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corollaservant · 24 days

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The Host // Chrollo x f!Reader (18+)

Synopsis: Chrollo likes you, you remind him of someone he knows. Better yet, you might just be her. He's hosting a show tonight and you're starring in it.

Warnings: noncon/dubcon, yandere, kidnapping, drugging, manipulation/coercion, knives, oral and penetrative sex, psychosis/schizophrenia, stalking, 1 insensitive rape remark, Sarasa mentions (Chrollo's childhood friend), spoilers for the manga, would add more but it kinda ruins it.

A/N: inspired by Phantom Troupe's flashback in the Succession Contest arc + brainrot + my eternal love for Chrollo, played intentionally with the verb tenses // wanted to try something different.

The party. That’s right, you were at a party, a drink in your hand and your friend with you. Where was the party? A sharp pain pierces your cranium and you wince. What ever happened to your friend? You decide you can't show empathy at present time.

It was commonly assumed that memory followed a chronological sequence, that the human brain could recall memories exactly like they unfolded but in all honesty, memory recalling happened in fragments for most. The party. Your friend. The colors of the light. A man.

A man. Who was the man and what were you talking about, you try to think but it’s kind of hard when you can’t see, you’re blindfolded and tied to a chair. Earthy odor, smells like soil, you note. Not that this takes you far. You had definitely been drugged, you felt weak and nauseous (it was a wonder the stills popped in your head) eyes so tightly folded, the little shapes and colors from the pressure increasing your fatigue, your heart palpitating. Was this date rape? You couldn’t touch yourself to find out but you felt intact. This was also not a date. Then why the abduction and ropes? To offer something, you think. But you didn’t have much to offer for the record. You try calming yourself down but the thought only stresses you further. Fuck, how long was this going to take?

Chrollo never did things without reason. Never talked without it, stole without it (debatable, but they were in need), never acted without it or killed without it. You being there was no mistake, he was wondering how you felt at the moment, not very familiar with human emotions, they all seemed wary, he thought, so he often brushed them off, not caring enough to dig deeper. Chrollo listened, he never talked. He could sit through a Troupe meeting actively hearing the members, knowing fully well when stupid proposals and ideas were spouted as they all patiently waited for his final word. He didn’t mind, he thought it was funny how people unraveled without him trying. His decision on you, he had to admit was made on impulse. He didn’t mean to drug you. He didn’t mean to abduct you. Unlike you, he remembers details. Him and the Troupe were in a club (silly to assume for entertainment, a stolen prize now decorating the heist gallery in one of the Troupe's hideouts) when he saw you. You weren’t far, a couple inches away, drinking clumsily and conversing with a person he presumed was a friend by the proximity of it. You had her eyes, he thought. Of course he could see perfectly in the dark, well, he could pretty much use any of his senses to a higher extent, he wouldn’t be a Specialist after all. Your wide eyes gleamed, they squinted when you couldn’t listen. To make matters worse, you had your hair in pigtails, loosely falling down your shoulders, long hair divided by two black hair ties. Just like hers, he thinks. Now, Chrollo is not sentimental, he really isn’t, but the optic parallels cloud his judgement and he wants nothing more but to be by your side, to reminisce the part of him that died a long time ago. He can’t cry, not unless he has a reason- he does nothing without it, but feels touched merely by your presence. Once the decision is finalized, he makes a move.

‘’Excuse me, miss’’ a voice rings behind you. A tall man with dark brown hair and gloomy eyes holds out your house keys, you always shoved them in your pockets, as you considered it safer than your purse, not directly attached to your body.

‘’T- thank you’’ you stammer, you’ve had a couple of drinks as the club lights hit on your face making you stumble against him, the guy behind you dancing so carelessly you’re being pushed left and right either way.

‘’Be careful’’ he smiles as he extends his arm to hold you upright, a mournful look on his face as he walks away. The keys. The man. The drink. Dark. There is no memory of what happened after.

It’s the same voice you hear entering the room, was it even a room? The sounds echo as if you are in a cave.

‘’Finally, here you are darling.’’ he smoothly says as you scream the first thing that comes to your mind ‘’What the fuck do you want?’’. Your voice rips through the ‘cave’ but you are certain it makes no difference. Whoever this is, doesn’t worry about the helpless sounds you’re about to make.

‘’Darling, please don’t yell, I’m right here.’’ the voice of the man inches closer, as the blindfold is being removed from your hurting eyes. Your heart races when you see him in all his glory, ominous stare and a tattoo decorating his forehead (did he have this at the club?), blue orb-shaped earrings, a peculiar attire that reminds you of a Victorian vampire- a long coat with feathers all the way down his ankles and some funny boots. His calm expression while supposed to be relaxing, just increases the nausea in the pit of your stomach, he seems familiar with such processes. As for the place, it isn’t coming to your aid either, you can’t recognize what this used to be (a warehouse? a prison? an actual cave for outcasts in the city suburbs?). You feel the known sensory feeling well up in your eyes, it’s starting to become serious.

‘’W-what to do you want?’’ you utter, unable to scream, well you could but see no point.

‘’Are your hands in pain my darling?’’ his eyes look over your tied wrists with concern as he flinches looking at the knot. ‘’I told Feitan to go easy on you.’’ ‘’Well.. he just never listens.’’

‘’What do you want from me?’’ you cry out, since is he not responding to your questions. You want to scream and beg him to let you go, he didn’t assault you so what does he even want? You had no use to a person, as far as you knew, an unessential addition to people’s lives.

‘’My sweet darling..’’ he murmurs as he prolongs the sentence, his words making the bile rise in your esophagus and travel to your mouth, your nausea from the drugging never really went away.

What sick game is this?

‘’Please excuse the sudden change of heart after our brief encounter at [ ]. I was hoping you can understand that I wanted you here today for a very special reason.’’ he starts and your heart’s thrumming, as you silently beg him to get to the point. You want out of there immediately.

‘’Please!’’ you yelp frustrated ‘’ just tell me.’’

‘’How about I show you? Hmm?’’ he responds, his velvety voice making you gag. ‘’Shalnark!’’ he calls and a blonde guy (boy?) makes an appearance holding a.. tripod and a digital camera, which he sets right next to him, adjusting the tripod’s legs and connecting the mounting head with the camera.

‘’Everything's set up, anything else boss?’’ this guy literally beams as your eyes widen, was this a perverted farce? What did the guy mean with fucking boss?

‘’W-what is this?’’ you yelp but ‘boss’ has his a attention directed at the blonde guy.

‘’Think you’re forgetting something, Shalnark..’’ he playfully scolds the boy and the boy’s eyes light up as if having a sudden godlike revelation.

‘’You’re so right, boss!’’ he widely smiles as he exits.

‘’W-what are you gonna do?’’ you are crying, indescribably anxious as you can't think straight – the psychotic simulation suddenly makes you wish it would’ve been a date rape.

The boy comes back and this time he is holding a wireless microphone, which he passes to the ‘boss’, his name unknown and not your concern at the moment as he wordlessly leaves you once again to his mercy.

‘’Now, sweetheart’’ you flinch at the choice of words, ‘’I would like for you to hold this right here.’’ he tells you indicating the microphone ‘’I’m gonna untie you, please think carefully of your next move’’ he says as he comes close to you, removing the ropes and freeing your bruised wrists. Your eyes flicker, should you try this? He knows. He sees you. He is a Specialist after all, he has a reason. The split second your left foot is turned towards his right side, a wide knife with a sharp blade is pressed to your neck, while you’re being headlocked to his sides. This happens so fast you hardly have time to comprehend it.

‘’Sweetheart’’ he sighs. ‘’The knife’s not just sharp, it’s also poisonous, so please behave.’’ He goes about it as if he deals with things like that daily, you feel your legs trembe and almost snap but he lifts you up and places you back to your initial spot. What kind of a psychotic freak has a poisonous knife on them? And why are his reflexes so fast?

‘’Will you please hold this, darling?’’ he patiently asks again, as he hands the microphone over, your hands shaking and you take it, eyes wide in fear.

‘’Now’’ he smiles. ‘’We’ll go over the script, oh..it’s been such a long time since I’ve done this!’’ he exclaims looking.. happy?

He hands you over a paper with a language you can’t understand and small dialogues, you take it it’s a German variation, as there’s these funny dots over the vowels but also has some incomprehensible words and you can’t make the distinction. On the bottom there’s this image of some superheroes with cleaning devices, one holds a broom, the other one a mop. Nothing makes sense and you feel exhausted as you try to negotiate a way out. Maybe he is just a freak who wants a stupid script played out, maybe it’s that. Maybe you will be able to be free, to see your cat again. Maybe. Logic has left you, but you don't seem to notice.

‘’W-will you.. please ..let me go.. after?’’ you whisper, ready to hear the worst when he simply replies:

‘’My precious, of course! Please grant me this favor and I will set you free immediately, I ask for you to forgive previous gestures on my behalf, it just happens that they mean so much to me’’ as you suspiciously eye him up, this is not a time for bargains or reason so you’ll comply to the freak’s needs.

You start reciting as he cuts you off. ‘’More passion, my angel, you need to say it aloud, shout out the line!’’ and you sniff, what a fucking weirdo.

He makes you retake the incoherent dialogues multiple times, cutting you off, correcting you, shouting at you for not waiting for his part. Of course he assigned himself the leader role, must've been some god complex, no wonder from a perverted mind like his.

It is around the middle of the play, when you mispronounce a word that he seems agitated as he approaches you. He slaps your face with malice, an ominous stare, his eyes burning as you let the microphone fall from his hand’s impact.

‘’You mispronounced this, she’d never do that.’’ he spits and you start feeling a new round of tears forming in your eyes, who she is and what you had to do with her not making any sense in your mind. You start sobbing as you mewl out brokenly.

‘’I-im sorry, we..w-we can redo this, please..’’ and he stares at you, the same pitiful expression on his face. He doesn't look upset though, all that pent up anger left him, the more he looks at your pretty eyes, how could he stay mad at you? You were after all the person he used to care for the most. A veiny hand approaches your now disheveled pigtails (pigtail in actuality, as one hairtie had fallen off during your abduction) and his fingers twirl around it. His lower half close to your face as you look up at him. He is absentmindedly staring at your hair when he kneels down to your height.

‘’I’m sorry’’ he smiles. ‘’Would you forgive me, my darling?’’ his breath fanning on the red mark and your parted mouth. Tears are staining your cheeks as he swipes his thumb to 'clean' you. The proximity gives you chills, his composure remarkable and you hesitantly avert your eyes as you gulp.

‘’Y-yes, sir’’ you whisper, ‘l-let’s continue this’’ you were eager to be let free, eager for this twisted game to end.

‘’No, we shall not occupy ourselves with my play anymore, Sarasa.’’ he tells you.

Sarasa? Who the fuck is this and what did you have to do with her?

You didn’t like the new proximity, it made you anxious, his hands were cupping your jaw as he stood up and tightly grasped the loosened pigtail.

A prominent bulge was decorating his pants and while you tried to avert your eyes, you couldn't help but notice it. His finger grazed over your lips as he slid one in your mouth, observing you from above the whole time, a sigh escaping his lips when he heard you gag.

‘’Suck on it...’’ he orders, ‘’please, darling’’

There was no plea in this tone, just authoritative command. You did as asked and he readjusted his legs. You guessed what was coming and you wanted this to be over, there was no escape but if sucking him off meant you got to be free you’d be more than willing to do that.

He unzips his pants, sliding them down together with his boxers as his cock springs free, he is probably the biggest you've ever seen and you feel anxious thinking of him in your mouth. He must’ve noticed because he chuckles and approaches you. You were about to shut your eyes and start the lewd act when he stepped aside and tied your wrists behind your back again. Left with your mouth hanging open, a victim to his merciless desires, he put his fingers in your mouth again. Your saliva coated the digits, which he removed and placed cautiously on his cock, stroking himself to the sight of you, stricken with fear and quivering, his good Sarasa, how he had failed to protect her, as he continued to jerk himself off in front of you. The scene is lewd, his naked torso protruding over his ridiculously oversized feather coat, his cock oozing his precum and making wet sounds coming in contact with your saliva and a tormented face – his head's arched back and slow ‘’im sorry’’s exit his mouth. You feel a sting in your core looking at him and the vague bile you had in your throat makes you audibly gag. How can you be thinking like this right now? But your body isn't run by your superego, your moral compass doesn't dictate your body’s instincts as your legs are unconsciously brought together to alleviate the pain.

He is getting himself off, glancing at you, knowing you drink him in and his strokes become faster when he suddenly touches your lips with his thumb and parts your mouth only for an angry cock to slam against your throat without a warning, thrusting in and out of you. He hisses and grabs your head to push your mouth and nose all the way down, he wants his release and wants it now. You can't breathe or shout or protest in any way, only wiggling your tied hands and crying out in pain, which comes off as groans that reverberate on him and he crumbles, falling apart, moaning and shooting all his release down your throat. Snots and tears fall on his cock and he slowly removes himself.

‘’What a mess you made, darling’’ he sighs, composure quickly regained.

You were responsible for this?

‘’I hope the camera is still on, because I am intending to punish you, Sarasa’’ he said. ‘’You only had one line, my angel, one line in the entire play and you couldn't make it. You know how much this upsets me?’’ his voice almost breaks, the whole ordeal messing you up even more.

You seriously couldn’t understand him at all, you wanted to get out, your throat already hurting from his penetration and fearing for the next part. You knew it would involve sex and shuddered at the realization he would have to touch you..down there. The thought that you had been wet up until he came in your mouth, the fact that he would soon enough know this, the fact that you had been involuntarily aiding his mission by complying to his cruel needs made you feel vile but you had no time to process that as you felt two arms cutting the ropes quickly, letting you free from the chair you were tied to.

You jump up before realizing it, you’ll run you think (you really don't have time to think, you act solely on instinct) but his agility prevails once again, fast reflexes have your neck choked as he grabs you from behind, the knife with the black handle against your artery as you halt.

‘’This was my last warning, sweetheart, please comply before it’s too late.’’

He is dragging you back, forcing you to turn around, his cock still free and semi hard, was he seriously turned on again by your futile attempts for freedom?

What a sick person he was.

He languidly sits on the chair with his coat draping and touching the floor as he positions you on his bare lap. You draw a sharp breath, as you feel him under you, a disgusting cock rubbing your clothed entrance as he sighs and pulls you in an embrace. He smells like cedar, you think, cedar and sweat as he brings his lips to yours, connecting them softly. You keep them shut, your eyes open and he knows it because he quickly pulls away. ‘’Darling, why don’t you kiss me?’’ he murmurs. You feel a sharp blade trailing down your spine, his knife moves to your sides and pokes at the flesh as he brings his lips close again. Your skirt reminds him of hers and it makes him desperate for closure, he'd protect her better this time, he thinks as his stiff cock touches your panties connecting your heat to his and making you softly whine, sounds you can't control. ‘’Please..’’ he whispers as you connect your lips to his. You let yourself get lost in the moment, your freedom is close but the more you think about it, the more anxious you become and his sadistic tendencies leave no space for slip ups. His mouth devours yours, as it clashes against you, his tongue overlapping yours, of course he'd be in control, while the knife rests on your lower back. You start grinding down his length, hands digging at the roots of his hair as you feel yourself lubricated against your will, you wanted this to be over, that’s what you tell yourself.

With a hand behind your back holding the knife and the other one free, he decides to feel your silky softness, test it for himself, his good girl, how obedient she is under his touch, how eager to be punished for her wrongdoings. He teases your entrance, as he smears the wetness gathered around, you choke on a moan, your still functioning conscious and pride making you want to stay silent but that's impossible with a hand around your clit, a finger sliding with ease inside your walls, curling up and poking inside you. The knife also doesn't leave you with another choice.

‘’I want you to call out my name’’ he hums as he continues his rhythm, you are slowly coming undone on his fingers.

‘’W-what’s your name, sir?’’ you manage to breathe out in between thrusts, you’ve been trying to simultaneously fuck yourself on his fingers, the pressure building up steadily within you.

‘’Chrollo’’

What a funny name.

‘’P-please..Chrollo’’ you whimper, it's when he decides to remove his fingers from you.

‘’Oh, Sarasa’’ he sighs, ‘’you’ve misbehaved enough today, I really wanted to punish you, you know?’’

‘’N-no, p-please, Chrollo’’ you purr his name. At this point calling you Sarasa doesn't even bother you, you got accustomed to it some time ago.

Something in the way you hum his name makes his eyes flicker and he wordlessly drops the knife behind him, as he squeezes his cock to line up with your entrance.

‘’Don’t think I don’t have other means to restrain you, darling’’ he mutters and pulls you down on him, giving you no time to adjust to his girth, the head slamming against your insides as you let out a lewd moan.

‘’S-sir’’ you moan, as you're sucking him in, taking every inch as best as you can given the circumstance, you are dripping down his length, as large palms viciously grope your behind, smashing your hips down his pubic bone. Your pretty face bouncing atop him, wide eyes (oh these eyes) looking at his now fully darkened ones and he watches his pretty girl come apart, soft moans leaving your smudged lips, pigtails now fully disheveled as your hair bounces freely on your delicate shoulders. He observes your mouth, how beautiful it looks each time it curves and smiles at him, each time you’d tell him ‘’Look at what I found!’’ excitedly, a tape among the junk, a broken toy– you were his favorite companion. Chrollo feels himself jerk within your walls, you're trapping him inside and he won't last long.

‘’Come for me, please’’ he hisses, pushing your hips in a way that has your clit touching his groin, you are gripping his hair fervently as you let out small ‘fuck's (involuntarily, you convince yourself) and rock yourself on his length.

He is inching you closer to your relief despite your disdain and you can tell he is there with you, parted mouth leaving shaky, pleading blabbers, as he grabs your hair and twists it in his palm, tugging at it harshly. You are forced to throw your head back so it gives him the opportunity to assault your neck, sucking and biting on it, the sensation tingling and arousing as you come apart, an orgasm taking over you.

‘’C-chrollo’’ you sing, pleasing him and making him groan and cum once again inside you, your core spasms and tightens, clit pulsating and muscles taut as he thrusts upwards to fill you up as much as anatomically possible, his cum seeping from within onto his thighs. He's marked you his twice and doesn't think he'll ever forget.

‘’My good girl’’ he exhales shakily, ‘’my precious, little girl’’ he continues, rubbing your back, as your weight falls on him, the knife tossed behind him looks at you and you shut your eyes.

Chrollo lets you go. He doesn’t order you a ride or have the blonde guy escort you. You have to walk 45 exhausting minutes to find a bus stop and even then, you hardly recognize the area.

Chrollo leaves for the next 6 months, not communicating anything to the rest of the Troupe, people overestimate their closeness. He replays your video every night while he’s away fighting and earning (stealing) abilities, your beautiful, expressive eyes haunt his dreams, Sarasa would like you if she met you. Sarasa would make friends with you. Sarasa, you. What's the difference?

He comes back only to find you sleeping, so peacefully he rejoices at the sight. Absolutely perfect and innocent, he tainted you and you didn’t even care? He smiles. He tells himself you're a bad girl for sleeping with your doors unlocked, just like Sarasa liked to wander on her own and look where that got her. Maybe the door wasn’t unlocked, it’s something he finds irrelevant now. He had kept his promise, he thinks. You should be grateful he’s honest.

#hunter x hunter #chrollo x reader #tw dark content #hxh fanfic #yandere chrollo #chrollo hxh #sarasa hxh #chrollo lucilfer x reader #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo smut #chrollo x you #tw psychosis #tw dubcon #tw noncon #corollaservant

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stygianoaths · 1 year

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There are times where I wonder if Luke asked Dionysus to cure his mother, you know, what with Dionysus being the god of madness.

I like to believe that Luke had offered to steal the best bottle of wine there is to be stolen in the world, a solemn promise from the son of Hermes.

"No one would know," he whispered earnestly.

Not even the gods.

And maybe Dionysus had laughed at the idea, no matter how intriguing it was, because of course a demigod of mere fifteen would be so bold yet naive to strike deals with gods so much bigger than he. He shut the child down on the spot. He wouldn't fall for such nonsense.

"And risk my father's wrath? You mock me," he drawled. He had made it a point to omit the fact he was not going to tamper with his uncle's curse either. It was off-limits after all, just like that troublesome nymph. He flicked the dirt from his nails, ignoring the way Luke shook on the spot.

"Well? If that's all you better get going, Lucius," he had said.

And Luke's wrath bubbled over in return.

"What good are you gods for, if you won't help us? You're so useless," he scoffed.

Dionysus's eyes lit up in purple at the jab and he got up from his chair. The ground shook as vines broke through the earth. Something felt off yet familiar with the way Luke did not cower at the display of power. Tch, heroes and their bravado.

"We gods do not owe you mortals anything."

"Yes, you do?" Luke retorted with incredulity, dragging a chair to the side as he inched on Dionysus, uncaring of the purple flames that had begun to circle them, the vines that were dangerously close to tugging him by the ankle.

"You owe your entire existence to humanity! We wrote your stories and remembered you! We fought your battles and we died for you!"

"And?" Dionysus laughed, though there was no humor behind it, "I don't care. You can come up with a thousand sob stories, Luis, and I still won't care. I've seen it all and it's all the same. You demigods are nothing but mayflies, destined to die early since the day you were born."

That seemed to silence the boy.

"Of course, I'll make sure to tell all of that to Castor and Pollux. I'll tell them Pops doesn't give a damn if they die now or later, because apparently it doesn't matter anyways. Tell them how he knew what demigod life would be like for them and still went ahead and brought them into this world anyways."

Or not.

"Take their names out of your mouth, boy," Dionysus warned, vines seizing at Luke's wrists and knees.

"Or what? You're gonna drive me insane just like Mom?"

Dionysus wanted to tell him that he was pretty much halfway there, with the way Luke wore that look of hysteria that bordered on madness. It was so faint yet tangible all the same. Dionysus wanted to push the kid to the limit, see him snap.

"Oh, but that would be too easy!" he sneers, "no, I was thinking more of that little sister of yours you so adore, Annie Bell, her name was? Yes, yes I think madness would look absolutely delicious on a daughter of Athena."

There was absolutely nothing to back up that threat, but it seemed to hit the mark.

Luke had crumpled completely, like something hit him hard in the stomach. Dionysus's lips twitched up in victory. If the boy wanted to play dirty and mention family, then it was only fair he would too.

"Fuck you," Luke whispered, tears cornering in his eyes.

Before the god could act on his threat, however, the sound of trotting hooves nearing towards the Big House made their way through the windows.

Dionysus sighed, raising a hand to release the vines' hold on Luke. He did not want to listen to Chiron's lecture on how threatening the lives of demigods isn't "Camp Director" like.

Luke, on the other hand, slammed the door behind him, scaring off the harpies perched on the roof of the Big House. Dionysus had half a mind to choke the kid with grapevines for the act of insolence.

Chiron came through that same door, placing a hand on the side of it while he looked backwards.

"With that anger, he will get himself killed too early," he murmured with concern. Dionysus snorted, letting the vines return to the soil, the flames around him dying down.

"They all do."

Oh, how he would eat those words, watching Castor's shroud burn.

He was too young. Too young.

A nagging voice reminds him that so was Luke. So was Thalia. So was Annabeth. So was Percy. So was Nico. So was nearly everyone that huddled around the pyres, holding each other and sobbing. Gods, they were crying. War was never kind.

Even that daughter of Ares, who would rather be caught dead than vulnerable, let slip a few tears, and her hissed out "are you happy now?" as she shoved herself past the god of wine will haunt him for millenias to come.

If only he had tried to save May Castellan, given her back to Hermes the way he was supposed to, maybe his son would be standing here with him and watching the pyres light up the night.

Instead, all he could do was listen to Pollux's hysterical screams while Hermes pulls Castor up by the hand, taking the newly deceased to a place where Dionysus can no longer follow.

#in which i bonk dionysus with the 'feel remorse you bastard' sledgehammer #also this is my explanation as to why he helps chris rodriguez get his sanity back because his character arc felt a little choppy #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #dionysus #luke castellan #annabeth chase #may castellan #hermes #percy jackson #thalia grace #clarisse la rue #castor #pollux #chiron #nico di angelo

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all-mirth-no-matter · 1 year

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Time After Time | Chapter Eight

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader, Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character

Summary: Chapters two through seven from Tommy’s POV.

Warning: language, smoking, war mention(ish), PTSD mention(ish), suicide thought, ethnic slur

Side Note: Taking some liberties with some of the back and pre-pilot stories, as well as some of the stuff we just don’t know (Harry’s backstory and involvement in the war, as an example). Just go with it lol.

ao3 link | catch up on tumblr here

Chapter Eight: Devil Inside Me

There’s a devil inside of me, and he’s holding on. And I don’t know if he’s staying, or for how long. Pulling at my heart-strings, kicking in my mind. And I’m sad to say he’s got me thinking, about the bad parts of my life. — Devil Inside Me, Frank Carter & The Rattlesnakes

Tommy was a dead man, walking through a life he knew he shouldn’t be walking, breathing an air that he shouldn’t be breathing. The realization that he hadn’t in fact died, or that he was actually going to go home, hadn’t even set in until hours after he stepped out of the train station the day they all came home.

Well, not all of them came home. The faces of those he left with, who he fought with, who hadn’t been “as lucky” as him were always there, flashing just behind his eyelids with each blink.

Ghosts of a fate that should have been his.

He knew he wasn’t the same Tommy Shelby who’d left those handful of years ago. None of the men who were returning with him were. He could see it in Polly’s eyes the moment she saw them — a relief that was immediately replaced with a new coat of worry.

Looking around as he stepped off the train, he was surrounded by men of all ages embracing their loved ones, crying, weeping. He watched John cradle his wife’s face as he kiss her, his children surrounding his legs. He watched Ada hug Arthur, then Freddie, before pulling him in for an extra tight hug. Tommy should have felt that same level of relief that he could see on his brothers and best mate’s faces, to be walking on English soil.

But he still felt like a dead man. And it was all because of her.

The first face Tommy saw as he stepped off the train was hers — the same face he saw while he laid in the mud. Another ghost, standing amongst the sea of people.

The girl seemed just as surprised to see him as he’d been, and in a moment she was dropping her head and turning to leave. Tommy started to move forward faster, determined to reach her before she disappeared again. But by the time he breached the crowd in front of him, she was gone, and the cries of welcome from Polly, Ada, Finn, Martha, and John’s kids pulled him out of his odd trance. But still, in the back of his mind he wrestled with whether she’d really been there in the flesh this time, or if she were just another vision.

Riding back into Birmingham, into Small Heath, and then walking down Watery Lane felt like a dream. His brothers and mates wanted to go to the Garrison first thing, but Tommy just wasn’t ready. After years of living in the trenches, the world around him felt very loud, very crowded, and he just needed a moment of peace in his old bedroom.

Polly had kept his room the same as when he left. The clothes and sheets were recently washed, she’d told them on their way in. Tommy wondered if he could even fit in those old clothes of his anymore, instead choosing to pull out a shirt to sleep in from his luggage, breathing in the familiar scent.

As he dug around further in his bag, he found the medals they’d given him. Acts of heroism and gallantry, the voices of those who’d presented them to him echoed through his mind as he scoffed. He picked them up and threw them in a drawer, then laid down on his bed. A few minutes later, he sat up and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. He could hear the cheers outside, the music, the merriment and excitement of the war end, of husbands and fathers and sons returning home.

Suddenly furious, he tore the drawer open and grabbed the medals and his coat, barreling out of his room and into the streets.

“Tommy!” A female voice he barely recognized called out to him from the outside of the Garrison.

He turned in time to Lizzie Stark wave a handkerchief at him, starting to walk his way. Ignoring her, he turned away and continued to walk, knowing that would be enough response to keep her from following as he walked down to the bridge. He waited at the ledge for a moment to see if anyone had followed him, but the music and merriment remained behind him as he pulled out a cigarette and looked down into the watery darkness of the Cut.

The canal always made him think about his mother — another ghost in his life — and he wondered for a moment how much better it would be if he joined her. He wasn’t supposed to be here anyway, how easy would it be to just lean his weight forward.

Right now, he reasoned that there were only two futures at play for him. He already saw the effects the war had on some of the other survivors, some of his comrades — the Flanders Blues.

Danny had nightmares, and now it was starting to effect his waking hours, taking him ages to come back even after he’d already awoken. And there were others who were suffering far worse — like Barney, who had what they were now referring to as shell-shock, and Tommy feared would never be able to shake it and wondered if he’d ever leave the institution they’d admitted him in.

Even now, Tommy could close his eyes and still hear the guns, the shouts, of shovels and picks breaking into the earth. He could feel the ever looming threat of breaking through the mud and finding the enemy — of always being so close to death.

He couldn’t even imagine a world where the things he’d seen would ever fade from his memory. The gore, the blood, the flesh. The smell of burning, of gas, of fire, of dirt, of blood.

Whether those who’d died had found their way to a better place, Tommy no longer believed such a place existed. There was only a hell, and he’d volunteered to enter.

The medals burned in his hand as he thought about all those ghosts — his friends, his comrades, even his enemies. They were gone, and he was here.

He thought back to what he’d said to his brothers and comrades after they found out the war had officially ended. That this was their second life, their bonus life. Even then, Tommy wasn’t sure if he actually believed what he’d said in the throws of victory, of finding out that they weren’t going to die after accepting their fates. But now, standing over the Cut, Tommy knew that the only option for him was the second option.

No one was ever going to put him or his family in the mud again. That one day, he’d build his family up so high that not even the King himself would be able to touch them. That was the only way they’d ever truly be able to find safety and peace.

Lifting the medals into the street light, he read the engraving one final time before letting them slip through his fingers. He closed his eyes until he heard the expected splash.

What he hadn’t expected to hear was a person exclaiming below the bridge.

“Oi!” Tommy shouted, suspicion that he’d been followed creeping into his paranoid mind. “Someone down there?”

Not waiting for a response, Tommy was already off the bridge and walking toward the underpass when he heard a woman respond.

“You almost took me out,” the voice quipped, the body still leaning over the waters edge near where the waves were still bouncing.

When the body straightened and turned toward him, he instantly recognized it.

It was her — it was you.

He breathed in deep, remembering his lit cigarette, and for a moment he had the thought that he’d actually jumped.

Tommy could tell by the look on your face that you recognized him as well, and that the fact that you were standing there together was just as a surprise to you as it was for him.

“You were at the train station,” he tested, moving closer to the street light to get a better view and hope that it would prompt you to follow suit. Which, you did.

The last two times he’d seen you felt different than this. Where before, even at the train station, you’d felt ethereal, otherworldly. Now, in this moment, you felt real, your body fidgeting uncomfortably as your eyes moved everywhere but refused to meet his own. He took the opportunity to get a better look at the mystery woman.

The first thing he noticed was how different you looked now than you had in his vision. You were dressed in something similar to what his sister had been wearing earlier that evening. And while your hair seemed slightly in disarray and face looked flushed, you looked just as beautiful as you had the first time he’d seen you.

His vision flashed before him, and he recalled the different version of you he’d seen. In his vision, you had on considerably less clothes, the recollection of your long, bare legs had him moving his eyes down your body.

When his eyes reached back up to your face, your eyes finally met his again and a blush crept across your cheeks. Part of him wondered if you could read his thoughts.

“I was,” you finally replied, your voice a little stronger than he’d expected. You motioned toward the water. “And you were throwing some medals into the river, yeah?”

Sobering up, Tommy felt his back straighten a little at the notion. He hadn’t expected you to notice what exactly he’d thrown into the water. He narrowed his eyes, took a long drag of his cigarette, and made some comment about how the fish could have them.

“Don’t think the fish’ll have much use for them,” you replied back, and he didn’t miss the way your eyes wrinkled and mouth flinched, as if holding back a smile at your own joke.

Despite himself, the sight actually amused him enough to breathe out a shrug. “Seems we have that in common, then.”

Not prompted at all by the thought of your legs from his vision, Tommy began to wonder how difficult it would be to persuade you to join his bed. It’d been a while since the last time he’d slept with someone.

Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he realized you’d indicated that you were leaving. He didn’t want you to leave though.

“You a whore?” He asked, reasoning that if he could pay you to stay with him, it’d be the easiest way to keep you from disappearing again.

It wasn’t a crazy question. There weren’t many women walking around alone, at night, in Birmingham, who weren’t offering some intimate services. He knew it was where his unmarried brother and mates would be ending their nights tonight. Hell, one of them was probably giving Lizzie the attention he’d denied her at this very moment.

He didn’t have anything against prostitutes, it was just another business transaction in his opinion. Plus, it was an easy way to have sex without the mess of feelings.

But the way you’d rounded on him, planting your feet just a step away from him as your face contorted into something different than the one he’d just seen, his opinion on the question changed.

You dove into a rant asking what the hell was wrong with him.

“No, I’m not a whore!” You’d finally said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t support a woman’s choice to sell her services to men who will pay if it means making enough to survive in this God awful existence!”

Tommy chuckled, realizing that the two of you felt the same way about the profession. “So, you aren’t a whore, but you respect ‘em, is that it?”

You rolled your eyes and the sight made him want to smile again. He reasoned that this woman before him had no idea who he was — no person in Small Heath outside of his own family dared to talk to him like this, much less roll their eyes at him without the fear of his blade cutting through them, male or female. You were fearless, it seemed — or stupid. Either way, for the moment it intrigued him.

“Everyone sells part of themselves for something eventually. Sometimes it’s a woman laying on her back for a man. Sometimes it’s a man crawling through the mud for a King.”

Your comment made Tommy shift immediately from amused and intrigued to angry.

No, you weren’t afraid of him, but you should be.

His eyes narrowed as he took a step closer to you, straightening his back and shoulders, expecting you to flinch. But you didn’t, and he couldn’t figure out why the refusal to back away or even break eye contact made him want to kiss you rather than punish you.

“You should go home,” he decided to say, choosing to soften his voice instead of raise it. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t stop himself from scanning down your face to your lips. “The next man you meet alone, under a bridge, at night, might not be as accepting to your ideologies as I am.” He darted his tongue out to lick his own lips when you pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth. While he was willing to let you get away with what you said to him this time, he still wanted to make you realize the vulnerable state you were in, how much power he really had. “If he says you’re a whore, he might treat you like one in spite of your pretty words.”

He watched you finally react, a shiver running through you as your eyes met his again. He noticed the blush on your cheeks deepen as you took a step back, telling him you appreciated the advice before a strong breeze caused you to wrap your arms around your body.

Tommy hadn’t even felt the cold since the minute he laid eyes on you, the adrenaline from marching down to the Cut and then finally getting to speak to you had his blood boiling. Without even realizing it, Tommy was shrugging his coat off his own shoulders and offering it to you, who hesitated slightly before accepting it. The sight of the oversized coat hanging around your shoulders made his chest tighten. He couldn’t figure out why it looked so right on you.

Before he realized it, you were stepping away from him toward the steps of the bridge. His eyes met yours again, and something shifted behind them. Before he could ask, you welcomed him home and turned to finally disappear into the darkness, leaving him alone by the water’s edge again.

Tommy didn’t know why he’d had a vision of you months ago. He didn’t know why he had met you tonight, or how it seemed you also knew about him. But he did know one thing — he was going to find out.

——

Despite his initial internal promise to find out more about the mystery woman, Tommy found his attention otherwise occupied as he threw his energy into building back up the family name and reputation. And despite Polly’s insistence that they take a few days to get back in the swing of things, Tommy spent all his free time reacquainting himself with the family books, starting with the furthest back and moving his way forward. He was happy to discover that true to her letters, Polly had been keeping the betting business going with no qualms. Even with the amount of men in the war, there was enough steady flow of cash to keep everything afloat.

The family business side of things hadn’t been as lucky. While still viable thanks in part to members of their gang who hadn’t enlisted, there had definitely been a drop in income. Tommy made a note of all the people he was going to need to visit.

He could feel Polly hovering as he read through the books throughout the days. Having grown up with his aunt practically raising him, he knew how overprotective she was over her kin, so part of him thought nothing of it at first.

He was nearly done with all the books, finally getting halfway through this year’s ledgers, when he discovered the real reason for Polly’s hovering.

“Polly!” he shouted from his office, standing up and grabbing both books he’d been looking at before moving into the kitchen. He threw the first book open on the table in front of his aunt and pointed to the margins. “Who the fuck’s handwriting is this?”

“Tommy—“ Polly began, moving quickly to close the doors to the bustling betting den.

“Who the fuck’s handwriting is this, hmm?” He tapped against the book pages harder, leaning against the table as Polly closed the other doors, concealing them from any eyes or ears that may have followed Tommy’s tirade. “Fuckin’ answer me, Pol.”

“I hired someone, alright Thomas?” her voice answered softly in contrast to his volume as she shook her head, waving him off. “You didn’t expect after all this time that we wouldn’t bring in new help.”

Tommy threw a second book on top of the first and pointed again at the same handwriting in the margins. “And what is the same fucking handwriting doin’ in the family book, eh?”

Polly held his gaze.

“Did an estranged family member show up while we were away? Perhaps a bastard looking for a father, or a long lost brother?”

She didn’t answer, her eyes narrowing at her nephew’s condescending questions as he went on, taking her silence as a no.

“Okay then, how ‘bout a new uncle? Did you get married and you just forgot to bloody mention it, Pol? Is there a new last name we should be calling ‘ya?”

“No,” Polly answered straight, crossing her arms defensively as Tommy rose up.

“No,” Tommy repeated as a mock and his body mirrored hers, crossing his own arms. “So, there is a non-family member auditing our family books then, yeah?”

“Yes,” Polly answered again.

Tommy took a deep breath, trying not to let his aunt’s stubbornness rile him up. There was information she was keeping from him, that she’d been keeping from him, and he wanted to know everything immediately.

“Go on, Pol,” he went on, his voice still even despite its rise a few moments ago. “Tell me what you were thinking.”

Polly held Tommy’s gaze for a moment before finally relenting, taking a deep breath that matched his own.

“She’s a friend of Ada’s—“

“Fucking hell—“ Tommy’s eyes shot upward as he felt his entire body groan at the mention of his sister.

He loved Ada, but the girl had never shown any interest in their business, either business, her entire life. In fact, the girl had never taken anything serious, so he couldn’t imagine the kind of company she chose.

“She’s smart, Thomas,” Polly insisted, the use of his full name showing her seriousness. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, handing it to him. “Here, see for yourself. That’s a list of everyone who has tried to steal or skim money from us since she started.”

Tommy opened the paper, and immediately recognized most of the names. Two had been men he’d hired himself years ago.

“It started with the betting books. Then I gave her one of our books just to see if she could spot anything. She didn’t know what it meant, just told her to cross check names and numbers.”

Tommy took another deep breath, “If she’s so smart, how do you know she didn’t know what it meant, eh? How do you know you can trust her?”

“Ask around,” she offered. “You’ll come to the same conclusion I did.”

“Where is she now?”

“I told her to stay away until you made your decision.”

“What decision is that? Whether to invite her back or kill her?” Polly’s eyes narrowed, and the reaction actually surprised him. He scoffed, “Really, ‘ave you gone soft on us now, Pol?”

She held her glare before raising her hand. “Just— just look into her first. Do that, and I’ll tell you everything I’ve learned. But, be discreet. Her employment was and still is a secret. Plenty of men were angry when we started taking care of that list.”

Tommy noticed some of the names next to the list had symbols next to them, understanding the meaning behind them. The two men he’d brought in both had black stars next to theirs.

“Any threats?” Without realizing, Tommy began to take a closer look at Polly, searching for any new cuts, scars, or faded bruises.

She scoffed, smiling as she shook her head. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Tommy took a deep breath, taking another look at the list. This really was impressive, and he was curious how exactly the girl had come to discover all of this. He’d paid close attention to her notes in the margins of the books and could already believe Polly’s insistence of her intelligence.

But that didn’t mean she was trustworthy. This wouldn’t be the first time they’d been double crossed or infiltrated by an enemy or copper.

“Fine. You’ve got a deal,” he finally said, folding the list up and putting it in his own pocket. “Just tell me her name.”

“Y/N.”

——

It didn’t take long for Tommy to find out where this Y/N lived and worked. Not only was the number of people moving into Small Heath minimal, but especially young women.

Tommy had been avoiding the pubs since he came home, he still wasn’t ready to dive back into the crowds. But he heard the rumors of a pretty, out-of-town barmaid at the Garrison, and his curiosity finally won over.

He thought his chances would be better if he went over early, and despite being gone for a few years, the old pub hadn’t changed a bit. Which meant, he knew exactly which nook and cranny to hide inconspicuously while the afternoon bustle began to ramp up.

So far, it was just Harry tending the bar, the sitting area still sparse enough for one person to manage. Tommy watched as a couple men filtered in and out of the snug, and an idea began to formulate as he waited.

He’d always liked the Garrison — it was conveniently closer to the house than any of the other pubs in the area, and it was slowly becoming the heart of the town for the everyday man. Presumably, all were welcome, even the men who preferred pubs that catered more toward the commies or Fenians.

And he liked Harry. The man had never treated he or his family any different for being gypsies — Tommy chalked that up to him coming from Irish travelers himself. Even after Harry began to pay the Shelbys for their protection, he’d still treated them without some of the passive aggressive bitterness that some other patrons held. There was always a layer of respect, of common sense, and even a hint of humor that Tommy always appreciated.

Even now, when Harry found him sitting in the dark corner of the bar with his paper raised like a shield, he hadn’t questioned and didn’t bring attention, an unspoken understanding it seemed and instead simply dropped a tumbler down in front of him and kept an eye on its fill level. And as if the man needed any more of a reason, Harry had fought in the war, up until he was sent home, and Tommy respected any man who fought for his country.

Yes, Tommy liked Harry, and decided in that moment to make the Garrison the Shelbys official pub.

He was beginning to formulate the deal proposal when the office door to his right opened and a body emerged. He pulled back up his racing paper, lowering it just enough so he could take in the backside form of a young woman as the door closed behind her and she walked toward the bar. He tried to listen as the women sat a book on the counter in front of Harry. The owner scratched his head as he looked at the page and shrugged. Tommy could read Harry’s lips as he shoved the book back toward the woman and told her he trusted her. She grabbed it and practically skipped away from the counter, obviously happy with the outcome of the exchange, and turned back toward the office door.

It was you.

The girl from his vision, from the train station, from the Cut.

You were Y/N.

Tommy felt his blood run cold at the realization and froze as you continued to look down at the book and walked right back into the office. You hadn’t seen him this time, and for that he was grateful.

Because right now, he was angry.

Who the hell were you, and what right did you have invading his space like this? First his mind, then his home, and now his business? Who the hell did you think you were?

His blood turned from ice to a boil as he stood up and stormed out of the front door. Tommy could feel Harry’s gaze follow him with a silent question that he knew better than to ask.

Tommy’s feet took him to the person who led him there: his aunt.

Polly was near the fire, stacking some of the logs from the shed in preparation for a cold night. It was mid-December now, and the days were growing shorter than ever. All outdoor chores had to be done before supper and Polly always liked to get everything squared up and out of the way before she had to begin.

She heard Tommy storm in through the front door, she could always identify the sound of his footsteps over his brothers, even at a young age. He was heavy in the heels and he was always in a hurry, walking with his shoulders forward. Polly took it as a sign that he would be a leader one day, always firm in his resolve and destined to forever chase a dream bigger than himself.

“Welcome back,” she said evenly, already feeling his attitude before he even made it through the doorway.

Tommy didn’t answer her, only moved to close the door behind him, and then the betting doors, despite the house being quiet at the moment.

Polly wiped her hands on her skirt and rose to look at her nephew, the sight bringing a crease to her brow.

Tommy was always composed, the number of times she hadn’t seen him so could be counted on one hand. But now, in front of her, she could add another count to her list as she reached for him.

“Tommy,” she started calmly, urging him to sit before taking the seat next to him. She was trying to decipher if his expression was one of anger, shock, or something worse. “Tell me, what is it?”

His eyes finally flicked up to his aunt, and the anger returned. “Y/N.”

Polly took in a deep breath, more of the picture starting to fall in place as her back straightened. “You saw her?”

He nodded.

“You talked to her?”

He shook his head.

Polly licked her lips and tightened them. “Why not?”

Tommy ran a hand over his face and assessed his aunt. He was contemplating whether he should tell her his vision. Polly was more in tune to visions and spirits than he was. And despite his outward skepticism of most things religious or religious adjacent, there was something deep within him that was never able to fully dismiss some of the mysteries that came from the Romani people. That’s why he was always respectful toward old gypsy women, and took extra caution to his aunt’s warnings. Same with Curly, his Uncle Charlie, and even his mother back in the day. Whether it was real or just something familiar from his upbringing, he knew without a doubt his aunt could have some insight into all this.

Hell, she probably already had some insight. It wasn’t lost on him that his aunt often knew things that he didn’t. And while usually that was something he trusted to use to the family’s advantage, right now he wanted to know everything.

“We’ve already met,” he decided to begin there, not totally lying but not divulging the whole truth yet. “The night we returned, down by the Cut. It wasn’t exactly the best of introductions.”

“Oh Thomas, tell me you didn’t —“

His brow creased at her response, noticing the look on her face and realizing what she must have thought. He breathed out of his nose, “Nothing like that, Pol. We just talked. I did ask if she was a whore and she nearly pushed me in the water.”

The corner of Polly’s lips flew into a smirk as she tried to refrain from chuckling. It was difficult though, she could only imagine what that must have looked like.

“Tell me what you know,” he continued, back to business. “This girl keeps showing up in my life and I want to know why.”

Polly took a deep breath, her smile turning serious as she leaned back in her chair. He wondered if she caught his use of the word ‘keeps’ and would push on it.

She didn’t, for now at least. “I told you I would tell you once you found out more for yourself.”

“I’ll keep looking into her — discreetly,” he added when he saw she was about to remind him of her secrecy. “But right now I know enough and if I don’t hear what you have to say it might make things worse.”

The anger he was feeling before crept back up. He thought about facing you again in this state, and truly he wasn’t sure how he’d react. Part of him believed he’d just torture you into telling what you wanted from him, who you were working for, what your game was. The other part of him believed he’d fling you over his shoulder and bring you to his bedroom. Both of which would be unhelpful to his current situation.

Something bigger was going on here. He could feel it. And he wanted to know what.

Polly was watching him during his internal battle and could sense his edge. She took a deep breath before nodding. “I believe she’s gypsy,” she stated simply. “Maybe not bred, but by blood.”

Tommy hadn’t expected Polly’s big insight to be this. He restrained himself from scoffing. “That’s it? Just because she might be gypsy you think she’s trustworthy to be privy to our family books?”

Yes, Tommy and his family came from a long line of Romani blood. But that didn’t mean it held any stock with him. Outside of his own family and extended family, other gypsies would be some of the last people Tommy would trust.

“I think she has a gift, Thomas,” Polly continued seriously. “The first day I saw her, the day she met Ada, she predicted the end of the war months before it happened. To the day.”

Tommy’s brow creased. “One correct guess and suddenly she’s a fortune teller?”

“It’s not just that. There was gossip when she first arrived. Mrs. Tully was chirping about a batty new tenant who finally arrived in the empty lodgings they’d been keeping. Said she acted like she’d been living under a rock all her life — didn’t even act like she knew there was a war going on. Strange that a girl who barely knew about the war could guess the exact date of its end, isn’t it?”

Tommy made a mental note to add Mrs. Tully to his list of people to question. “I suppose. But still doesn’t sound concrete to me.”

“Perhaps, but there’s one piece that solidified my guess,” Polly replied, straightening in her seat. “She has a tattoo on her back — I only caught a glimpse but I’m sure of what I saw. I’ve seen the symbol before, once, when I was a girl. The crest of the Delphi family.”

Tommy’s shoulders squared at the name. He, like most gypsies, were familiar with the name and the crest. It was one of the oldest Romani families still around, and there was a reason for that. Their age and their affinity for fortune telling deepened their pockets enough to provide them with muscle and protection. They were ruthless when wronged, and their leader was said to unleash unimaginable curses on her enemies.

And according to Polly — you, his mystery woman, had their symbol branded on your back.

He ran through the possibilities of what this could mean in his head. You could have been a family member who ran away, or a slave to one of the leaders. Polly had mentioned she didn’t think you were brought up in the gypsy life, and from the little bit of interaction he had with you, he was inclined to agree. There had to be a connection between this woman, this family, and his dream. Which was beginning to feel more and more like a curse, or an omen to stay away.

But then, why did every instinct fuel him to get closer, to find out more?

He got up from the kitchen table and began walking back toward the pub. He ignored Polly’s call behind him, obviously worried he’d do something irrational.

But Tommy was beginning to form a plan, a battle strategy, if you will. To defeat the enemy, you had to know the enemy. And whether Y/N fell in that definition for him or not, he needed to gather as much as he could before he made any call.

Over the next day, he managed to speak with Harry while avoiding you. It was easier to ask about you in the pretense of dangling a business proposal, claiming that he needed to trust his employees as much as the owner when it came to matters like this.

“Oh, ‘ya shouldn’t ‘ave a problem there,” Harry had told him.

“Forgive me for askin’, Harry, it’s just you don’t normally give jobs to women. Especially pretty women.”

Harry breathed out of his nose before waving his hand dismissively. “Findin’ anyone to work when I got back was bloody impossible, mate. And when I finally could find help, even if they was a girl, they’d end up spending more time makin’ their own money on the side, if’ya know what I mean.” Harry scoffed, shaking his head. “But let me tell ‘ya, Y/N’s been a dream since she showed up.”

Tommy’s back tightened at the use of phrase.

“She came in with all these ideas and improvements, ‘processes’ she calls ‘em. I tell ‘ya, I ‘aven’t met a more educated woman before in my life. I fought the changes at first, but dammit I can’t fight against less waste and more money. Oh, and don’t worry — I made sure she wasn’t a prostitute. Asked her ‘for I hired her.”

The corner of Tommy’s cheek rose slightly at the comment, curious if he’d been the latest of a long line of people asking her the same question.

“And you’re sure?” Tommy asked, just to scratch a curiosity. “Not even recreationally?”

Despite himself, Tommy couldn’t keep out the thought of your blushed cheeks down at the Cut, the way you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, and the bareness of your legs in his vision. He adjusted in his seat before forcing his mind to stop before it went too far, noting to make an appointment with Lizzie the next time he saw her.

Harry shrugged, oblivious to Tommy’s internal struggle. “She’s nice to the men at the bar, enough to keep the place calm and in good spirits. But I’ve ‘eard her turn down enough of ‘em to know she’s not interested in making an extra bob like that. Only once did I ‘ave to throw a man out for trying anything on her, and that was after she’d already damaged his boys herself. After that, the men seemed to get the message. She’s pretty though, and a good barmaid — think that’s why they keep comin’ back.”

Tommy breathed a short breath of amusement out of his nose at the thought of you fighting. Granted, he’d seen enough fights between Ada and John to know that women would hit where ever they could to get the upper hand in combat, and he didn’t blame her.

“I promise ‘ya, Tom,” Harry had continued talking. “You can trust her. Whatever business you want to do with me, Y/N could only make it better.”

“Give me a week to make my own assessment,” Tommy replied. They ironed out the stipulations of how Tommy could make such an assessment and agreed to keep it secret. He could sense Harry’s hesitation, and he wondered if it was out of protectiveness or something else.

But eventually, a handshake sealed the agreement and Tommy promised to have the deal finalized and ready by the time he finished.

A little more than a week later, and Tommy came to three absolute conclusions about you.

First: you had a secret. He could tell predominately by the way you talked to people and by the way you carried yourself when you thought people were looking. It wasn’t obvious — in fact, it’s subtlety was one of the more glaring identifiers to someone who was looking as closely as Tommy was.

Second: you weren’t a threat. At least, not to his family or their operation. Aside from the Garrison, your lodgings, the local grocer, and the bath house that he knew Ada frequented, you didn’t have any odd routes that previous coppers narcs had taken in the past. Y/N hardly had a life outside of the pub, Tommy realized, and found it strange. You didn’t go out with any men or friends, the way other women your age did. Hell, even Ada managed to leave the house at least twice a week to go out with her friends. But not you.

You were especially less threatening when he caught you on the first night you were closing up the pub since he began his investigation. Everything was going as expected, until about an hour into the clean up when you began to sing. From his spot (which he’d managed to obtain permission from Harry to watch from with the promise that he wouldn’t do anything unsavory or harmful) he could see and watch as you sang some foreign song and danced around frivolously with your broomstick.

It was hard to imagine you as some nefarious mastermind after watching you slip on a spot of tobacco spit on the floor while extending your arm in front of you and clasping your hand together, then jumping in the air as you shook your fist while singing some repetitive salutations to an invisible audience.

That had actually caused him to laugh, something he hadn’t done genuinely and wholeheartedly since returning to Birmingham.

The last conclusion Tommy made while watching you was the oddest, he thought.

You didn’t smoke. At all.

He didn’t know anyone who didn’t smoke. Hell, even Finn had been caught smoking a handful of times since the brothers returned. And he was ten years old.

Tommy chalked the last observation up to the air of posh-ness he sensed you possessed. He felt strangely drawn to it, and after your odd drinking game after he finally approached you did it only increase.

He still couldn’t quite get a read on you. There was an innocence he could see about you, especially when it came to your understanding of who he was and his place in this world. On the other hand, your eyes held a heavy weight to them that warned him not to underestimate you. That there was wisdom mixed with the innocence that he couldn’t quite detangle.

He’d gauged your reaction to his reveal that he’d dreamed about you. You’d been genuinely surprised, though that hadn’t brought him much reassurance. If anything, it made him more frustrated by the series of events, especially when he had to use every ounce of resistance not to kiss you.

You'd given him all the signs — hell, he probably could have bed you that night if he’d asked to walk you to your bedroom. But you weren’t just some random woman or a prostitute. He’d asked you to officially work again for their company, for their family. He couldn’t be flippant with his more primitive instincts with you.

Plus, if there was something more going on here, something deeper, he wanted to make sure he had all the answers before he made himself too vulnerable. He had not only himself, but his family to think about.

After he left you at Mrs. Tully’s, he began his search for Johnny Dogs, determined that some kind of explanation had to be found in the Delphi camp.

But now, you and him were here. And Tommy felt just as confused and frustrated as he had when they first met.

Just get through the night, Tommy told himself as he led a freaked out you toward the jovial crowd of gypsies dancing around the bon fire. The time for secrets must end.

>> next chapter << chapter masterlist

tag list: @cillixn @sidefanficaccounttohidemyshame @swordofawriter @sweetmilkshakeluminary @ttae-yong @topstory21 @cole-silas @moral-terpitude @optimisticsandwichgladiator @reallysparklychaos @enrapturedbythemoon @bat-shark-repellant @kpopslur @ilovestrngrthgs @musicsweetie21 @invisiblexcth @lovelydivs @whoisf4yryl0v3r @itscheybaby @laylasbunbunny @lordofthunderthr @luvstylesz @roseanimelover @lostgirl219 @berarenado @akemiixx01 @mulletmcghee @jasminxts @fanfics-that-hit-my-feels @piceous21 @xoprincessmel @invisiblexch @arcanebabe

I tried to tag everyone who requested, but if I missed you, let me know and I’ll add you! Also, I’m not sure why it doesn’t link everyone, but idk how to fix that. Next chapter will be published right after this one!

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x oc #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic #time after time #mine #fanfic

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jupiter-soups · 8 months

Text

a sheep in wolf's clothing

pairing + tag: joel miller x f!reader, established relationship, fluff

summary: joel miller is not quite as scary as the people of jackson believe him to be. at least, not around you.

word count: 1.9k

a/n: kinda been dealing with some writers block and i thought i'd write a cute fluffy one shot to deal with it. please let me know what you think! also, thank you to the incredible @papipascalispunk for beta-ing!

The swing of Joel’s sledgehammer squarely met the metal pole, pushing it down further into the hard earth with a raw strength that made the pair of teens watching grimace.

“God, he’s scary today. Why’s he hulking out so much? Who pissed him off?” The taller of the teens, Nathan, whispers to his friend, whilst leaning against his shovel for support.

“I don’t know, but whoever it is better get their shit together, because he’s gonna end up snapping. We do not want to be here for that,” Callum responds with a conspiratorial tone, gesturing for Nathan to come closer so he could divulge some gossip.

“Apparently, before he got to Jackson, he was this total killing machine, just ruthless, relentless and bloodthirsty,” Callum stagewhispers, peeking out of the corner of his eye to where Joel was clearly funneling pure rage in each swing of his hammer.

“Why would they even let some mad man in here with us?” Nathan responds nervously, with much less subtlety in how he was eyeing Joel’s movements and his apparent familiarity with swinging a blunt object.

“I guess he adopted Ellie, or something. Maybe that mellowed him out a bit?” Callum winces at a particularly hard swing of the hammer, one that made Joel grunt out in effort, wiping the back of his hand against his forehead as he stepped back, seemingly satisfied with his work.

“Clearly not enough. Ellie’s dad, huh?” Nathan lets out a huff of an exhale, reminiscing on a particularly painful evening where his romantic advances on Ellie were met with a swift and brutally painful punch in the gut. “Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Their gossiping fades away into a terrified silence, as Joel stalks up to where they’re standing, walking slowly and with eyes slightly narrowed. The two practically shrink under his gaze as he approaches.

“You two just gonna stand around all day or get to fuckin’ work like the rest of us,” Joel grits out, the furrow of his brow informing the two that they were nowhere near quiet enough when gossiping.

“Uh, I–”

“We were j–”

“Stop fuckin’ around and dig.” Before Joel even finished his sentence, the pair scrambles back over to the patch of soil they were assigned to clear, working with a vigor that they didn’t even know they were capable of.

—-----------

Joel had sort of assumed that the rumors about him had died down. No one crossed the street when they saw him anymore. No one even begged to get swapped to a different patrol route when grouped with him, terrified of what he might do outside of the safety of laws and watchful eyes in Jackson.

He shifts his head from side to side as he walks home on the barely illuminated streets, stretching out the strain from working all day. He holds a paper bag close to his body, trying to keep it dry from the light rainfall that had begun at some point between him leaving the building site and stopping at the bakery.

A smile breaks through his cold exterior as he finally approaches his house and sees the living room light still on, a beacon welcoming him home.

To you.

In his eagerness to see you, he forgot to take off his dirty work boots, a fact you quickly remind him of with a croaky call of “Shoes!”, the second he turned the corner into the living room.

“Sorry, baby,” He laughs quietly, tossing the paper bag he was carrying onto your lap where you were sprawled out on the couch, before heading back into the hall to kick off his boots.

You gasp in excitement as you open the paper bag and see three of your favorite caramel cookies from the bakery, immediately regretting it as your throat stung from the act.

The cold that currently had you couchridden under the warm embrace of a thick woolen blanket had also meant that you weren’t able to pick up the rare treats. The bakery only made them once a month, and typically ran out by noon. Your heart swelled as you realized Joel must have gone out of his way on an already busy day, just to get them for you.

“How did you manage to get three of them?” You ask in awe as he reenters the room and moves to join you where you were sitting, lifting your extended legs to rest his back against the back of the couch and placing them over his lap. His hands settled on your legs, rubbing them gently through your thick winter pajama pants.

“Guess there’s some good in being scary, ol’ Joel Miller,” He chuckles, taking a cookie from your extended hand and taking a bite.

You begin to sit up slightly to take a bite too, but visibly wince when your head begins to spin from the movement. Joel stops you instantly, dropping his cookie back into the bag on your lap to rearrange your pillows behind you into a slightly more seated position.

“You’re still not doing well,” He tuts, disapproval radiating off of him in a way that made you want to roll your eyes. “Shouldn’ta made me go to work today, darlin’, I should’a been here for you.”

“Joel,” you reassure, “I’m completely fine, barely got the sniffles at this point.” He raises an eyebrow at your blatant lie, taking in the sweaty sheen on your forehead and nasally voice before sighing and settling back into his seat. You weren’t in a state to argue.

“So, big, bad Joel Miller scares the town folk into giving him extra cookies?” You tease, drawing a laugh out of the guilty man sitting next to you. His grip on your shins loosens slightly as he begins to actually relax again, much to your satisfaction. He was already stressed enough in the morning when he had to leave you to go fill in for someone at the construction site, almost canceling after you spent most of the night awake, shivering and sniffling. You didn’t want him to feel even more guilty, regardless of the fact that you had been the one who insisted that he goes.

“You should’a heard some of the stuff they were sayin’ about me today,” He shook his head in feigned disbelief, well aware of his reputation. “Somethin’ about being ruthless and relentless,”

You laugh through a bite of the cookie, “I could see that.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Oh, really?”

“At least the relentless part. There’s been more than a few times I’ve had to tap out,” you wiggle your eyebrows suggestively at him, causing him to shake his head at you, trying to fight back the way his lips were turning up at the corners in amusement.

He watches you finish off the second cookie in a comfortable silence, a faint smile on his face as he observes the absolute glee in your eyes with each bite. His fingers begin to play with the hem of your pajama pants the more he watches you, and you can sense the slight anxiety in his movements.

“Stop worrying, Joel, I was fine. I promise. You know the building team needed you today.”

He grumbles a quiet response that you don’t quite make out, something about ‘incompetent,’ and ‘ill-equipped,’ before turning his annoyance to you, “I already know you didn’t drink enough water.”

You nudge him gently in the stomach with your knee, prompting him to drop it, which he does with a moody sigh.

“How was Ellie today?” He opts to change the subject.

“Not been around too much. She’s still running around after Dina, thinking she's so slick. I know we need to wait for her to come to us about it, but I wish she would just tell us already.” His soft brown eyes betray the unease he felt at the issue.

“I hope…” He trails off in a worried tone that’s familiar to you; the, I think I’m fucking up tone. “I hope she doesn’t think she can’t talk to me about it.” You reach your hand out and grab his, big and warm and immediately squeezing and rubbing your hand within his to warm up your freezing fingers. ”I suppose I can be a little scary sometimes. Those kids down at the site sure thought so,” He chuckles once, humorlessly and self-deprecatingly, reaching over to grab your other hand to warm up that one too.

“There’s no fucking way, Joel. Maybe those kids who’ve never been outside of the walls for a day in their lives were scared of you, but we know you’re a big ol’ softie. Besides, there’s not much that scares Ellie. Definitely not an old man that she could easily beat in a fight,” You tease, relieved when his shoulders seem to relax a little.

Joel leans forward, cupping your chin in his hand to pull you in for a kiss. You don’t let him indulge, perhaps for the first time in your relationship. “Joel, I’ll just get you sick too. You gotta be back at work tomorrow, remember?” Your heart squeezes at the almost pout on his face, but he doesn’t push the matter, instead starting to get up with a grunt, gently placing your legs back down on the couch where he had been sat. He turns to you with an expectant look and reaches out a hand.

“Let’s head up to bed, darlin’,”

You blink. “Joel, I just said I can’t get you sick. I’ll just sleep down here for the night, the couch is comfy enough.”

His hand stays extended for a moment, before letting it drop. “Fine,” he states resolutely, “I suppose I’ll see you in the mornin’, then?” His voice seems almost too innocent, and your suspicions are confirmed when he drags the warm blanket from your body in one swift motion and starts walking towards the stairs.

“Joel!” You exclaim, “What the fuck?”

He pauses part way up the stairs to your bedroom and gives you a nonchalant shrug. “This is my blanket. Can’t go to sleep without it.” He turns back and continues to head up the stairs. You grumble at the real satisfied little smirk on his face as he does so.

“But…” You groan and roll off the warm couch, and begin to plod up the stairs to your shared bed.

Fine, if he wants to get sick so badly, I’ll let him.

—-------------

“Shouldn’ Miller be here by now?” Nathan says as he eyes the entrance to the build site nervously, doing his best to appear busy.

“I guess he’s sick today, heard he got a fever or something.” Callum’s words instantly ease Nathan’s rigid posture.

“Thank God for that,” He mutters, letting the shovel in his hands drop to the ground with a relieved sigh.

“Or maybe,” Callum smiled sinisterly, “He’s out plotting his next kil–” He’s cut off when a hand is smacked down onto the nape of his neck, turning into a painful grip that swivels his head in the direction of his assailant and the project’s latest stand-in worker, Ellie Williams.

“Why don’t you fucks get back to work, hmm?” Her grip tightens on the back of Callum’s neck, and he visibly flinches under her exacting gaze. Nathan gulps and reaches to pick up his shovel as quickly as possible. Joel Miller was definitely not the scariest person in Jackson

tags: @gasolinerainbowpuddles @beardedjoel @huffle-punk

thank you for reading <3 please let me know your thoughts :)

#joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel x reader #tlou fic #the last of us fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller x female reader #fluff

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 2 years

Text

2:21 ー DENJI. take all of my soul, I'm not afraid to share.

where on earth is he? you glanced sharply at the top right corner of your phone, forgoing your fourth attempt to watch the same tiktok. it was well-past midnight and your boyfriend still wasn’t home yet.

you checked your messages again.

hey when are you coming home? sent 23:14

baby? sent 23:24

he hadn’t even read them.

you sighed anxiously with a light buzz of irritation. denji couldn’t be giving you the silent treatment over what happened. if anything, you were the one who should be giving him the silent treatment. you glanced in the direction of max, the calathea orbifolia that was your pride and joy before denji let the apartment get too cold while you were visiting your parents for a week. then you came home today ー or rather, yesterday ー to your pride and joy’s leaves flopped over. needless to say you snapped.

now max’s beautiful leaves were gone, the stems cut to soil length in hopes he’d grow back just the same as before.

your boyfriend was nowhere to be seen even though his shift had long since ended.

your upset from earlier now gave way to worry. this was denji. the same denji who woke you up when you were sleeping on the couch to ask if ‘we’re still good?’ before he crawled under your blankets and fell asleep on your chest. he couldn’t be ignoring you, not even if you were upset with one another. and that’s why i’m freaking out. you finally caved and hit the phone icon yet all you received was his voicemail instantly.

you sighed again, shaking your head. “he’s probably at aki’s.” you murmured, not sure who you were trying to convince more. you would sleep in the living room on the couch, just in case. not that you thought you’d get much sleep.

it was almost too coincidental in that moment, however, that the doorknob made the familiar sounds of being unlocked before the door burst open.

relief and anger swept over you all at once as you saw your boyfriend in the flesh, sweaty and breathing hard. “where the hell have you been?!” you whispered loudly, trying not to alert your neighbors. “you’ve had me worried half to-”

“before you get mad,” denji held out a hand, the other behind his back as he leaned against the door frame in loud pants. “my phone died so i couldn’t call or text and i thought about trying to text you from some random person’s phone but i couldn’t remember your number-” the blond took a frantic breath. “but i was tryin’ to find one of those 24 hour supermarkets but of course we live in a part of town where there ain’t none and-”

you waved your hands frantically, “denji, denji, denji breathe!”

it took a few large breaths before denji finally looked like he wasn’t ready to pass out. “okay,” you finally began. “why were you trying to find a 24 hour supermarket?”

brown eyes glanced over his shoulder with a light grimace, an internal battle clear on his face. ultimately, the side of truth won as denji finally took his hidden arm from behind his back and held up a small bouquet.

the wrapping itself was paper that was clearly ripped out of a notebook and the flowers? they were haphazardly different lengths, some stems poking straight out of the wrap. they were wildflowers, dandelions and cosmoses you recognized right away for some but the others unrecognizable blooms. some looked worse for wear, a few downright had no petals probably lost in denji’s sprint homeー yet all looked 100% hand-picked.

“i was tryin’ to be romantic when i apologized but i couldn’t get any of those fancy bouquets. i kinda had to improvise.” denji sheepishly explained as you gingerly took the arrangement from his fingers, not wanting it to fall apart. “i’m sorry about mack.”

“max.” you corrected without missing a beat despite your throat feeling tight and eyes feeling wet.

“yeah max.” denji continued seamlessly as if he hadn’t butchered your plant’s name in the first place. “i’m sorry, i know how much he meant to you and i’ll help grow him back even if he’s a pain in the ass about the humidity and drainage and needs distilled water instead of tap like a little princess.” denji blanched at his own words. “not that he’s a pain in the ass. i won’t even complain the entire time he’s in recovery!”

“you’re such a goofball” you laughed before hugging your boyfriend tightly; it was the only way you’d stop yourself from crying. “god, i love you so much.” you kissed the juncture between his shoulder and neck, you kissed his chin before you kissed his lips once, twice, three times. you loved this man, no matter how much of menace he could be, you were sure you loved him before you even knew him.

you loved his messy hair in the morning,

you loved his snide comments that swore you loved max more than him,

and you loved the dreamy look in his eyes and dopey smile on his face in this moment especially.

“i love you more” denji grinned widely.

“no, you don’t get to do that when you’re apologizing to me”

“then you’re not mad anymore?”

“not if you keep your promise to help take care of max”

“i don’t have to sleep by myself?”

“no, no you do not.”

(despite denji’s urge to pick you up and swing you around, you refused. you wanted to put your bouquet in some water first.)

a timestamp piece for @cafedanslanuit who accurately guessed my haikyuu!! crush. if you’re interested in gettin’ one, there are 3 slots still open (hint he is on one of these two teams: karasuno/nekoma). anyway, i really enjoyed making this one. csm is finally out and episode 1 was perfect. the va for denji is doing such a great job for his first main role. denji needs so much love man, for everything he takes he gives thrice as much as a lover that’s what i feel

#look she's writing #timestamp #chainsaw man x reader #csm x reader #denji x reader #timestamp fics are so therapeutic tbh #they're short so there's no big pressure around it #kinda like a warm up before doing your main exercise

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pricelessemotion · 8 months

Text

sweet dreams, tennessee

summary: [4.5k] Upon visiting your grandma for the summer, you're greeted by more than one familiar face.

pairing: cowboy!steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: references to alcohol and death of a parent, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn (?)

series masterlist | navigation

Chapter One: Welcome home, Honeybee

An hour or so outside of Nashville is a town called Sweet Dreams, too small to show up on any map. The ones who want to make it out, bask in the irony. They say this town is exactly the place where dreams go to die.

Most people who have the privilege of leaving Sweet Dreams don’t come back. They watch the dust kick up in the rear-view mirror and say good riddance. But you’re not like most people.

You tip the taxi driver extra, even though he’s dropping you off at the edge of the property and you have to tug two suitcases and a backpack through a quarter mile of dusty road. The walk gives you time to think. Time to breathe. The air is different here, fresher. You can’t remember the last time you got to walk outside in the middle of the day and only have birdsong to keep your thoughts company. You’d thought that the vast emptiness would be a good change of scenery. You’d thought that the neverending din of the city was clogging up your brain, making your thoughts scramble like eggs in a hot skillet on Sunday. Now, they echo back to you, sung back in the form of mockingbirds. You don’t know if it's better. It’s just different.

By the time you make it to the paved driveway, your arms are aching and there’s a current of sweat making its way down your back. You’re barely twenty feet from the door when Nana appears in the open front doorway. Upon catching sight of you, she’s barreling down the porch steps, holding her sun hat to the top of her head so that it doesn’t fly off. Dropping the handles of your bags, you allow the woman who basically raised you to engulf you in the best hug this side of the Mississippi. She smells like fresh soil, powdery perfume, and everything that’s good about the world.

“You’re here! I told you that I’d pick you up at the airport! You didn’t have to call a cab,” She admonishes, before smacking kisses all over your face. “I missed you sweet pea.”

She looks older now, and the thought tugs at your chest. Her hair is more silver than anything and the lines around her eyes and mouth are deeper than in your memory. It’s only been a few years, but your grandmother wears an entire new lifetime lived without you on her face.

“I missed you too.” You let out a laugh but there’s a melancholy feeling to your words. You know that if you stir on them just a little bit more tears will start flowing out and never stop. You bury your face into the collar of her blouse, willing yourself not to cry.

“Well,” She says, taking a step back and putting her calloused hands on your shoulders. “Let me get a good look at you.”

You smile, doing a little spin for her amusement.

“Just like I thought. Even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks in response. You never quite knew how to take her constant compliments. Not only about your beauty, but your intelligence.

“How’s your daddy doin’?” Her words are casual but her tone is clipped. Her lips curl in and she busies herself with brushing imaginary dust off your bare shoulders, looking at you like she’s trying to commit the sight to memory.

You breathe out a sigh, “As good as he’s ever doing.” Which is usually not good, you think but don’t say.

Nana only purses her lips, nodding in agreement.

Both of you know that your dad hasn’t been the same since Mama died. Mama was a realist. That’s why she left Sweet Dreams in the first place. Your dad was a dreamer. Without your mom to anchor him to this world he was adrift. He was careless with what he had when he had it. Now, he doesn’t know what to do now that it’s gone.

You fiddle with the strap of your backpack, feeling the weight of everything you brought with you digging into your shoulders. You should probably call him to let him know that you got here safely.

“You must be exhausted after traveling,” Nana says, breaking you out of your reverie. “Let me just put my gardening stuff aside real quick, you can go ahead into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up something to eat.”

You nod and step inside the house, taking your baggage with you.

—

The fridge, or as Nana likes to call it the frigidaire, looks exactly the same as you remember it. Magnetic alphabet letters are used to hang up reminders and photos. She still has the same drawing that you gave her for Mother’s Day all those years ago, the crude crayon stick figures of the two of you standing side by side in a wide-open field. Now, there are signs of aging, the paper yellowed and curled at the edges.

Aside from your childhood art, there are wedding announcements and Christmas cards a plenty. You recognize one of the faces. James wasn’t related to you but that didn’t matter. In Sweet Dreams, everyone was family. He was getting married to a woman named Elizabeth at the end of the summer. You can’t help but smile at the picture of him, his future wife, and his daughter.

The last time you saw Winnie, James’ daughter, her mother had still been alive. The news of her untimely demise and James’ sudden status as not only a young widower but a single father had caused aftershocks that made their way all the way out to you in California. It was nice to see how happy the three of them looked together. You remind yourself to let Nana know that you want to see them soon.

“Miss Mellie? I’m done with the car. There was something wrong with the fuel tank.” A man comes into the kitchen through the back door, dressed in a white tank top and blue jeans, wiping the grease from his hands with a rag.

He stops, eyeing you curiously. “You’re not Miss Mellie.”

“I’m not,” You say, dropping your backpack onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

Just then the screen on the kitchen door bursts open. The bottom has been busted for years and never repaired, for the benefit of the four-legged basset hound that’s bounding towards you. You light up at the sight of him, but your joy is cut short by the comment of the strange man who has yet to introduce himself.

“Careful. Jackson gets nervous around strangers.”

Jackson only pants in response to the man’s statement, gleefully sniffing your shoes before licking the exposed skin of your calves.

“Well then, it’s a good thing I’m not a stranger.” You mutter leaning down to scratch the dog behind his ears. “You don’t have to tell me about my dog, I was there the day he was born.”

Jackson was the runt of the litter. You had picked him out, seeing how he was weaker and smaller, being trampled over by his brothers and sisters. Your father had given you a funny look when you pointed at the weak little thing and said that one! The look quickly went away once Nana gave him a look of her own.

“No shit.” The man leans back on the counter with all of the comforts of someone who knows this house like the back of his hand. He puts down the greasy rag, running a now clean hand along the sharp line of his jaw, his expression a mixture of disbelief and recognition.

“Now,” You huff, standing straight again much to the chagrin of the dog still panting at your feet. “Are you gonna tell me what you’re doing in my house?”

Your snippy attitude doesn’t seem to have the desired effect because he only looks right back at you with an easy smile.

“Y’know, I’m a little offended that you don’t remember me, Honeybee.”

Despite the heat of the Tennessee summer, you’re frozen. Only a handful of people have ever called you that. One of them bursts through the kitchen doors, holding a stack of mail in her hands.

“Steven!” Nana exclaims, confirming your suspicions. “You all done with the car?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Oh please Steven, you know you don’t need to call me that.” Her tone is lightly scolding but from the curl of her lips, you can tell that she likes it. Nana has always been a stickler for good manners. “I see you’ve found my grandbaby. Isn’t she a beauty?”

His smirk only grows deeper as he tips his head. “Must run in the family.”

She turns her attention to you. “You remember Steven, don’t you sweet pea? The truck was making a noise that was something awful. He offered to fix it up for me.”

Steve looks decidedly bashful, shaking his head and casting his gaze down to the floor. “It was nothing.”

Nana doesn’t even take into account his modesty, instead barreling through the rest of the conversation like she always does. It’s a wonder that she’s thrived in such a slow and peaceful town all her life when she constantly lives and talks at twice the speed of everyone around her. Everyone else is left trying desperately to keep up. “The two of you used to be thick as thieves, I swear. Could never find one without the other.”

“I remember,” You murmur, only chancing a glance at the boy across the room who seems to have turned into a man overnight. You guess that’s what six years apart will get you.

You remember Steve’s mother. She was a sweet woman when she wanted to be, if a little self-absorbed. Every summer they spent in Sweet Dreams her accent would fall into its natural rhythm and syncopation, annoying the hell out of Mr. Harrington. He always had a sneer on his face, screwed up like he had just taken a bite out of a lemon and was waiting for the sting to subside. He only showed up for the first and last week of the season, to usher his family in and out of his wife’s hometown.

Steve always acted a bit tougher with his father around, puffed out his chest, and forced his voice to go deeper. You once pointed this out to him and he gave you a nasty look and told you that he had no idea what you were talking about.

You apologized and Steve forgave you in the way that kids do, over brown lunch bag trading sessions, with plastic-wrapped treats being exchanged between sticky fingers. You never brought up his father again. For all of his father’s watchful eyes, his mother was the complete opposite. She was one of those people who believed that children shouldn’t be seen or heard. So, she pawned Steve off to the dusty streets of Sweet Dreams, knowing that whatever trouble he could possibly amount to was limited by the fact that the town was so small.

But Sweet Dreams didn’t always feel so small. In fact, when you were a kid the entire world seemed only to exist in a twenty-mile radius.

Steve clears his throat. “Well, if that’s everything I’ll go get cleaned up.”

“Oh! Actually, could you be a dear and take the luggage that’s by the front door into the guest room?” Nana asks.

Steve flashes an award-winning smile. “Anything for you, Miss Mellie.”

Nana shoos him out of the kitchen with promises of a good dinner and even more thanks. You’re still stuck on the fact that Steve Harrington is in Sweet Dreams and apparently has been for a while if the way your grandmother was interacting with him was any indication.

“He’s staying in the old shed.” She explains, sensing your confusion. She’s already opening the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of iced tea that immediately starts sweating in the Tennessee heat. Your mind is stuck on the soft thudding of heavy footsteps on the wooden staircase. The sixth step still creaks after all this time. “Fixed it up and everything. It already had a bathroom and a waterline, so all he had to do was make it livable.”

You can only think of offering a hum in response, grabbing one of the floral glasses from the cabinet, and pouring yourself a cup. It tastes like home.

“I’ve got you all set up in your Mama’s old room. Figured you’d like the sunlight. I pulled out the yellow bedspread, I remember that one being your favorite.”

Tears collect in your eyes. It’s been a while since anyone has paid attention to you long enough to remember anything insignificant about you. Nana collects every small detail like they’re precious, saving them for a rainy day so she can show you just how much you mean to her.

“Thank you, Nana.” You manage to choke out. You want to say more. You want to give her an explanation for why you dropped everything and showed up at her door. You’re not ready for any of that.

“Of course, darlin’.” She says simply, planting a kiss on the top of your head. “It’s good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home.”

—

Nana tells you to go upstairs and unpack–she purposefully set today aside for you to relax and unwind, knowing that you would probably be exhausted after traveling for so long. The reprieve is temporary, though. She’s assured you that the entire town has been informed of your stay and that her birthday party will also serve as a welcome home party for you.

Despite your insistence that you don’t want to take away the spotlight from her, she only winked and told you no one can take the spotlight from me, sweetie. Everything’s been prepared for the party tomorrow night. You’re already dreading the questions that you don’t have the answers to.

You make your way upstairs, avoiding that creaky sixth step. The walk to the room is daunting. The bedroom door has been left slightly ajar, and rays of sun are peeking through the crack, the only source of light in the dark hallway.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open. It looks exactly as you remember it. The curtains are drawn, allowing the north-facing windows to showcase the wide-open fields and dusty roads that you know and love.

The yellow bedspread is there, just like Nana said it would be. It’s sunbleached after so many years, but it still feels soft and comforting.

Your mother’s painting is still in the same spot. Looking at it, you can tell it’s never been moved the way the corners of the wallpaper around it give it away. Anyone with a keen eye can see how the pale sage green walls were once deep and rich, having faded away like so many other things in Sweet Dreams do. By sitting right where it always was.

Taking a deep breath, you move to unpack everything. The drawers in the vanity are all empty, except the one in the very center. It’s locked, and despite your best efforts, remains that way.

On the vanity, there’s an old picture frame. The photograph inside is of a memory you cannot believe you’d forgotten. You’re sitting cuddled up next to your mom. It was the day that you’d gotten Jackson, and he was so small you could still hold him in your little eight-year-old hands.

You’d refrained from smiling for weeks at that point, utterly mortified at the gaps in your mouth from losing your two front teeth at the same time. In that moment, though, you were smiling so wide. Jackson had gone from sitting quietly in your lap, to jumping up to lick you on the chin. The shock and subsequent squeal of laughter had been captured and kept.

You move the frame to the bedside table. It’s good to be home, you tell yourself. For the first time today, you’re not quite sure if you mean it.

—

“Is James coming tonight?” You ask in between bites of fresh strawberries and buttered toast.

The temperature in the kitchen is nothing less than sweltering. You’d been spoiled out in California, living near the bay and rarely having to worry about the weather climbing above seventy-five degrees. The room is in a state of organized chaos, with all of the food being prepared and cooked for the party. Nana stands at the back end of the kitchen, her back to you. She’s been up since the crack of dawn, placating your insistence to help her with food and conversation.

“Oh, I’m sorry honey. He called this morning. Winnie’s got a toothache and he and Betty decided to stay home with her. I know you were looking forward to seeing them.”

“It’s okay,” You assure her. “Just would’ve been nice to see a friendly face.”

She turns the dough on the counter before folding it over and kneading it. There’s flour all up and down her forearms and most likely butter under her fingernails. “Steven’s coming,” She reminds you as if that fact is supposed to be reassuring.

“Right, of course.” You try to keep the apprehension out of your voice. “Steven.”

The truth is that you don’t know where you stand with him. You’d heard his voice from the top of the stairs last night, all full of polite regret that something had come up and he couldn’t attend dinner. The next sight you caught of him was his back as he rode off into the distance.

“He’s single, y’know,” Nana says, punching circles into the dough and setting them onto a baking tray. “He’s been working on the farm for about a year now. Real helpful.”

You know the farm isn’t what it used to be. After the passing of your grandfather, a lot of the acreage was sliced up and sold off to neighboring farms. They give your Nana tiny cuts of the profit, something to do with southern hospitality and it being a widow’s homestead. She’s still gardening, though she probably shouldn’t given her old age. Trying to take gardening gloves from Nana Monroe is like trying to wrangle a wild horse. Still, Steve’s wage must be meager, all things considered. No wonder why he’s living in a shed.

“Nana, I didn’t come here to date.”

“Well, what did you come here for?” She says, turning around and crossing her arms. Then, realizing the harshness of her words, she sighs. Dusting flour off of her palms and onto her worn apron, she rubs her thumb across your cheekbone. You can’t help but revel in the gesture. “You know I love having you around darlin’, but I know you didn’t decide to come spend the summer with your grandma just for kicks.”

The truth of the matter wasn’t easy. It was hard to swallow and tasted a lot like failure.

“I haven’t figured it out just yet, but when I do I’ll let you know.”

—

Drinks have been poured, food has been served, and the birthday cake has been cut. It seems the entire population of Sweet Dreams has overtaken the living and dining rooms, and you wouldn’t be shocked if that ended up being the case. If you had to count the number of inane conversations where you repeated the same five facts about yourself to people who haven’t seen you since you were fifteen, you might combust.

Everyone assumes that just because you go to school in California, you must be living the high life. Beaches and parties and sunsets on the West Coast seemed like a dream to those who live and die in land-locked states, yearning for the smell of salt air and sand beneath their toes.

You know better. California does have all the glitz and glam and charm that they seem to think it does, but it also is an agricultural state. The cities that aren’t highly populated, with bustling nightlife and celebrity mansions, are mostly cow towns. You’ve seen these places while driving down the 5 highway. It doesn’t escape your notice that the exact places that remind you the most of home, are the same ones that people pass by in hopes of getting to somewhere better. They sit in their air-conditioned cars and breathe through their mouths, hoping to drown out the stench of cow manure.

Never mind the fact that the curtains for your dorm were too sheer to block out the city lights, leaving you up for all hours of the night. Or the fact that, while you loved the beach, sometimes you longed for freshwater and mud between your toes rather than salt and sand. You still brought back pictures from when you and your friends decided to take a weekend trip, forking over small amounts of gas money and bartering meal plans in lieu of cash. The pictures spin a different story. One of a girl who knows what she’s doing and living her best life. Never mind that the thread being spun felt more like you were coming unraveled.

The back porch has always been your refuge when parties get too loud and the temperature inside gets so hot that it seems like even the floral wallpaper has started wilting. You sneak out through the kitchen door, relieved that there’s no one there to catch you. Nana usually would have noticed your absence by now, but she’s distracted. Uncle Chuck brought out his acoustic guitar and your grandmother has never passed up an opportunity to perform for others.

You sigh, taking one last bite of rhubarb pie before setting the paper plate down on the ground next to you. Testing the porch swing, you’re delighted to find that it’s still just as sturdy as ever. It used to be that you’d have to sit at the very edge of the seat in order to get it to swing without help, the tips of your sneakers barely grazing the ground. Now, you lean back and your feet are planted steady on the wooden planks below.

You and Steve used to play pirates here, pretending that the sway of the swing was the rocking of the ocean against a mighty ship. You’ve never felt more unmoored.

The screen door creaks as it swings open, and you brace yourself for Nana’s lilting voice, telling you to come inside and entertain guests. It doesn’t come. Instead, a deep timbre casts itself out into the night air. Despite the lingering warmth of the day’s heat and the lack of a night breeze, you feel goosebumps rise up on your arms.

“Not having a good time?” Steve asks. His figure is backlit, bathed in the golden light of the kitchen.

“No, I am. Just–” You take a moment to think of an explanation that won’t give too much away. “Needed a breather, I guess.”

He hesitates. “Maybe I should go then.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been told I take people’s breath away.”

You roll your eyes in annoyance, but you can barely hide the smile that tugs at your lips. “You are insufferable, Steve Harrington.”

The smirk on his face grows into a full-blown grin. “It’s one of my better qualities.”

Steve sidles up next to you, hand wrapped around a beer. It’s amazing to think that the last time you saw him, the two of you would have to bend backward to sneak the bitter liquor out of the coolers without anyone noticing. Now, you’re both of age to where nobody blinks an eye. The thought makes your chest feel tight.

“So why are you out here?”

“Do you mean why am I in Tennessee? Or why am I on the porch?”

He shrugs. “Either one.”

You shrug your shoulders, sitting back and letting your feet swing and scrape across the wooden floorboards of the porch. “I just felt like I needed to come back. Remind myself of some things I felt like I was forgetting.”

Steve nods like he gets it, and opens his mouth as if to say something but decides against it. What instead comes out is an olive branch.

“I’m sorry if I offended you with the whole Jackson thing yesterday.” He offers sincerely. “And about missing dinner. I was so busy working on the car yesterday that I forgot I had to fix the Tillman’s chicken coop.”

You put on an air of faux contemplation. “I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”

“Thank god, I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t.” He playfully puts his hand over his heart before letting it drop to his side, lingering in the limited space between you. “Took me a second to recognize you–you look so different.”

Steve looks different, too. Baby fat has melted away to reveal high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Once gangly limbs have filled out into broad shoulders and muscles that strain against the cotton of his t-shirt. He was always cute, you’d be remiss to pretend that he wasn’t. But the year in Sweet Dreams seems to have been treating him well because now he resides on this side of ruggedly handsome.

“Good different or bad different?” There’s an underlying current of something in your question, but you’re not sure what.

“Good different.” He casts a sidelong glance at you before looking out at the backyard, saying the next statement into the lip of his beer bottle. “Same bratty attitude though.”

“Hey!” You squeal in mock offense, lightly smacking the back of your hand against his chest. The movement comes like a second nature, remnants from childhood squabbles. In the microseconds it takes for you to draw your hand away, you take notice of the solid mass of muscles hidden underneath his white t-shirt.

He’s full-on smirking now. “Nice to know some things never change.”

“You’re one to talk,” You retort. He quirks a brow at you. “You’ve always been such a charmer. I’m pretty sure you’ve got the entire female population of Sweet Dreams wrapped around your finger.”

He gives you a meaningful look. “Not the entire female population.”

You have a sharp reply sitting at the tip of your tongue, pointing directly at Steve, when someone calls his name from inside. It’s Uncle Chuck, insisting that the man sitting next to you join him in a duet.

“Well,” He stands up, brushing his palms on his denim-clad legs. “I should probably head back inside.”

You hum in acknowledgment, only ever so slightly disappointed, but make no move to leave your spot on the porch swing. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Steve opens the screen door but props it open with his foot. The golden light from the kitchen is on his face now, and you can see the soft edges of the boy you once knew.

“Welcome home, honeybee,” He says simply, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

With that, he steps back inside and the screen door slams shut. You’re left alone on the back porch, breathless.

—

likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished ♥️

taglist: @corrodedseraphine

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington blurb #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things #mimi wrote ✍️#sweet dreams TN #cowboy!steve harrington

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strong-with-the-sarcasm · 9 months

Text

Part 5 - dare not preach

Dp x DC AU: Regent!Jazz & Vigilante!Jazz

Masterlist Part 4

"And If I had the answers I'd have written them out so I could tell you what to do and what this thing is about. But all I've ever learned comes second-hand and I dare not preach what I don't understand." -Make A Move by Icon For Hire

//////////////////////

Content warning: briefly implied child abuse (Vlad is not a good guy by any definition),

Time was lost in between bouts of consciousness, flashes of pretty eyes and fire hair, soft muttering and gentle caresses against his skin soothing his aches.

Jason was caught between heaven and hell, wracked with agony behind his ribs one moment and healed with persistent warmth the next, a never ending cycle.

He wanted to scream.

One bout of semi-clarity was of some citrus concoction on his tongue, gentle murmurs of a woman by his ear before she kissed him again, forced something down his throat again.

He both loved and hated that woman. She felt familiar in a way that made his bat-honed paranoia rear its ugly head, the instinct to survive in his gut a heavy weight, but she brought him peace in the same moment she could damn him.

He caught his name once, his real name, spoken by her as he swallowed dutifully, a spike of want in his heart almost a welcome change from the pain by that point.

————————————————

Jazz spoke with the Lady frequently as the Red Hood, Jason, healed in her bed.

The elder spirit, regal in mannerisms and aura, demanded the Regent to aid this one vigilante, this one knight and Jazz had finally figured out why.

It was so obvious when she had all the puzzle pieces, the depth of occult knowledge both in her brain and at her disposal should have been her first resource used to dig deeper, but she’d allowed Danny and Frostbite to assume (and let her assume) that the Red Hood was an awakened Liminal who was recovering from corrupted Ecto in his system.

The Red Hood had been Jason Todd-Wayne, the second Robin- bright light of Gotham- and he’d been murdered by the Joker.

Unburied in my soil.

Jazz groaned in self-contempt as she paced the graveyard of Gotham’s Crime Alley. It was decrepit and uncared for, not like the higher class cemetery of Gotham proper where the Rich and powerful are buried. She what’s spent the better part of three days researching her new bedmate roommate once he’d been stabilized enough to be on a consistent schedule for ecto-infusion. He’d be unlikely to regain full consciousness for another month or so, but he would recover fully.

That was, if he understood what he had become in his near-fatal collapse.

(Thanks to Jazz and her rash actions.)

The Lady had been cryptic when speaking of Red Hood at first, but with his recovery and development of a strong proto-core Lady Gotham was eager to aid the Regent in making her once Robin adjust to a world-changing consequence once again.

(At least this time he would have support.)

Not only was Jason a Liminal with an indisputable death-claim, he had been a- a Revenant whose continued existence was a mind boggling happenstance of circumstance that was one in a infinite chance of ever happening again.

The Lady claimed him. The Lady gave a bit of herself to resurrect her bright Light, the one who shouldn’t have died so young, not while he deserved happiness for the hope he brought to so many.

(Damn it all.)

He clawed himself out of his own casket, to be found by Talia Al Ghul of all people… then survive the Lazarus Pits in body, with only Pit Madness to show for it?

(It was a callous way to think about it, but Jazz knew that it had also given him his freedom in many ways, that Jason wouldn’t have if he was still just a Revenant.)

(Did the Al Ghul know what she had found that night in dreary Gotham?)

(Was she aware she had given Jason Todd a third chance at life- however much of one being death-claimed by Lady Gotham could be called a life.)

The Lady, wistful once assured in the Regent’s anger having passed, swore an oath that Jason would never be forced to be a Knight again.

(Jazz reveled in the understanding that Batman, Bruce Wayne, was destined to be Gotham Knight for his mortal lifetime- possibly beyond.)

(Had he sworn his fealty by accident in his grief? Or had his donning that ridiculous gimmick been enough of a bind to tie his soul to the Lady?)

(Regardless, for his inaction, Jazz privately reveled in the satisfaction of the true consequences of his choices.)

Jazz, who’d been pacing a strict line in the uneven row of headstones, came to a rest at the grave of the once-Revenant who now lay in her bed.

Jason Todd

He’d been only a year older than her little brother when he’d been murdered by the Joker, buried under a name that was half-complete. He was a Wayne in life, but not in death? How hypocritical of the old bat, to not give him the courtesy of giving him the hyphenated last name if he wasn’t going to bury him in the Wayne cemetery.

What would it have been like if Danny had a grave, complete with a stone and inscription?

(The portal was his grave. He’d died there and the house was his graveyard.)

Would it have been up to Jazz to choose the words to describe her little light, the brightest star in the galaxy, the one reason she had for getting up in the morning… or would her parents have cremated him and put him on a shelf to prevent a corpse from ‘piloting’ his corpse?

(Jazz still had nightmares about Danny’s death scream. The portal ripping him apart in the same moment it fused him back together.)

(Into something different, something more.)

(He was her little brother, the same one who she spent her birthday money on to get those ridiculous glow-in-the-dark stars.)

(They’d spent hours forming constellations on his ceiling.)

How does one paraphrase a life?

Would Jazz start with his name, his preferred name, or with his date of birth?

Would she put down ‘dearest brother’ or ‘missed’, ‘Be at peace’?

No. Jazz knew she’d give the most important pieces of what made her little brother the brightest star in the sky-

Danny, per aspera ad Astra.

Danny had an unconventional memorial tucked away in the remnants of the Fenton lab, underneath the debris of what was once a strange machine to a world unseen.

The portal was built into the wall with ample access space in the rear for intended maintenance, though it was not required once the portal was completed and functional.

Jazz left flowers for Danny in that maintenance space three days after she first saw his transformation, yellow tulips, though she didn’t know the impact the action would have later in life.

Once a month, Jazz would return to replace the dried flowers, dust away the cobwebs, close the door, rinse and repeat.

Christmas was particularly complicated in the Fenton household, but the first year of Danny’s half-life was the worst Jazz could recall up to that point.

It wasn’t the eerie lack of ghost attacks (thanks to her not knowing of the Truce then), or the winter storm being harsher than any other Amity Park had faced in previous years… No, it was that Danny had died, while nothing and everything changed.

Jack and Maddie still screamed their arguments about Santa Claus, loud and proud for the world to be privy to.

Jazz had extra tutoring to take up for Christmas presents.

Danny… Danny still had to fight a ghost.

Ghostwriter wasn’t a malicious ghost in nature, far from it in fact, but he was never a fan of her little brother.

Jazz overheard Danny tell his friends about his ‘storybook adventure’ and she had to sleep in the access space for the night, just so she didn’t wake anyone with her crying.

It wasn’t right.

That thought repeated on a never-ending loop in her head as she tucked her growing limbs into the cramped space, eyes shut tight and the darkness shrouding her in safety.

(That had been the first nightmare of her own death to come, fingers frantically searching for a pulse as she woke in the dark.)

Perhaps she should have never left that darkness.

Because then the anger that had been building inside of her would never have been unshackled after the release of the tyrant king.

Jazz had been a patient girl her entire life. It was a necessary evil when raised by scientists to follow in their footsteps, though she had no intention to make her life into any imitation of her negligent parents, she learned those lessons at the knee of Maddie Fenton, who had given her life to the pursuit of ecto-science.

(Built a very strange machine to a world unseen.)

When Jazz failed to achieve something, she observed and struck when the opportunity presented it. That’s how she’d survived ghost attacks for so long, escpecially when it was her own dinner- that and the ingrained knowledge to strike hard and quick when it was required. A paradox of a hunter and a hunted, but that was Jasmine Fenton’s upbringing in a nutshell.

Jasmine knew Vladimir Masters was a bigger predator than she was capable of hunting as a young girl.

(Jazz was just a little girl when Vlad became obsessed with her and her mom.)

(Only the dead truly knew what an older man could do to someone so much smaller.)

It was a waiting game that morphed as she grew, bones sturdy and teeth sharper as Ecto-contamination finally settled into her molecules- Death-claimed, Liminality. Vlad was a false halfa, just as he was a false friend to her parents and a false business man, but as long as he stayed out of her way in caring for her little brother than she would not destroy him.

(She was a patient hunter.)

Pariah Dark was the final crack.

(It needed somewhere to go, all that anger, all that rage.)

Jazz had been patrolling the outer limits of the ghost shield now that Amity was returned to the Living Realm, anxiety in her gut as Danny had yet to show from his battle against the tyrant king.

He had obviously won if they were all safe, right? The mech suit would boost him enough, but could it really kill what was already dead?

Hidden in the embrace of familiar shadows, Jazz witnessed Plasmius carrying an unconscious Danny over his shoulder and a…crown in his right hand.

Not only had the bastard released the King for the Crown of Fire, he’d damned them all for the same item he’d stolen in the aftermath.

Jazz’s next actions weren’t borne from Vengeance, they were unfiltered rage.

Vlad had died that night, Jazz believed wholeheartedly, he died before she locked him in his casket- a since soldered shut Fenton Thermos.

Thing was, Jazz didn’t recall what happened between them- all she could really remember when thinking of that time frame was a green haze that was so similar in color to the damned portal.

One moment, Plasmius had Danny and the Crown. The next, he was a beaten man in his human form with no rise and fall of his chest to convince Jazz he was alive.

Was it concerning? Of course. Jazz never wanted to hurt anyone, especially not in a blackout rage state.

(How times have changed.)

Would she ever mourn Vlad? No. He deserved a far worse fate than a second death.

(His sins were numerous.)

If his casket would later be given to Pandora, the trusted Mentor of the Boy King’s Regent…. Well, where better to keep a body hidden than with a Matriarch who understands the sins of man?

(Pandora had always believed in Jazz, the Regent’s soul was far too bright to be snuffed out without a war.)

Within the Infinite Realms, the Regent was called many things- titles that held little meaning to the one in question, but offered weight to her authority.

The Lady of the Acropolis, for her mentorship with Pandora and position of respect among the populace.

First Knight of the Star King, would be granted once her Regency was over and Danny was crowned. His epithet as ‘Star King’ was a beautiful homage of a lost dream.

Death-Claimed Champion.

It made the Regent grit her teeth when addressed as such, especially when she lived in Gotham presently- the city of Lady Gotham’s Knights… her Champions.

Jazz had survived to adulthood as a highly contaminated Liminal, no patron to claim as her- Not even Pandora counted even though they shared a teacher/student relationship.

Would Jason, Red Hood of the Alley, be able to handle managing his territory without the backing of a patron claim? The Lady did swear that the once-Revenant was no longer bound to her service, which meant he could pack up his gear forever if he wanted to.

Though that was highly doubtful.

Jason was a strong willed man to lay claim to his haunt so quickly and hold fast for so long. Jazz shared her haunt with Danny, but that was only because he was the powerful Halfa and future King. His Haunt would never be challenged by a competent opponent, not in Gotham at least.

Perhaps Jason would be willing to unite their haunts?

It was a common tradition for older ghosts to allow weaker ones to share their haunt for protection, but that didn’t translate well to the Death-Claimed.

(Jazz had a hunch that Jason was so in tune with his haunt that he instinctively knew when she or Danny stepped foot across his boundary.)

(They tried not to linger, out of respect of another’s haunt of course.)

Then again, Jason was the Baby Liminal between the two of them. Danny and Jazz should be offering him to share a haunt for protection.

(Jazz couldn’t help but wonder what Jason looked like as a child.)

(She would bet almost anything that he was an adorable kid.)

(Would their kids be so cute?)

There was a slight lilt of sadness that lingered over the daytime hero, Signal, that Danny almost choked on his Death Wish.

The coffee, that is.

Little late on the literal bit.

Gotham (city, not the Lady) was an ever-gloomy fruit basket full of ghastly vibes. You see it and you know you’re in for a bad time, but that’s typically at night.

So what was up with Sunshine Child?

Yeah, he was clearly human and allowed to have off days, duh, but for it to hang like a shroud of storm clouds over Sunny? Yeah, no. That shit needs to be gone, like yesterday.

“Hey, Sunshine!” Danny called out with a false cheer. It was too damn early in the morning for real cheer, are you mad, but Signal didn’t seem to notice as he approached the lawn chair the Halfa had decided would be his new throne.

(At least Jazz would find it funny.)

“Hi Danny. Can I help you with something?”

Danny took a loud sip of his coffee before he went straight for the throat, “You’re doom and gloom this morning, Sunny. Whose bones do I need ‘ta steal?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just…” the meta Hero trailed off, voice tired as he let himself relax for a moment in Danny’s presence.

(That’s right, Danny’s just a friendly civilian teenager with anger issues, right?)

(Oh he would be cackling at that lie when he had a moment to himself again.)

“My brother is missing.”

Danny blinked.

“Your brother? One of the birdies?” He tried very hard not to pull out any of his jokes about traffic lights and Stabby Robin, but at least he didn’t sound condescending?

“Sorta. Red Hood… he went off grid about a week and a half ago.”

(Yeah this isn’t something Danny should be privy to.)

(Like at all.)

(It’s not like he was housing the guy in his home right?)

(Oh wait.)

“Yikes, Sunny. That sucks, ‘m sorry.”

Signal sighed, “Yeah, thanks Danny.” He paused again, studying the canonical adoption bait that was Danny Fenton before he dropped a bombshell.

“Batman thinks he’s dead.”

(Danny almost cackled in manic glee at that statement.)

(Overshot the mark there, Bats. Yikes.)

Danny happily waved goodbye to his meta friend, a dorky salute with his coffee cup in commersiation of a shitty hour of the day to be awake, before he leaned back in his lawn chair and yawned.

“Oh, what drama. Jazz is gonna kill me all the way if she finds out.” He said out loud to no one in particular. The occasional shade that kept him company didn’t bother to move at the sound of his voice now that Signal had left, but it did let out a mournful trill that made Dannny chuckle.

“Yeah, yep, you’re right- when, when, Jazz finds out.” Danny laughed again, “Worth it.”

A/N:

Yeah, I wasn't expecting so much angst either, but apparently, that's my jam, because I literally cannot write anything else. Well, anything that doesn't sound like two robots trying to mimic humans at least.

This was supposed to be a more upbeat entry and look how epically I failed. I had to put a content warning up top because I wrote/heavily implied that Jazz was abused by Vlad due to his obsession with Maddie.

In other news, I have a playlist now for what songs I listen to while writing this. It's called 'Guns & Sword: Jazz on' 'cause 2am me thinks she's clever.

#dpxdc #dp x dc au #dc x dp crossover #dp x dc #regent!jazz #jazz fenton #jason todd #anger management ship #hardcover ship #jazz x jason #ooh angst #*points at Jazz* this badass can hold so much angst #some character building for Jazz #I swear I try writing dialogue and I choke.#How did i never learn to write dialogue properly?

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phramboise · 4 months

Text

only lovers left alive — simon”ghost”rileyxfem!reader

Death, gore, MDNI, smut, established past relationship, vague comfort?, 3.3k words.

: you’ve been sleeping for long enough, and he always noticed. maybe you’ll not only love the winter days anymore.

...

A fish, and a man. Both on the surface of the dirty water, both reek of ammonia and disturbed flesh. Both rotting, and stomach inflated, but the man’s are clearer in sight, vivid. More violent, primal, disgusting. As if all the colour is dulled around for him to put on a show of his defeated stage. Skin unnaturally yellow, arms sprawled out, the body still intact with his skeleton in blisters. Deranged, a man who stains the water he’s in. And a fish. Both dead, but the fish saddens her more. Both are dead, and both by her, but the fish saddens her more.

For she didn’t even notice it as she killed it, for love is violent and much kills, but she was young enough, or maybe such emotion is foreign, novel to her. She killed it anyhow. The fish obliges, tastes the attention, in a symbiotic affection with her. But it swims more around the edges on the tank as days go by, swims higher on the surface, until one fin lays smooth on its side, not moving, until it can’t swim straight, and until it dies.

The man is still in the water, his face down. She can see what he would look like in a few weeks, that he would decompose slower in cold, no vultures around to dig on his skin. She can imagine the soapy glaze his flesh would have, and the green, and the violet. Hypothermia. Petrification. Bisection. And a hound, it’s mouth wet and sticky, dribbling in red and saliva. She can see the skeleton sneaking out the flesh as the hyenas around shake their furs, off the blood and the water. Loyal and starving, a rabid dog in need of someone to find its way back to —

Her machete, on the other hand, is very much so alive, painting red rivulets on the snow-white ground. Sharp colour stripes off the chrome, turns into a deep velvet on earth, her hair is soiled, and her body is covered in red splotches, on her knees as she eyes the handiwork, trying to stay conscious, alert. She kicks her feet to clean the bits of the man off herself too. A roar in her ears and her temples feel like it’s her brain that’s splintered with a machete inside, eyes twitch as she stares at the man’s gouged one. And she tries to cough it off, coughs and coughs until she starts to gag, looking away from the scenery which she is the master to. She rubs her palms, rips the dead man off his gloves for hers are soaked in blood.

She’s better a gun than she is a person. Horror in her bane, she’s a better swordslayer than she is human. A little girl with fish food, or another with a rusty machete, she’s both. Can’t say she takes pride in neither, but the man doesn’t upset her in anyhow.

;;

It takes one more night to look up without a ceiling, before you get your way back, before the static of your comm buzzes again, the familiar voice, and the authority he embodies mercilessly. The Lieutenant. A pleasant sizzle follows his voice through, your eyes shot close as you feel through the gear with both hands to reach the radio, pressing the cold plastic to your ear. He disperses the smoke in your mind that dwells about the throes of your own demise, the thought of if this is how death will feel for you. He guides you, the way through the fuming howl of the tundra, becomes your sun chariot, your servant of peace and light, meeting you halfway, and when you encounter he doesn’t ask you to cradle you, does it naturally as he sees you. Sleight of hand, you don’t bother. You need a trace to make you believe in him, a keepsake of the times where he had done it so willingly. Something to hold you back to routine, to life. You’ve been sleeping long enough, he notices. He wakes you gently, rocks you kindly with hands you’re sure that has seen much more than yours did. But he wakes you kindly, a soothing hand lands on your nape, steadies you into this realm. You don’t pull back, and you don’t notice the build-up, the tension on you. But only the release.

You don’t know why you cry. He doesn’t say it to you between countless mantras over and over of how he thought he lost you, again, but you know it eases him to see an emotion on your face, and you feel it too, however ugly you think you wail. You need to breathe to cry. You breathe to cry. You said you don’t want him anymore, but no one would breathe in your scent like he survives on it with his head heavy on your shoulder, no one would kiss the dried blood on your brow and your matted hair. You know no one would blow warmth on your cold-stiff palms, not like he does. No one would waste himself, on you. No one would lend their blood to heat yours. You never said someone would anyway.

Adrenaline imperceptibly loses its grip on you, subsides and alters into pain. It creeps under your skin, trembles on your chin and prickles your eyes, making its presence known. Your step loses momentum as you lend your weight on him, and he grabs you with very capable hands.

After wails turn into mulled cries, and they turn into woeful moans, he lifts your head off his chest, leans his forehead against yours, gives you a few breaths, gives your forehead a kiss, stays a few moments until your heart thumps steadily to his, then pulls back. He nods slowly as you loosen your grip on him. Pulls his mask down again, he walks you through the icy terrain in hasty affection, shelters you in the safehouse.

;

First thing he does after he settles you on the fur seat, is to take off the foreign gloves off your frostbite fingers, throws them in the rusty barrel’s fire, burns it clean. Blood sticks onto his fingers and he wastes no time taking his gloves out his pocket to wear it on your hands. Its lengthy fingers swallow yours, and you look down at the thick fabric that adorns your hands as he wipes the blood off your face. You notice he wears no gloves, and you wear his now. A silent compliance in the way you sit, you only hiss when the dried clots pull the strands of your hair as he drags the cloth slowly along your skin. He reaches, taking each hand of yours in his, examining carefully, running his fingers over the lines of your palms. A futile tremor goes through him as he kneels before you, letting out a slow, shaky sigh as he disrobes you off your soaked wet gear, clads you with his spare. He doesn’t ask for a thing in return, and you only watch the tail of his tattoo through the exposed skin of his wrist as his hands hover over your elbows. He lowers his gaze, frees his messed hair out his balaclava, his throat bobbing as he swallows. He bites his cheek in thought, and you slither your palm to his cheek. He goes still before he looks up at you, big brown eyes and fanned lashes melt golden under the fire burning at the middle of the room. He blinks, then his bare fingers skate between yours, interweaves his fingers through the gaps between your own, he nudges at the fabric that coats your wrist, pushing the cloth up with his nose so his lips meet the inside of your wrist. You let out a faint breath, and it flutters his hair as he lays his head gently on your thighs, sitting on the concrete.

You play around with the little beads of the metal of his dog tags, and he moves his unoccupied hand around the side of your leg, pressing his cheek further onto the warmth that slowly comes back to your body. Under your imperious gaze, he rests his eyes, and you sink back onto the mattress, finally breathing the way you should.

;;

The plume of the dusty covering tightens your nose, and you wake with the scent of the bitter miasma of the bloodied gloves in the fire, scorching the sticky liquid, churning in your nostrils. The air is heavy, and the interior is plain. The cold outside whispers through the uncaulked edges of the wooden window, and you rest your eyes a moment longer before searching for the abandon of Simon’s warmth,

Only to find him sitting on a log next to a woodpile outside, elbows nested against his knees, minding the floor as he smokes. Silent as you walk towards, you cut him off his smoke as you reach your hand over his shoulder, behind him. He twists around to watch you circle behind him, eyes on you as you slide your fingertips along his neck, not letting you out his sight as you sit on the smaller log next him.

His cigarette toys you between his lips, and you lean to brush your lips right above his jaw. He turns a bit more to your side, slides the log you sit on closer to his. And when you take his glove off your hand to give it to him, he only takes one to wear to the hand that’s not close to yours, and holds your bare hand with his unclothed one, then drapes his arm along your shoulders, that holds the cigarette. Moving it to your lips, eyes fixated on you, he has two vices again. You and the smoke. But you’re only here to get your only one back. Hand clasps the collar of his coat, this one is longer, a proper kiss, an impossibly slow caress on his cheek, closer to his lips this time. One that says thank you. You see his throat move when he hitches, leaves a long breath as he can’t contain it. He dulls the ember of the smoke in a second, then his hand finds your face, holding you to him by the pull of his arm threaded behind your shoulder. He steeples his fingers under your chin, moves his head, leans in, and stills when there’s only a breath’s width between your longing lips. And before he closes that, he looks at your expression. This close, you’re realer, truer, and ever so far still. Closed-eyed, waiting, wanting. He draws in your whine, holds it a second longer for his mind to never forget this moment too, along many others with you.

How easily you got him wound up.

When he brings your lips together, his breath shudders. He surges forward, the cold tip of his nose digs on your cheek, and you taste your name as he groans it on your parting lips, hand on your chin winces, and reaches to your cheek, angling your head deeper onto him, his lips slip on yours without friction. Your hand on his collar falls down to his knee, and he turns fully towards you as you slither it up to his thigh, kissing as you hook your bare thumb around the clasp of his belt, feeling the band beneath the trousers. The rough surface sends frictions between your thighs when he pulls you towards him on the log you sit on, and you cling onto him tighter.

He parts with a sound of your wet lips separating, for a moment, brushes his thumbs on your gentle eyelids, warm cheeks. Searching for any sign on your face that disapproves, that doesn’t want this as much as he does. You only slip your cold palm under his t-shirt.

“God…”

A firm grip encircles your waist, and he scoops you bodily, rushes back in the one-room safehouse in tenacity.

You’ve been sleeping for long enough, and he always noticed. And a grasp, he pulls you forward, insistently rocks you off your sleep.

“Come here.”

Teeth on teeth, they clash and clatter and a candy floss tongue coats the cold, his arms finally find you. Both hugging you to him and soothing the windblow, but your skin is warm now, and you ache for a different fire. He devours your whiny hums, leads your hands slowly on where he wants it, where he knows you want to touch. The fire in the distance heats the side of your face and a shudder runs down your body as a soft noise escapes your lips, he keeps his eager lips on your neck, his shaky breath ruffles your hair as the hand on your back spreads his fingers, reaching to the bottom of his cloth on you, his thumb flicks the clasp of your bra, his little finger traces the waistband of your jeans, fumbling through skin and fabric. You help him, out his clothes, and stagger yourself forward to his broad chest. His eyes twinkle in the low light, and you feel your knuckles on where his belt meets his abdomen, running slowly towards, up his chest, then it’s not only knuckles, kissing as you move your hand up to his throat. He tilts his head as he takes you in, your hand with amused ardour, looking down at you, lips brushing your temple as he whispers your name onto your hair, a soft, breathy chuckle of surprise.

Until he misses your lips again, and when he does, he rises his hand to your jaw, turning your head up to him. Moving his hand back to your hair, and a little tug, he leans down.

He presses you forward without resistance from you, and you feel the worn mattress on your back, his kisses trail down your face as he follows down, feeling you with you, in a way that your past affairs feel like mockery to you. The arms around you move, are his fingers shaking?.. He’s tense, his cheek glides down your breast, plating a firm kiss on your chest, you hold onto his back and his hand dives down, under your jeans, feeling the cotton of your underwear. His forehead brushes against your jaw as he lets out a withering whimper, feeling your heat through your clothed core, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on the slick flush of your parted lips, rolling your bottom lip between his as he presses his open palm on your sopping cunt, pressing the heel of his palm on your swollen clit, tugging you in him, tugging your jeans down roughly, the button of it pops out and he almost rips the zipper, and he swallows your gasp, kisses you until your jaw can’t keep up.

Forever, just one more try than never. Maybe there is a way for you, not one of pleasantries, one without him if you try hard enough. For now, though, you stay engrained in the facets of his life, between whorls of his fingertips and everything else that caresses you of him. There is no way for you to leave, no way that you are not embedded in his devoid heart. His heartbeat mirrors yours and he has your breath to breathe in, and you feel it. You feel him everywhere, under the yellow hue of the barrel’s fire, under his body, over the lilting shadow on the wall, fingers deep inside you. Where his silhouette ends, yours begin, and he means it. Promises it, prays it, beneath honeyed words, in rhythmic intonation as he gives you every inch of his love. And you give such sweet noises that trickles down his earlobe, gently grazing with your teeth, drawing out antsy whimpers. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You were going to kill him one day. All with this exaltation he willingly offers at your feet, with the idolatry that evokes within him in your cashmere walls, if not with the way you suck him in, hold and pull his digits deep inside you. You overwhelm him, exhilarate him. “Aren’t you?”

He keeps on, keeps on until you don’t feel like you are the ruler of your body, until you feel nothing but the transcendental bliss as you let out your high on his fingers, feel the coil in you arch, tighten and snap like harp strings. No one in the world has ever missed anyone like this. Lucky you.

He hums, and cradles his large palm on the side of your face, an unconscious spell moves and rests your head to it, he just smiles. He moves his drenched fingers along your lips, smears your essence on your parting lips, and invites his fingers in your warm mouth, threatening an oral fixation. Then he drags them out, pressing on your bottom lip, his wet fingers draw an invisible line that raises goosebumps on its way over your naked body, resting on the plush of your hip as he tastes you on your lips.

You nodded yes as he first asked you, and he acknowledges again. “You are… mmm… yes, you are.”

He keeps humming with his mouth slack on yours, entwining his hand along your thigh, switches your body on his. He’s not one to tell you with his words, to use and waste him, violate him softly, ruin him for anybody else as a kind coalescence of yours, but he tells you to “Keep going…. just— fuck! Fuck, baby… keep going…”, an assuring gaze that is ice down your spine.

And once, you heard as he thought you were sleeping, that he really, really, likes you. Very much, he added then. You grin at the memory, and how it picked this time for retrieval, thinking you never heard him. You clench yourself around his cock, steadying your palms on his shoulders, fuck him the way he tells you through the way his cut nails dig deeper onto your hips, reaching his palm along your spine as he pulls you toward him, kissing your lips, can’t keep sync as you ride him mercilessly. And you do, and you are.

—

He tells you things no one would dare say with their eyes open, and touches you, shows you yourself in a way you have never seen, all your beauty when the witnesses of your psyche are gone. Now, you feel the ghost of his touch along your back, fingertips massaging your nape, carding your hair, contemplating deeper. He lays beside you, pressing his nose on your shoulder blade as he steals a little kiss of your sumptuous skin.

“You asleep?”

-you take long enough before you decide to answer, so he just slips out an I love you.-

;;

Seeing snow lessening as the SUV drives away soothes her nerves. Watching an old man as he watches an old couple, hand in hand as they walk away. The strident, speedy bow of a violin, both pierces through her. Horses on a flatland, a singing smile and being someone’s Phaedra. Two coffee cups in one sink. Running around until the throat breathes sour, matching shapes on your childhood house’s ceiling, reading an old journal of yours. Two healthy fish in a full tank — mind alters the memories in coping. Balmy winter trees. Seconds and seasons. — like the day, just like the night. Like death, chasing them all. Like the never-ending games, all will end. You can’t hold the dying sun as it moves further away off your seat, but you can slant back in the backseat of the vehicle, looking at the driver’s seat, to him. Even better deal, you slide to the middle of the seat, resting your palm on the back of his seat, inch your face to his neck, and he drives. Breathe the vestiges of your scent off him in, press a placid smile on the tattoo of your initial under the fabric of his mask. Maybe you’ll not only love the winter days anymore.

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