks about his hands hurting is like- directly related to me, because my hands didn't hurt all the time before i started writing bily but now my Knuckles hurt almost every morning. After writing for more than an hour they hurt. i guess when you love something enough it hurts you lol i don't mind.

the "you want a lifetime with them" lines are mostly a callback to like...grey's anatomy. namjoon's charecter is LOOOSELY based on mcdreamy of course the whole...neurosurgeon thing and i am 3 seasons into a re-watch so~ you will have to tollerate that cringeworthy refrence~

i've always wanted to structure a chapter around the thud and thump of a heart and yeah!! i think did a few back but i wanted to do it again~

i don't think i was very subtle with the hoseok train station and the train ticket parts of the story like- i think i forshadowed pretty heavily that it was eventually going to be used but! i hope you liked the big reveal.

how did you guys like the cliffhanger? should i spoil it for you when i've always said that bily would get a happy ending????? i mean...come on... we all know hoseok's gonna be fast enough right?

#bts x reader #bts poly au #bts omegaverse au #bts a/b/o #bts polyamory au #bts fluff #bts mafia au #bts gang au #bts au #bts #bts werewolf au #bts hurt/comfort #bts angst #bts hybrid fic #bts x reader angst #bts x reader fluff #bts x reader hurt/comfort #min yoongi x reader #park jimin x reader #jung hoseok x reader #kim taehyung x reader #kim seokjin x reader #kim namjoon x reader #bts omegaverse #bts omegaverse fic #bts fanfiction #omegaverse fanfic #omegaverse #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook angst

[farfromstrange]

Interview With The Vampire | Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader

-> Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader (she/her)

Summary: You are the first journalist to interview Hell’s Kitchen’s resident vampire vigilante after he requested you personally to tell his story. He’s offering you a way out of your miserable job—to make your voice be heard. You’re desperate and curious, so you decide to take the risk. Most people only know him as Daredevil, but you are about to learn who’s really behind the mask. How hard can it possibly be? As it turns out, interviewing a vampire is a lot more complex than you expected it to be, and Matthew Michael Murdock has set his mind on ruining you for any other man to come.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), alternative universe, blood play, marking, scent kink, slight Dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, oral f!receiving, biting, vampirism, angst, religious imagery & symbolism, Catholic guilt, mentions of violence, allusions to suicidal thoughts, lots of plot, age gap

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

Other Characters: Vampire!Elektra (mentioned), Ben Urich (mentioned)

A/n: I finally got this one edited. This is a beast, y’all! I drew inspiration from Anne Rice’s Interview With The Vampire, but particularly the 2022 AMC series (I fell in love with it then and there), but it’s not based on it, so I just played around with the idea and this came out. It’s a lot, but it wasn’t enough for a full-blown series, so you’re getting a big ass One Shot instead. I used my usual Smut tag list, but since this is slightly Dead Dove Do Not Eat, heed the warnings and proceed with care! Don't read it if you don't want to. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Read Me On AO3!

The sun has long set over the Big Apple. Artificial neon, cars, and ceiling lights burning in the highrises along the riverfront cancel out the darkness that has befallen the country’s east. Noise melts into a flood that rolls over people’s senses, but most in New York City have grown numb to the city that never sleeps. 

Sirens follow cacophonies of screams. Teenagers get into clubs with their fake IDs, adults get drunk in bars or go to work the night shift at their underpaid jobs, and the other half cry themselves to sleep, knowing they will have to get up in the morning and go through the same hell all over again. 

Life has become a miserable existence, and it leaves human beings wondering, ‘How much longer do we have to endure this before we all finally drop dead?’

The system fails them. The law fails to protect them. All they can do is lie down and wait to die. And they will die sooner or later. That’s inevitable. 

In Hell’s Kitchen, in a penthouse with a view of the Hudson through colored windows that gloss over during the day and show the city throughout the night, resides someone who most of the city only knows by an alias—Daredevil. 

If anyone crosses him, he will suck them dry. It’s not a metaphor, I’m afraid; his reputation precedes him. Criminals fear the red eyes that come with fists and a sharp set of teeth that will surely run them into the ground. The rest of the city feels a little safer with him, but so far, no one has dared to question his nature. 

Fear is known to work as a paralytic. And this man living in the penthouse by the Hudson is the personification of what one might consider fear-inducing. Without the fear of others, he would not be thriving. 

An apex predator like him lives for the thrill of the kill. When the adrenaline spikes, it makes the prey start running and the blood taste so much sweeter. It is to a creature of his kind what a good glass of century-old red wine would be to a human being; he savors every last drop of it.

Two years out of your Master’s degree at Columbia University, you have become one of those hard-working adults who fall into bed later than they should, and you lie awake at night, wondering how much longer you have to exist before you can live.

You interned at the Bulletin; you ran the true crime and mystery column for over a year before the newspaper shut down. A billionaire from downtown Manhattan bought it to start his own magazine, and you were the only employee he didn’t fire. Instead of relying on your top-tier education and experience though, he has banned you to the lifestyle and beauty column. He’s a beast if you have ever seen one. 

On a Monday in June then, after the sun has risen and is now falling again, you find an envelope on your desk. You glide your fingers over the fancy paper. The letters are written in handwriting that resembles the old letters from the 18th century you had the pleasure of using as research material for your Bachelor’s thesis.

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

Over two decades ago, scientists published papers on the existence of blood-sucking creatures after years of valuable research, and now governments around the world have set out to burn the inhuman species out before they can cause any more damage. Vampirism though is older than humanity itself and unless law enforcement has evidence of homicide, vampires have the right to exist amongst humans. 

They are excellent at hiding their true nature, that much is true. The lore that has been passed down since the beginning of time is only partly true. They know how to adapt and rise from the ashes like elegant phoenixes. The misconceptions surrounding their existence stem from fiction, horror, and fear, but they persist. 

And a rule has been established in society ever since the truth was revealed: don’t talk about vampires! 

Don’t talk about them unless it’s in a fictional context. Don’t put your research out there. Don’t fraternize with them. Don’t risk becoming prey. Don’t be fascinated by them, and God forbid, don’t you dare write articles about them for the public records. If you want to know about vampires, you have to dig, and you have to do so quietly or society will deem you crazy and a freak. 

The worst thing to be is not a flying android or a super soldier with a shield; the worst thing you can be, in this day and age, is a vampire. 

You were a curious child who turned into an even more curious adult. At times even a bitter one because she couldn’t get the answers she yearned for and had to do it herself. So, of course, the We Don’t Talk About Vampires rule came across as rather absurd, learning about it back when you were merely a teen. 

You started researching, and you found out more than you thought you would—more than you thought you could. You wanted to cover the issue in the Bulletin back when you still worked there, but since humans were raised to fear the very mention of vampires in the real world, no longer romanticizing the concept but rather running from it, the truth shall remain hidden. Again, that seemed absurd, but you had to accept it to get ahead. 

You kept researching to the point you convinced yourself you could be one of them if you tried. You felt like you understood them, but nothing could ever fully answer all of your questions to the point it felt truthful. Honest. Real. 

Growing up, everyone told you dead things aren’t supposed to walk. They aren’t supposed to breathe and exist among the living. They are cruel, and vampires are killers that leave trails of bodies the government is hiding from us. Greediness exceeds common sense. The human mind tends to get sick and twisted, and those who don’t fit in hardly ever stand a chance.

Hell’s Kitchen is particularly quiet on the issue. Rumor has it that the vigilante chasing criminals at night and leaving the worst of them dry at the shore of the Hudson while, at the same time, surrendering those he deems worthy of rehabilitation to the authorities, is one of those vampires. 

They call him Daredevil; the savior of innocents and the downfall of the vile. Only a handful of people know who he is. The truth is caught in a spider web of lies, unable to come out unless someone were to tell his story for the world to hear. 

That Monday in June when you open the mysterious envelope on your desk, everything changes. 

He addressed you personally. Your name resembles a masterpiece, the letters swirling at the edges. 

You don’t know me, but I know you.

It’s strange to read your name out of the mouth of a stranger.

I must admit, Miss, I’m a big fan of your writing. And I’m not talking about the lifestyle and beauty column Mr. Doherty of the ‘Silver Lining’ has confined you to.

No, I am a big fan of the work you used to do for the New York Bulletin. I remember your name headlining many articles on crime here in Hell’s Kitchen—a column my late friend Ben Urich used to call his home.  

It’s a shame that the paper was shut down. I tried to prevent it, but the disappearance of half of humanity and Wilson Fisk’s irreparable damage to the city’s foundation tied my hands. 

The token female journalist reporting on unsolicited beauty advice and lifestyle choices no one is going to follow in the days of social media and fake marketing. It must be frustrating, right? Not having a story to tell. Not getting recognized for your impeccable talent. The Bulletin gave you a platform, but Mr. Doherty and his goons took that away from you.

What I’m asking myself is, are you satisfied? You were probably imagining a different future for yourself. A woman of your caliber must want to be more than a mere object used to make a bottomless magazine look better on the market. 

Excuse my overstepping. I read one of your essays on the magical and the mythic—lore versus reality—the other day, and it inspired me. My life has been taking quite a few turns lately, so I required some new… let’s call it insight. 

You don’t know me, but I am one of those creatures you are fascinated by. I’m the kind of creature people have been telling you not to write about because the weak minds of the public would not receive it well. The Catholics, the church, the fragile and fearful human beings that can’t imagine anything in fiction being real and want to remain the superior species—trust me, I know what it feels like to be backed into a corner. To be abandoned. To be underestimated. Not quite like you, I admit, but I have a few years of experience in and with this world to show for myself. 

I imagine you’re tired of your position. I imagine you’re dissatisfied with human idiocy. You crave answers to your questions. Questions you have been asking yourself ever since college failed to answer them. My kind is being censored—partly for good reason—but that doesn’t sit right with you, does it? To live life in a monotone line with no clear way out of this boring rhythm you have had to fall into? 

I can offer you a different path. A story. Answers to your questions. And the unfiltered truth of a 242-year-old man. 

You are going to find a card with my address attached to this letter. I can assure you, sweetheart, we both want the same thing. I will wash your hands if you wash mine. Think about it, and come find me when you have made your decision. Preferably after the sun has set. 

Yours sincerely,

M.

The paper crumbles in your hands, but only at the corners. Your eyes are glued to the lost drops of ink, the blue blood of an old fountain pen caving under too much pressure. 

He chose his words carefully. Every paragraph circles around your head. You breathe in, and it suddenly feels as though the whiff of the unknown is an inhalable drug, twisting your brain inside out. 

The pull threatens to submerge you in a stormy ocean. You’re flailing your arms around helplessly, but there is nothing for you to hold onto. All buoys have drifted into oblivion, leaving a sea of utter emptiness behind, and in the midst of it, there you are, drowning.

In a moment of clarity, you fold the letter back down on the desk. It lands with a thud, and you look around frantically, checking if anyone is watching you. They aren’t. 

M. That’s all he’s giving you. And the fact he is over two hundred years old proves the rumors to be true. He’s standing by it, but only to you. He wants to reveal himself to you, show you his true face for a story, but he’s a vampire. 

You’re alone. You can wash his hands, but is just showing up enough for him? You don’t even know him. 

You’re in trouble. This time though, you didn’t even do anything. You did your job, and he caught an interest in you. How does that work? 

Your heart skips another beat. It should not, but it does. The danger is exciting. It shouldn't be exciting. You hate what your body is doing, but how can you make it stop? You can’t. You can’t do anything but take it.

This stranger has got you in a chokehold, but in his hands, you might as well surrender to your certain demise. You don’t consider vampires inherently evil, but there is a reason people warn you not to walk alone at night in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s dangerous, no matter his nature, and he is not supposed to lure you in the way he does.

But you’re a curious kitten, and he is offering you the holy grail of answers to questions you have been grappling with for years. He hit the nail right on the head. And it doesn’t even scare you how well he knows you. 

This is a gold mine. Realistically speaking, telling a vampire’s story could make or break your career as a journalist. If you do it for the magazine, you’re done before you can even bring your words to print, but if you do it individually and you do it well, people will certainly eat it up. The question is just, are you going to play your entire life safe, conforming to your boss’s view of you until you get the freedom you crave, or are you going to take the risk and fly? 

The answer is as clear as day, but it takes you a moment to process. It’s as though someone is in your head, steering you in the direction of whoever this M is. Daredevil. This vampire who wants you to interview him, and for what? That’s still an open question you don’t have the answer to. But you do know what to do.

You scramble for your laptop, your notepad, and the letter in the envelope. The clock strikes four. You have another two hours on the clock, but you can’t be bothered to stay. 

Upon hearing the sound of your shoes hurriedly scraping against the linoleum floors, one of your colleagues turns in her chair. “Where are you going?” she asks.

“I, uh, have somewhere to be,” you tell her as you brush past her.

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

You stop on your way out, looking back over your shoulder. “If everything works out,” you say, glancing through the window to his office at the other end of the hall, “He’ll have my letter of resignation by the end of the week.”

She gasps softly. “You’re quitting?” her voice is barely above a whisper.

Almost sinisterly, you chuckle. “That’s the plan, yeah.”

“But—”

“Tell your daughter Happy Birthday from me. I gotta go.”

Your steps echo for minutes still, but you are long gone with the wind.

Silver linings are considered an advantage that comes from an unpleasant situation. The name has proven to be entirely unfit for the magazine that replaced a big piece of Hell’s Kitchen’s history. The Bulletin had cultural value as much as it was laden with decades of the city’s stories told to the average person. 

Wilson Fisk was the dynamite that sent New York alight. The Bulletin’s destruction was mere collateral damage in the fight to get the city back on track. You have had so many reasons to leave presented to you, yet you never took them. If you had, maybe you wouldn’t be here, making bad decisions on what started as just another Monday in June. 

The fact is though, you didn’t leave, and you are here now. Facts are what matter. They count. Your hypothetical past, present, and future have no place in this reality because you can’t travel back or forward in time. Vampires may exist, and the Avengers time-traveled to save the world, but things aren’t quite as easy once you look at the bigger picture. You are not a superhero, you’re just a journalist chasing the kind of story that will finally make her voice be heard. 

You know that Ben Urich, at least, would be proud of you.

His address weighs heavy on the small card you pulled out of the envelope earlier that evening. You passed it on to the cab driver, and he began to navigate the dark streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The luxury condominiums in this part of the city can be counted on one hand. You know exactly when you’re there. 

The sun has once again set over New York City. You’re wide awake, not quite sure though if you’re ready to face what you are walking blindly into. Even your driver refuses to take you past a certain point, and that is how you know that you’re not dreaming. This is real, and it’s supposed to be terrifying. 

How come you’re not scared then?

You slip twenty dollars to the cab driver, then climb out of the backseat. The salty air from the Hudson River a few blocks down wafts around your sensitive nose. In the distance, you can hear waves crashing into the docks as the wind picks up in speed. The boats must be moving wildly by now, swaying from side to side and possibly even making the fish in the depths of the water seasick. You would be if you were them. 

With every step, you grow closer to your target. On second thought, maybe you should have brought more than just a pathetic bottle of pepper spray and your precious laptop. You could have brought your grandfather’s cassette recorder, at least that would leave a mark if you hit someone over the head with it. 

Do vampires get concussions? That is another question you can add to the seemingly endless list in your mind. It’s a confusing place as of late, and the weird sense that someone is playing with the controls won’t leave you alone. Either you are overthinking, or you are worse off than you originally thought. 

The apartment complex the card directs you to stretches high above you. You look up, seeing not a single light on. That’s odd, you think, but then again, you are meeting with the city’s most notorious man. If he is who everyone says he is, and if the rumors are even true, that is. 

As you are about to approach the entrance, your fingertips start to burn. A gasp escapes past your lips. Staring down, the cubical piece of paper goes up in flames. You are mere feet from the door, nowhere near close to an open source of fire, and the card starts to burn like a wildfire. 

You pull back, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The ashes fall to the ground, but before they can hit the asphalt, they vanish.

“What the–” before you can finish, the doors before you swing open toward the inside. The lights turn on. Someone even has called the elevator for you. 

Another step forward, and a voice stops you. “Fourth floor, down the hallway, first door to your right,” the voice says through the speaker. Only then do you notice the lack of a doorbell. 

Everything in you is screaming for you to run, but you are rooted in the spot. He dragged you here with a mere letter, and you were more than ready to jump. Desperation was the only thing that drove you here. Your brain seems incapable of rational thought.

What if that is what he wanted all along? To get you complicit by playing on what you so desperately need, which is a story and a way out of this boring everyday life that is threatening to slowly kill you.

He’s like a siren, luring you into his deadly trap, but even knowing all of this, you still can’t find it in yourself to run. 

The second you enter the building, the door shuts behind you, and your only way out is officially locked. You made the decision; you have dug your own grave, possibly quite literally, and now you have to lie in it. It’s better to die chasing a good story than dying at a desk in an office that doesn’t respect you.

You are a disgrace, you can hear your father’s voice in the back of your mind. He always warned you not to be too reckless or your bad decisions will eventually catch up with you. He always taught you not to trust strangers, and to stay the hell away from those who disgrace God, but you have never cared much about being a good girl. 

Your thoughts are as morbid as your obsession with the walking undead. It is time you embrace what people are already saying about you.

The elevator ride feels like an eternity. It goes up and up and up until it finally stops on the fourth floor. The walls smell like nothing but a faint hint of bleach. It’s clean, parquette not carpet, and the walls are kept in a shade resembling a mixture between crimson and maroon, and it is blending into a sort of marble.

The metal doors slide open. Again, you hesitate. A sweet whisper echoes in your ear, dragging you toward the edge. You breach the border between the elevator and the hallway that waits behind it. The voice is distant, and it doesn’t sound human—it reminds you of a siren’s song, calling for you. He is calling for you, and a fog settles over your mind. You’re not in control anymore, he is. 

You imagine him to be an old man, possibly middle-aged. Vampires stop aging when they’re turned. Their mind doesn’t. You’ve read the research plenty. They are wise beings, more intelligent than human beings could ever fathom. That makes them dangerous. 

Their venom rivals the intoxicating feeling of heroin, you’ve heard, and it heightens your senses to the point all you can feel is the one who bit you. Research suggests it’s a million times stronger than an orgasm, for both the vampire and the human being. 

Part of you has always wanted to try it. Part of you wants to know what it feels like to be sucked dry. You want to know what it feels like to be carried into a new dimension by someone who knows how to play the human body like a fucking piano, eliciting the sweetest melody through your very essence and the symphony of your moans.  

This M—Daredevil—is inherently dangerous. He’s as mysterious as they come; a man in a mask lurking in the dark corners of Hell’s Kitchen every night, turning the fight for justice into his hunting ground. 

It’s as though he curled his fingers, and you followed. 

You walk the dark hallway down to the door on the right. Paintings litter the walls. Masterpieces, blotches of white, red, and color. You recognize the red marble as a decorative theme on the wallpaper. Tracing your fingers over it, the rough drywall scratches at your skin. 

You reach out a shaky hand toward the golden knob. Before you can turn it though, the door already flings open. It must be witchcraft. 

Red appears to be his favorite color. At least judging from the hallway, that is true. When you step into the room with a pounding heart and blood pooling in your cheeks though, the inside of the room is a lot more… human. You wouldn’t have guessed it from the gloominess surrounding you on your way there.

A leather couch and armchairs stand in the middle, facing toward the window front. Colored windows, as you have gathered from the rumors. They are see-through now though, showing the city skyline and the moon up high. The chandelier on the ceiling is the only piece of furniture you would consider old. Browns meet hues of blue and dark green, a forest at midnight, and you suck in a sharp breath. The apartment is beautiful. 

You look to your left and see a bookshelf stretching the length of the wall. You can’t help but run your hand over the backs. You would have expected original editions from the 18th or 19th century, but when your fingers trace over the bindings, you are met with the bulging of Braille underneath the elegant golden writing of the titles. None of them seem to have collected dust. It surprises you to only find a mere handful of classics that haven’t been transcribed in Braille and a realization you did not expect starts to crawl its way forward.

“I stole that one from a library in Paris.”

Your racing heart stops beating. The book you’ve been holding falls to the ground, its worn-out leather cracking further around the spine. The thud is deafening. You gasp, turning around. Your shoulders fly up as the tension ripples through every last muscle in your bone. Your bones ache just from how stiff you’re standing, but you can’t move.

The man before you moves as quietly as a mouse. You didn’t hear him coming. The moonlight reflects off his dark brown hair, making it appear almost ginger. He’s wearing a simple suit without a tie, and the white of his shirt is as pristine and clean as the cut of his beard. You can see chest hair poking out from underneath the two open buttons, as dark as the locks on his head. His jawline is irresistibly sharp, leading up to a pair of plump lips he is wrapping around the brim of a crystal glass filled with rum.

Your heart remains frozen. Not a single drop of blood pumps through your veins, yet your cheeks burn brighter than a bonfire on a pitch-black night. 

But his flawless appearance is not what catches your attention the most. Looking up into his eyes, wanting to know whether they are as red as those set into the devil’s mask, you find nothing but your terrified reflection staring back at you. It’s as blurry as the picture of your face in a still ocean’s water, your wide eyes staring back at yourself. 

The red glasses are all you can see. Round with a black rim. Silver would have looked better on him, or maybe even gold. The black reminds you of an endless pit, a sinister embrace of vampire stereotypes, but you can’t look away from the maroon that won’t allow you even a glimpse into his eyes. They are shielding him from the world, and his eyes from curious, stupid humans like you.

He nods toward the ground. “You gonna pick that up?” he asks. His voice reminds you of rumbling gravel. 

He looks like a man. He talks like a man. If you didn’t know better, you would say he is human. There seems to be blood in his cheeks and air in his lungs. 

You have to pull yourself together. Clearing your throat, you bend down and pick the book back up.

“Thank you,” he utters your name. “It’s been a while since I’ve received visitors that don’t work for me.”

You put the book back on the shelf. Your lips are sewn shut; you can’t find the words. Every time you open your mouth like a fish on dry land, you close it again, and it is embarrassing to be standing in front of him with your guard down. 

“Welcome to my home,” he says. You wish you could see his eyes to know if he’s mocking you. “Do you want a drink, or do you need another minute to process?”

He is mocking you. His tone is gentle, as is his voice, but he smirks like a smug motherfucker, and your anger boils to a tipping point. The candle is about to burn out. 

“I–” you stammer. Internally, you curse yourself for being such a fool. 

“Another minute it is then.”

You don’t need a minute though. “You’re blind,” you blurt out. 

The beautiful—deadly—stranger nods. “Yeah.“

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

“But you’re…” you leave the missing part of that sentence hanging in the air like a noose. 

“Say it,” he murmurs. You want to say it sounds like a growl, but you’re not sure. He isn’t asserting dominance or trying to force you into submission by scaring you away, but he is toying with you regardless. 

You take a deep breath. The word, the truth, numbers your tongue and your lips with its weight. “A vampire,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, matching his. 

His smirk broadens. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment, then releases it as it darts out to wet his bottom lip. “I’m a blind vampire, yes,” he answers. “We’re rare, but we do exist.”

Blind vampires. In all of your years of fascination, that has never crossed your mind. You used to believe that they had healing abilities that far exceeded your own. You were wrong. He lost his eyesight before he got turned into a vampire. He lived as a blind human being and didn’t regain his most crucial sense when he died. 

He came back to life, but he died. It is surreal to stand across from him. He’s not just letters on a piece of paper, he is very much real. And he’s blind. 

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

That elicits a soft chuckle from him. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” he says. 

“I was considering not to.” 

He sees right through you with those empty glasses. “That’s a lie.”

“How would you know?” you counter. 

“I can hear your heartbeat. The blood pumping in your veins…” His head tilts ever so slightly in your direction. You take a step back. It’s an instinct. “Your pulse picks up when you lie, or when you’re nervous, or both,” he states. “When you first saw me, your heart skipped a beat. It did again when you lied to me.”

Your eyes trail down to his thick thighs perfectly fitted in his tailored trousers. His thick digits pat the rhythm with his fingers on the fabric. Thud-thudthudthud-thud. You place a hand on your chest. He wasn’t wrong; your heart is racing. 

His smirk turns into a smile, but only briefly again. It’s a glimpse of humanity he doesn’t want you to see. “I like that sound,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that you smell good? Sweet, sour, and a little salty. Natural. You don’t use a lot of artificial perfume, but you like cherry chapstick.”

You swallow, taking a whiff of your arm. Besides your deodorant masking the scent of your nervous sweat, you smell nothing. How good must his nose be? His hearing? His sense of taste? 

“Right now, sweat is dripping down your back, and your muscles are tense enough to strain against your bones every time you breathe. Your heart just skipped a beat again. You find it weird,” he muses. “I can’t turn it off, but I get it must be strange for you.” 

“You–” The blood has collected in your head, pushing the temperature in the room to an all-time high. “Get out of my body!” you snap. 

He laughs. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.”

“And I never thought you would ask for an audience with me, but here we are.”

“Here you are.” 

You want nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face. He looks so smug, standing there with his drink, wearing a suit too fancy for his own home. He’s fully in his element. It’s scary how alluring he is, too. You don’t want to think that way, but as soon as your eyes gaze upon him again, your chest contracts, and you forget how to breathe. 

He’s a wolf, and you’re a lonely little sheep that doesn’t know any better. That lonely little sheep just wants to be a part of something bigger, even if that means surrendering herself to the big bad wolf. He wants a taste of her, and the sheep would give him that in a heartbeat if he just asked. 

You blink. There is a voice in your head, and it isn’t your own. Far from it. You don’t want to be associated with this stranger. She thinks she knows you. She thinks she knows what you want—the sheep in the eyes of her natural enemy. This voice is the most irrational you could be, and you need to stop letting her win.

And yet you—not just the voice of the lonely sheep you appear to be—would follow this man anywhere, even to hell if he asked you to. 

Your eyes drill knives into his skull, but they are also full of curiosity. Can he hear your thoughts? Your heart beats in your throat. You can taste it on your tongue. If you bit your lip, you would bleed, and he would probably fall into a frenzy. Still, your teeth dig into your bottom lip. What if he can hear your thoughts—hear how fucking needy you are? You’re pathetic. What he must think of you, standing across from him, smaller than human life itself. 

You want to read him, but he is far from an open book. He’s not Braille you can run your fingers over, and even if he was, you don’t know how to read it. He’s an enigma. His face is set in stone; an iron mask you can’t penetrate. 

His chest heaves with another chuckle. He sets the crystal glass down on the coffee table, taking a step forward. “No, I can’t read your mind,” he says. 

You flinch. “What?”

“Your breathing pattern. The way you look at me. I can sense that you’re thinking about something.” He adjusts his glasses. “It’s just… Most humans ask me if I can read their minds, you know. I can’t. Some vampires can, but my senses are the only heightened ability I have.” This time, when he chuckles, a hint of bitterness dances in his voice. 

“At least you’re not in my head then,” you say. 

“No.”

“Good.”

A pregnant pause follows. You clutch your bag to your chest, your fingers digging into the frame of your hidden laptop. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, pointing to his empty glass.

You wave him off. That’s the last thing on your mind. “No, thank you.”

Sometimes at night, you fantasize about diving into the abyss of darkness. It looks and sounds a terrifying lot like him. You want to know him. You need to know him. When it comes to him and this—whatever this is—the lines between want and need are blurring into an unidentifiable mess. It’s an ocean of emotions with no land in sight. A total eclipse of the heart, if you will. You’re losing your mind.

“What you can do–” You straighten your shoulder, hoping it will add height to your beaten confidence. “You can tell me your name. Sir,” you say. 

He nods. “I suppose it would only be fair, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Matthew. My name’s Matthew.” The softness of his features as his lips move to the rhythm of his words takes you back anew. His eyebrows raise slightly, and you catch a glimpse of a pair of beautiful, unfocused hazel eyes that steal your breath away. 

Matthew. It is a name that easily rolls off the tongue. It suits him.

You repeat his name aloud. “That’s an odd name for a 200-something-year-old man,” you point out. 

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

You hit a sore spot. His head dips, fingers running over his nails and tongue tracing his teeth. “Not anymore,” he says.

God died for him a long time ago, and all churches burned down.

Your grip on your bag loosens. “Then why Daredevil?” you ask. 

His lips part. “I, uh, have the Bulletin to thank for that one. After centuries of existing in this world, and being despised for no matter what I do, I’ve decided to embrace it. I am Daredevil, not even God can stop that now.”

Matt grabs his glass, turning away from you. He doesn’t use a cane to navigate from the couch to the mini bar on the other end of the room. You carefully follow his movements. One of his hands remains at his side, snapping his fingers as he navigates the familiar terrain of his home. 

He uncaps a half-empty bottle of Whiskey to pour himself another glass. 

“You know, Matthew,” you prompt, daring to step forward an inch, “as big as your reputation is in this part of the city, Silver Lining is not the kind of magazine that would cover your story.”

“You still came,” he says. 

“I could lose my job if anyone knew I came here.”

“And yet you’re here and not where you should be.” He turns his head over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t risk losing your job if it wasn’t important to you, would you?”

You stammer, “I–” He’s got you. You’re a fish with a hook in her mouth. 

“If Silver Lining Magazine won’t cover my story, why are you here?” Matt turns back to you, leaning back against the shiny Mahagoni of his minibar. It offers a beautiful contrast to his strong physique and the slight paleness of his skin. “Could it be because you’re fascinated by the mythic?” he asks, teasing. “By werewolves and witches and vampires?”

It’s your turn to scoff. “I won’t confirm or deny. My boss wouldn’t let me write a vampire vigilante exposé even if I begged him to.”

“And that’s why Mr. Doherty doesn’t deserve you.” Your body visibly recoils when he pushes forward, moving just an inch toward you. “Your curiosity is a virtue,” he purrs. The moonlight sets your reflection in his glasses alight. 

“Is that why you lured me here?” you ask him. “Because my curiosity is a virtue and you consider yourself better than the people in my life?”

“I didn’t lure you here, and I think you know that. That’s not what this is.” The distance between you starts to shrink, backing you into a corner. “I believe you came here because the thought of interviewing a vampire and sharing your findings with the world on your account excites you,” he says. “You want to be heard. You want to be taken seriously as a journalist, and you want to make people happy.”

The only way for you to come out of this with your pride and dignity still intact is to put up walls before the already existent labyrinth of walls keeping your heart guarded and your soul safe. “Again,” you ask, “why me?”

“Why not you? As I stated in my letter, I’m a fan of your work.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, about that. How did you write that if you’re blind?”

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

“Of course.” Of course, he has a secretary. “I… I just don’t get it,” you say. “You’ve been hiding for so long–” 

Matt cuts you off with an urgency you didn’t expect, “Things have changed. Circumstances…” he trails off. 

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

His answer is silence. You let out an exasperated sigh. “If you want me to interview you, you have to be honest with me.”

“I’m not on the record yet.”

“Right. Maybe you can answer this though—off the record, of course—how can you be certain I didn’t call the cops or the FBI before I came here?”

His eyes crinkle. “I’m not stupid, sweetheart,” he says. 

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

He’s spreading you open, holding up a mirror for you to look into. It’s your miserable self in all its glory, and he knows you better than you know yourself. 

You ignore the sharp pain in your left ribcage as you pull the arrow out of your heart. “Unless someone holds up a sign that they are pro-vampirism, how would you even know I’d listen to you and not just refer you to the Journal of Psychiatry?” 

“Are you telling me you don’t believe in vampires?” Matt quips.

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

The sound of your heartbeat must sound almost like the rapid firing of a machine gun, that’s how fast your pulse is racing. Your veins threaten to burst with the excess blood. It’s a heat like no other. You’re a witch at the stake, and Matt is holding the torch to your gasoline-doused body. 

He clears his throat. Your face falls at the words that tumble out of his parted lips, and the rapid firing turns into a deafening silence and a monotone line on a heart monitor. 

“After what I’ve learned from reading Dr. Rice’s research on the phenomena of vampirism, I can confidently say this species is no different than an animal like the great white shark or the Homo sapiens sapiens—our kind,” he recites. “Vampires are a medium of fiction and propaganda to induce fear, but they are also a widely misunderstood species that is being silenced rather than heard. Our species, the human species, likes to consider themselves superior, even when we’re in a position of being someone’s natural food source. Dr. Rice’s research is based on a comprehensible set of facts, and isn’t that what we have been relying on ever since the beginning? Our psychology makes it possible for us to change the narrative in our favor, and more often than not, we ignore the very facts deemed by humans as an intellectual importance to spread the message of an entirely different agenda. Dr. Rice’s research only proves that egotism and humans themselves will be humankind's certain downfall.”

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

Your heart restarts with a rush of adrenaline. “How… how do you know all of this?”

“I may be blind,” Matt says, “but I know how to read between the lines.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The alcohol in his drink seems to have little effect on him. “I know you have questions, and I’m willing to answer them if you promise to publish a detailed report somewhere other than Silver Lining Magazine.”

You look down at your bag, then back at him. “Ben Urich could have told your story in a way that would’ve made people listen,” you murmur. “I don’t have an impressive career like him.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, “but you could have easily written ‘Attack on NYC’. Ben was a good man, an even better journalist, but he could not have written your college essay. And he could never have been you.” 

Your name rolls off his tongue—not a pretentious nickname that makes you want to vomit but your name, and it flicks a switch within you. 

You glance around the spacious living, pulling your laptop out of its confines, and you bridge the distance between you, finally. You notice he smells of sandalwood cologne and scentless soap. “Okay,” you cave. “Where do you want me to set up?”

Session 1.

The spacebar clicks underneath the tip of your index finger. The white of your screen fills with a series of red sequences as the microphone takes in every little sound around you. Except for the two of you and the fading footsteps of one of Matthew’s assistants though, the world has fallen silent in the dead of the night. He’s sitting across from you, legs crossed, head tilted; your life is about to change.

“So, Mister Murdock,” you begin, “tell me. How long have you been dead?” 

His mouth opens in a wide grin. “242 years,” he answers. 

“And what happened the year you died?”

“Well, it was 1782. I was a good few years out of law school. I was a good lawyer, but I wasn’t successful. That year, I met a beautiful woman at a banquet. I wasn’t rich—trust me, I was beyond penniless—but she had been adopted into a wealthy family, and that made her one of the richest women in the room. Everyone wanted her, but when I sensed her across the hall, she only had eyes for me. And she was the first woman to not see me just because I was blind.” He chuckles sadly. “I thought she was the woman of my dreams, the love of my life, but a few weeks later, after letting her into my life, I realized that she didn’t look at me that night because she was interested. She was hunting me. El— Miss Elektra Natchios…”

The year 1782 becomes apparent before your inner eye. As he tells you about the night he met her, you can see the dark-haired beauty making her way across the ballroom. Red lips and a gown to die for. Her dark eyes were full of mischief, but the passion in them could have knocked a grown man off of his feet. And that is just what she did to poor Matthew. 

“I was going to marry her,” he tells you.

He went to church regularly. His knees were bloody from praying, his senses already heightened before he died. God’s soldier, that is how he puts it. He was told that the accident that left him blind happened for a reason, and he had to fight a war that went beyond the country’s fight for independence. 

That summer, Elektra drained him. He didn’t know what she was. She fooled him. He was obsessed with her. Her dark eyes he couldn’t see lured her in, and it was the venom in her blood that became his downfall after she dug her teeth into him.

Matt tried to beg his priest for forgiveness, but he didn’t even make it past the marble stairs before the doors locked. He knelt in a pool of blood—both his and that of the first human he ever sucked dry to survive as a newborn vampire—offering an eternal sacrifice to Catholicism, but God abandoned him on his doorstep. 

The church walls would have been set on fire if he had touched them from the inside. 

You look up from your notepad to find him now standing at the window. He’s not looking out, of course, but he seems so deep in thought, the memories that aren’t your own but his start to dissipate, and you’re brought back to the here and now.

Matt poured his heart out to you. You expected answers, but not this kind, and certainly not of this magnitude. You see him in an entirely different light. He’s vulnerable, fragile, and human. He has endured trauma that killed him, but he couldn’t die because the woman he loved made him immortal. It’s a bigger curse than growing up with the belief that an accident made you God’s soldier. 

He lost everything. For centuries, he has had to live with that. It’s killing you, feeling his pain, the pure agony that radiates off him. 

Your voice is quiet when you ask him, “What was it like?” You don’t have to say it out loud for him to know what you are referencing.

Matt chuckles, the sound a mere breath in the atmosphere. “Like she took my soul from my body, setting fire to my belief system and already heightened senses,” he says. 

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

“It was. Is. My heart stopped, but when that happened, something else awoke inside me. The hunger… the hunger was the worst part. It’s insatiable. One hour passes, and you feel like you’ve been starving for weeks.”

“Like you’ve been possessed by a demon?”

“Like I am the demon.”

“But you’re not.” You should stop the recording. You’re not on track; you’re incorporating your feelings into Matt’s story, but you can’t help it. The words tumble out of your mouth without a second thought, a train that cannot be stopped. 

He raises his eyebrows, you can see it in his reflection in the windows. “Are you religious?” he asks.

You shake your head. “This isn’t about me.”

“Are you?”

The veins on the back of his hands bulge as he balls them to fists at his sides. Your throat is a desert, and your heartbeat resembles a storm that burns right through it, sending the sand flying in all directions of the horizon.

You adjust in your seat, crossing one leg over the other. He takes a whiff. He’s smelling you, and that doesn’t help the speed of your pulse to calm down. 

Tapping your pen on your notepad, you watch the red sequences fill the white space of the recording program. It moves with the sound of your voice when you finally dare to answer. “It’s a complicated question because there is a difference between believing in God and believing in the church,” you say.

“Do you believe in God then?” Matt asks. It’s as though he’s trying not to seethe at the mere mention of someone he used to worship. You make a note of that.

“There is so much bad in this world. So much cruelty. I can’t…” You take a deep breath. “I don’t know how to believe in a God that would let the things humans do to each other happen. If God existed—if he was as merciful as Christians like to claim, he wouldn’t let this happen. And I’m so sick and tired of people using their faith, and their beliefs in God and the church as justification to be disrespectful. I don’t understand it. How can anyone? Why is someone who has to drink blood to stay alive—someone who didn’t even choose this life—worth less and the devil’s breed when humans do worse things to each other? Why would God allow us to start wars that kill innocent people? Children? It’s just not fair that we treat ourselves and others as though we are already in hell, and we’re just supposed to accept that God doesn’t care—” You stop yourself, the tears burning behind your eyes. 

Matt turns back around. You can’t look away. “When I was still human,” he murmurs, “I used to believe everything that happened to me was God’s will. The accident, God’s will. Me going blind, God’s will. I went to confession, prayed until my knees were bloody and bruised. I tried convincing myself that every scream I heard from down the block, every person who lost their life or their innocence was my responsibility. God made me this way for a reason, right?” The scoff is as bitter as the liquor in his glass. “I fell apart, you know. I was a kid, so I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand what was happening to me,” he tells you. 

You hold your breath. The glasses slip from his eyes as he takes them off with shaky fingers. You are met with the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes. Emotions dance a heated tango in a tornado. If you look closer, the green specks bring life to his eyes. It’s human nature in the purest sense of the word. 

Your reflection stands in his irises, his unmoving pupils, and the tears glisten in his eyes. They’re as red as blood, watered-down crimson essence. You want to reach out and stroke his cheek, but that would be crossing a very big line that you can’t bring yourself up to touch. 

“I studied law because I thought it would change something,” he continues. You listen. It’s the only thing you can do—listen. “It wasn’t enough. Nothing I ever did felt like it was enough. I lost my father. Jack. I didn’t know my mother until it was too late. Maggie. I had no one. No money, no prospects, just me and those voices in my head, telling me I was supposed to be God’s soldier.”

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

He shakes his head. “I prayed; I crawled up the stairs of the church, and I spent hours repenting for my sins. I bled myself dry for Him. I sacrificed myself. I sacrificed my youth, my heart, and my soul, and I got nothing back. I begged for help until my voice was sore, but nothing… God, nothing was ever good enough. Until Elektra came around,” he says. 

“She changed everything for you. It makes sense. She turned you into a vampire, but she also loved you.”

“She did love me, in her own twisted way.”

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

He isn’t yours, but the pang you feel in your chest is treacherous. Your heart cracks like a porcelain vase, jealousy creeping in like a parasite of toxic waste.

In response, Matt only chuckles bitterly. “She made me believe again, then took my soul and crushed it in her hand.” The correction makes your shoulders slump. “Instead of feeling like my world ended though, I felt at peace when she sucked the blood out of my veins and fed me her venom,” he says. “It’s sick, I know. I was aware I died that night, that she turned me into a devil who could only survive if he drank the blood of others. The Catholic in me struggled to accept it, but I had no choice but to embrace what she made me.”

“And where is she now?” you ask.

“Gone.” The light in his eyes has fully disappeared now. “I stayed with her for a while until she died in my arms. She showed me what love is, and she showed me heartbreak. She made me hungry for blood, awakening the devil I’ve been trying to tame. She taught me how to feed, how to hunt, and how to chase. But she also cursed me,” he says. “I only exist for myself now. I only bleed for myself. No God, no church, and no more religion. I’m not Jesus, I’m Judas, and I retired the cross the day I was crucified.”

You have run out of questions to ask. Too overwhelming is the sight of his walls crumbling down, this stranger you now know better than any living being seems to. You no longer see money in this, or a story to chase, you only see Matthew, and the halo above his head he still believes is a pair of horns. The world broke him. His faith in God broke him. It crushed him, and he lost everything. How broken he must be. 

“Not such a pretty story when I say it out loud, huh?” He scoffs.

The spacebar clicks again. The recording comes to a sudden halt. One hour and fifty-eight minutes, the first session of your interview with the vampire. You need to put a halt to it now because what you are about to say or do as you reach your hand out to brush his cold, dead skin is not something that should be found on a record. And you won’t ever tell.

Matt pulls away when your warm fingertips brush his. You’re standing across from him now, so close he can smell, hear, and feel all of you at once.

Your touch is the holy water that burns his skin, but the fire sustains him and shoots straight to his core the same way the blood rushes to yours.

“It’s not a pretty story, no,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “but it did tell me what I already knew.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“That you’re not evil. You’re not the Devil. You’re misunderstood. You’ve been beaten; you’ve been abandoned, hurt, and broken. That doesn’t make you a monster. Trying to make this city a better place does not make you a monster.”

“If you only knew the things I’ve done…”

“I know the rumors suggest that you were the one who fought Wilson Fisk and got this city back where it needed to be. You’ve saved countless women from the worst of fates. You are the reason the innocent people of Hell’s Kitchen feel safe. By picking up that mask, you became a hero, not a villain, and that is the story I want to tell.”

In lightspeed, he has moved you from the window to the other end of the room. Your back hits the wall. 

Matt towers over you in all of his intimidating glory. His eyes spark red, but you hold his unfocused gaze. He has such beautiful eyes. This pull between you is far from human; it’s unhealthy, and it is exactly where he wanted to get you. You’re trapped, pinned underneath him like a deer caught in headlights. 

Exhaling, your breath strokes his cheeks. He closes his eyes, savoring the taste of you. Every particle in the air, he inhales. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. Oh, what you wouldn’t do to suck that tongue into your mouth. 

Your pheromones play his head like a puppeteer pulling the strings of his marionette. He growls. “Do you have any idea how dangerous I am?” 

The moonlight catches his sparkling white teeth. This time though, you come face to face with the sharp edges of his previously concealed fangs. Your jaw drops open. He’s ethereal. 

“I could snap your neck—” Matt places his hand on your neck, “I could make that heart stop beating, take the air from your lungs. I could eat you…” He traces the vein in your throat from your jaw to your collarbone. “I could bite you and suck your blood until you’re empty. I could kill you, sweetheart. My kind is your natural enemy. You shouldn’t be here.”

You shudder. His nose brushes the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s so close you can smell him. On inhale, and his scent consumes your senses. He is all you can feel now. You reach out to hold onto his arms, his muscles tensing under your teeth. He’s big and strong, and those hands have a mind of their own as they begin to wander but never where you need him most. 

You shouldn’t be here, yet you came. He asked you to him, and you complied. Is this your fate now? Chasing after your big bad wolf like the helpless sheep that you are?

Your walls clench around an agonizing emptiness, your swollen clit brushing against your soaked underwear. Whatever he is doing to you, it’s the cruelest form of torture. 

A strangled noise breaks out of the back of his throat, rumbling in his chest. “You have no idea how badly I want to taste you,” he breathes. 

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

Your tone shatters him. When he kisses you, finally, fireworks explode in the universe around you. All the stars seem to finally align. Your heart opens, and it sucks him right into you. Your soul yearns for him. He’s so close yet so far away. 

The moon stands between you, but you cross even that ocean as you push against him, forcing your tongue into his mouth. He takes like heaven and hell; he’s the apple Eve bit into and cursed her for all eternity. But he’s also the snake, the one who compelled you to take this journey of bad decisions and jump right off the cliff’s edge. You melt into him like a broken candle. 

He pulls away. Those fangs are alluring, as sharp as a knife’s tip. You want to know what it would feel like gracing your skin, digging into your as he thrusts his cock into your tight cunt. The thought alone sends your mind into a spiral.

Your lips are swollen, but he has yet to draw blood. Matt looks as though he wouldn’t dare, his eyes darting around in a darkened conflict he feels might cost him more than your dignity. You are begging for it, as is your body, but he’s holding himself back. He’s the one who tied himself to an invisible pillar, keeping his hands locked behind his back. But that is not the Matt you want. 

You lean your head to the side, exposing the length of his neck. All control has slipped from your fingers. It’s in his hands now—you are. He cups your head gently. A mere few inches lie between your fountain and his lips.

You press a kiss to his calloused palm—a desperate and needy kiss, tracing your tongue over the lines that tell his life’s story in a way no interview can retell—and it is then he is forever done for. He’s doomed, and you are the second woman to pull him under the pits of hell. 

Saliva drips from his fangs. You hold your breath. He hisses, a weak admission of surrender; the words die miserably on your tongue when his lips close around your pulse point with all his might, and his teeth drive home. 

You moan aloud. Your fingers tangle in his hair, forcing him deeper as he sucks the dark red essence out of your vein. The sensation is more than you bargained for. It’s a drug that wrecks your system. The synapses in your brain backfire with all their might, and what follows the initial explosion of pleasure shooting white hot through your being is complete and utter silence as this God of a man feeds on you. 

The invisible string between you glows a bright crimson. It slings around you, tying you together like the roots of a tree. It’s an eternal sacrifice. You are giving your all to him, the very core of your existence that is now flowing into his mouth. You swear you can hear his thoughts mingle with yours. Yes, more, please. You taste so good. Your knees buckle, but you remain standing strong. He makes sure you don’t fall. Don’t slip away from me. I need you. 

A tear rolls down your cheek. You could sob. It feels so good—too good to be true. In that moment, you become one. There is no telling where one begins and the other ends. The coil in your stomach tightens, and the only pain you feel is the pleasure threatening to overwhelm you. He’s taking everything as you give him everything, but it is not enough. It has never been enough. 

When your body struggles to catch up with the lack of blood, he pulls away. His fangs drag out of your neck agonizingly slowly. You whimper at the sudden loss.

Matt catches you as you stumble into his arms. “You okay?” He cradles your face, brushing the hair out of your face. Your blood stains his lips. Blinking up at him, the force of your metaphysical connection slaps you awake. 

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

He pokes the tip of his index finger with the sharp edge of one tooth, sliding it over the two holes that are pulsating with the work of your heartbeat.

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

“No,” you say. “You did exactly what you should have.”

“I couldn’t stop.”

“But you did.” You wipe the blood from his mouth. “And I felt you. I only felt you.”

The living room passes by you. Before you know it, your back lands on something much softer than a concrete wall. He’s not a monster, that one, but he surely is an animal. 

You taste your blood on Matt’s luscious lips as he devours your tongue. It tastes of copper and a little bitter, but that is what makes him moan. That sound is the last thing you could ever grow tired of. 

His palm rests on your chest. Your heart pounds against his palm. “You’re so alive,” he says.

You cradle his face in your hands. “And you’re more human than you think.”

If he wanted to pull your heart out and hold it, you would let him in a heartbeat. 

He leans you back. He strips you bare. He kisses down your body like you are a fucking masterpiece for him to explore. That is how he sees you. 

Your head falls back. The kisses wander from your hips to the inside of your thighs. Every kiss brings his breath closer to your center. Matt pulls them apart. He opens you up to him. Your scent clouds his senses, and he groans, but he doesn’t touch. 

His fangs graze your skin. “Mine,” he growls. 

You gasp. He bites into the sensitive flesh. Hard, passionately. Your legs wrap around his head, trapping him there. He sucks, and he sucks, and he drinks, and the wetness pools out of your cunt in an obscene amount. This is foreplay to him. It drives you toward the edge leading to an abyss you are afraid you might never be able to crawl back out of. There is no bottom, it is just a pit, and he’s pushing you closer and closer, and—

Your back arches, but he pulls away before the coil can snap into a million butterflies. He pries your legs away from his head, spreading them further on the mattress, as far apart as they will go. 

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner have been served on a silver platter. He breathes in. The scent of your soaked pussy sticks to the hairs in his nose. It isn’t enough. He breathes in again, your arousal sweeter than fiction. You’re everything and more. He wants to taste that part of you more than anything, suck up the slick that is soaking the sheets—and you didn’t even think that was possible—but he waits because he needs to savor it. He doesn’t want it to be over too soon. neither for him nor for you. 

The blood is still dripping from his tongue and his fangs, and the raw inside of your thigh. He runs his finger through it. The sting runs from the wound to your folds, then back down. Still, he doesn’t touch. He plays with the blood, sucking on his fingers until they’re clean, and then he dives back in for a taste. He doesn’t bite, he kisses and sucks, but he doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t hurt you. 

You’re his saving grace; he has to worship you. Pain only has a place in pleasure. 

“Matthew,” you moan. 

He chuckles, kissing where his fangs left deep indentations. “No one will ever touch you again,” he purrs. “I’ll make sure of that.” 

You try to protest, but the words die on your tongue when he leans in, capturing your clit with his hungry mouth. The wound on your thigh closes. The blood from his lips mixes with your juices, and you cry out at the intensity of it all. 

He eats you with the ferocity of a man starved for weeks. He eats your pussy like he ate your blood, savoring every drop but still feasting for the taste to spread out in his mouth like wildfire. Sour, sweet, and copper. He sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth. His tongue drags through your folds, up and down, and then the tip slides inside, tasting your walls. He grows bolder as your moans accelerate. 

Matt cradles your thighs. He forces your hips back down to the mattress, stronger than the average human man. You have to endure his beard scratching and burning, and the pace he has set.

The orgasm creeps up on you. Before you know it, he has plunged his tongue into you, and your body convulses around him. You scream into a pillow as you come. 

You are each other’s forbidden fruit. No prayer in the world could keep you apart. 

Faintly, you can hear him say, “Good girl.” Your legs quiver. He pulls away, then comes right back like a boomerang. 

He’s warm now. He was cold before, but when he kisses you this time, he’s warm. He’s hot. You run your hands over his bare chest, the scars that lie under the dark strands of hair. You tug at it, and he moans. You can tell he is a little insecure, but by pressing your lips to one of the cuts on his shoulder, he relaxes. 

What he must have endured, what he must have lived through before he died and was resurrected in the same breath, just without a beating heart—you don’t want to think about it or you will break, but you can still feel him through the crimson tie that holds you together, and you know that he has suffered enough for more than two lifetimes. You wish you could take it all away from him. You wish you could have saved him before it was too late, loved him more than the woman who turned him, but turning back time is an impossibility. You are both acutely aware of that. 

“Hey.” Matt tilts your head toward him. “Where did you just go?” he asks. 

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

You. His salvation. He kisses you, softly this time. He pours gratitude into his lips and bleeds them out in poetry as they slide into your mouth, and you swallow every last drop. 

If someone had told you a week ago where you would see yourself on that particular Monday, you would have laughed at them. And if someone had told you a week ago that you would be making love to the devil, you would have called them crazy. But it’s happening. 

He thrusts into you without a warning. His thick cock fills you like nothing and no one ever has before. Your cunt has been molded to fit him, you’re sure. You take him in, and you moan at the stretch. It’s a pain so delicious you could fall apart right then and there just from the feel of him inside you. 

Every thrust drags the tip of his cock along your sweet spot. Every added sensation drives you closer to your death. 

Your body tingles. He explores your face with his lips rather than his fingers, moving to your neck again. You cling to him, oh-so-desperate for him. He likes you like that, and you like him like that. 

“You’re fucking with my head,” he tells you. “Offering your pussy to a vampire. Letting me drink your blood. Begging me to fuck you. You’re in my head, baby. Can’t get you out of my system. Fuck.”

You are his downfall, his salvation, but he is all of those things to you as well—all of those things and more. If he could read your mind, you would tell him that. Words can’t do justice to how you feel. Not right now, maybe not ever. 

“Bite me again,” you beg.

His thrusts falter. He searches your body for any sign of regret. His fangs come out, and he buries them deep in your jugular vein. The floodgates open wide. Your walls clench around his cock, your clit pulsates, and the wave crashes into you. 

You come as he devours your neck and your blood. You transcend into another dimension, far away from everything and everyone but never him. Never Matthew.

The sensation of you wraps around him like a weighted blanket. His balls tighten, your blood unfolding its taste on his tongue. You are all over him, inside of him, everywhere at once. He falls head-first, dragging you down with him. 

He comes with a shout that is only muffled through his teeth buried in your flesh, his cum spurting into you and filling your cunt to the brim. Your eyes roll back. You’re flying and falling all at once. 

Oh, how good it feels to be consumed by him. To be fucked and sucked dry. You would have never expected this to come out of your week, let alone your life, but now that it has happened, you are floating on cloud nine. 

Dizziness threatens to take over, but before you can pass out, he forces himself away, allowing your heart to catch up with the lack of blood in your system. He collapses on top of you. His cock softens, but he stays inside. You need him there. You want him there. And that is the only place he wants to rest tonight. 

He heals the wounds on your neck. “You have a mark,” Matt rasps, tracing your skin with his finger. 

You choke out, “Yours.”

“Yes, you are.” He kisses you there. Once, twice, even a third time. “Mine,” he says.

You’re his. He’s yours. It doesn’t get any better than this. 

The minutes tick away on the obnoxious clock on the wall. Matt pulls out eventually, wrapping you up in a blanket. He coaxes you to drink, but you’re barely lucid. Only when he begins to stroke your hair you start coming back to yourself. You thought you might regret it, but as you look at him, his almost guilty eyes staring back at you, all you can do is reach out for him. 

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

He chuckles and retorts, “Have I not scared you away?” There is some truth to it though.

He’s covered in your blood. It sticks to his lips, his hands, and his chest. It’s sickeningly intimate, in a way.

You shake your head in response. “You could not possibly.”

He listens to your heartbeat. You’re as honest as they come. 

“Okay,” Matt says. “Session two tomorrow then.”

That night, you fell in love with the Devil, but he also fell in love with you, his angel in the form of a reckless journalist, and the only blood he ever wants to taste again until the end of his miserable, cursed days. 

Matt Murdock (Smut) Tag List: @shouldbestudying41 @theradioactivespidergwen @cheshirecat484 @1988-fiend @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-girl-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x you #vampire!matt murdock #matt murdock angst #daredevil #x reader #interview with the vampire #charlie cox #alternate universe #reader insert

[carolmunson]

out on the moonlit floor. (older!modern!eddie)

part six of who knows how many orange colored sky set list

you and eddie walk down to the piers at brooklyn bridge after you both meet up for dinner a couple nights after your embarrassing drunk sleep over. you both spur on conversations about each other over icecream -- and when you get home, you both share more than you expected. inspiration from this series comes to you in part by: @loveshotzz 'all i really want is you' series. wanting to fuck that old man. and readers like you.

tw: discussions of minor character death, drinking some alcohol, smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), some vague talk about BDSM, couples first time, reader cries after sex

songspiration: kiss me | six pence none the richer

Now that the humidity broke it was almost a little chilly over by Brooklyn Bridge Park tonight. The water from the Hudson slapping against the posts of the first pier, each little wave winking when it caught the light of the moon. Manhattan sparkled across the river, glittering in both of your eyes while you walked toward the fireboat station turned ice cream parlor. Kids run around with sticky hands and mouths, shrieking and giggling with each other while parents look onward. Other couples walk hand in hand down towards the other piers -- some still under construction.

The air is warm but in a comforting way -- a reminder that fall is on the precipice, peeking itself out in hints so that you want something pumpkin flavored in early August. Eddie's hand is warm and clammy in yours, the silver bands on his fingers warmed by your touch.

"I never come down here," he says, looking around, "Why don't I ever come down here?"

You shrug, "I dunno -- are you a big water guy?"

He scrunches his nose and shakes his head, "Not really -- Steve'll drag me to the beach a lot when he visits and I'm fine with the beach but -- I'm not like, a beach guy. Or a river guy, or whatever. Lakes, sure. Ponds, why not?"

"I love being near the water," you say, leading him into the boathouse. You get in line behind at least ten people, all savoring their dog days of summer with an ice cream cone. It's warm in there, all the fans do is blow around the smell of sugar and cream, waffle cones off the press. He lets go of your hand to lay it gently on your shoulder to guide you through, heated skin to heated skin.

"I can love being near the water," he offers.

"Yeah?" you turn your head to look at him, his cheeks flushing. You look so pretty like this, he thinks. A little warm, a little slick on your skin. In your pretty summer dress that he hadn't seen yet. The soft quirk of your brows when you ask.

"Yeah," he nods, "For you? Of course."

You roll your eyes, taking a few steps forward as the line moves, "What looks good to you?" You pass a sticky menu you to him that he squints to read, apples up his lifting up to hide his eyes. You pull his glasses from the worn collar of his shirt, clearing your throat while you tap them against his knuckle.

"I can read it, baby," he mutters, distracted by the descriptions in light ink on white paper hidden behind a foggy sheet of plastic.

"You're gonna give yourself a headache," you chide. He rolls his eyes this time, taking his glasses and tucking them back on his collar. He passes the menu back to you.

"I already know what I want."

"Sure you do."

You walk out together, him with his Sweet Cream & Cookies cone and you with you Salted Crack'd Caramel in a cup. He's had two bites of yours and already regrets his decision.

"Well if you could read the menu then you probably would've got something more exciting," you tease, pulling your cup away when he reaches again.

"I mean this is good but it's boring," he pouts, "I'm not a boring ice cream kind of person."

"Is Steve?" you ask, his head tilts at the question, turning to you.

"Steve?" he repeats, "Why're you asking about Steve?"

"That's who Big Guy is in your phone, right -- with the little muscle emoji next to it? Your buddy Steve?" you smirk at him, his tongue pressing against the back of his teeth.

"Yeah, that's my guy," he nods, "You know how I said he always drags me to the beach when he visits?"

"I do," you nod, a spoonful of ice cream resting on your tongue before you swallow leaving a coating of mocha, sea salt, and caramel behind.

"He's visiting soon," Eddie smiles down at your lips closed around the plastic spoon, "I'm really excited for him to meet you."

"Do you think I'll like him?"

"I think...Steve's a boring ice cream person," he laughs, "Always gets like -- butter pecan or something. You think I'm an old man? Wait until you meet this guy."

You both laugh with each other like mean girls on the playground.

"Is he um -- is he doing okay? I know you mentioned a few weeks ago that he lost his wife," you're shy while you approach the subject, you could tell it weighed heavy on Eddie to talk about it.

"I think..." Eddie starts, taking a lick of his ice cream while he considers it, "I think he's doing okay for being almost half a year out. I um, I stayed with him for the first three months -- moved him into the house they bought --"

"She passed before they moved," he explains when your brows knit in confusion.

"Oh," you nod along, face relaxing so he can continue.

"Moved him in -- I think he cried for six days straight. We didn't even sleep, just laid on his couch and watched Fever Pitch like, eighty five times in a row," he looks out at the water while he recalls it and then smiles, "Which is so weird considering he's a Cubs fan."

"That's so niche," you giggle before softening, "You're a good friend."

"He'd do it for me," Eddie shrugs, "He's already done like so mu--"

Before he can finish, two runners speed by, knocking him in the shoulder. You both watch his cone fall in slow motion towards the blacktop of the walk way.

"Sorry," the guy calls out while he continues on, barely looking back over his shoulder while he goes. The neon yellow of his running sneakers become little flecks as he gets deeper towards the tree covered walkway on the other side.

"Hey, fuck off and DIE, asshole!" you call after him, a grit in your voice that Eddie hadn't expected to hear. He can't help but laugh at your anger at his expense.

"Hey, hey," he starts, newly free hands resting on your shoulders, "Easy killer."

"There was plenty of space for him to run," you seethe, "He's a fuckin' asshole."

"It's okay," he promises, face relaxed, "It's okay."

"It's not okay," you sigh. You hold your half full cup and spoon out to him, "Have mine."

"But then you won't have one," he says, "I'm not taking yours."

"You already know you like the flavor," you insist, "I'll grab myself another one, I need a water anyway."

Eddie looks at the ice cream and then you, one dimple creasing when a side smile pulls at his lips, "Okay."

When you come back with your new ice cream he's settled down on a bench directly across from the Freedom Tower. You can see all the lights across the water from the Seaport, water taxis and mini dinner cruises coming in an out of dock in the haze of a midsummer night.

"Before Sandy, this used to be a weird sad looking mall," you say, sitting next to him, "And there used to be a really good restauarant called Red -- I loved it cause they never carded me."

"You go to college here?" he asks, you nod.

"I liked the mall cause there was a Bath and Body Works and a Christmas in New York store. I'd go in there every time I was homesick -- just felt cozy for some reason," you shrug.

"But the new stuff there is cool too," you say, taking a bite of your ice cream, "It's definitely like -- for rich people."

"Definitely for rich people," he agrees, his spoon sneaking over to your full cup, his empty one next to him. He steals a bite, letting the flavor savor on his tongue.

"Come on, why do you keep getting amazing flavors?" he sighs. You hold the cup tighter to yourself, a smile working on your lips.

"This one is just for me," you chide, "If you want more go get more."

"Nah, I just wanna taste it one more time," he says smoothly, quietly, leaning in. His hand finds your cheek, ducking in for a long slow kiss, "There we go."

Speechless, you just shake your head and take another bite when he breaks away.

"No, no, I think I need another one -- gotta get the full flavor profile," he smirks, loving the sounds of your giggle when he leans in again for another kiss. He gives you three loud smooches on the lips, enough to make a few people roll their eyes but neither of you notice. Too wrapped up in each other to really care.

Eddie's apartment is as it always is -- it smells like him, the walls are covered in knick-knacks and framed posters. Maximalism at it's finest -- organized chaos -- but somehow streamlined. You leave your sandals in the hallway, barefeet hugging the cold hardwood from the AC.

"You know what I could go for right now?" you ask. He looks up with his brows raised, putting his wallet and keys in a bowl by the door. He'd forget them otherwise.

"A mezcal marg," you say, "I'd fuck up a marg so hard right now."

"Well lucky for you," he starts, walking over to the bar cart behind the dining room table, he lifts up a bottle of Del Maguey Vida, "I have mezcal."

"Yay," you let out quietly, not too far off from our quiet cheer when you were wasted in his kitchen last week. You can tell he used to bar tend by the way he mixes drinks, how he slaps the mixer and shakes it, how he eyeballs the liquor. It's not long after you've situated on the couch that he comes over to you with your drink.

"Here cutie," he says, carefully passing it to you from behind the couch and walking around it with his own. The first sip confirms he's made these a million times, wonderfully smokey and salty, refreshing and fruity.

"Oh no," you laugh, "It's really good."

"I'll make you as many as you want," he takes a sip and settles down next to you, arm outstretched behind you, "Thank you."

"Why're you so good at everything?"

"Me?" he quirks his brow, "Nah, I'm just -- I have a lot of experience with like, mundane shit."

"No, no, you're like -- you're good at a lot of stuff," you nod, "Give yourself some credit."

You feel bold even though you've only had two sips of the margarita, but it gives you some courage nonetheless, "What else are you good at?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well --" the cat catches your tongue for a moment, suddenly unsure if you want to bring it up. But then again, he's already seen you at your almost most pathetic.

"I saw those handcuffs in your room the first time I was here," you start, "You good at tying girls up?"

He blushes hard, laughing off the embarrassment, "S'cuse me?"

"I'm serious," you laugh, "Are you good at tying girls up? Is that the kind of stuff you're into?"

"I -- wow -- um," he bumble through words trying to find an answer, looking down at his drink and then looking at you and back down again.

"I -- yeah," he shakes his head, surprised at his own confession, "Yeah, I'm -- I'm into that kind of stuff. Not like, not all the time -- but for some partners, sure, yeah." "So you are a little freak then," you tease.

"Maybe," he shrugs, "By the look on your face though it looks like you might be really interested in that."

You shrug back coolly, another sip of your marg giving you a moment to consider, "I can be."

"Yeah?" He leans back on the couch, legs spread open while he looks you over. He keeps his eyes on you, sipping slowly on his drink while he does. You start to get shy under his gaze, exactly what he was waiting for, "You think you could handle it, sweetheart?"

As expected, you roll your eyes, "Ew."

He puts his drink on a coaster on the coffee table, coming back up to give you a kiss, "You don't think it's ew."

"I know," you nod, letting his lips trail down your jaw to your neck and back up again. Unafraid, you crawl back onto his lap like you did the first night you were there. His hands wander more freely, sliding up and around your thighs, listening to your sounds and how you like to be touched. When you roll your hips he doesn't stop you this time, he lets you do it, savoring the relief he gets every time the pressure meets his hardening cock in his slacks.

"I'm not," Kiss, "Gonna do that," Kiss, "Tonight, though."

"Oh," you smirk, holdhing his face in your hands while you look down at him, "Are we gonna do it tonight?"

He blushes again, chastising himself for assuming what you wanted, "No, no, only if you want to. And I want it to be nice and like -- I want it to --"

You lean in for one more slow kiss to shut him up, he groans into it, "I want to."

Eddie gulps, looking up at you with a nod, "I'll um...I'll meet you upstairs."

He watches you get up and head towards the small spiral staircase, his mind buzzing a mile a minute. He collects the glasses and puts them in the fridge for later, cleaning up a bit while his hands nearly shake with nerves and excitement. Just as he's about to make it up the stairs he sees his phone start to buzz on the coffee table. Steve.

And normally he never does this, but for the first time in months he clicks 'Ignore' before heading up the stairs behind you.

You undress after him, trying not to gape at his body, trying to ignore the way it drives you insane. His tattoos dance with each move of his waist and arms, each flex of his thighs. He takes his time making his way over to the bed, sliding the throw to the floor when he sits on the edge of it to watch you.

Your dress comes off slow -- he beckons you forward to stand between his thighs. Neither of you speak while he cups your breasts in his hands, squeezing softly. You let out a quiet sigh when his lower lip drags against the top curve, pressing into a kiss. Moving to the next to take a nipple into his mouth, wet tongue sliding over it while his thumb teases the other.

Your hand reactively reaches for his head, pleasure starting as a line up your neck and down to your pelvis -- a whimper coming out of you involuntarily. He gives a final flick of his tongue before pulling your underwear down to your knees, letting them fall to your ankles. He looks up with a smile and a kiss to your lips, "Lay down for me."

He doesn't have to ask you twice, kicking kicking your panties off and sliding onto his bed. You lay back against the soft comforter and look up at him while he kneels over you, eyes gleaming while they take you in.

“Peach you’re…you gotta be fucking kidding me,” he lets out with an airy laugh. 

You look up at him while he lets his eyes roam over you again, suddenly self conscious. You cover some of your chest with your forearm, tucking in on yourself. 

“No, no baby,” he coaxes softly, “Show me, show me you.” 

You reluctantly release, it had been a while since you were fully naked in front of someone. You grimace when your arms fall back flat on the comforter, hands daintily laying just above your head. He bites his lower lip, the pink in his cheeks flushing to a soft red. His hands reach up to the sides of your rib cage, eyes on you for silent permission.

“Jesus,” he says under his breath. His hands slide down carefully, cascading into the dip of your waist and up over your belly. One finger tip traces a stretch mark just above your pelvis that you wished he hadn’t noticed — that you forgot you had. His hands continue their journey over your hips to the tops of your thighs — your body warm and welcoming to his touch. 

“You are gorgeous,” he whispers — partly to himself, partly to you. 

You lean up on your forearms and look down at yourself briefly, “Yeah? You think so?” 

“I uh – fuck –” he shakes his head in disbelief before leaning forward to kiss you, “I really think so.” 

His lips come in for a long peck, settling himself over your calves, forearms and biceps flexing while he leans on his hands to steady himself on the mattress. He breaks away to kiss your neck – gentle, only a few before placing one soft kiss to your chest – working his way downward. He kisses the pad of fat on the peak of your ribcage, down to your stomach, right over the stretch mark that you wish you’d forget about now. He kisses the other side of your belly, mouth and breath warm while he does, eyes blown like he’s mapping you out. 

You revel in the quiet, watching him savor you, adjusting to sit on his knees between your legs. He bends down like he’s praying, lips blessing the top of one of your thighs. He bends one of your legs up and out, kissing the inside of your knee. 

“Please,” you whisper down at him. He kisses the inside of your knee again, feeling your weight shift in the bed while you open your legs further. He looks down between your thighs, brows tilting in awe at the sight of you bared for him. 

“Push up on the bed a little, honey,” he instructs, so quietly you wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t so close. If the rest of the apartment wasn’t so still. You slide up on the comforter while he adjusts the pillows behind you, “That’s good? You comfortable?” 

You nod breathlessly, his smile making you melt the more you see it in the light of his lamp in the corner. He kisses you again, hand reaching up behind your neck to pull you to him while you let his tongue into your mouth. It slides against yours with needy precision, wanting to get as close to you as possible while he does. When you part he lets out a shaky breath, nuzzling your nose. 

“You okay?” you press your forehead to his. 

“Yeah I’m just – I think I’m nervous,” he laughs, “You’re makin’ me nervous.” 

“Why’re you nervous?” you ask, pulling back to look at him. 

“I dunno. I guess I just,” he leans back, “I’m never normally thinking my way through it. At least I haven’t for a while.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Like I was just taking people home to fuck, then they’d leave,” he shrugs, “I’m like…I’m taking my time and I wanna make sure it’s like – the best sexual experience you’ll ever have.” 

“Sexual experience,” you repeat back in a tease, he puffs out a breath with a roll of his pretty brown eyes. 

“I’m trying to be meaningful here,” he asserts, “M’trying to like – make love to you.” 

You giggle again at ‘make love’ but cover your mouth, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I’m not making fun of you. That’s very sweet, Ed.” 

He tinges an embarrassed pink and settles back on his knees, hands running through his hair. 

“Baby,” you soothe, coming up to smooth your hands over his shoulders, “I’m sorry. I promise I’m not trying to make you feel silly or embarrassed. I’m nervous, too.” 

“Baby…” he repeats back, a boyish grin pulling up on his lips, “I’m not a baby.” 

“Yeah you are,” you nod, kissing his cheek, “You’re such a baby.” 

“Thought I was an old man,” he says, that blushy grin still plastered on his face. 

“You can be both.” You lay back against the pillows, watching him take a settling breath before coming back down to meet you for another taste of warm kisses. He lets himself press a loving kiss to your cheek before dipping down to leave intentional kisses down your sternum, following his map from your rib cage to your belly, the top of your thigh, the inside of your knee. Neither of you speak when he kisses the inside of your thigh, letting him part you right before his tongue starts to flick dutifully over your clit. 

Your quiet gasp makes his eyes flutter closed, feeling you settle down into the pillows while his lips open over you, nose resting on the pudge of your mound. His tongue works steadily, working you while your legs bend and creep upwards, thighs to your chest. One hand reaches up to squeeze the inside of one, spreading you apart a little further for him. You feel the warmth of the back of his head as he leans to the side against your thigh, tongue dragging up over and over before moving right back to center. 

“More,” you sigh out, starting to whimper, hips reacting to each flutter of his tongue. He start to suckle, eyes flicking up at the sound of your voice. He nods while he works, one hand coming up to slide a finger in either ease – he’s not surprised. 

“Oh!” you squeak out, the little quake in your thighs makes him huff a laugh. 

“Does this feel good?” he asks against your skin. He kisses your other thigh why he waist for an answer. You nod down at him, breaths picking up while his finger dips slowly in and out. 

“S’really good,” you slur out, the tingle in your belly rising to an electric buzz. 

“D’you like getting eaten out?” he asks, starting again. His middle finger pushes in with his index this time with mild resistance. 

“Hmmm-yes,” you breathe out at the slight stretch, feeling him hook into you once his fingers push the hilt. You push up on your forearms and then your hands, the pleasure making you dizzy while you look down at him. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper. He obliges, head down and determined, sucking and teasing, the soft flick of his tongue getting you closer and closer. His fingers pulse, pushing in and in and in, the pads of his fingers pressing on your core that makes heat run through you. You aren’t sure if you’re numb with pleasure or you’re flooding over his finger, the buzz is becoming overwhelming. Your heart hammers, his fingers working in a controlled steady rhythm – too grown to know that when a girl’s about to cum you don’t speed up, you stay the course.

“ShhhitI’mgonnacum – ohmigodI’mgonnacum.” 

His lips break away from your clit as you start to come undone, a smirk prevalent on his face when he leans in to kiss you through it. You moan so loud into his mouth it’s almost a cry – a prayer to God that you make it out with all your senses. 

He feels the gush of your release over his first and middle finger, leaking plentifully into his comforter. He smiles when he breaks away from you — soft kisses on your cheeks while you shiver.

You flop flat on your back with a deep breath, shutting your eyes while you push air out of O shaped lips. 

“You okay?” his low gravelly voice settling in your chest. You nod, a little hazy, shifting over a wet spot under your limp thighs.  “Ugh.”

“It’s okay,” he assures, knowing that you can feel what you left behind. He squeezes your calf with a soft chuckle, “Just a lil’ mess, baby. D’y’need a minute?” 

You nod, another deep breath, peeking through your heavy lids to watch him stretch over you while he clicks on another light. The sconces above his bed glow golden and soft above the both of you, glinting against his silver jewelry like a fire. Eddie’s form shifts the mattress when he lays next to you, rough palm smoothing over the top of your stomach to the opposite dip in your waist. 

“That was uh…” 

“Yeah…”

You lay there with each other, eventually finding the strength to move onto your side to face him. He’s confident now that you came, more sure of himself – he knows he can make you do it again. 

“Don’t give me that look,” you chide. 

He giggles darkly, face splitting smile pulling his cheeks up, “M’not giving you a look.” 

“You are giving me a look.” 

“M’just…you know – It’s always good to know you still got it,” he shrugs, falling onto his back. He tucks his hands behind his head, elbows splayed out on either side, biceps flexing, “And I still got it.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you still got it old man,” you laugh, tucking yourself under his arm so that your head lays on his chest. You look down the expanse of him, fingertip tracing one of his tattoos that flows down to his lower stomach. His cock twitches, kicking up at the gentle touch so close to his pelvis. You let out a soft hum when one of his arms comes down to wrap around you, kiss pressed to the top of your head. You tilt up, noses brushing while your fingers still trace, searching lower until the scratch of stubble from week old manscaping finds you. 

You kiss him first, moving out from under his arm, propping yourself up on your elbow while you guide him. He grunts out a low groan when your hand finally wraps around his cock, offering him steady strokes, giving him a type of relief he’s deeply needed this past month and some change. It’s not long before his fingers wrap around your wrist to put you back on the mattress, hard and leaking, desperate to be inside you. Your eyes linger on it while he leans over to grab a condom from his bedside table drawer, he smirks while he rolls it on. 

“Ready?” he asks, cocky, tossing the foil packaging off the bed. You nod hurriedly, grinning while he props your hips up under a couple of his pillows. 

Another kiss and he’s parting your legs again, fingers sinking into the fat of the back of one of your thighs while he guides himself down the slick slit of your core. He goes slow, tip teasing your clit before sliding down to your entrance. He’s concentrating, but he still flicks his eyes up at you beneath his feathered bangs before starting to push. 

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.” 

He eases in, you feel the stretch immediately, legs springing up tight towards your chest. One, two, three short even thrusts before you’re slick enough to accommodate him. He pushes in slowly, both of you sighing in pleasure when he splits you open to the hilt, your legs parting further. His other hand meets your lonely thigh, gripping tight while he starts at a steady rhythm, head lolling back for a moment then coming back to center.  

“Baby…” he starts, a growl of a grunt coming from his chest, “You – oh, honey – you feel so good, so — oh fuck...” 

You can only respond with choked ‘uhn! uhn! uhn!’s at every thrust, the head of his cock plunging deep at this angle, nearly brushing your cervix. His kiss is welcomed when he lets go of your legs to lean forward over you, propping himself up on one forearm, hand  on your cheek. 

“That’s good? This feels good?” he pants into your mouth. 

“Mhm,” you whine, “You’re so deep.” 

“I know,” he coos, “M’really deep. You like that?” 

“Yeah,” you squeak when his thrusts become intentionally strong and slow. 

“Feelin’ me?” he asks, tip of his nose running along your cheek, forehead against your temple. You nod, groaning while he continues, holding his hips in place after every plunge into your core. His cologne and scent of his hair products blend together in a dark spice that makes your mouth water, eyes fluttering closed when you hear his breaths become gravelly – each one its own growl. You can barely think, your mind’s not able to keep up with the pleasure of where his cock keeps hitting, how full you feel, where his free hand wanders, how he kisses your neck. In the haze you realize that he likes this, he likes being in control. 

Your body bounces against his hips when his thrusts start to pick up in speed, not fast like a jackhammer, but fast enough that the buzz in your belly becomes a vibrant hum. He gives you a final sloppy kiss on the neck and then the lips before leaning back up for more leverage, gripping your waist just above the flare of your hips. 

“Look at me,” he huffs out, more of a command than a suggestion. Your heart rate quickens at the sound, bark and bite while his fingertips squeeze you. Your eyes snap to his like magnets, like when you first kissed after your date in the park. 

“God,” he groans, “S-so – fuck – pretty.” 

His next thrust hits a spot that makes you see white, a whimper choking out of your throat. You grab his wrist, whining, “Ohmygod there, right there.” 

“There?” he teases softly, slowing down to slowly drag his cock in and out. He hits it again at an achingly low speed this time, but the pleasure is just as delicious. 

“Yes, yes right there – please,” you don’t even know what you’re saying please for, what you’re asking. You just need to feel this, you need him to get you there. He quickens his pace, the slick and sloppy sounds of skin hitting skin and ragged breaths disrupting the quiet of the room. Tears pool in your eyes in pleasure while you cry out, back arching into each snap of his hips. 

“More, more, more,” like a chanting prayer flows out of you, spurring him on. His heart thumps in his chest while he looks down at you, your face contorted, the way your breasts bounce. He resists the urge to reach down and clamp over your neck when you bare it to him, pushing yourself against the pillows. He busies himself by gripping your thighs again in a bruising hold, holding steady at a pace that clearly feels great for you but feels amazing for him. Eddie bites his lip, the sight and sound of you sending him reeling. He’s getting close, hips starting to stutter while your walls loosen a bit to accommodate him further, you’re already soaking his pelvis – you’re gonna cum, he can feel it. 

You can feel all your sounds in your throat, kneels pulling together as the vibrant hum in your lower belly becomes a vibration. He doesn’t stop, grunting and huffing like a bull with each thrust while he tries to hold back. He pulls your knees apart to make space for him, chest to chest while he pumps in a little bit faster. Eddie’s mouth takes yours hungrily, greedily while he lets out an aching moan. 

“Fuck – fuck - shit,” he growls, eyes clamped closed while your noses rest against each other. He keeps going, fucking you through his orgasm despite his shaking arms. At this position he can adjust to go a little deeper, and when he does you gush. He keeps going, feeling the pulses of your walls over his cock, a confident grin puffing out tired breaths. 

You grip his biceps when he does one final hit that sends you over the edge, thighs and hips shaking when he does. You feel it in your whole body, goosebumps rising like you can’t handle it, back nearly aching in an arch that settles back down. Your moan turns into a cry – a real cry. You shudder while your body comes down, tears pouring down your cheeks and you can’t quite get yourself to settle down. 

“Oh, honey no, did I hurt you? Are you okay?” Eddie swallows, voice back to soothing comfort while he eases up, “What’samatter? Did you not like it?” 

You wipe your eyes but the tears still come, you shake your head no. Embarrassed from blubbering you try to cover your face but he smooths your hands away, “What’s wrong, Peach? Please talk to me. Was that too much? Was I too rough?” 

“N-no,” you laugh a little, “Sorry, this is r-ridiculous. I’m – m’okay.” 

“You don’t look okay,” he says. He settles on his calves, easing you up to sitting – with some coaxing he gets you straddled in his lap. The exhaustion from your orgasm distracts you from the stickiness between your thighs, the uncomfortable wetness leftover between your legs. You feel sleepy and soggy. 

“Did I do something?” he asks again, hands cupping your cheeks while his thumbs swipe away oncoming tears. 

“N-no it was ju-just really intense,” you swallow and cough, another sob racking through you, “J-just came really hard.” 

He nods, looking at you intensely, “Do you just want me to hold you?” 

You nod back and without a second though he pulls you tight into him, bringing you both back down sideways on the mattress. He lets you let it out, running the backs of his fingers along your back until you start to calm down, sobs shuddering down into sharp breaths, to normal ones, to slow. 

“A little better?” he asks, quiet and sweet. You nod with your eyes closed, cheek squished against the comforter. Eddie smiles, easing the condom off his now softened shaft and tossing it in the bin under his night stand. He soothes you for a while, sitting on the side of you and running his palms over your back and thighs, over your calves, selfishly over the swell of your ass. He puts pressure on your lower back, between your shoulder blades, the top of your neck. 

“This is really nice,” you croak out, feeling the warmth of his hands cascade gently over you. 

“Sometimes it’s nice to just get worshiped, huh?” 

You nod again, breaths steady, “Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” he confirms, “You deserve it, don’t you?” 

“I do,” you smile. 

“That’s my girl,” he coos. My girl, my girl, my girl. 

It echoes through the both of you, the declaration – the claim, but neither of you say anything.In fact at this point, it looks like you might’ve fallen asleep. 

Eddie takes the throw that had been pushed to the floor and covers you up for now, he’ll wake you later for pajamas and water and a snack. For now he figures you should just rest, you look so cute like this – all worn out ‘cause of him. He quietly slips on a pair of socks and gray sweats and pads his way downstairs to make you something, swiping up his phone to see two missed messages from Steve on his screen. 

Big Guy💪👔 37m ago Did you just bitch button me? 

Big Guy💪👔 37m ago What the fuck?

Big Guy💪👔 36m ago Photo notification. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, opening his phone to his texts. His eye roll stops when the picture of Bandit curled up on his bed by the sliding door pops up. Eddie said the bed was way too big for him, but Steve insisted he’d grow into it. 

Eddiesorry dude, i was busy. u around? 

Big Guy💪👔 0m ago Taking Bandit on a night walk. You okay? You have a show tonight? 

EddieNah.  🍆🍆🍆🍆🍆

Big Guy💪👔 0m ago Hell yeah dude 😎 Congrats! 

Eddiethanks man.just putting something together for her for when she wakes up.

Big Guy💪👔 0m ago fucked her to sleep lol 

Eddie gotta change my middle name to nyquil 😎

Big Guy💪👔 0m ago so it was good huh? 

Eddie i’ll tell you all the horny details tomorrow but honestly dude? i might end up loving this one. 

He wakes you up later leaving gentle kisses on your forehead, set of his comfy clothes in his hand for you, “Made you a little snack downstairs, you hungry?” 

You stretch, nodding, feeling a dull ache in your hips and inner thighs. You frown when he eases the throw off of you, forcing you to stand up and get dressed. Eddie’s scent is prevalent on his clothes, enveloping you again when he does the same with his arms. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you assure, looking up at him, “Now, don’t get a big head about this or anything – but that was easily some of the best sex I’ve had in my life.” 

He lets go of you, shrugging with a smile and tilt of his head, “What can I say? I –” 

“I said don’t get a big head,” you warn, stifling a giggle, “Don’t you go around bragging about it either.” 

“Okay, okay, I won’t, I promise,” he holds his hands up, leading the way down the stairs. 

“Not even Steve.” You follow him down, body taking over to lead you to the snacks he laid out on the counter of the island. 

“Not even Steve,” he repeats, picking up his phone again. 

Eddie she just told me that this was the best sex she’s ever had in her life lol i’m the fucking man

Big Guy💪👔 0m ago you da man 😎

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#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fluff #older!eddie #older!eddie munson

[mind-empty-just-fictional-people]

Birthday Pie

main masterlist | supernatural masterlist

SPOILERS! set between seasons 7 and 8 of supernatural, there are spoilers for both these seasons

summary: you celebrate his birthday even when he’s gone

pairing: dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 0.9k

warnings: sad, not at all a happy birthday for our beloved lil guy, language

author’s note: i’m sorry, okay? i’ve had this idea in my head for months and decided that today is a good day to release it? anyway, happy 45th birthday dean winchester! love you and very glad you’re alive and well and the series finale never happened! :)

January 24th, 2013 — Dean’s 34th Birthday.

You were barely able to drag yourself out of bed and into the living room where you were now seated and watching TV. It didn’t matter what was on, you weren’t paying attention anyway. Your mind was completely focused on Dean. Your beloved Dean; who shouldn’t be wherever the fuck he was but instead safe in your arms.

He shouldn’t be spending his birthday terrified, missing you and his brother. He should be spending it with you, Sam, and Cas.

Sure, he wasn’t really the birthday party type of guy but each year since you met him you’d gotten him a pie and put candles in it for him to blow out. It’d started as a half-assed attempt to put a smile on his face when you learned it was his birthday and you couldn’t find a cake at the store.

He’d loved it.

“How’d you know I’d rather have pie?” he had asked, his face lighting up even more when you put two candles—a two and a four—in the center.

“I…had a feeling.” You had shrugged it off as not a big deal but deep down you both knew how much it meant to him.

And each year since then—come rain, shine, monsters, or the apocalypse—you made it your job to get Dean Winchester a pie on his birthday.

A few tears rolled down your cheeks, joining the half-dried ones there already. You hadn’t been sad on Dean’s birthday since his year before hell. But it was different then, you had him next to you and you were savoring every second. You might have been terrified of what would soon happen, but you were still with him.

**

“If you’re not already aware, Dean,” Castiel started, “you turn thirty-four today.”

“What?” Dean asked, confused. “Cas we—”

“Granted time seems to be passing differently here, but on earth it is currently your birthday.”

“Happy birthday, brother,” Benny joked.

“Yeah real fuckin’ happy,” Dean scoffed. “We’re stuck killing our way through this fuckin’ nightmare while the love of my life is spending my birthday alone.”

“I’m sure she’s okay, Dean,” Cas assured him. “She has Sam, he’ll look after her until we get back.”

“No, you don’t get it. Birthdays were…they were our thing, if that makes any goddamn sense.”

**

“Happy birthday, Dean,” you smiled, placing the pie in front of him.

“Twenty-six! God, that sounds old,” Dean laughed a little.

“You’re kidding right?” you asked after singing for him as he blew out the candles.

“What?”

“Twenty six may sound old to you, but trust me you are still fuckin’ adorable.”

“I am, aren’t I?” He grinned.

“You wanna do the honors, cutie?” you asked, handing him the kitchen knife.

“Gladly, sweetheart,” he said, taking it from you. You watched him cut a slice for you then an even bigger slice for himself.

“Dean,” you started as you watched him begin eating the pie. “I love you.”

He stopped eating and looked at you; “What?”

“I know there’s a lot about your life you haven’t told me, you’re lore you could call it, but I need you to know that I really do love you, Dean Winchester.”

“But how? I mean, I’m not exactly an open book and there’s no way…” he trailed off.

“No way, what?”

“There’s no way in hell you’d feel this way if you learned everything about me.”

Your heart broke at his words, and your expression definitely showed it.

“The amount of pure love I have for you is beyond measurable, Dean. And I might be crazy for saying this, and feeling this, but there is truly nothing you could say or do that would make me stop.”

“Really?” he asked quietly, as if he was scared to press his luck.

You nodded with a soft smile; “Really.”

“Well, look I’m not really one for…that…but I do…I do feel that way about you too. I guess what I’m saying is, uh, right back at cha?”

“See to any normal person that would sound like the ramblings of a crazy man,” you said, his smile only growing. “But to me? Absolute poetry.” You leaned over and kissed him. “Happy birthday, Dean.”

He simply kissed you back, smiling against your lips.

**

“Happy birthday, Dean,” you whispered, blowing out the candles on the small pie you’d bought. It was a one-person pie because you knew if you bought a regular one that at least three-quarters would not have been eaten.

You took out the candles and picked up your fork. Staring down at the desert, you let more tears fall.

“It shouldn’t be this hard to eat a fuckin’ pie,” you laughed humorously. Your phone rang next to you and you answered it; “Hey, Sam.”

“Hey,” he sighed. “I just wanted to call and check up on you. It being Dean’s birthday and all, I figured you might…you know…”

“Be huddled up in bed sobbing my eyes out?” you said.

“Yeah…”

“I’m holding it together Sammy, don’t worry about me,” you assured him.

“I always worry about you, you know that.”

There was a short pause in the conversation as you took a deep breath and let a few more tears fall; “I miss him, Sammy,” you admitted. “I just really miss him.”

#dean winchester x reader #by mind empty just fictional people #by jean #supernatural #spn #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester birthday #happy birthday dean winchester

[mercurianchild]

Venus in the 5th house

✨Venus in the 5th house: Embracing the Romance and Creativity of Life✨

Venus in the 5th house is like a brush dipped in stardust, painting your life with romance, creativity and an eye for all things beautiful. This placement transforms you into a beacon of charm and artistic flair, drawing love and joy into your orbit. It’s not just about the art you create but the artful way you live your life.

Creativity flows through you effortlessly. Whether you’re drawn to painting, music, dance, or drama, your artistic expressions are infused with a unique, magnetic energy. But it’s more than just traditional art forms—you have a gift for turning everyday experiences into something extraordinary. Your creative spirit isn’t confined; it spills over into your approach to problem-solving and your ability to make life itself a work of art.

Romance with Venus in the 5th house is a series of passionate chapters filled with grand gestures and intimate moments. You’re a true romantic, seeing love not just as a part of life but as a vital, enriching experience. Your charm and magnetism make you irresistible, drawing admirers like moths to a flame. You revel in the highs of love, and even the lows become poetic in your eyes.

Life’s pleasures are your playground. You approach social gatherings with a sense of fun and playfulness that’s infectious. You’re often the heart of the party, your laughter and zest lighting up the room. Your positive energy not only uplifts you but also those around you, making every social interaction a memorable celebration.

Children hold a special place in your heart. Whether you’re a parent, an aunt, or simply someone who loves the innocence and creativity of kids, you connect with them effortlessly. Raising children or engaging with them brings out your best qualities, filling your life with joy and fulfillment.

Yet, this placement isn’t without its shadows. Venus in the 5th house can lead to overindulgence. You might find yourself chasing pleasures to excess, whether it’s spending too much on entertainment, indulging in romantic escapades, or savoring one too many decadent treats. Balance is crucial to avoid the pitfalls of excess.

Your romantic idealism can sometimes lead to heartache. You might idealize your partners, crafting perfect fantasies that reality struggles to meet. When reality falls short, disappointment can hit hard. It’s essential to remember that real love involves effort, compromise, and finding beauty in imperfections. Attention-seeking can also be a challenge. You thrive in the spotlight and might feel unfulfilled without it. This need for recognition can strain relationships if not kept in check. Staying grounded and valuing mutual respect and understanding is key.

The fun loving nature of Venus in the 5th house can also lead to risky behavior. Whether it’s gambling, impulsive decisions, or diving into whirlwind romances, your desire for excitement can sometimes cloud your judgment.

There are subtle nuances to this placement that often get overlooked. The creativity you possess isn’t just about making beautiful things; it’s a powerful tool for healing. Artistic pursuits can help you process emotions, heal old wounds, and create a harmonious inner world. Engaging in these activities is like therapy for your soul, providing solace and clarity.

In our fast-paced, achievement-oriented world, the importance of play is often underestimated. Venus in the 5th house reminds you that playfulness and joy are essential for a balanced, happy life. Embracing play through hobbies, sports, or simply enjoying time with friends can rejuvenate your spirit and bring deeper fulfillment. This placement also blesses you with deep empathy and an ability to connect emotionally with others. You have a knack for making people feel seen, appreciated, and loved. This talent can be a powerful asset in both personal and professional relationships, fostering genuine connections and mutual understanding.

Venus in the 5th house is a gift, filling your life with joy, creativity, and love. By acknowledging and balancing the challenges, such as overindulgence and romantic idealism, you can harness its full potential.

#astrology #astro notes #astro observations #zodiac #astrology community #astro placements #venus #venus 5th house #5th house venus #leo venus

[minihotdog]

The Scout

Pairing: Ghost x Fem!Reader

Summary: Ghost runs into an old... Friend? Enemy?

a/n: idk man I'm just justing

c/w: adult themes MINORS DNI

Word Count: 8k

Ghost excused himself from the group of men after exchanging his post with Gaz for the night and headed towards the grey, empty room he’d been calling his. His body was worn out, along with his mind.

The mission had been going on for weeks and was moving at a snail’s pace. They were pursuing a militia that had recently aligned with Makarov’s forces. Laswell had received intel on a shipment of weapons that were heading for said militia’s hideout intended for Makarov. The shipment was set to arrive within the month and the task force intended to intercept it, but that meant a lot of time spent sitting and watching in shifts. 

The detachment facility was concealed but close enough to intercept coms without being detected

Ghost was getting tired of waiting. He was used to action, and adrenaline, and the slow pace was wearing him and his comrades down even more than the countless neverending firefights they were accustomed to. As much as those moments left permanent marks on his psyche, he and everyone he knew craved it in some twisted, bloodthirsty way. At this point, he was doing a thousand pushups a day for “excitement”.

He blew air through his nose in frustration as he sat on the twin-sized wrestling mat he called a bed. He placed his gun on the floor next to him and threw his heavy vest against the wall to use as a pillow.

The weight coming off his shoulders leaves him rubbing his aching shoulders in relief over the sleek material of his sweater. He lies back on the paper-thin foam and his spine lets out a series of pops, finally releasing the pressure built up from hours holding the same position.

He groans quietly, reaching under his mask to scratch his scruff.

M’as well sleep on the floor, this mat is shite.

He rests his hand on his chest and the other on the knife sheathed to his belt. His eyes shut and he chases his rest fully clothed, boots and all.

-Time Skip: Approx. 0300-

He didn’t dream often, especially on the job. On the contrary, nightmares plagued him when he was home and a threatening darkness encompassed him on the field. But this feeling wasn’t right. Even asleep, Ghost was on alert. He could sense to his core that the air in the room had changed and a wave of uneasiness flooded him in his dreamless state.

He couldn’t pull himself from the darkness as he usually could. No matter how hard he subconsciously tried, his body was begging for rest against his efforts.

Ghost felt a weight lower itself onto his lap. Another person’s hands slide lightly from his waist to his chest.

Bloody ‘ell, wake up!

His body tenses involuntarily under the fondling. The zipper on his sweater carefully unzips. The cool air hitting his bare chest causes him to twitch in the battle between mind and body. The grasp the darkness had on him was lethal.

Small, warm hands graze the exposed skin of his abdomen, lightly tracing the patches of thick scar tissue that littered all over his body.

A soft, feminine voice coos at him as he twitches and his mind rushes to fill in the blanks, sending different scenes through his closed eyes in a poor attempt to mask the sound as a dream.

C’mon, wake up!

He felt as if he was floating through dimensions as he began the process of regaining full consciousness, eyes still refusing to open.

The mysterious woman lowers herself onto him, her nose gently nuzzling his neck. She takes a deep breath as if she’s trying to savor his musky scent. Her head pulls away from his neck and he feels fingertips graze his throat.

She fiddles with the hem of his balaclava before it begins to catch at the sides of his jaw. He feels his mask being pulled up and a shock shoots through his body. His limp state disappears instantly and he reaches for her. His other hand remembers its place on the knife.

His fingers wrap around her wrist, preventing it from going any further.

“Don’t worry, darling.” She coos as her free hand caresses his cheek. “I won’t pull it off, that’s not nice.” His grip tightens but she pays it no mind. She moves her hand from his cheek and uses it to pull his mask enough to reveal his lips. Her thumb outlines his bottom lip and she swoops down to plant a small kiss on his lips. He feels her lips through her mask.

His eyes flutter, trying to rid themselves of the blurriness. Moonlight pours into the room just enough for him to make out her figure above him and some of her features.

“I’ve been watching you for so long.” She wines, bottom lip quivering slightly under the material. “I couldn’t help myself. I needed to see you.” Her eyes crinkle as if she’s smiling under the mask. The black mask only covers the lower half of her face and a long single braid falls over her shoulder. He sighs, staring up at the ceiling.

“Y/n, we have to stop meeting like this.” The rasp in his voice sends shivers down her spine. She chuckles and tilts her head.

Ghost releases her wrist and wraps his fingers around her throat so quickly she doesn’t have time to react. Her hands come up to hold his in place and a whimper falls from her lips. Her eyes stare into his, lust clouding her pupils. Ghost shifts beneath her, feeling the heat radiating off of her. Her hips involuntarily grind against his in a jerking motion and arousal begins to stir inside of him.

Even through the mask, he could see her jaw go slack, her eyes burning into him. He couldn’t stop himself from giving her a small squeeze and watching her body come alive for him.

Fuckin’ ‘ell

He snaps himself out of the trance and slides himself up until his back rests on the wall taking her with him. He lets out a shaky breath before speaking. 

“Why are you watching us this time?” He shakes her roughly when the words refuse to fall out of her open mouth. He unsheaths his knife from his belt and presses the blade to her throat just about his thumb. “C’mon, love, keep this easy.”

She grips his wrist and attempts to push the knife away but he doesn’t budge. A look of panic flashes in her eyes. “Decided to toy with the enemy and this time it isn’t going your way, huh?”

His bare lips graze her ear. “If you were under my command, I’d take you bound and gagged to teach you a lesson, you little minx.” His words drip with poison. She fights against his grip to no avail. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

The hem of his fatigues grinds painfully against her clit. He catches himself nearly panting at her little cries.

“I’m here to warn you, you stupid fuck.” She chokes out, clawing at his now painful grip on her jaw.

“Warn me of what?” He growls.

“Makarov has men heading this way. He thinks the task force has been tipped off.” She winces at his tightening grip.

Ghost chuckles, his plump lips tugging into a cocky smile. He sheaths his knife and his grip on her neck loosens and she gasps, finally being able to breathe properly.

“You’re working for Makarov now? That’s fuckin’ hilarious. You just keep getting worse.”

He tosses her backward onto the floor. He jumps to his feet, throwing on his vest and grabbing his gun. He readjusts his mask and turns back to her.

“Well, I recommend you disappear now.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, “So no goodbye kiss?”

“Fuck off.”

He places his headset over his ears.

“Bravo 6, Ghost. How copy?”

“What is it?”

“A little birdie told me Makarov’s men are heading our way.”

“All units pull out!”

Gunshots begin sounding through the hallway nearby. Ghost assesses the hall. When his head turns back she’s gone and the window is wide open.

He leaves the room behind to join the fight with his brothers. A trail of destruction leads to the vehicle barreling towards the compound for them. As Ghost enters the humvee he looks back to the dark building. Somewhere in the dense treeline, he could swear she was perched up watching him.

- Time Skip: UK -

“Makarov knew we were there. We did not prepare for that possibility. He could’ve used the gun deal to drag us out there and intended to have all of us killed.” Price sits at the head of the table looking to Laswell at his left.

“How’d you get out in time?” She looks over the images and reports plastered on the table.

Ghost interjects, “He had a scout visit before the attack, a familiar one.”

“Viper visited you before the attack?” Her eyebrows furrow. “This gives us plenty to look into. That’s enough for now.” She turns to Price. “Speaking of scouts, we’re gonna need one to plan for the next mission.”

They all dismiss from the debriefing, everyone heading their separate ways except Soap and Ghost.

“Yer tellin’ me she told ye they were coming? Tha’s a first.” Soap says in disbelief. “I guess Makarov isn’t payin’ them like he used tae.”

They say their goodbyes and Ghost heads to his barracks room.

#simon ghost riley #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #tf141 x reader #my writing

[bun-lapin]

Confessions

Summary: Rook confesses his love to you.

A/N: I finished my first one shot! This one went a little longer than I planned. What can I say? Rook likes to monologue! I also posted this on AO3 if that's easier to read.

Confessions series: Rook, Kalim, Idia, Floyd, Vil, Silver, Leona, Trey / AO3

CW: gn!reader but Rook uses the word "queen" to address reader

You step into the woods behind campus and take a deep breath. The air is cool and smells like damp leaves and grass. Occasional beams of spring sunshine break through the canopy overhead and illuminate the dim forest floor. You begin to make your way further into the woods, carefully winding between tall standing trees and stepping over gnarled roots.

You walk in silence. The only sounds you hear are the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the slight crunch of soil under your feet. You walk for some time before you finally hear the loud, clear snap of a broken twig. You stop in your tracks and smile. You turn towards the source of the sound, still smiling, and softly call out, “I was beginning to wonder when you were going to show yourself, Rook.”

From the green darkness emerges a form you know all too well. He slips into view silently and smoothly like smoke in the forest air. He raises a gloved finger to the serene smile on his lips and winks an emerald eye, “Here I am, mon trésor. I apologize to have kept you waiting. I could not help but savor the most beautiful sight of you walking among the trees.”

You retrieve a small folded piece of parchment from your pocket and hold it up for Rook to see. “I got your...message.”

You pause during your statement as you think back to the specific delivery of the message. You had woken just a bit after dawn to the sound of something hitting the front door to your dorm with some force. After carefully checking through the window, you had opened the door to see an arrow with a parchment tied near its end, buried quite deeply in the old wooden door frame.

“Sorry for not bringing the arrow. I couldn’t get it out,” you say in a voice tinged with playfully insincere annoyance.

Rook lightly touches the brim of his violet hat with one hand and places the other on his chest, “Ah, mais bien sûr, I did not expect to see that arrow again!” His eyes seem to sparkle merrily and there is a growing sense of excitement all around him as he proclaims, “For I poured all that was in my heart into that arrow and fired it straight and true to deliver it to your hands. With the strength all of that I presently feel, it’s little wonder that my arrow sunk itself so permanently into the timber of your abode!” He laughs and it is a lighthearted, pretty sound.

“What is this meeting about? What did you need to tell me?” you ask pragmatically, ignoring his dramatics for the most part.

Rook looks up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves above. He closes his eyes and lets out a wistful sigh, “What an enchanting day. Quelle beauté!” He takes several deep breaths and then looks at you with steady resolve on his face.

“I am here to confess,” he states simply.

You blink at his uncharacteristic bluntness. There are so many questions you could ask him but ultimately, you simply and softly say, “Please continue.”

Rook drops to a knee gracefully and without a sound. He places one hand to his chest and the other he stretches out towards you. His eyes are determined and his voice is low and gentle.

"I have traveled horizon after horizon to behold you. My feet have skimmed over savanna and sea alike to bring me here, right here, to my knees at the sight of you. When your eyes alight upon me at last, I stop and can only struggle to draw a breath. For your gaze has completely pierced my soul with ethereal, ecstatic desire."

You feel a flush of warmth spread over your cheeks and you repeat in the steadiest voice you can manage, “Desire?”

Rook smoothly rises to his feet and steps toward you. You stand firmly in place and do your best to look absolutely calm and collected. His face seems to radiate with mirth and joy, in approval of your bravery. With deliberate movements, he takes one of your hands in his and places a soft kiss upon it.

He looks over the top of your hand, lips brushing against your knuckles as he whispers, “Regardez-moi. Look into my eyes and see for yourself all that I feel.”

You look into Rook’s eyes and see that they shine with a clarity and resolution you’ve never seen before in the usually care-free and whimsical hunter. Feeling the warmth of his gloved hand around yours, you catch the faintest undercurrent of longing in the air between the two of you.

You ask softly, “Are you in love with me?”

Rook turns his gaze slightly from you, as if to stop himself from shaking his head. The action sends his short blond hair sweeping across his cheeks and his brows furrow under the pressure of all the emotions he had been keeping in check up until now. He turns his face towards you again and looks deeply, directly into your eyes. Rook’s voice is still low and gentle but now it almost seems to tremble from a flood of indescribable feeling.

“More. So much more than that. This warmth I feel is more than love. This ache I feel is more than longing. Ma reine d'amour, you are queen of all of me. Every star and galaxy in my eyes, every blade of grass on my skin, every rush of air and burst of light! All of me is utterly in service of you. More than a servant, I do not merely serve. I offer everything to you, and only you, for all time."

Your breath almost catches in your throat and you feel like your heart is doing nervous somersaults against your chest. A million thoughts race through your head as you silently weigh your next words carefully.

You ask in a steady voice, “What if I don’t love you back?” Unspoken visions of the hunter playfully yet relentlessly chasing after students that catch his interest seem to dance in the air around the question.

Rook briefly closes his eyes with an almost pained expression. He quickly recovers with a small smile but there is a mixture of understanding and sorrow glittering behind his emerald gaze. He again raises your hand to his lips and places on it a kiss even softer than before. Slowly and tenderly, he returns your hand to your side and when he speaks his voice is quiet and close to heartbreak.

"If you do not love me, then so it shall be. It is not my place, nor do I seek to control the queen of all that I am. I have laid my soul at your feet and I have placed my destiny in your hands. No matter the course of fate, I will be devoted only to you for I have sincerely promised you my life, the rest of my eternity.”

He stands tall with calm poise but the air around him hangs dark and heavy with sadness and it drapes over his broad shoulders like a luxurious coat. There is a beat of silence and then suddenly the weight of it all seems to crack like winter ice and Rook drops to his knees. He looks down towards his hands, desperately clutching at the ground beneath him. His golden hair hangs like a curtain to shield his eyes and there is the faintest hint of despair in his voice.

“Tell me to go and I shall go. If you wish to toy with me, use me, or throw me in the gutter, I would accept every action gladly as if they were divine commandments. You are ma reine d'amour and I obey all that you would have of me. If you want nothing from me, then this will be our last moment together. But know that for every day that follows, my heart will continue to desire only you."

You stand in silence and look down at a form that is familiar and also entirely new. The dark forest air around you seems to hum and swirl with a symphony of words unspoken and you almost begin to feel dizzy. Rook raises his head to meet your gaze and you barely stop yourself from gasping at the sharp, almost tangible longing you see in his eyes. You have never felt more seen, never felt more desired than you do at this moment. You feel utterly beautiful and powerful looking down at this enigmatic hunter.

Rook smiles up at you. It almost looks like his usual secretive smile but uncertainty and yearning dance at the corners. He raises his hand up towards you, palm facing the sky and his voice is dreamlike, lit up with hope and fear alike.

"So tell me, ma reine, my queen. Will you take my hand and cherish me? Or will you cast me aside and curse me? The choice is yours alone. What is your command?"

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst fanfic #twst rook #rook hunt #rook x reader #fluff and romance #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #bun-lapin écrit

[grimesgirll]

you love forcing your guys to watch tv with you.

snuggled up on the sectional together, there’s nothing you’d rather be doing with your saturdays.

your head is on daryl’s chest and your feet in rick’s lap while the old vhs tape plays an old episode of six feet under.

one of the alexandrians who’d passed long before your group arrived had a considerable hbo collection, along with some of the other most popular television series of your time before the end of the world as you knew it. from dvds of mad men to nip/tuck, there was enough to keep you preoccupied binging the best of the 2000s.

your duties in your new neighborhood kept you to a constant schedule but making time for tv wasn’t hard. slipping away to rock judith asleep in your arms was made easy with an episode of grey’s anatomy. it was nice to feel normal for once - like someone who wasn’t holing up behind ten foot high walls from hordes of the dead.

it’s even nicer getting your busy, go-getters to simply sit and enjoy your company, and the glow of the tv.

having never had a tv aside from the busted flatscreen merle’d once ditched at his place before everything went down, you were shocked when daryl told you he didn’t have a favorite show. it seemed every dvd or vhs you inserted had the man mocking the media.

dexter is dumb. arrested development’s cast consists of assholes. house bored him. psych too. and don’t get him started on desperate housewives.

at least you could count on wrestling rick into the couch for an episode of cops. rick’s rambling on everything the show got right and wrong was worth it if you could get him off his feet, because then it wouldn’t be long before you were teasing a foot along his leg.

still on top of daryl, you’re hoping the two pick up on what you’re putting down without you having to be too obvious. rick ruins your perfectly scripted scene with a single clearance of his throat. that’s all it takes for his attention to be diverted from the screen and for a hand to settle on your foot.

your tongue swipes across your lips. your twinging foot eventually brings rick’s attention from the limb to your lust addled expression. daryl’s probably half asleep. he doesn’t give a fuck about cops.

“they’re all gettin’ caught doin’ some dumb shit merle’d do,” he’d gruffed when you first played the title.

regardless, he’s relaxed beneath you. the hand wrapping your frame into him pulling him close. a lightly planted hand on your breast that lures your gaze back to his. you curl into the warmth of his arms and into a balmy kiss.

rick blisters his own impressions onto your calf. “ah,” you hum off-guard into daryl’s mouth. that only spurs the sheriff further up your thigh until you feel a finger over top the crotch of rick’s your boxers. between two pairs of masterful mouths, you could care less about cops. you have your own pulling down your underwear with his teeth and an outlaw on your lips. the latter is laying a hand on your head, savoring the feeling of your soft hair beneath his rough, calloused hand. you don’t mind it at all when he ushers you crushingly closer.

“were you even watchin’?” rick asks, the breath of his laughter panting onto your thigh.

“a bit,” you admit in a puff of breath. “cops is boring.”

“say that again,” daryl snarks into your neck.

rick shakes his head. those bronzed locks brush against the sensitive skin of your thighs, with rick now situated front and center facing your dripping core. he parts the light bush you’ve been maintaining to spread open your plush pussy. cool air makes you whine just as the roving pucker on your pulse point pulls the same sounds from you. “you want a finger? or my mouth?” rick leaves it to you.

you choose the hybrid option.

rick should know that you live for the way he prods you open with a nice fat finger, then letting his tongue wander up and down your clit.

knowing you inside and out, rick is ready to do just that. so it only makes sense that his tongue and a thick finger is already driving you up the sofa, so far gone already that all you can do is muffle your cries with daryl’s mouth.

the brother of georgia’s most wanted has no problem absorbing your pleasure. in fact, he works in near tandem with rick to get your heartbeat racing on both ends. fingers fall into a deft hold on your breasts, going from groping to taunting the buds popping up through your thin long sleeve. bunched up over your chest or your head seems to be the only fate that typically befalls that shirt. the thin material is always accenting your headlights in a cold room or straining holding back your bust enough that your boys always take note of it.

daryl loves it. loves getting a fistful of the flowy, flexible, blue and white flowered fabric. loves it even more when it’s out of his way. bunched up over your tits, it goes. “you gon’ come, pretty girl?” daryl questions, ducking down to capture your breast in his mouth.

you don’t know what to say. the answer is obvious but your words are mere babbles and all you do is moan and huff and pant yes.

all you can see of rick is that fluffy mop of brown. hands dug into your hips, he’s not relenting even as your clit pulses beneath his tongue. he only takes it as an opportunity to run his skilled appendage along the single pronounced ridge of your pleasure point.

“rick takin’ care of ya’? givin’ you a break from the pig show?”

you feel a snort against you, but it’s not long before you’re bucking your hips against rick’s face and he’s steadying your hips. that damn tongue just has to drag against you and you’re ready to flop off the couch. you can barely manage a smile at daryl’s dig because your mouth is contorting into an open o shape - o for orgasm because that’s the only thing on your mind. not the dead stalking the gates upon hearing a single human breath, not the responsibilities of running the community within those gates, not worrying about who’s on watch, definitely not anything other than the burst of delight coursing through you.

sunlight tumbles through the windows onto the perfect center of the living room. it would be blinding rick had he not still been between your thighs. squeezing your eyes shut, the last thing you see is rick’s sunlit head grooving up and down.

feeling snug on rick’s two fingers is enough for you to feel completely unbound. clenching but not clamping like daryl is now on your tit.

“fuck me,” you groan. the vulgarity comes out wispy as the man flattening his tongue and pancaking a new finger to your soaked clit steals your breath.

the denim hardness beneath you has you guiding daryl’s mouth from your chest to your face for another kiss. your hand is wound in his hair, almost like the kiss could distract you from the overstimulation rick’s so hellbent on.

a stripe of gold beams across your faces - and rick’s - so once you’re parting from the messy mash of tongue and lip you’d shared with daryl, the sight of rick has you squeezing your thighs again. with a finger still inside of you, rick’s slowly massaging your newly drenched cunt, and he’s never looked better. pink glossy lips have you yearning for a taste.

luckily, you and rick are always on the same page, thus, he’s leaning up on forearms to croon, “wanna taste yourself, baby girl?” and with a sure nod, your mouths are connecting so you can sample the fruits of your labor.

a hand on daryl’s dick, a bit of maneuvering on your part, and some sweet sounds from rick are all it takes for the television to be ignored. it feels like you’ve all fast forwarded through a season of cops by the time anyone recognizes the television’s still on but no one gives a damn. not when there are better distractions.

#the walking dead #twd smut #rick grimes #daryl dixon #rick grimes smut #rick grimes x reader #twd #twd imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #rickyl x reader #rickyl smut #sorry for the clunky writing #I’m rusty #not beta read #f/m/m #reader’s pleasure centric #ditzy thought fr #alexandria #andrew lincoln #norman reedus #this was rushed but loved #grimesgirll