#poc ofc

[lady-phasma]

Hen embār masti (From the Sea We Came)

Part 1 of ? 2.7k words

Daemon Targaryen x Elaenya Targaryen (ofc) additional characters and family tree here

Warnings: none yet, slow burn, will be 18+ in future chapters

Prologue: In his 25th year, Prince Deamon Targaryen, with Corlys Velaryon, arranged to take the Stepstones from the Triarchy. Their forces succeeded and by 109 AC Daemon, age 28, styles himself Daemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. He is to be crowned by Corlys, the Sea Snake, and then return to the Stepstones to take possession of the island Bloodstone. The coronation is to be held at Driftmark, celebrating both Daemon’s and the Sea Snake’s victory.

The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffside calmed Elaenya when her thoughts wouldn’t settle. She could listen to the raging water for hours, watching the fishing boats in the distance, the gulls swooping and swarming around them. She would slip away at the first opportunity, before her morning studies or while the rest of the castle lunched. She and her older brother had duties and obligations, but were allowed free rein of Driftmark and its shores. Her mother, Maela, was the youngest of Corwyn Velaryon’s four children, and Elaenya and Laerys, his youngest grandchildren. They had fewer expectations thrust upon them. There were times when their station demanded they behave as a prince and princess ought, but that didn’t hinder them from exploiting unsupervised moments.

She thought back to times she and her brother had explored the cliffs and caves along the beach, how they would return to the castle with sand covering them from head to toe, pockets filled with pebbles and shells. She had a fortunate childhood in some ways, though not perfect, and had been spared the boring days at court in King’s Landing and the machinations of the royal family.

She stood up from her seat on the rock and dusted the sand from her breeches. The wind caught her silver hair and lashed it around her. She closed her eyes and relished the salt spray on her face. The sun was low on the horizon and the air had become chilled.

Elaenya turned back to the castle, walking slowly up the beach. She still wore the leather pants and thick tunic from her training that afternoon. Being far from King’s Landing had many benefits, not the least of which was the small glimmer of freedom she was allowed. With a plethora of male cousins and her brother she had fought, quite stubbornly, to learn everything they learned. When her mother had finally acquiesced to Elaenya’s demands to learn swordsmanship, she had been inwardly overjoyed and outwardly unbearable for weeks. She wasn’t allowed to train as frequently as the boys, nor as fervently, but she had a natural talent and practiced on her own. She had held a sword in her hand nearly every day since she was three and ten years of age. She fingered the grip of Elēdrar as she started up the stairs. They were rough-hewn on this cliff face and weather worn and there were many of them. She took her time climbing, enjoying the changing hues of the sky presaging sunset. Well before she reached the top, a screech jerked her attention skyward. Crimson, almost black, against the orange sky, Caraxes dove and announced his arrival. Elaenya bounded up the remaining steps, paying no attention to the exertion.

The stair landing opened onto a flagstone courtyard. She was dizzy from her strained breathing but had room for only one thought. Daemon turned at the sound of her footfalls

“Cousin!” she nearly squealed, sounding much younger than her eight and ten years. He smiled at her as he removed his helmet. He ran a hand through it, mussing it after having his helmet on for hours. Elaenya stopped short.

“Yes, cousin?” Daemon grinned at her.

“Well, you,” she stuttered, then smiled back at him. “You seem to have lost some hair, my prince.” She winked at him. He closed the distance between them and scooped her up in an embrace that lifted her feet from the ground. She hugged him back. Still trying to catch her breath, she looked toward Caraxes. He was eyeing them both passively. The dragon was exhausted.

“Shall we get you both settled?” She took his helmet from him, freeing his hands to unpack his saddlebags. She looked at the soot and blood on it and smoothed the plume down. It too was filthy. She would summon a squire to take care of his armor for him.

Daemon patted Caraxes’s snout as they walked off. Their hair and clothes whipped in the air as the dragon ascended and left the courtyard. He would find plenty of sheep or goats to eat before he rested. Elaenya walked ahead of Daemon as they entered the castle.

She doled out instructions to a waiting maid and requested a squire to assist the Prince with his armor. Daemon watched her with a prideful smile, but his eyes were tired. The journey was two days by dragon.

“I’ve had a bath and supper sent to your room. I trust you remember where it is?” she asked. She beamed upon noticing the way he looked at her.

“You’ve become quite a Lady since I saw you last. It wasn’t so long as a year ago though it seems much longer,” he was genuinely impressed, but teasing Elaenya was something of which he would never tire.

“Lady!” she scoffed. “Hardly.” She grinned and gestured to her filthy clothing. “I suppose I need a bath as well. I forget how to be a Lady unless we entertain guests. And if the rumors are to be believed, we will be having quite a few guests tomorrow.”

“Perhaps.” Daemon’s mouth twitched up at the corner. “I shall see you when we break our fast tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she replied. She kissed his cheek before departing for her chambers.

The fire helped to dispel the chill in the room but not entirely. It must have not been lit long. Steam rose from the bath water. Elaenya undressed impatiently. The evening sea air had seeped into her bones. She loved the way the water felt as if it burned when she first stepped into it. As she sank down into the tub, letting the day slide off her, she mulled over Daemon’s comment. She supposed she had become more confident with the servants and had learned more from her mother about her duties this year. This was inevitably the result of her mother’s intention to make Elaenya a desirable prospect as a wife. She groaned. She glanced to the corner near the hearth where Elēdrar was propped. Her Valyrian steel sword. It had been her father’s. There weren’t many in the family so when her brother had given it to her for her eighteenth name day she had been speechless. By all rights it should be Laerys’s.

It was a bit small for him. It had more sentimental value to him as he could remember more time with their father. However, Laerys had been bequeathed his own. His had come from the Velaryon lineage; Elaenya’s from the Targaryen’s. It fit her perfectly. She could wield hers one-handed if needed and could do great damage with two hands.

She let her eyes close as she rested her head against the back of the tub. She would wash when the water was cooler. For the moment she wanted to feel the heat. She gathered her silver hair behind her head, keeping it from the water and using it as a makeshift pillow. An unbidden memory floated behind her closed eyes...

Elaenya remembered how her sword had stopped midair, striking an unyielding object. She had turned around immediately and almost dropped it.

"Well, what do we have here?" The Dragon smiled down at her. All black armor and silver hair. He let the blade slide down his forearm, then gripped it, keeping it from falling to the ground. It had struck his vambrace when she had swung inexpertly.

She swallowed and was too embarrassed to respond. She could only blink up at him, then down at her sword in his hand and his helmet in his other.

She had been ten years of age the first time she had seen Daemon Targaryen up close. He tossed the sword in the air, flipping it to catch the grip. He turned it, making a show of inspecting the blade.

“They let you train with this, little one?” He flipped it again and handed it back to Elaenya, grip-first.

“Yes, only a bit, my Prince,” her mouth was dry. He seemed overlarge and certainly his reputation contributed to that.

“You’d do well to pay attention to your surroundings, cousin,” he grinned. “Watch where you swing such a deadly blade.” She laughed at this. They both knew it was a training sword with the dullest blade imaginable. “I shall leave you to it.”

He left unceremoniously. Young Elaenya watched him walk away until he entered the castle.

Elaenya made her way to break her fast the next morning. Her excitement propelled her down the corridors. The skirts of her pale blue dress flowed out behind her as she walked.

When she arrived at the hall, Daemon and her uncle weren’t present. She hid her displeasure with a genteel smile and walked toward the table.

“Good morrow.” She greeted her good sister, Rhanora, and brother, Laerys. She took her seat next to Rhanora as a servant brought her meal.

“You welcomed Prince Daemon last night, sister?” Laerys asked as he reached for the bread. He broke a piece off and handed it to his wife before taking some for himself, then handed the loaf to Elaenya. His eyes sparkled with a bit of mischief as they met hers.

“Thank you. Yes, I was on the beach when he arrived.” She gave him an exaggerated reproachful look. “How is the babe this morning?” Elaenya nodded toward Rhanora’s rounded middle.

“He was quite restless last night, but seems to have calmed today. I am ready for the little prince to make his appearance.” Rhanora stroked her belly as she spoke. It would not be much longer. Perhaps only a month’s time according to the Maester.

“Hopefully you may both have some rest before the festivities this afternoon.” Without meaning to, Elaenya rolled her eyes. She immediately flushed, praying neither of them had seen.

“Do you not approve of our cousin’s new title, El?” Her brother graciously winked at her, relieving her of the guilt that had begun to creep in. Laerys chuckled but it was clipped off when he looked up.

Their mother, Maela, had entered the hall. She smiled at them as she approached the table.

“Good morrow, Mother.” Elaenya and Laerys spoke almost in unison. Elaenya giggled. They had acted like they were still children, caught up to no good. Her mother kissed her fondly on the forehead before she sat.

“Good morrow children, Rhanora. Was something amusing, my son?” Maela didn’t look up from her task of buttering her bread.

“Well… yes, Mother, in fact, El thought Daemon’s coronation a bit of a farce.”

“I-“ Elaenya began in a huff, but her mother and brother laughed.

“Perhaps you should keep your opinions of your cousin confined to this dining table, El, lest someone mistake you for an usurper.” Her mother smiled at her.

Maela was a delicate woman but strong and fierce and kind. Her outward appearance and demeanor were every bit as regal as was required to marry a Targaryen prince. Before their father had died, Maela had smiled more often. Since then these intimate moments were the only times she seemed to slip off the twelve years of mourning which she wore like a cloak.

Maela had loved Gaemon Targaryen, their father, regardless of the marriage having been arranged. She was devoted to her two children, often seeing their father in their humor and playfulness.

“You look lovely today, El,” she said as she appraised Elaenya’s hair and dress. “More excited for the festivities than Laerys would lead me to believe?” She smiled mischievously.

Elaenya shot a sour look at her brother. She would find a way to repay him for exposing her to their mother.

“They will be historic, Mother,” she replied, not attempting to hide her smile.

Daemon and Corlys didn’t join them. Elaenya excused herself after she had finished her meal. She decided to go to the terrace to watch the arriving ships and the dragons. They, too, needed to break their fast and could be seen diving in the sea for fish that they rarely had access to at their homes.

She walked the corridors in no hurry. As she passed the library she heard voices. The doors were closed and she didn’t enjoy eavesdropping but she couldn’t help but hear Daemon’s agitated voice interrupt Corlys.

“-to Bloodstone. Tomorrow.”

Elaenya heard boot heels approaching the door. She moved away quickly, on through the corridors.

The ocean breeze was warmer than she had expected. She took a seat on a stone bench near the parapet. The dragons keened above and below her. Caraxes dwarfed her Saelys by half. Saelys’s teal coloring shifted between blue and green as she flew in the morning light. She watched Caraxes dive and reappear. A couple of newcomers circled and dove with them.

Bloodstone. Elaenya thought. She supposed it had not occurred to her that Daemon would go away so soon. Of course he would. Driftmark was not his home and only the war with the Triarchy had caused him to visit during the last few years. He and the Sea Snake would convene here when they needed to regroup or plan a new offensive. Those times were rare. None of the visits were long but she had spent every possible moment she could listening to them discuss strategy and tactics. More than once she had been their cup bearer in these meetings. The years had seemed to pass slowly with nothing remarkable happening between Daemon’s appearances at Driftmark.

He had spent most of his time there focused on his duties but after the councils he would walk on the beach with Elaenya. He would ask her questions about her training or Saelys or walk in comfortable silence. She didn’t prattle like young women were wont to do. Yet in all that time she had never thought about where he would be after the war ended. He had been a constant part of her life for three years and three years could feel like an eternity when your days were monotonous.

Elaenya gazed out at the ocean and let her mind wander. Soon she would be required to attend her mother and brother. Alongside them she would represent the Targaryens at Driftmark. What an odd predicament, she thought, to be loyal to her uncle and cousin and yet claim to be loyal to the Crown. Surely Daemon’s and Corlys’s actions were treason but she would heed her mother’s words and keep these thoughts to herself.

That afternoon, Elaenya took her place next to her brother in the hall. They stood to the side of the dais. Their uncle Corlys Velaryon sat on the driftwood throne. Every Velaryon who resided at Driftmark was present. The hall was buzzing with conversation. A few younger men laughed, the sound echoing through the rafters. The celebratory mood overshadowed the fact that Daemon and Corlys we committing a minor act of treason. Looking at the faces around the hall, she didn’t see any that showed displeasure. Everyone in attendance reveled in the victory.

A voice was heard above the others, asking for silence, and a wave of shushing flowed through the crowd. Heads turned to watch the young prince enter. His short, silver hair was raked to the side. His violet eyes focused directly ahead, not looking at the spectators. He looked smug even without a grin, but surely that grin lay close to the surface, Elaenya thought. She allowed herself a tight-lipped smile.

Her cousin stopped at the dais, not mounting the stairs. Silence fell completely as the Sea Snake stood. He walked to the edge and a servant met him, holding out the crown. The polished bones curved like those of a man’s ribs. Elaenya swallowed dryly at the unsavory thought. Daemon didn’t kneel, only bowed his head slightly.

“Let all present bear witness,” Corlys spoke loudly to the onlookers. “Daemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.” The Sea Snake placed the crown upon Daemon’s head. Cheers and applause sprang up from the crowd. Elaenya wondered if it wasn’t a bit forced, overly enthusiastic. Surely not everyone was excited to see her cousin become a king.

Daemon raised his head and began to turn to face the crowded hall. As he did he caught Elaenya’s eye and proffered her a smirk that fell away as quickly as it had arrived. Heat rushed to her face but Daemon had already looked away. That single look had confirmed her suspicions: he knew exactly how much of a farce this had become.

To be continued...

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[theesirenteller]

Domesticated | Unqiue

🅳🅴🆂🅲🆁🅸🅿🆃🅸🅾🅽

After the passing of his child's mother, Kadeem Mathis better known in the streets as 'Unique or Nique'; has taken on the role of being a full-time parent. Which causes more difficulties rather than smooth sailing, A full time caregiver for his son and new home in Astoria, Queens is needed. What starts off as simply business quickly turns personal when the tender love & care of a woman warms his once hollow heart.]

RATING: 𝙈𝘼𝙏𝙐𝙍𝙀

DEATH had become a normal reoccurrence in Kadeem's day to day life. Oftentimes it was business more than personal. But on December 30th,1992 Kadeem's babymama, Tori was murdered. Their son Jerome was found on the snowy cold floor beside her carved up body. She'd been stabbed over twenty times and left behind the Carvel ice cream store she had previously been in. Kadeem remembered when Tori's mother called him from the hospital. Getting that type of need caused him to abruptly leave his meeting with Raquel and show up with a rapidly beating heart. His henchmen followed behind him with ansty hands that were trigger-finger ready.

Despite not being in love with Tori, he still had a great amount of love and respect for her purely for gifting him Jerome. No child deserved to be motherless and Jerome wasn't even a year old. He never got to properly meet her, know her. He was freshly four months old. Four months old and in the hospital fighting an Pneumonia. Tears glazed his eyes as he watched his son from the incubator. As soon as his mother,Sheronda, arrived at the hospital, he felt secure enough to leave and handle Tori's murderers. And nothing surprised him more than to find out she'd been killed because of her own actions and not because of him. Kadeem learned that Tori had punched out a pregnant woman. A woman whose man she was messing with. Unfortunately for Tori, that girl had a sister from Brooklyn who ran her own gang. Nothing major, just ten girls. But those bitches were ruthless. Stone cold and colder than some men from what Worrell found out. The sadness Kadeem felt for Tori was replaced with anger.

Her hoe-antics got her killed, got her taken away from their innocent child and nearly got him killed in the process of it. Despite his anger, he still avenged her. For Jerome. It had taken less than an hour to locate them. And it took nearly two to off each and every one of them. Each woman and their innocent bystanders had gotten a face full of bullets. It was Christmas and Kadeem was feeling generous. So the man that Tori was fooling with had gotten gunned down too. He thought of taking the man's wife's life but didn't. He left her alone. She'd been in her daughter's room, hugging her child close and he just passed her by. Her child looked a few months older than Jerome. The child shared his same complexion and despite showing no expression on his face, he felt heartbroken. After that, Kareem disassociates from his emotions and thoughts as he leaves the home. All of the events that transpired, all the lives that were lost…felt unnecessary. Unnecessary tragedies.

It'd been a month since then and being thrown into the world of being a single father to a newborn had turned Kareem's life upside down. He could manage the streets of Jamaica, Queens no problem. He was a natural born leader who had an immense amount of respect in the streets. But little Jerome had him feeling like a puppy with its tail tucked between his legs. He needed around the clock care, comfort, and affection. All that Kareem provided without fuss. It was the anxiety that kept him up at night. Anxious at the mere thought of Jerome being in harm's way. Anxious that he could kiss his son good morning and the next he could be kissing his cold dead body before a funeral. Dark thoughts plagued Kareem's mind and all he kept repeating to himself was ‘’tighten up”.

When he left Jerome with his granny, Kareem went nose deep into reconstructing his life. More private, less reckless. He sold his apartment and replaced it with a two story single-family in a nicer part of Queens, Astoria.

He made sure to collect his neighbors personal information from a tech-geek at NYU. Nothing but elderly Indians, Koreans, and a few Africans lived within his block. Mainly all retired or doctors, and some even bodega owners. He had their ss information, background checks, and even family lists with photos attached. Just in case. This was a green zone, a safer spot for Jerome. And he needed to know who moved in or out of it. Make sure nobody like him or who he dealt with had any type of reason for being in this area. On this block. He had his mother decorate the whole place and she approved of the home. She even stayed in it to care for Jerome for a few weeks.

“Kadeem, you gonna need to get a housekeeper and a babysitter, boy. I ain't sign up to be either. I'm cool with watching my baby on the weekends but I ain't raising him Hell, maybe get a in house bitch, a homebody who's eager to play step-mama. I don't know but do something.” Sheronda, his mother announced over Sunday dinner.

Kadeem stopped chewing on his Mac and cheese noodles as he proceeded what she said,” Ma, you don't think it's a lil' too early for this?” His velvety voice silked through the warm dining room. “Jerome don't need no step-mama or no strangers. He got you and he got me, that's all he needs right now. His peoples.”

His mother shook her head in disapproval, “Better sooner rather than later. All that love and affection from use comes second. That baby needs around the clock care and so does this home you bought. Just how you know love don't pay the bills, it don't keep things in line either.” She rebuttals. And her words stuck with him for the next few days despite him not giving her an answer.

His days blended together over the course of the following weeks. And he was thankful that his mother continued to care for Jerome. He had sent a list of cleaning agencies and child caregiver agencies the week before he and Raq had their meeting with Sal Boseill & his gang. Sheronda had gotten started on skimming through agencies. The sixty-five year old was tired and irritated from talking to various managers and coordinators. A lot of them had nasty attitudes and Sheronda damn sure wasn't going to have some lazy, slick-mouth maid up in her son's and grandson's home.

She soon came across the thirty-ninth agency's pamphlet, Lá Casá De La Paz (The house of peace) and what sparked her interest was the dual-care services. They had full time aides who did house sitting and personal care elderly and disabled children. They also had home cleaning services solely. Sheronda hoped that she could finesse the personal care service provider into finding some to care for a newborn who wasn't disabled. Finding a nanny on top of a house cleaned just felt like so much work. And Sheronda's patience was wearing thin.

“Hola, Bienvenida a la casa de la paz, habla María, ¿en qué puedo ayudarle?” The woman on the other side of the phone line greeted Sheronda with a heavy spanish-accent.

“Um, I'm sorry I don't speak Spanish. Do you have anyone that speaks English, Maria?” Sheronda replied.

“Yes, Un minuto por favor.” The woman said before a beeping sound was heard and another voice answered, “Hello, this is Jasmine speaking, how may I help you.”

“Hey Jasmine, my name is Sheronda and I am interested in your dual-care services. I need both personal care and house cleaning services. But, not for me. For my son and grandson…” She then went on to explain her family's situation. And by the end of their two-hour long phone call, a payment plan and a list of caregivers for interviews were listed and scheduled to meet with Kareem. Things were more costly for the family than the average client due to their unique situation. No one needed to get approved by insurance. It was all independent contracting which meant cold cash and a notary contract had been set in place.

Michel'le sat in the bedroom-sized break room of Lá Casá De La Paz eating her lunch after coming to base after a long shift. She ate her plantains, rice and beans quietly in a corner seat, facing the wall. She drowned out the chair-chatter of the middle-aged caregivers who gossiped amongst themselves in Spanish with her headphones. Her cd sat in her waist belt around her waist as Brenda Lee's passion-filled song Emotions played. Her short-chubby legs spun back and forth underneath the chair as she quietly hummed along. A hand roughly rubbing against her shoulder caused her wide-eyed daydreaming gaze to break and her head to snap back. Galinda, one of her coworker’s lips moved and her head nodded to the door. Michel'le could feel the dampness of Gaildna's sweaty hand sink into the cotton fabric of her turtleneck. Michel'le quickly shoved the woman's hand off her and got up from her seat. The metal chair screeched loudly against the cool floor tiles as she rose and rushed out the room.

The music stopped and her earphones now sat loosely around her neck as she made her way to the coordinator's office. More work was exactly what she expected. Michel'le was the youngest in the staff so the patients that the other women refused or didn't show up for; Michel'le stepped in for. A bonus was that despite being an immigrant from Puerto Rico, she knew English fluently while the majority of the staff didn't care to learn. She was currently twenty-four years old despite looking fifteen in the face. Her body, her full figure of large teardrop-shaped breasts, chubby arms, plum oval-shaped thighs, and a large low-hung round fatty-rear that looked as if it should've belonged to a milf with some kids and more than a few sexual encounters under her belt should've had; was what made her look her age if not an age range close to it.

She strolled into Jasmine's office to see the umber-brown Dominican coordinator seated behind her chalky-white desk as usual, dressed in gray and black scrubs.

“Michel'le, Hey, have a seat.” Jasmine greeted as her dark brown eyes settled on the timid-standing young woman at the door.

Michel'le did quietly as told and folded her hands tightly together in her lap as she awaited to hear what she was here for.

“I've got a better position for you. Something long term. Uh-how do you say…longer contract. Off the books for the most part.” Jasmine started off before further explaining,”There's a family located in Queens, The Astoria area so it's a pretty good spot. The pay is very good, a thousand for you a week plus room & board. They want someone to be an in house nanny. Take care of an infant who's around five or six months old, clean the house, make three meals a day. I suggested you for the job along with Sonya, Eva, and Carmella. They have another agency with four other women coming.” Jasmine read over the details before looking directly at Michel'le and sighed.

“Honestly? Nena I want better for you. You're like a daughter to me and cleaning up shit, blood, and whatever else isn't what your life should be. You're a quiet girl, Un Nena Muy Buena (a very good girl) and esoy brujas (old hags) take advantage of that. This could be a start to better employment. Change isn't always bad.” Jasmine was the only one Michel'le shared more than two words with and held eye contact with. Jasmine knew the girl was very timid and a bit of a scardy cat, easily shaken up. And she wanted better for her.

Michel'le dug her tooth into the side of the gums of her lower lip as her nails dug into her palm. Small beads of sweat began to pebble underneath her arms and underneath her breasts. Change? She avoided that like the plague. But, this didn't sound bad. And it appeared that she'd be alone most of the time or in the company of the infant. ‘An infant. A small human.’ she thought to herself mentally. She'd never been around children before, let alone a baby. She didn't have much knowledge about them outside of a few antonym and childcare books she'd read at one of her client's homes.

“I don't know how to care for a child, Jasmine.” She finally spoke up. Spoken an octave above a whisper. Her voice sounded similar to her namesake, the r&b singer Michel'le. Not exactly but similar with its child-like quality, only Michel'le Ramirez was more airy. Her words left her mouth sounding like harmonious ad-libs.She spoke as though she never raised her voice in her life. And she hadn't. Ever.

“You’vee taken care of bed-ridden 80 and 90 year olds. Babies are much easier than that and they don't have slick mouths.” Jasmine dismissed, “You've got this.” She reassured her with a smile.

Saturday, January 28th came quicker than Michel'le expected. Jasmine has given her an address and interview time weeks prior. Morty's Dinner, located in the Hillside area of Jamaica, Queens was where the interviews were being conducted and 10 a.m. was her specific interview time. Michel’le arrived an hour earlier to the area due to wanting to avoid the unpredictable timing of the city's trains. Michel'le lingered around the park nearby for a bit. She was familiar with the area. She'd been to every borough because of her job. The weather was cold. A dry cold that would sting one's bones and redden their noses. She wore a white thermal turtleneck with an ankle-length indigo-blue denim dress, with her thermal long-sleeved long johns underneath. Wool socks covered her feet with four-trimmed rubber black anti-slip boots on her feet. An ankle-length Heather gray wool-trench coat covered her short frame like a blanket along with a crochet beanie that covered her head.

Her wide-eyed gaze swept across the cooped up street corners that were filled with various dope dealers and their clientele. She walked quickly to not bring an ounce of attention to herself. It was a five minute walk to the mom&pop diner she was sent to. Arriving inside the warm, breakfast food scented restaurant at exactly 9:58. She looked around for a man who fit the description of her portfolio. Mr.Mavis was described as a twenty-eight year old dark-skinned black male who would be seated at the last table on the third row. She didn't get a chance to get a full look around because she was harshly bumped into by none other than one of her co-workers, Sonya.

“Cabrón” (bastard) Sonya cussed under her breath as she bypassed Michel'le.

Michel'le squeezed at the leather strap of her purse and glared in Sonya's direction before shifting her eyes to the direction that the co-worker had come from. There he sat. And he wasn't anything that she expected. He was far more. The man across the way had the most vibrant shade of rich-sienna brown skin that looked like fine bourbon-colored mulberry silk. His luxurious attire of a gray colored animal-fur coat and black turtleneck hugged his neck perfectly made him look-like royalty. Sure, his clothes screamed money. But he sat in them with a certain type of class that made him look effortless. He wore the clothes, they didn't wear him. Even the gaunty large gold chain around his neck didn't appear tacky.

Kadeem felt someone staring at him. He felt the gaze from across the room and his eyes settled on, what to him looked like a little girl. She was very short. No more than than five feet tall and that long ass coat she had on was swallowing her up. She made her way towards his direction as his henchmen sat at the booth in front of him. Kadeem and Michel'le stared directly into each other's eyes. But both of them had different gazes. She looked startled and memeriezed while he looked curious.

“Oh hell naw, these niggas runnin' sweat shops too? Send'n youngin's n shit?” One of his men commented a little too loudly as Michel'le approached Kadeem.

She was confident he was the leader, the employer. His presence gave off this type ’je ne sais quoi’ that demanded respect and reciprocated it. His head was held high. Up close his chiseled, almost-angelic Nubian features made the back of neck grow sweaty and her palms grow clammy. His beauty was merely intimidating. “Excuse me, are you Mr Marvis?” Her squeaky tone convinced Kadeem that she indeed was a kid.

Kadeem looked her over before slowly nodding his head, “Sup, babygirl. What can I do for you?” Geez, His voice was as smooth as melted butter glazing toast. It had a subtle rasp to it but held a deep octave that sang off his lips like a Barry white song, “Call me Nique by the way,” he corrected.

“Mr.Nique…” his name sounded sweet like honey coming from her lips, “I'm Michel'le Ramirez, The agency; Lá Casá De La Paz sent me. 10:00 a.m. sharp.” Her words started off shaky but grew more firm towards the end of her informal sentence. Her accent was thicker with some words rather than others.

“Right…right. Have a seat, let Worrell get your coat,” Kadeem nudged his chin up and as if on cue, a light-skinned male in an oversized brown bomber with a low Afro had stood up and extended his arms out to take her coat.

“Oh…um…thank you.” She muttered out quickly as she briefly made eye-contact with the man as she removed her coat.

A dog was a dog and a man was a man. Nique's men and himself included had drank in her body with their eyes. Lustful looks passed across their eyes unt she sat down. Kadeem had taken notice of how Michel'le dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand. So tight that her knuckles turned white. He then sent a sharp look forward that caused his four henchmen to turn around in their seats and face forward, “Why don't y'all niggas go take a walk or sum; go get air sum air.” It didn't sound like a suggestion to Michel'le. And given the fact that they all got up and began making their way outside let her know that it wasn't.

Michel'le proceeded to remove her crochet beanie hat. Her naturally curly hair was wavy today, her short choppy bangs sat a few inches above her eyebrows. Her hair fell to the top of her shoulders Now. It was Kadeem's turn to view her through the lense she viewed him in. Kadeem was met with raw beauty. Now that he could fully see her without the coat and hat covering her up, he got a chance to see the full picture. She clearly was no kid. Maybe seventeen if he was guessing her being younger than what the profilio he has yet to read would say. And if she was that young, well he had no reason to employ her. He admired her heart-shaped outward pouty lips, taking notice of how much fuller her bottom lip was versus her top lip. He also likes her flawless ochre-brown skin, the center of the cheeks of her babyish face were a shade of coral that reminded of peaches. Most of all, he loved her big, brown eyes. He had watched Bambi a few times with Jerome and oddly enough, Michel'le reminded him of faline. Her eye shape and her gaze. She was beautiful besides her janky ass bangs and denim dress that was too long in his opinion.

“Would you like some breakfast? Get whateva you want, on me.” He offered with a heavy NYC accent and reassurance that didn't have to worry about the bill.

“Oh…um sure, thanks.” The coral tint on her cheeks deepened as she pushed her hair behind her ears, “Are you gonna get anything? It…um…might be awkward for me to just sit and eat in your face.”

She made him crack a chuckle. A chuckle that sounded like the melodical roar of the engine of a mustang. Deep and smooth. The vibrations of his chuckle bounced off her skin and left goosebumps behind, “I can eat.” He agreed.

Michel'le’s shoulders dropped in relief and she nodded her head, “Cool, thank you.” She then proceeded to open the plastic menu book and skim through it. Kadeem found her awkwardness cute. Different from the woman he dealt with daily or came across.

The waitress had come over to their table and both ordered the breakfast special which included, scrambled eggs, two sausage links, hash browns,a coffee and a slice of apple pie or a stack of pancakes. Kadeem chose pancakes while Michel'le chose apple pie.

“So, why you want the job?” Kadeem asked as soon as the waitress was out of ear shot.

“Well um-”

“Yo, excuse me but you mind looking me in my eyes when you speak to me, baby girl,” Kadeem cut in.

Her blush spread up to the corners of her ears now. Her face grew hot as she moved her gaze from the menu to his eyes. Her mouth suddenly started to feel dry, “I'm sorry, it's a force of habit.” Michel'le quickly apologized with a slight stutter.

“It's all good.” He assured her with a nod, folding his gold-ring covered fingers together as he leaned forward, Kadeem smiled at her with a smile that made her feel at ease. He had a smile that could open the gates of heaven, “So, tell me why you want the job.”

The softness within his eyes made her feel relaxed and more comfortable to open up, “Well, it sounds nice.” She started off with a smile slowly creasing the corners of her lips, “I mean it sounds like light work compared to what I'm used to. I'm good at tranquility, and I want the job because I like spaces that are peaceful and you want a peaceful home. I can provide that.“

The pair shared a lingering look and for Michel'le this was rare. She couldn't bring herself to look elsewhere. The subtle smile on his lips that was slowly turning to a smirk,

“You real sweet Michel'le.” he said casually just as the waitress brought over their food. His type of casualness made her speechless. Unable to respond because she hadn't come across someone like him before. His cool, calm, and calculated demeanor made her feel so frantic and feral on the inside.

The pair mutually and inaudibly graced each other with the respect of silence to enjoy their food while it was hot. The chimed medley of forks clicking against porcelain plates was what could be heard for a good ten to fifteen minutes. Every so often their eyes would meet and Michel'le would be the first to look elsewhere in a bashful manner. Tapping her mouth to clean off any crumbles of food, she proceeded to ask about his son, “What's your baby's name? The profilio didn't give his name, sorry. Just that he's an infant boy.” she nibbled at the side of her lip as asked further, “what's he like?”

The authentic smile of happiness that formed across Kadeem's face at the mention of his son, “My boy's name is Jerome.” The smile on Kadeem's face brightened up the whole room in Michel'le’’s eyes. It was sweet to see.”He's beautiful, real beautiful. The moment we met, I looked into his eyes and just saw an angel. My biggest blessing fo’real.” He could really rant about how great his baby boy was all day, but instead he took out his leather wallet and pulled out a credit card sized photo of the boy. Michel'le moved her plate aside and leaned over the table to get a closer look, Kadeem caught a whiff of her perfume. She smelt like peppermint and vanilla buttercream frosting. An unexpected mixture but he was digging it.

“He looks just like you,” she smiled as she further looked at the photo, “You're right. He's beautiful. I like his eyes, they're pretty.”

“Preciate’ that babygirl, he's my mini me fo'real.” Kadeem replied before he pushed his plate aside and opened the portfolio given to him by her agency. A few things on it made one of his eyebrows raise, “You twenty-four? I woulda guessed seventeen.” He commented aloud as he read, “From Culbra, Puerto Rico, hm? It says you only been in the states eight months, ya English is real crystal clear tho…” he nodded in approval before flipping to client forms.

“Thanks, uh I spoke English back home. It was taught in grade school as a secondary language. Tourism jobs helped me be more fluent too, I guess.” Michel'le shared quietly as she slid over her plate of apple pie. Kadeem nodded his head but didn't utter a word due to focusing on reading over her patient performance biweekly reports.

*You ever taken care of a child before? Cause all I'm seeing here is a whole lotta old niggas here on they last days.” Kadeem began to wonder why his mother went to an agency who specialized in the elderly and not children. His son nor him needed AARP or a bedpan. “No disrespect, sweetheart. I mean I'm sure that them niggas is more of a handful than Jerome.” He quickly added on.

He looked her directly in her eyes as he awaited an answer and despite Michel’le wanting the job, she wasn't going to lie. “No I haven't. Ever.” She admitted with a firm tone. The first one that bothered to appear in the midst of their conversation. She managed to push past her stutter and nervousness to give a solid answer without feeling defeated.

Kadeem sent a head nod her way as he ran his tongue across his bottom lip. “Ain't much of a problem.” His attention shifted behind her as his henchmen decided to make their way back inside the diner and walk past his & michel'le's table just as he asked, “You know how to cook? Not no hospital patient food, I mean do you know to rock them pots, babygirl.”

“She sholl ain't get that muthfuckin' thick eatin' no

rabbit food.” One of his henchmen muttered underneath his breath as he passed Kadeem. None other than Tez-G. Kadeem shot him a look that could only be read as ‘If I wasn't busy I'd punch you in the fucking mouth’

Luckily, He said it closer to Kadeem than Michel'le because by the looks of it, she didn't appear to hear. The girl was with her head down, silently eating her pie as she contemplated her answer.

“Well, that's uh…a matter of opinion… isn't it?” She replied awkwardly as she fiddled with her fork, “ I think I cook fairly well. I cook for myself only what I've been taught by my mother and her mother. But um, it's not about me. It's about you, serving you what you like.” She clarified before placing a forkful of apple pie in her mouth.

'Serve you' Kadeem liked the sound of that. It fed his king mentality and ego.

“Word.” He smirked.

The remainder of their time lasted ten minutes, when their breakfast desserts were finished, Kadeem stuck his hand out, “Preciate’ you choppin it up wit me, Michel'le.”

As she reached her hand out to shake his,the way he said her name made her feel scatterbrained. Sure, she thought she had a decent name. Michel'le didn't have a problem with it but the way kadeem said it made it sound pretty, Or maybe if only sounded pretty coming from his mouth. Michel'le wasn't able to get in a second thought because he had kissed her knuckles instead of shaking her hand and she wasn't expecting that at all.

“I'll be in touch.” The words that spilled from his heart-shaped lips went in one ear and out the other because she still was hung up on the fact that he kissed her hand. The softness of his lips reminded her of the softness of marshmallows.

“O-okay.” The care attendant managed to squeak out. A wobbly, goofball smile sat heavy on her pouty lips, “Thanks for breakfast.” She rushed out the words with a mousy tone as her anxiety flared up when she stood up. She needed to get up and go before embarrassing herself (further) by talking too fast or stuttering too badly. Her mind was in overstimulation mode. Which was a rare occurrence for a woman like her who walked with a high sense of numbness to any and everything around her.

She swiftly waved goodbye with her hand moving frantically. Kadeem had just sat there with a smirk of amusement laid across his lips as he sent her a head nod. He definitely has his fun subtly messing with her. Michel'le was easy to read in his opinion.Her genuineness was displayed within her eyes. He watched as she rushed out of the diner with her coat and beanie in hand.

Kadeem's attitude during the duration of her interview was the nicest he had been in the last few months. Even before his baby mother's passing, he'd been hard and cut throat. Raq was moving shady and he was smoking her out one flame at a time. Also, he cut corners in his crew, discarding rats and bringing those who showed ‘’loyalty’ at the levels of survival of the fittest. This was war and he needed the strongest soldiers lined up behind him.

“Nique what you did that got that girl running out like a church mouse?” Worrell joked as he slid into the seat that Michel'le once sat in.

“Just being friendly.” Kadeem chastised with a smirk.

“Yeah, be a lil mo friendly and she might go into cardiac arrest or some shit. She got a real bugged out look.” Worrell attempted to widen his eyes enough to get them to be as big as hers.

“You look stupid as fuck, yo. Matter fact, stop looking at me nigga, it's offensive.” Kareem mugged him with a look of annoyance. He let out a chuckle when Worrell huffed. “Come on man, back to work.” Kareem dropped a crisp hundred dollar bill on the table before he rose up from his seat.

Kareem's day blended into the night and that spilled into the early morning hour of six a.m. He'd taken the long way home to his new residence and ended up walking through his front door at 7 a.m. The aroma of Fodgers coffee beans brewing let him know his mother had gotten up and was occupying the kitchen. And after he left his shoes by the door and made his way into the kitchen, he was met with exactly what he expected. There in the center of the kitchen Sheronda was seated at the kitchen table. Her usual silk bluebonnet laid on her head, a mug of coffee in her left hand with a Newport cigarette between her fingers.

“Hey Mama.” Kadeem greeted warmly as he took a seat across from her.

A look of relief flashed across her eyes as her shoulders visibly settled down. With the life he lived, it was a blessing every time he came back in one piece, “Hey suga.” She greeted tiredly with a soft welcoming smile.

“I got some good news, well more for you than for me but still good.” Kareem grinned. And when she raised her brow and awaited his response, he continued “I may have found

a caregiver for the crib and Jerome.”

“How old is she?” Was his mother's first question. She hoped the woman in question was someone seasoned when it came to the task and at least in her late fifties. Her age range request for the agencies was fifty to sixty-five.

“Dang ma, you ain't gonna ask about her credentials first?” He teased with a chuckle.

All jokes aside, Michel'le had sixteen pages worth of up to date credentials that sparked his interest. She knew how to administer a series of medications, change wounds, use stitching to properly cover wounds, hell she cleaned immobile people from top to bottom and the patient's families said she made them feel safe and comfortable. Grown adults who were being cared for like infants,

“If she's something nice to look at I doubt you give a damn about her credentials.” his mother replied while giving him a side-eye.

Kadeem only laughed his mother off, “Man ma it ain't even like that. Plus, I think she's a nun or some shit like that. I mean…she showed up covered up from top to bottom.” Even with the information he had told her, his mother looked at him as if she didn't believe one bit of what he was saying. Kareem only chuckled as he stood up, “Look, do you wanna do the job? Because we can cancel all this.”

Sheronda kept quiet before shaking her head and taking a sip of her coffee.

“Aight then, I'm gonna go check on little man then shower.” He placed a kiss on his mother's cheek before heading upstairs.

All jokes aside, Kadeem had no interest in pursuing Michel'le in any aspect. Romantically, Sexually, etc. His main focus was getting Jerome comfortable so that he could get the kingdom he built in order and be better than ever. Outside her beauty, Michel’le wasn't his type. She was too green and damsels in distress wasn't his thing. But then again, Kadeem couldn't overlook that his taste in women was merely a product of his environment. They were predictable. He knew what they liked and how they moved. They all turned on him at some point. All snakes in the grass looking for the next with more street credibility, money, power, and anything else that was superficial. Like him.

#theesirenteller fanfic #unique raising kanan x oc #joey bada$$ #raising kanan #Kadeem Mavis x ofc #theesirentellerstories #joey bada$$ fanfiction #blk!ofc #blk!plus sizeoc #black love #black girl!reader #woc poc #poc ofc #domesticated; Unqiue raising Kanan #black writers #blk writer #Kadeem 'Unqiue' Mathis x ofc

[rayofdawnworld]

Mid Point to the Beginning- Star Trek Fic

Hello. Yes, I know. Why start a new fic if you have so many to finish. I know, I know. Believe me, I know. 

But this won’t leave me alone and since I did post a new chapter for Needs, I decided to start this one. 

But first a few things. This isn’t a fix-it fic. Disability isn’t the end of life. To think like that is just... Not cool to put it nicely. There are millions of people who live with disabilities who have long, beautiful, fulfilling lives. Is it hard yes, but only because abled people in power don’t stop to think that maybe instead of chasing the miracle cure, or ignoring said percentage in the population because it’s cheaper, investing the resources with our fellow human brethren in mind would make their lives exponentially easier. 

But that’s just me. My opinion. You’re welcome to think and say otherwise. 

And yes, I am indeed talking about the whole Pike/Delta Radiation thing going on. I’m not dissing those who write these fics. They are quite good and I read them, but I’m also left feeling a bit off. Life is inevitable and things happen and I’m left wondering how those people feel. Star Trek has always been about representation but the second a beloved abled character is shown to become a Disabled person, there’s an uproar, a shower of discourse, and how dear they’s, a rush to go fix it,  once again alienating and ignoring the reality of millions of our fellow humans. Do these people not deserve to be represented as well? 

Star Trek has always been about inclusion and representation. 

Disability isn’t the end of life. 

Having a Disability doesn’t mean you don’t have a life.

Suffering a disability doesn’t mean your life has ended. 

And again all the love to those who write and have written Fix-it’s. They are brilliant and for two seconds this fic was almost one of them. It was, I confess.

But then I started thinking about all those people. Real people that have disabilities. These people deserve better. They Deserve to be SEEN and to be REPRESENTED. 

These People Deserve More. 

Pike Deserves Better than a life lived in an illusion.

And so, I bring you my first Star Trek and F/F Fic. I hope you like it. 

Pairings:

Christopher Pike/Latina!OFC

Number One-Una Chin-Riley/Black!OFC

Spock/MixedRace!OFC

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40108461/chapters/100451394

#star trek fic #chris pike x oc #christopher pike/oc #Una chin riley/oc #Spock/oc #Ofc #Poc ofc #Spock x ofc #Number one x oc #Una chin Riley x oc #NOT a fix-it fic sorry

[milknhonies]

Daddy's Final Deal

Oneshot Summary: Your possessive Step-Father Bruce Wayne decides he cannot bare you leaving for college...so he leans on a friend who shares the same obsession for you. He offers him a deal.

Oneshot Warning: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Non-Con, CNC, Grooming (all characters are of legal age.) Bondage, P in V, Oral Sex, Threesome, Exhibition, Vouyerism, pseudo-incest between step-father & step daughter, pimping if you squint, breeding kink if you squint. No condoms/unsafe sex.

Word Count: 10.2k

Author Notes: This is a gift for @cardierreh15 after a playful dare. I hope you enjoy this babe 🥺✨

Gently laid on soft satin bed sheets, your thoughts were consumed with the evening discussion that you had during supper with your step-father Bruce and his best friend Clark, followed by the unexpected marriage proposal Clark had made. You were surprised Clark had wanted your hand for any other purpose than for your step-father’s wealth– you would have never guessed his feelings for your because he was usually so calm and friendly with everyone. Yet he had asked you softly if you would consider being his wife with a warm smile, and you knew he was serious from the glint in his eyes. It was like your lungs were drowning with how difficult it was to breathe.

For the first time, your heart stirred, void of fear and worry.

You didn’t outright decline his offer, but a decision of this magnitude deserved more than a hasty reply. You had to think this through being that you were so caught if guard in the first place, so you demurred by saying you needed time to think about your official answer. After all, you were just a month away from starting college. You wanted to be a journalist like Clark despite Bruce’s protests and alternative encouragement for you to remain home and attend charity balls with him. Besides, Clark was a bit too old…a little younger than Bruce but both men still had twenty years on you.

If age wasn’t the defining taboo, you had noted Clark was a gentleman who had the ability to make you laugh. If anything was to happen to Bruce or Alfred, you felt Clark would be the most reliable shoulder to lean against.

You rolled over and sighed, you held your blanket up to your chin and continued to ponder.

Clark Kent...he would be a decent husband, but did you have feelings for him? He was rather charming and undeniably handsome. It was something that you would probably lose sleep over in the future.

Clark had approached the topic very calmly, almost shyly, and Bruce had seemed to be expecting this. That made it obvious to your that Clark had asked your step-father first, and Bruce would not have let his best friend ask you if he did not approve first...Bruce in fact was smiling at dinner and that smile fell when you have your polite neutral response.

Suddenly the wine he had let your drink felt a little sickly in your belly. You excuses yourself as soon as you could to your bedroom.

You rolled over in your sheets and sighed softly, snuggling up under the thick duvet and nuzzling the thousand-dollar pillows. It confused you, but the more you thought about it, the less absurd it became. You giggled. Clark would make a very good husband, and you would be lucky to have someone such as him, of such a good but firm character, always with an easy smile or an encouraging word for you. And he had always been a good friend to you, respecting your interests in writing, sometimes babying you, which girls your age might find annoying but you didn’t mind.

The boys your age were so horny and stupid...immature. it was impossible to see them as providers for the families that they claimed to want for themselves.

So saying “yes” to Clark would feel a little weird to you, but what real reason was there to say no? Did you have someone else? You might’ve shared kisses along your teens in highschool, yet none of them swept you off your feet enough to like them.

You were just glad that Clark had agreed to let your think about it. His smile had been relaxed, and he showed no anger or resentment. His eyes did appear tighter, other than that it even seemed as if he had expected your hesitation and was willing to wait. Clark was always so understanding, why wouldn’t he be about such an important question like this?

You shut your eyes with a smile.

★★★

Meanwhile, the men remained downstairs in the library, in front of the fireplace, and Clark looked across the flames at his best friend.

“Are you sure you still want to go through with this Bruce?” he asked.

The men had known each other for years and had grown a close bond in friendship and other activities. And if course it was bound to slip from one man’s lips to the other about their depraved thoughts, desires and fantasies....it turns out they shared a common denominator... You.

Over a month ago they were sitting in the same place discussing the same issue about to occur...losing you.

They knew if you left for college, you’d meet some cocky asshole studying to be a lawyer or doctor, get pregnant, get married quickly only to suffer a uncommitted marriage and end in a heart breaking divorce.

What type of men would they be if they watched their favourite girl fall to such demise as that!?

Bruce had married your mother when you were fourteen and he was the best dad you could ever ask for. He helped with your homework and taught you to swim while he paid for your mother’s chemo therapy.

When she died three years ago, you’d just finished highschool. You were totally shattered and put off summer break and college until you knew you were prepared. But now Clark had dumped the marriage proposal.

Clark sighed. His best friend's idea wasn’t totally a surprise to him. Bruce had planned this.

Clark recalled how Bruce was constantly looking out for you; his protectiveness as a stepfather, while perhaps misguided, was undeniably apparent. It was clear that he cared about you deeply and had shown no interest in any other woman since the passing of his wife—your mother. Clark often caught Bruce gazing at you with a loving and compassionate gaze, as if he were contemplating the best way to look after you.

During those days Clark was scared to share his own perverse thoughts...oh how the man wanted to look after you. You always were so lovely around him, so eager to gain his attention and praise, perhaps as another fatherly figure she could cling to...It wasn’t hard for Bruce to see that Clark loved you dearly and was clearly proud of your accomplishments. Clark was proud like a second father.... Except he wanted to do things no father should ever do to their little girls. He almost lost it one day when he walked in on you, on your hands and knees scrubbing the carpet before Alfred could find the stains you’d made when stealing some red whine from Bruce’s cellar. Your skirt was a tad too short, the hem pulled up over your ass cheeks and crotch. Clark held back from ripping those white nylon leggings with those cute pink panties and shoving his cock deep in your tight cunt.

He wondered if Bruce ever found out about the stain...he touched himself imagining Mister Wayne spanking his wayward little minx of a daughter over his knees.

Clark wanted you. Bruce wanted you and the moment they both figured it out, neither of them could judge each other for their thoughts....

They decided Clark would ask for your hand and the billionaire of Gotham would give his best friend his blessing – on one condition.

The idea was foul and taboo, and Clark was not sure whether he should deny to it or not. But this was his best friend, the loving step-father who cared about the young woman Clark wanted to marry as much as he did if not more. You had shared things in the past, and whenever you had debated or ‘fought’ over things, it was always light hearted, and never bitter.

“Of course I do, if not now then not ever Clark....” Bruce replied with a brief nod, “Tonight might be the only chance we get.”

Clark nodded slowly for a moment. Yes, he cared for you and had done so for a long time. He was happy that when he asked, you had not acted with shock or revulsion. But you had seemed surprised and hesitant, and he could not blame your for being shy and uncertain.

“What if she says no?” he asked.

Bruce’s eyes darkened, “She will...at first. Are you capable of pushing through that Kent?”

The super man smirked sickly. Of course he could. Clark nodded.

“She is going to be scared,” Bruce replied with certainty as he slowly turned his head towards the stairway out in the hall that led to your wing of the mansion, “I have been expecting this since her mother died, I doubt she remembers that night…”

Clark sighed, “I recall you letting her drink. She was a giggling and crying mess when I carried her to her room to have a nap.”

Bruce curled his lips inward, and he nodded. The silence grew strained.

Clark’s eyes furrowed in curiosity, “Bruce…are you hiding something from me?”

“She…” his friend paused, his grey eyes grew hazed as he looked into the flames, “When you left, I went to check up on her,” he thrummed his fingers on his chin, “She was touching herself Clark... and I caught her and…well…she…” his eyes met the other man again.

Clark sat back in his leather seat, his throat bobbed, “You watched until the end?” the was no judgement merely a question to acknowledge what had happened.

The other man nodded again and continued, “I came in after she finished, she was half out of it. So when I tucked her in, she kissed me…fully…and…god Clark…she- she’s so beautiful, I can’t watch her go off to college.…”

The journalist exhaled and clenched his jaw.

And Bruce sighed, “That’s why my little girl is going to be pregnant tonight.”

Clarks eyes widened, his lips parted hesitantly. That was not in the original plan...He paused and struggled to find the right words. Bruce had given Clark the greatest opportunity and the wrong word would revoke all that granted privilege.

“We both care about you,” the billionaire sucked his teeth, “Forget what the tabloids will say. They are hypocrites with absolutely no moral sense. Afterall mr superman, aren’t you rubbing shoulders at the daily planet, surely you can take care of the backlash? We aren’t blood related and c’mon we have a right to her better than anyone on this cold spinning rock. With my wealth and your muscles, who else would take better care of her? No one else!” Bruce said fiercely, although his voice was a whisper, his eyes narrowed slightly.

Clark found himself frozen in place, his eyes locked on his friend’s face. It took him a moment to process all the emotions and thoughts that surged around inside him. Finally, he managed to nod his head slowly, as he tried to take in the unexpected turn of events.

“Okay Wayne,” his lips broke into a dark chuckle, “Lets go put a baby in our little girl.”

The wooden door your bedroom creaked open slowly. A bit of light from the hallway made its way past Bruce’s bulk form, illuminating his step-daughter’s face. When he whispered your name, you did not stir, and he smiled to himself. He turned around to Clark and nodded. The two of them moved forward stealthily. Bruce carefully slid his arms under the blanket, finding your form before scooping it up. You stirred but did not wake. Bruce carefully carried you to his master bedroom, a place he scarcely let you enter for the obvious reason of what he kept secret in his drawers. Clark shut the doors and locked them, heaven forbid Alfred managed to walk into this event.

It would be more comfortable here for the three of you, and warmer with how Bruce kept an electric fireplace and big flat screen tv on the wall. The flames continued dancing cheerily as Bruce gently laid his step-daughter down, looking at you with a small smile.

Several moments passed before Bruce lowered his hand, gently moving his hand under your nightie chemise, his hot palm over your stomach. The mattress dipped on both sides keeping you balanced. Another set of fingers creeped up your thighs. Since the touches were so gentle, you did not stir so easily. Clark watched silently, his heart pounding as Bruce slowly lifted your hem up showing off a set of fresh underwear he allowed you to buy with the allowance credit card.

A cute pair of cotton white panties with a soft yellow duck print on top of the crotch. Clark swallowed hard. His thumb scarcely brushed over your damp apex. A small wet spot was beginning to spread. You softly cooed, still not awake…surely dreaming of something naughty by what Clark could smell.

Bruce glanced at Clark before looking back at you, and carefully untied the small strings that held the top bust of your nightie closed. His hands were steady as he parted the folds.

And there they laid their eyes on your breasts, Clark had to hold back a loud sharp intake of breath. Your nipples were perfect, and he found himself craving to suckle them. Your nipples hardened slightly as the slight coolness of the air tickled them.

You groaned softly, your eyelids fluttering open. You shifted and rolled over onto your side, looking around in confusion.

‘Where am I? Where’s my cuddle pillow?’

You rubbed your eyes and registered that you were with your step-father and Clark…on Bruce’s bed…. Both men were staring down at you silently, and you gasped when you realised your nightie was open. You held back a shriek and quickly whipped it closed before shoving the hem of your nightie down past your knees.

‘What am I doing out of my bed and with my chest exposed? Why we my nightie up so high? Did they see my underwear?’

Bruce's faint smile and Clark's gentle expression might have brought you ease, but the situation was too strange.

‘Why was my nightie been untied and opened? Why was it so far up my legs? Did one of them do it?’

The idea was...absurd. But what else would have happened? You were not in the habit of sleepwalking. You tied your nightie closed and quickly sat up, looking at the two men.

“I um…Is...something wrong, Dad?” you asked oh so innocent and naively as you sat up, feeling Bruce’s thick blue cotton blankets under your body. Bruce’s large and callused hand gently grasped your upper arm, softly stroking it as if to comfort you. His kind smile stayed on his face, unmoving even as he shook his head. His quiet demeanour continued to soothe you with each moment, despite the overwhelming emotions swirling through your mind.

“Nothing is wrong sweetheart, you-…” he breathed, his other hand caressing your cheek. Your step-father was an affectionate man, giving your mother and you hugs often whenever you wanted them, but in all these years...he had never caressed your cheek like this. His thumb ran softly over your lips intimately.

Briefly turning your head to inspect Clark, you found there was nothing about his body language denoting immediate danger. He even leaned in slightly and rested a hand on your knee, shifting even closer toward you.

You sighed softly in comfort...until he said, “You...Don’t need to be afraid....”

Your eyes widened, “Be afraid of what?” you asked. Like some strange horror, the dotes were slowly connecting. The air around you felt taut. You were confused and even Clark could hear how your heart was beating faster, anxiously. Your lips parted slightly, but what could you say, surely they weren’t going to…were they? Why were they looking at you in that way? Why did they look so...hungry?

Bruce smiled and leaned in, placing a kiss on your forehead directing your attention back to him. Without answering your question, he tilted your chin up and sealed his lips over yours in a gentle kiss, his lips pressing against you in a firm manner.

Your eyes popped wider as you suddenly pulled away from the kiss. While other boys had given you tender kisses before in your youth, none had done it quite as passionately as Bruce, your own step-father. His kiss was gentle yet deep, unlike anything you had experienced before. The sensation of his tongue inside your mouth and the minty flavour of his breath filled your senses, making you feel both awkward and ashamedly excited.

Having predicted the situation, Clark quickly got behind you. You felt his thick toned arms snaked around you in a caging hug, holding you firmly in place. Bruce smiled and put his hands on your hips, leaning in and quickly resuming the contact of your lips. You couldn’t lift your arms to shove him away. Your head was pressed against Clark’s chest, unable to break free although you wiggled about furiously, trying to move to the side.

Clark's arms held you in place firmly, pinning your own arms. His hands were spread across your chest and stomach, while his mouth pressed against the shell of your ear.

“Good girl,” he praised, “Stay nice and still for Daddy and me hm?”

He ducked his nose a deeper and traced his lips along your soft skin, kissing along the shape of it as Bruce deepened his seductive French kissing for a moment before breaking it. You had been unable to break it since his hands cupped your face. A soft whimper escaped your lips as Clark started licking along your earlobe, and you gasped softly when he suddenly blew on the wet trail he had just left.

“Easy baby, you need to calm down… Please,” Clark whispered softly, kissing your neck and ear as Bruce placed light kisses along your cheek.

Your step-father smiled and pinched the front of your nightie down and open just a bit to expose your shoulders and collar bone, which he lavished in more wet kisses.

The attention being given to you by both men were gentle, but the whole situation was frightening to you. You knew you should’ve tried to bite their ears, but how could you harm them? The two men you cared about? The man stroking you was your step-father, how could he want to do this? And more importantly, how could Clark just let it happen?

“Please,” you jerked your head back, fruitless from breaking away from their searing kisses, “Let me go...I need to sleep...” you whimpered softly.

“Sh- shh-hh...” Bruce shushed hotly, suckling gently upon the part where your neck met your shoulder. The skin there was sensitive, and you gave a soft cry when you felt him nip gently.

“... D-dad, Clark I-, please...don’t” you whimpered. You turned your head to look up at Clark, looking for an answer. Clark merely gave you that warm, wide smile and captured your lips, closing his eyes as he kissed you with a gentle passion.

Your lashes fluttered, his lips were soft and he was not nearly as forceful as Bruce. He coaxed you to comply. The tiniest of moans left your mouth and filled his.

You shifted again as your step-father worked at your nightie, tugging it open some more. You gave out a weak mewl when Clark broke the kiss. You trembled under Bruce’s dancing fingers.

“Did- did I do something wrong? Why are you doing this to me?” you asked, the corners of your eyes watered. Had your step-father been expecting you to say ‘yes’ to Clark? Was he mad at you? Why was he also here kissing you like this?

This was your own step-father, the man who had raised you since you were fourteen. The man that had married and fucked your own mother. The betrayal felt like a deep and sharp cut. Is this how he saw you? Just some girl he could manipulate when she was of consenting age? You felt sick...and angry. It was practically incest, it was an abomination!

You could barely contain the whimpers and spurting tears rising.

Your question was ignored as the two men made short work of your entire dress, two pairs of hands removing it while keeping your restrained. You could barely contain your squeals when the fabric ripped. Bruce grunted as he tore through and tugged the damn thing from your goosebump skin.

Clark's hands caressed your belly while Bruce's moved to cup your breasts.

Bruce gave a shuddering breath and weighed them in his hands. They were so soft and succulent. He had dreamed of doing this to you many times, for so long during your sweet innocent hugs he’d sneakily brush his fingers against your chest whenever he could to steal and imagine how great your tits would one-day feel in his hands.

All of his expectations were met, and exceeded. And there was still more to see, to explore.

“Please, tell me! Why!?” you demanded. Clark's grip on your arms were gentle but very firm, and you could not scratch either of them. Bruce smiled at you fondly. He cupped your cheeks again and cooed.

“You have done absolutely nothing wrong babygirl. This isn't a punishment. See... We both want you to know how much we love you,” his face leant for and licked at your salty cheek.

“And it’s not like you have a good reason to say no to Daddy and I.” Clark whispered while Bruce fondled your breasts, pinching the hard nipples between his fingertips in a careful way. Clark peered down at what his friend was doing and observed your soft breasts. He was eager for his own turn to feel them, but he was not going to rush his friend. They had agreed to share and be fair about it, and he knew Bruce was a man of his word.

“… No good reason to say no?” you asked, your heart pounding, although your question was barely more than a whisper. They both nodded. Clark smiled and kissed your cheek before touching his nose against it in a loving nuzzle.

He cupped and massaged one breast, giving a brief nod to his friend before shifting his eyes towards your other breast.

Clark moved one hand and took your right breast, which Bruce had offered, and began to fondle it while Bruce played with your left one. Bruce was firmer in his kneading, and Clark was gentle as his fingers skimmed along the underside of the mound, as if he was afraid of hurting you. Both hands felt so good on you, and you squirmed around, afraid to submit to any pleasure from this shocking situation.

“Please... please, let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone about this, not even Alfred, please let me go now. Let me go. Leave me alone! I'm your step-daughter! Bruce! Y-you’re meant to be my Dad!” you pleaded, trying to get through to your step-father as he gave your breast a very firm, although not painful squeeze.

Bruce chewed his bottom lip and moved away. He got off the bed and watched his best friend touch you. He tugged at his tie and unbuttoned his blouse. His chest was covered in dark and silvery hairs. He fiddled with his belt buckle. His trousers fell to his ankles. His hand dove into his briefs.

Your eyes flooded with more tears. You were staring at Bruce’s erection.

“Come on princess...You know we won’t hurt you. Ever... Don’t be scared, relax, enjoy and be a good little girl…” Bruce said softly, climbing back on the bed he reached out and started caressing your arms.

You couldn’t help it, you screamed and tried to kick your step-father away with your legs as hard as you could. You hated that you had to hurt him like this. Clarks heavy hand clamped down on your squealing mouth

Bruce shook his head, slapping your kicking heels away. His lips curled into a mean sneer as he leant forward and tweaked your nipples, sending a jolt of pain through your chest.

You yelled out behind Clarks hand, trying to bite down on his palm. He didn’t flinch once. His nose flared, he was a little irritated with your teeth sinking into his skin.

“Better stop screaming sweetheart or Daddy’s going to have to put a gag in that little mouth of yours,” Bruce ground between his gritted teeth.

Your pleas were not doing the trick, and your desperate kicks weren’t either. They both played with your breasts and Bruce chuckled, drawing your nipple into his mouth and sucking firmly on the hard nub.

Clark bodily drifted his hand down between your legs, touching your duckling and creeping down further to your damp crotch. His fingers strong and hard, lazily rubbed in circles. Both of them seemed acutely aware of the pleasure that you were feeling at their attention even as you pleaded with them and tried to deny it. It only spurred them on and made them want your more.

“Daddy, stop it!” you wailed, “This is wrong and you know it too Clark!” you flung yourself backwards and tried to push the other male off you.

The man let your nipple free and looked into you's eyes. It had been so long since you had called him 'Daddy', having abandoned it for 'Dad' or just 'Bruce' in later years.

“Pumpkin…” he said, grabbing your wrists, giving Clark enough time to move away. Bruce pushed you back hard onto the mattress and sat on your ankles, holding your wrists down as he clouded you in his body. He hovered above you. You trembled violently, weeping hard.

“This is going to happen, and there’s nothing you can do or say to stop it,” his head lifted, “You finished stripping Clark?” he asked.

Your eyes flashed up. Your point of you made the world appear upside down. Clark sat his glasses on the bed side table...it was the last thing he wore.

“Bottom drawer, there’s a roll of duct tape.”

Clark nodded and pulled it out. The colour surprised him ...it was pink. Clark planned to use it on you one way or another, no matter what

Bruce trailed his nose across your face and pressed his lips to your forehead, “Trust your Daddy. Have I ever done anything to you that proved harmful?” Bruce asked softly, his blue eyes filled with a pleading for your understanding. You fell silent as you slowly shook your head whimpering and breaking down at the tearing sound of the pink duct tape. Bruce pushed your wrists together. The sticky sensation bound around your wrists tightly. He had always been such a loving step-father. But this went past the bounds of a step-father.

“No... b-bu-tt this-s... we're n-not...d-daddy, y-youre meant to be m-m-my dad-daddy...” Your voice was breaking, a soft pathetic whine as you pleaded, “Clar-k h-elp me.”

Bruce’s eyes glanced up at Clark. A tiny nod. Another rip and the tape was pushed flat against your sobbing mouth.

Clark rejoined you both on the bed and held your hands down for Bruce as the man bent down taking your nipple into his mouth again, his tongue rubbing it firmly as he suckled. A chest rattling gasp was muffled behind the tape.

Clark held you, massaging your other breast. You started to feel the fiery tingle between your legs. You were a virgin, but you were not stupid, and had touched that special place before...shame filled your mind because truly how much of a monster were you for being aroused by... your own step-father?

Despite the pleasure, you were afraid. You wiggled against Clark, twisting your arms and whining softly.

Clark's hands were gentle yet firm, and he held you in place even as you twisted. He moaned softly against your neck, and you felt the underside of his arousal along side Bruce’s, both touching the outsides of your thighs.

"Bruce...I need her,” he whispered, “Let me fuck your precious princess?”

The older man corrected softly humming, “Our precious princess.”

The two strong men lifted you up slightly from your laying down. You tried weakly kicked at them again before feeling Bruce slap the inside of your thigh and point a stern finger at your face.

“Enough. Don’t make me throw you over my knee babygirl.”

You sniffled and started to hiccup behind the tape gag. The tiny jerks from your body every time you hiccupped made the men’s faces soften.

You were forced to sit up on your knees and lay forward against Bruce’s chest. When Clark tugged your hips backwards, your bum was angled to the sky while your stomach laid in Bruce’s lap, your legs at either side of his torso. This caused your chest to be nestled into Bruce's lap, your breasts pressed against the hard hot flesh of his cock. You were effectively sandwiched between them, and wiggled around, trying to not think about your step father’s cock touching your nipple and switching against your skin.

His large hands touched your shoulders and laid it on your head, patting your hair softly. Clark's hands were at your rear, rubbing and kneading the cheeks and parting them slightly as he felt the pert rump. A soft playful spank made you jump and whine. You started sobbing again, wiggling against the firm grip of your step-father as he tried to soothe you. One of Bruce's hands cupped his cock and rubbed his precum into your swollen nipples.

You tried to kick at Clark as you felt his hands on the waistband of your panties, and you turned your face away from your step-father's throbbing erection that Bruce was raising to rub along your wet salty cheek. You tried to use your hands as leverage.

How was you supposed to get out of this situation? It was clear what they wanted to do and also clear that they would not be deterred. The combined forces of two fully-grown men, strong super humans at that, against that of a young woman, was quite overwhelming. They were not letting your go, and that was that. Bruce chuckled as Clark slid his step-daughter's panties down, exposing your pert ass. Clarks mouth looked dry...his tongue flicked out.

It was rather a lovely sight for Clark, and he sighed contentedly as he reached down to stroke your lower lips. You moaned softly, you used your knees to get away and to launch yourself up Bruce’s body. You managed to bury your face against your step-father's chest and the crease of his armour as you felt Clarks hot breath along your little glistening slit.

Soon Clark's fingers rose up to pet your wet pussy. He caressed the throbbing mound gently, fingers slowly pulling apart your slick nether lips. With one arm, he hooked it under your stomach and lifted your hips, forcing you back up higher on your knees. This allowed him to see your womanhood more clearly.

“How's it look?” Bruce asked calmly, stroking your hair and back in an attempt to soothe you, forgetting his own throbbing arousal for the moment as he tried to quieten your sobs.

“Ohh, Bruce, our little girl is so perfect,” he moaned, grinning as he gently felt your inner flesh with a finger. Your inner flesh peeked out shyly from your outer lips, like the petals of a flower. Bruce could not help but chuckle at Clark’s response as he ran his fingers along your spine, feeling your twitch and hearing a soft shudder come from the tape gag. He pressed his lips to your brow and hummed.

“Yea darlin’,” he broke into his relaxed southern drawl, “You goin’ tell daddy about how you probably used his credit card to wax this pretty pussy?”

Bruce’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped as he looked down at your eyes, pleading up at him wetly.

“It’s a real sculpted love heart...now who on earth is this for huh? Only little sluts get groomed like this,” Clark sat up and leant of you and Bruce. His lips pressed to the corner of your tapped lips, “Are you a little slut baby girl.”

Muffled sobs emanated from the girl as you pressed your face against your step-father’s chest and Clark paused. The men exchanged smirks.

“Have you let some boy fuck this cute hole Baby girl?” Clark breathed, softly, a mocking tone to his voice. He touched your side with his free hand, the other remaining at your mound but being idle, the finger now pulled out. Bruce looked down and gently tilted his step-daughter's chin up to look into your eyes. You looked very lovely with tear-stained cheeks, you had never looked more beautiful his eyes. His hand slowly ran along your cheeks, wiping your tears as he looked down at your tenderly.

“Sweetheart...My lovely little girl. You’re not in trouble, tell us the truth...” he said, softly, caressing your face. Clark bit his lip gently and resumed stroking your rear and your thighs, soon going back to rubbing your hot folds. There was no denying the pleasure, and he felt wetness.

You whimpered softly as you shook your head no while you succumbed under the gentle assault of four hands, all caressing and touching you in the most intimate and gentle of ways.

It was strange, they were not supposed to be doing this and you had been trying to fight them off. And despite all the fear, despite all the rough man handling, despite their mean mockery and degrading humiliation...your groin felt alive....You felt good,

You glanced back over your shoulder at Clark. He met your eyes and smiled. He pressed his lips to your forehead while his fingers were stroking and rubbing your intimate areas in a way that caused your to become wetter.

You hadn’t noticed how your crying was being replaced by snotty sniffling, and mewling moans.

Bruce smiled down at you when you turned your head back to him.

You felt his hand cup your bicep, pulling your bound hands up. You stretched your fingers. He held up his erection and pointed it to your palms

“Touch me baby,” he encouraged softly, “I trust you.”

You whimpered softly and shook your head, giving a sudden gasp with wide eyes as one of Clark’s fingers wiggled into you.

“Please...?” he purred lowly, smiling as Clark pressed second one inside and slowly scissor your insides. You let out a low shuddering moan as your step-father gently grasped your wrist, leading your hand to the swollen cock. Clark continued sliding his fingers in and out of you, before adding a third. Your walls clamped and tightened. You let out a soft hiss and were unable to stop yourself from pushing against Clark’s hand. The man then angled his fingers as he thrust them in slowly, causing them to press against a spongy place on your inner wall that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

Bruce smiled, his hand cupping over your bound hands so you were forced to grasp the base of his erection. You tried to remove your hand – but of course, to no avail. His thick rod was very warm and solid, you made a small noise as you felt it throb under your hand. You squirmed slightly under Clark’s attention, finding it difficult to breathe as a wave of pleasure washed over you.

Clark peppered a flood of gentle kisses along your soft cheeks as he thrust his fingers into you. Your step-father released a soft moan.

Your hand tightened and rubbed your step-fathers shaft weakily. Your shuddering breaths and fluttering eyes told Bruce everything he need to know about how well Clark was treating their special girl.

Your fingers slowly slid up and down the shaft several times, before you wrapped your fingers around it more firmly and did just as he guided, pumping it slowly and seeing the head seep with a bit more precum. His head tilted back a bit and he gave a low groan of pleasure. You looked up at him and saw how much he liked it, then whimpered, it was so strange how you could have the power all of a sudden. Curiosity, getting the best of you as you looked down at it. It was impressive-looking, and you were becoming slowly bemused to think that he wanted to put this in you.

You pumped more firmly, looking up at your step-father's face intently. He was no longer holding your down, so you pulled herself up just a bit, Clarks fingers followed you as you weakly tried balancing up and off Bruce’s chest. You continued your firm pumping of your step-father's engorged member. Now the taboo excitement of watching him moan and dig his nails into the bed sheets made you conclude that you were getting a thrill out of all this. It made you wonder if there was something wrong with you just as much as there was something wrong with him.

At fourteen, who could deny that little sweet highschooler you had a big crush on your step dad before it developed into crushing on his journalist friend Clark Kent, the very man with three digits up your sweet silky hole.

It was time. You could definitely not ignore the pleasure you felt from Clark, who was working slowly and tenderly at your throbbing sex.

You whined, arching your hips, your toes curling and flexing, something Clark found cute. He chuckled to himself, trailing his free hand along the back of one of your thighs.

Bruce’s hand rose up and grabbed your wrists, he pulled them away to gently stop you. He knew he wanted to cum inside of you.

You looked up at him in surprise and your eyebrows furrowed in curiosity, seeing him smiling kindly at you. Bruce pressed his lips against your forehead and chuckled.

“Are you trying to be a good girl now?” he asked touching the corner of the tape on your mouth.

You sniffled and nodded, moaning when Clark pulled his fingers out to trail down and rub into your pearlling clit.

He smiled, “Alright,” he whispered, “This is going to hurt-“ he said ripping off the tape before he finished his own sentence.

You yelped and hissed.

“Sorry baby girl,” he apologised.

Bruce then leant back against the pillows and watched you succumb to pleasure from Clarks speedy fingers. Your bound hands laid flat on Bruce’s chest, steading you from falling. Your fingers brushed and rubbed along his hairy chest.

Bruce cupped your waist and held you firm as he gazed at you showing your curious exploration. It was then he realised, you were touching some of his scars, covered by hair. Your eyes were growing softer...glassy...he couldn’t believe his luck...you looked the same as you did when you kissed him after your mothers death. If only he knew this was some sort of trance, a head space you were in all those years ago, he would’ve fucked you then.

Clark slid his fingers out of your and licked them clean. The pair, rolled you over onto your back.

You calmly glanced back at your step-father for a moment before returning your attention to the taller man, who was in a similar state of arousal as your step-father.

“My sweet little girl...” Bruce purred before kissing you deeply, his lips locking around yours passionately. Finally you found yourself leaning closer and meeting his same force. The wet sounds of your mouth and moans clouded any remaining sanity left in your mind. Your bound arms found their way around his neck, and he continued kissing you.

Clark waited patiently, knowing that he would have the soon enough, and watched as his friend lovingly cradled his step-daughter, continuing the hungry attentions. You were unable to resist kissing him back just as fiercely.

Soon your tongues came into the dance, with Bruce quickly gaining dominance, a sweet whine escaping you.

Clark smiled, and began to rub his shaft slightly. Bruce pulled away and pushed your bound hands off his neck. He shuffled your face to the side, pushing you to Clarks arms.

With bold confidence, you pushed up onto your knees and laid your loud hands behind his neck, pressing your lips to his. He playfully growled as your tongues fought, you lost and he hummed happily, eagerly exploring your sweet little mouth, his arms tightening around your body.

After a few more long moments of the passionate kiss, he broke it before licking up the strand of saliva that bridged your panting tongues. He grinned at you. You smiled and stared at him for a moment before looking down shyly. He saw this demure action and smirked.

“What’s wrong princess, still scared?” he asked softly, nuzzling your cheek. You continued looking down shyly. You had thought of asking Bruce who was watching you both, what your mother would have thought of what he was doing to his step-daughter, but you had no doubt that he had already thought of that.

Bruce cupped your waist and lowered his lips to your shoulders. His erection pushed against the swell of your ass.

Carefully you were pushed back onto the mattress. Bruce came up to put your head in his lap, languidly stroking your hair and cheeks as Clark rubbed your thighs. The man you had admired for so long spread them, eyeing your shuddering sex hungrily. Your body froze up, stiffening as it sunk in what was truly coming you squirmed around, pressing your knees together. You looked up at Clark pleadingly.

He sighed, disappointed. He leant behind him, reaching for the duct tape....was he going to duct tape your legs spread wide.

You panicked, “Are you doing this because I did not accept your marriage offer?”

“No.” he paused and didn’t grab the tape at all. He leant down and softly, kissed your lips chastely. Bruce leant down sand cupped the back of your knees, pulling them up and spreading them wide.

You shivered.

Clark touched your cunt gently and spread you open again. His face pushed forward, leaning in and licked from the bottom to the top of your slit. You had a sharp gasping intake as you felt the gentle licking there and you pushed his head away gently. Clark leaned back in and continued to lick you, lapping at the sweet wet with his thick tongue, resisting as you pushed at his head – although your pushes were fairly weak.

“You’re not being punished,” Bruce repeatedly assured you as if he read your mind, stroking your cheeks. Clark continued to lap at you.

“We just both think this would be a bit of....encouragement for you to stay baby,” Bruce purred, tweaking one of your nipples playfully.

You grizzled, “To st-stay?” your hips jerked a little as Clark sucked harder on your clit, your legs still held wide open by Bruce’s strong hands.

“Honey,” Clark murmured into your cunt, staring up at you with eyes that were mixed with lust, adoration and worship, “You don’t need to go to college when you have me and your daddy to heel you happy.”

Your voice caught in your throat, you couldn’t believe it...this was why? To keep you away from going to school? You bit your bottom lip. You would’ve been devastatingly hurt but with his tongue slipping inside and licking deep into your whole, you tossed your head backwards onto Bruce’s shoulder, crying out as a orgasm waved through your body.

“Clark, you can take her first,” Bruce softly granted.

“We can look at that sweet asshole another day and then,” your step father licked the shell of your ears whispering, “You’ll be allowed to fuck two big cocks at once down there.”

Clark got on his knees between your legs and Bruce steadied you, taking your hands into his own and squeezing them reassuringly before he let go. His large hands massaged your breasts, and reached down to rub your clit slowky as you felt Clark position himself, gently rubbing your slit with his tip. It had opened up to him through all of the loving attention, and was glistening with wetness.

Your eyes widened.

“Don’t… we shouldn’t…” you whispered, “Y-youre not wearing a condom.”

Bruce’s hands tightened around your wrists and lifted them pulling them backward to hook on his own neck. Your chest was so pushed up.

“It’s okay baby, we don’t need a condom,” Clark moaned, caressing your cheeks before his hands travelled down to your sides. He smiled kindly at you, and you found herself smiling back faintly, looking into his ice-blue eyes. You shivered as he slowly lowered himself, and the head of his cock gently nudged at your slit. You tensed a little, but felt your step-father massage your clit.

You gasped and arched a little when Clark penetrated you, and your step-father continued stroking you in a languid yet firm manner, his touches did much to soothe the passage and help you relax. You looked up at your Bruce for a moment, then back at Clark. Bruce tenderly caressed your cheeks and arms, while Clark's hands stroked along your sides. He was moving slowly, letting your get used to his girth, for he was almost as thick as his best friend. The wetness made it possible for him to move quite smoothly within you, and it was also so inviting.

It was tight and yes it was uncomfortable but with the support of Bruce’s hand, in no time, he was sheathed fully, and you stared up at him quietly feeling his balls pressed into your soft ass. He was heavy inside you, an unexpected pressure. The tip poked the sponge of your womb.

There was a few frightful seconds where all of you were silent save for your soft breathing. Bruce glanced at the tape, prepared to hear your screaming again...but it didnt come. And then Clark smiled lovingly down at you, comforting you at that moment, before leaning in and kissing your cheek.

“How do you feel?” he asked. You shyly huffed even more, but kept your eyes on him. You couldn’t decide whether to smile or grimace.

“I don't know. I... feel very full...” you replied softly, feeling Bruce’s fingers brush along your forehead.

Clark lifted your ankles up onto his shoulders and took a deep breath.

“The best part is yet to come, my sweet angel,” Bruce promised. Clark smiled, and began to gyrate his hips, sliding his shaft in and out of your tight cunt in a languid manner. The reaction was immediate. His cock dragged along your sensitive walls, and Bruce smiled as he watched his sweet little step-daughter squirm around in pleasure. Soon enough, he himself would be doing that to you.

Clark released a deep groan, clearly in bliss as he thrust into you. His speed was tempered and gentle, languorous, making sure that the length of his dick dragged along your gspot with each thrust to create that glorious friction. He wanted your first time to be something deep and tender. And it was working. You hissed and flexed your back into Bruce feeling Clarks entire cock within you as you clenched hard. It had hurt a little at first, but there was no denying the pleasure to be had, and the gentle caresses were doing much to heighten your experience.

“Sh-shit shit shit, oh my god, Clark! Clark I’m-”

Clarks gentle lovemaking pushed you towards your glorious shouting orgasm, and you cried out when you hit it, arching up against him, clenching around him almost painfully. You had ever felt anything so wonderful in your whole life! Bruce smiled as he saw this, and leaned down to place kisses along his mewling step-daughter’s face, massaging your breasts as he did so.

“Isn’t it wonderful, babygirl? Doesn’t it feel so good?” Bruce asked warmly. All you could do was nod. Clark shot you a charming smile, thrusting more firmly now, and he whispered your name when he finally came. Your clenching drew it out, and multiple shots of his seed squirted deep inside of you, filling your up.

Clark placed firm kisses along your face, remaining within your hot pussy for a few more moments. You turned your face towards him, nuzzling him back, as your lips peppered his cheeks, Clark started grinning happily. A few moments passed, some tender caresses, before Bruce chuckled and shifted. Clark looked up at him and smiled, sliding out of you a little too quickly. You whimpered pitifully at the stinging sensation of being emptied.

Clark laid beside you on his side as Bruce moved down the bed to inspect the mess his friend had created. Clark kept his eyes on you, he shot you another reassuring smile before propping your head up with his arm. He laid there relaxed and enjoying the waving endorphins made from his orgasm, still reeling from the pleasure that your sweet noises and tight pussy had given him.

Bruce gently rolled you onto your belly. Your cheek still pressed into the pillow made of Clarks bicep.

“On your knees, baby, stick that ass up for Daddy…” Bruce whispered. You huffed and wiggled your hips up, propping you up on your knees. It was a lovely sight, and he rubbed your behind, kneading the cheeks lovingly as he glanced at your swollen and glistening sex.

“Good girl,” he rumbled, patting your back softly.

You moaned softly, knowing what your step-father was about to do. At this point, you had given up on fighting off the two men, especially because it felt so good. You rested your head against Clark and sighed, staring at his eyes that gazed you lovingly. With is other hand, Clark stroked your face and hair softly as you awaited for your step-father to take you, your heart thundered with anticipation.

Bruce took a moment to admire the glorious vision before him. Your sweet pussy glistened, dripping and dribbling out the creamy white Clark had squirted deep inside. Your outer lips were swollen from the recent coupling you had. Your rear end glowed under the light of the bedroom lamp, looking so plump and inviting.

“You’re so gorgeous, princess. How Clark and I resisted you for this long, god only knows,” Bruce chuckled and rubbed your bum.

You gave out a soft but contented sigh before he was pressing the head of his needy pole against his your slit, rubbing it up and down the opening a few times. You moaned softly and squirmed a little, but made no real attempt to flee.

Bruce grabbed your hips and gave a strong thrust, his cock sliding inside of you to the base with little effort despite your tightness. You whimpered out softly, in slight pain but more in surprise, and looked over your shoulder at your Step-father again.

Clark wolfishly grinned at you, as Bruce’s hips immediately thrusting back and forth. He pounded into you, hard and fast, your body quivering under him.

Clark’s lovemaking had been languorous and gentle, more than suitable for your first time. But Bruce’s way of taking you was savage and primal. Despite it...you found yourself enjoying this as well. It was rough and deeply bruising. You would be able to feel it tomorrow.

Bruce was not hurting you, it was not unbearable agony as he slammed his hips fiercely. Clark watched with half-lidded eyes, listening to your whines and touching your face every now and then as if to reassure you.

Bruce punched his cock into you with the ferocity of an animal in heat. You were so wonderfully tight and hot that it was impossible to just hold back.

“F-Fuck, Daddy!!!”

The way you responded to him, arching towards him and making small sounds of pleasure and mewls of pain only spurred him on even more. His heavy balls slapped against the back of your thighs, and you strangled around him with your walls. He gave out a low growl as he cummed, creaming deep inside.

You whimpered out another heightened, ‘Daddy!’ as your body quivered, your teeth chattering just slightly.

You bit your lip almost hard enough to cause it to bleed as you hit another orgasm, your eyes rolled back and clenching around him hard, trapping his cock inside with your tightness.

You looked at your step-father over your shoulder as he continued thrusting in you, his cock remained erect for a few moments before slowly becoming flaccid. You looked over at Clark then back at Bruce, whimpering out 'Daddy' again as you felt cum dribble down your opening. He stayed within your cunt for a while, panting as he relaxed his muscles. Smirking, he pulled out of your tightness and stroked your rump.

“Good girl baby...”

You remained on your knees for several more moments, cum still dribbling out a little as he traced his fingers along the firm curve of your rear end. What you had been through was unbelievable. You had just been dominated and fucked by the two men you cared most about in the world...one of them was your step-father. It seemed almost too impossible to believe, like it all had to been some sick dream- any moment you would wake up to find yourself alone, dressed, inside your own bed....But did you want this to be a dream?

The more you thought, the less sick it seemed to be...morally it was wrong...but at the end of the day, you weren’t related and Bruce was sure to take care of you just like he always had along with your own mother. Your mother might not have approved if she was alive...but...there was nothing she could do now.

And Clark was just as caring and understanding of your passions....So both clearly loved you, very much....

You felt Clark caress your cheek once more, and you looked to him as your hips fell down limp. He offered you a smile before leaning over to press his lips to your forehead.

“You did so well darlin’.”

You shyly smiled, feeling Bruce lay down behind you.

You felt Bruce slide something cold between your wrists and slice through the pink tape.

Your eyes fluttered. You could hear Bruce put that sharp object most likely a knife in his bed side drawer.

He cupped your wrists and gently massaged them, kissing the raw area. He then scooped you up into his arms, holding you close, as if he wanted to rock you to sleep. You rolled onto your back and looked between them. They were two content lions gazing down at the sweet kitten in their bed. Both of them held pleased but loving expressions on their faces, and you smiled shyly a little and buried your nose in into the blue sweat soaked sheets. Under the gentle embrace and caresses, you closed your eyes.

You felt one of them, you didn’t know or care who, pull up a duvet, covering your quivering body. The men sighed happily at one another as you snuggled sweetly between them.

It was a fact to acknowledge with their cum growing dry on your thighs how they now would never let you go. They would take you in the morning, and whenever either of them pleased from then on. You were there’s...you belonged to them, and they would always do everything to prove their desire for you. You fell asleep in their embrace, you pressed your face into Clarks chest, while you pressed your backside into Bruce’s hips. snuggled up to both of them, while their affectionate caresses and whispers lulled you to sleep.

★★★

When morning arrived it was still pitch black thanks to the roll down tinted glass windows.

Bruce’s grey his eyes cracked awake slowly, to the sounds of your soft snoring. Your soft cheek was pressed against his chest after the night of shuffling you must’ve done in your sleep. ‘What a wonderfully sweet thing to wake up to,’ he thought, smiling as he traced his fingertips gently along your other cheek. He looked to his left at the big bulk of a man under the covers.

Clark was still sleeping, his arm was covering your hip. Your plump rear end was against his stomach, and Bruce smiled at you both.

Your sweet drooling face stirred slightly as your cheek was caressed, but you remained asleep. Being cushioned and cradled in the warmth of two big men had surprisingly helped you to sleep well, as you had been so comforted by the obvious affection they had shown you. If they didn’t care about you, they would have simply raped you bloody and never paid mind to your pleasure they never would’ve focused on your feelings and overall care.

Clark loved you and wanted to be your husband, he had been serious when he asked for your hand in marriage. It was in the plan but Bruce knew Clark wanted to ask ages ago...

And Bruce loved you too, he wanted your utmost happiness but he desired your overall safety and company. If you left for college he wouldn’t know when he’d see you again...if ever...considering you held no real “blood” obligation to him.

Clark and he were good friends, and sharing you had been a odd thought at first, but last night proved that it would work out well between the three of you. And it was very comfortable, and would continue to be comfortable – after all, both of them wanted your happiness, love and companionship.

Bruce pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Wake up, baby girl, it’s daddy...” he whispered into your ear, gently nibbling along your earlobe. Your eyelids fluttered open and you whimpered softly, a bit disoriented at first as was common on waking up in a place so different to your bedroom but the disorientation faded as you rubbed your eyes and turned your head upwards a bit to look up at the eyes of your doting step-father smiling softly down at you.

“Good morning, Daddy...” you said softly, wiping the sleep away from your eyes and blinking a few times as you felt a hand caress along your hip, you didn’t know who it belonged to, but did that even matter?

“Good morning, sweet angel... Did you sleep alright?” he asked, caressing your hair. Clark stirred but did not wake. You shyly nodded. Last night was beyond taboo and though you were not entirely angry or disgusted, it would take a bit getting used to.

“I am glad...” Bruce replied before he chuckled softly and fondled your side. He looked over at Clark and smiled.

“...Will you marry him?” he whispered, kissing your cheek. You stared at him for a few moments before nodding slowly. You did not see why not – Clark was a good man and you had no interest in anyone else.

Bruce nodded, smiling happily. He was ecstatic that you had accepted Clark’s hand, and now you would be truly a family inside Wayne’s manor.

“What about you, Daddy?” you asked softly as your step-father’s hand gently caressed your side, “....Don’t you want me anymore,” your eyes glanced away in embarrassment considering how pathetic you sounded asking....

“Mmm,” he pecked the tip of your nose, “Clark and I already discussed this...I would like to keep our closeness when you are wed... Clark and I have shared many passions in the past...towards each other and it does not bother him.”

Your eyes started to widen. You didn’t know your step-dad was just as sexually active with men.

“He really agrees to this? You two... have no problem with... sharing?” you whispered as you rolled over onto your back to gain a more accurate gaze upon Bruce.

“Not at all...” he chuckled, “We are too good a pair of friends to fight over something wonderful like this as spectacular as you.” He stated.

You smiled and looked down shyly. He looked over at Clark once more and smirked almost deviously.

He reached out and playfully thumbed your nipples.

“Baby girl, it looks like Clark is a heavy sleeper...how about you go and wake him up for me?” His tone was seductive, and low. You could see from the corner of your eyes the two hardening peaks growing out of the bed sheets.

Bruce pushed his side down and cupped himself, using his enclosed first like a sight hole.

“C’mon baby, go wake up your other daddy,” he groaned.

You gasped and flushed even more as you stated at your step-father for several moments before carefully crawling over to Clark again.

You placed a gentle kisses along his face, saving his lips for last. Your hand caressed along his smooth chest, slowly making its way down to his morning organ. His nipples were given attention, your fingers teasing over the pink nubs and making them taut. Your palm felt along the toned muscles of his abdomen, and stroked the coarse dark hair above his cock, teasing your fingers along the treasure trail. The thin hairs had started as a thin, tapering line several inches below his navel, and spread out gradually to the thatch over his cock.

Bruce watched calmly, not at all bothered by his friend’s nakedness. He did not stare at Clark either, he just watched with interest at what you, his step-daughter was doing. You had such a lovely soft hand. You slowly patted the neither hairs as you started sucking on Clark’s angry red tip.

You flattened your tongue and looked over, making full eye contact with Bruce While he jerked off languishingly. He smirked and winked at you.

“Suck his cock babygirl, suck Papa’s cock.”

Papa...Daddy...oh god...what were you getting yourself into.

You leant your face down, filling your cheeks with the tip of his pink cock tip. Your tongue raised around the skin and flicked under the folds. You tried not to think about the smell but the taste alone. It was bitter, salty and a little tangy.

“M-mmh...” Clark let out a soft noise of pleasure, face blissfully slack. His manhood stirred and began to rise a bit, the touches arousing him even when he slept.

“Clarkkkkk...” Bruce cooed in a soft purr, gently touching his shoulder while you lapped at his foreskin, and Bruce started growing aroused, wanting to stick himself inside of you as he had a grand view of your little cunt, dried with flakes of white on your skin.

At the mention of his name, the man stirred and opened his eyes, smiling a bit, raising a hand to lazily wipe the sleep from his eyes.

“A-ah...Good morning...” he said, blurrily looking down at what you were doing. You smiled sweetly and placed a gentle kiss on his tip as you brought him to full attention.

“Clark?” you asked softly.

“Yes sweetheart?...hngh...” he shuddered, shifting a bit, his cock rising further. Bruce shivered, running his fingertips along your rear.

“I will be your wife,” You whispered softly. He tilted his head, and a wide grin came to his face. Hooking one arm around your arm he tugged you up to him to abandon you morning blowjob. He sealed his lips over yours in a gentle kiss. When you parted, he purred.

“Thank you sweet girl, I vow to always cherish you like last night and every encounter we’ve met.” His words made you giggle happily, as you had no real doubt of his respect for you.

He heard the fwapping sound of Bruce masturbating, watching you.

“Have you talked Bruce?” he added.

Your lashes fluttered.

“I accept him as well. I...I will stay home. College can wait or I can try online courses...You can both have me,” You whispered. Bruce ran a fingertip along your slit. You shivered and moaned, wiggling your rear end at Bruce as you kissed Clark again, your hand returned to slowly pumping his engorged organ.

Bruce smiled, he rubbed your slit gently and lazily, feeling the flesh quiver a bit and begin to slicken up. Clark moaned softly into your lips and his hand moved down, cupping one of your breasts and carefully kneading it, plucking at your nipples. You gave out a soft whine of pleasure and looked at Clark for a moment before looking back at Bruce.

“Daddy...” You pouted, “...stop teasing me.” You reached out to his cock with your other hand. In each palm you held two thick cocks at the same time and went about squeezing and licking them like a game....unwittingly teasing them both to release. The men both gradually sat up on their elbows. Before either of them could cum however, you let their cocks go and sat back, facing them with a childish smirk, biting your lip.

If they wanted to be depraved, you could be too...you wondered if they’d tie and gag you again. Would they pushed you around manhandle and humiliate you again?...a real sensational thrill soaked your bones at the thought. What a fantastic opportunity to test that theory...

You didn’t leave that room for probably three whole days except to use the master bathroom...

Alfred decided not to intervene.. after all it was Master Wayne he was paid by, not you.

#milky moots #DFD #daddys final deal #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x ofc #clark kent x black!reader #clark kent x reader #clark kent x bruce wayne #clark kent x you #clark kent x female reader #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x poc!reader #bruce wayne x black!reader #superman x batman #superman x reader #superman x you #batman x reader #batman x superman

[vulpixhoney]

the stuff with the cops was making me nervous y'all. I like they they, are kind of changing the show to fit the fact that Annabeth and Grover are poc instead of just pretending it would be the exact same as the book. like in the book they were never given any trouble, Annabeth even makes a comment that mortal cops can't touch them and is not concerned at all about Percy being a wanted "criminal". but that's in 2005 from a white man writing about white children. but now Annabeth is a black girl, she's going to have completely different interactions with the police. the "are we under arrest" is like, textbook How to Respond When Being Hassled By the Police. it's very subtle bc it's Disney, but Leah's response felt very real

eta: also, the echidna being a southern white lady, but like the type of southern that calls the cops on her neighbors for being in their own yard or some shit. like, she got the cops to turn on them so easily. even though there's no way they could destroy a room like that, the cop just automatically assumed it was their fault, because some white lady said they did it. and the group is a black girl, a brown boy, and their token white boy, who isn't a great buffer bc at the very least is a ~delinquent~, and at this point in the book has an active warrant

#credit ofc going to leah and whoever the actual director is #i guess a little to rick but he is untrustworthy to me in regards to how he writes poc #but maybe this is him learning and growing #maybe working with poc is helping him widen his perspectives and writing #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians

[transmascpetewentz]

*sighs* well, here i am making this post, thank you antisemitic "leftists" for forcing me to spell it out for you.

"traditionally, the idea that all women/people generally should dress modestly has been a way of oppressing women and excusing men's misogyny" and "more recently, shaming women/people for dressing modestly and in some cases forcing them not to has been a way of targeting specific cultures, especially jewish and muslim communities" are statements that can and should coexist.

you're justified, and i'd encourage you to, critique how the new wave of "tradwives" believing that all women should be modest due to some biological difference are being openly misogynistic. that's all well and good, because these are white women from mostly xtian backgrounds who want to force their beliefs on everyone. you can and should also criticize when oppressed minorities weaponize misogyny, as long as you are sure you are correct that that's what's happening. but what i've been seeing on social media recently is nothing like just "criticism."

dressing modestly is a choice. just like you (general) should be free from people forcing you to dress a certain way, it's not in your right to force others, especially tznius-keeping jews and other minorities, to not dress in that way. simply, the way other people choose to dress isn't any of your business. just bc i post about being into modest fashion doesn't invite you, random atheist from reddit, into my inbox to scream about how i'm such a misogynist for... choosing to dress modestly as a trans man.

this post didn't make much sense but tl;dr: quit being annoying about people choosing to dress in accordance with the religious law that they follow, it's their personal choice.

#wentz.txt #antisemitism #antitheists fuck off #discourse #long post #ofc i am white so pls keep in mind that i cannot speak for poc here. i am just pointing out what i see and what poc have told me when i'm #talking about them in this post

[jjjackalope]

"INKED" by J.J. Jackalope out now!!

Have you guys considered what the world might've be like if sometime a century ago, people started being born with ink embedded into their skin, and powers at their fingertips? No? Well you should start, because I have the new-age queer book for you.

Think X-Men meets coming-of-age meets a bit of Percy Jackson action.

My goal is to give a sense of belong to anyone whose eyes grace my work. I know how important rep is to every minority and I want to do everything I can to give that representation.

Check out my website to learn more and buy!

Here's the book blurb :)

After being in online school for the last four years, Scottlin Vincino starts his Junior year at a new private boarding school an hour from home. It should have been similar to any other in-person school-- but alas, they had everything Scottlin didn’t. 

A mark. 

He'll have to keep it a secret, but it gets tricky when you have a knack for ending up in the infirmary… Whether it be for the hot boy you just met, or you're swept up in one of the freak accidents at the school that seem to just keep happening. 

Scott will have to juggle his sexuality, his grades, and his new friends all while solving the mystery of what is happening to his new academy.

#books #book #author #writing #writer #selfpublishing #self publish #YA novel #YA novels #lgbt #lgbt literature #trans literature #gay literature #gay PEOPLE OKAY??? #poc characters #lgbt characters #oc #ofc #oc art #original character #ocs #my ocs #publishing #ad #gay romance #mlm #wlw #all #just all of them #poly

[nandorsrelentless]

there seems to be far too many fans who can't seem to wrap their head around the fact that no relationship in the Vampire Chronicles is healthy. every relationship includes an element of abuse/power imbalance by normal standards. literally every single one.

they are all monsters who are no longer constrained by societal rules. so I don't think it's too crazy to expect them to do mosntorus things. the genre is Gothic HORROR. the show really prioritizes the HORROR element more so than other adaptaions, which i love.

i don't need louis to be a liar to enjoy lestat. if louis lied or misremebered things about the fight in episode 5, i literally do not care because it's never gonna make me hate louis. the baseline of what constitutes "evil" or "bad" is so different in iwtv because of the fact that they are NOT HUMAN. Claudia is literally a serial killer and she's still mother to me. ykwim?

the nature of vampirism is they have to kill to survive. so it would be really cool if people could accept louis, armand, and claudia as complex characters who are fundamentally not good people (because they aren't people!) without being racist about it. THEY ARE ALL KILLERS

im more interested in this exploration of the complexities of memory and seeing how the show integrates the other books into this story in a way that hasn't been done before than I am in discoursing about whether louis is a liar or not. who gives a shit???? grow up and realize that there are no good guys here and that's OKAY

#iwtv #tvc #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #interview with the vampire #amc iwtv #I pretty much cleansed all my feeds so i dont actually see much racism more so than i see people talking about it #just some random thoughts i guess in the wake of the new trailer just because i know things are gonna get weird #it would be nice if audiences could be trusted with complex and morally grey characters of color but idk #but i also think the fact that there are racists is not a reason to NOT make poc characters who are complex #same goes for the people who will interpret the portrayal of a morally grey poc character AS racist #there are certain tropes i think that are always going to have racist implications ofc and im not trying to discount that #but lets all be real here and realize that revisiting ep 5 to add more layers to it is NOT going to exonerate lestat by any means #add more complexity and layers and possibly show that louis was not AS helpless as he showed himself to be? maybe #but they are not going to exonerate the white character to make the black character look evil #idk if any of this made sense im just stream of consciousness rambling

[whetstonefires]

Okay so you know what just belatedly struck me?

What Miguel O'Hara is running is, in fact, a cult.

This isn't immediately obvious not just because he's structured it like a really fun law enforcement/emergency rescue/superspy deal, that's responding to real concrete visible issues with the structure of reality. Also because his investment in it isn't any of the most common things people found and run cults for; not the money or the power or the adulation.

He's his own most passionate believer.

And what he's shilling with such desperate sincerity is perfectly balanced to appeal to Spider-mans: that sense of meaning and community that Miles came looking for, that Gwen needed so bad, that all those variants were enjoying and that Hobie shrugged off. But deeper than that, the destiny story.

The soothing narrative of the narrative, that all the pain was worthwhile, necessary, unavoidable and therefore not your fault. That it means something, that you mean something, but also you never had the responsibility to fix it. It's okay.

And what you have to pay in exchange for this comfort is committing yourself to letting other people fall under the wheel of fate, to even putting your shoulder to that wheel and giving it a push. Because it has to be this way. The bad things are in a sense good.

And of course not standing aside and letting bad things happen is the whole point of Spiderman. Refusing to approach the world that way, screaming into the void and at your own worst impulses, and fighting the whole damn universe.

Your basic Peter Parker is a hero on purpose, not out of inherent nobility but by will, pricked forward by guilt and duty. That's the foundational concept on which all the Spiderman edifices are built.

So it's very appropriate that Miguel was able to bring so many Spider-people to believe in his great canonical trolley problem enough to get them to turn their backs on a Gwen-on-the-bridge. And could sic them on the outlier at a word.

It makes sense; he's armed with all their rhyming personal traumas.

It's also very strongly thematically framed as bad.

#hoc est meum #spiderverse #miguel o'hara #something in there about POC and policing too ofc #but the cult thing occurred to me and i was like #HOLY SHIT

[zepskies]

And So It Goes - Part 18

Pairing: Billy Butcher x OFC (Latina!OC)

Summary: As Madelyn Stillwell’s personal assistant, Helena Flores finds herself caught between protecting her job, and more importantly her life—or helping Billy Butcher bring down the supe who killed her best friend, Becca.

Word Count: 5,600

Tags/Warnings: Love triangle, tension, more of Ben’s asshole behavior, angst, hurt/comfort, implied smut

ASIG Series Masterlist

18: Being Human

Maybe I really do have a death wish, Helena thought, as she let the most wanted supe alive into her home.

Butcher and Hughie joined him, with the latter taking in her two-story house for the first time.

“Nice,” Hughie said with a nod. “This place is beautiful.”

Helena gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

Though she gave Ben a pointed look. “Try not to break it, please.”

He shot her a raised brow, but didn’t comment. Instead, he watched her turn and show them one of the guest bedrooms on the first floor. Meanwhile, his gaze lingered on the curve of her ass in those jeans.

Butcher caught the supe’s lazy perusal with a sharp eye. Ben felt his stare and had the gall to shoot him a wink with his smile. Ben’s steps had a certain swagger as he followed Helena down the hall.

It succeeded in setting Butcher even more on edge.

Hughie glanced over at his friend with concern; he’d seen the exchange between the men and didn’t like the fact that Helena was caught in the middle. More and more, he was starting to question just what the hell they were doing.

“Are you sure about this?” Hughie asked.

Butcher didn’t even look at him. His ears were perked to the conversation Soldier Boy and Helena were having down the hall, about fresh bedsheets, of all things.

“There’s no turning back now,” Butcher said.

Hughie frowned. “I know, but…”

Butcher ignored him in favor of starting down the hall to follow Helena and the unstable supe he’d brought into her home.

After everyone had showered and changed and devoured a few pizzas Helena had ordered, Ben puttered through her living room, rummaging through her things. He opened drawers and surveyed her various picture frames, like he was actually interested in her life or something.

“Got any reefer?” he asked.

Helena rolled her eyes. There goes that theory.

Not that she wanted his interest.

“Fresh out,” she said wryly.

She watched him from her corner of the sofa while Hughie graciously did the dishes. Butcher was sitting at the breakfast nook with a cup of tea.

Helena knew he was monitoring the supe out of the corner of his eye, but she was now very careful in what she left on the TV. She didn’t think Dumb and Dumber should have anything triggering.

She eyed him more sharply when Ben started thumbing through her record collection.

“Hey, easy with my vinyl, please,” she said. “It’s vintage.”

He raised up one of your favorites: I Wanna Dance with Somebody.

“Sweetheart, I’m vintage. I think Whitney Houstonis safe with me,” he quipped wryly.

She rolled her eyes at him, but she had to fight a laugh. 

“I knew her, by the way,” he mentioned. 

Helena’s interest was piqued, with a tilt of her head. “Did you?”

“Yeah. Her and Bobby knew how the fuck to get down. That’s for damn sure.”

“Oh my God,” Helena giggled.

Butcher couldn’t fucking believe what was happening in front of him.

Well, technically, behind him. He was facing the kitchen, and it gave Hughie the vantage point to see Butcher’s irritation.

Helena was more amused than disgusted by the man’s ridiculous flirting. He was an old, old man in that 40s-ish, practically indestructible body. He was like a man out of time, complete with outdated sexism and hyper-machismo. His attempts were often so obvious, it was funny.

But, she also felt guilty for being able to laugh and be pleasant, when this was a man who had killed, and not just during his PTSD-fueled episodes over the past few days. This was the man who murdered M.M.’s grandfather.

The problem was, she had long ago become desensitized to asshole supes. And she couldn’t help her gut instinct…that there was more to Ben than met the eye.

Helena called it a night an hour or so later, when her eyes were starting to droop. She’d slept for a couple of hours in the car, but there was nothing like being back in her safe space, in fresh clothes, and soon to be in her own bed.

A knock at her bedroom door had her frowning in confusion. She put on a robe over her pajamas and opened the door. Her brows raised at finding Butcher there.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was deep and tired, full of gravel. He tried to slip past her inside the room, but she grabbed the doorjamb, blocking his way. She gave him a flat look.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked. He gestured to the bed with raised brows.

“To sleep. I’m fucking knackered, love.”

Helena’s lips formed a thin smile.

“There’s a guest bedroom down the hall,” she said. For a moment, they just stared at one another, as one refused to leave, and the other refused to bend.

“Hel,” Butcher tried.

“You ended this,” she said, pushing him back with a hand in the center of his chest.

“Technically, that was you,” he returned. He backed up a step, but wouldn’t let her move him much farther. 

This time, her lips pursed and her expression tightened.

“You know what you said, Billy,” she said. “And you know what you did. You still don’t even have the decency to apologize.”

She stepped closer into his orbit, until her breasts barely brushed against his chest. He could feel the warmth of her skin under the thin cotton of her shirt, could see that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

She leaned up on her toes and almost brushed her lips against his. She smelled minty fresh, along with the jasmine shampoo she often used.

“You…don’t get any part of this,” she said. “And you certainly don’t get to make some kind of claim on me just because you’re jealous.”

Helena pulled away. Butcher didn’t know what was more infuriating: not being able to touch her, or the deadly accuracy of her words.

“Jealous?” he said incredulously. “Of fucking what, might I ask?”

Instead of answering him, she smiled and closed her door in his face.

Butcher was left in the hall, teeth gritted and fists clenched. What the bloody hell just happened?

When he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he trudged down the hall and into the second bedroom, where Hughie was already slipping into the queen-sized bed. Butcher yanked him out of bed, despite the younger man’s yelp and protest.

“Hey!”

“There’s a couch nice and comfy there for ya,” Butcher said, gesturing at the nearby sofa. It was little more than a loveseat. If Hughie was lucky, it would only be his legs hanging off the side.

He frowned. “Come on, man.”

Butcher shrugged off his jacket and boots, tossing them on a nearby accent chair.

“You can try your luck bunking with Soldier Boy downstairs, but that might be ill-advised,” he retorted.

And he got into bed, turning out the bedside lamp as he went.

Helena slept for maybe a couple of hours before her eyes opened in the dark, her heart racing. She groaned and covered her face with a hand.

She still saw flashes of manic blue eyes in her mind, a hand wrapped around her throat. She felt throbbing pain radiating from the side of her head and half her ribcage.

It forced her out of bed in search of her medication, which Butcher had somehow gotten for her without a prescription. She chose to ignore that fact, and she grabbed her pill bottle, put on her favorite robe over her pajamas, and ventured downstairs for a glass of water.

When she turned on the kitchen light, her bleary eyes made out a shape sitting at the breakfast nook.

She jumped halfway out of her skin, until she realized that it was just Ben, sitting there with two cartons of Mint Milano cookies and three empty beers from her fridge. He raised his brows at her.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he said, smirking when he eyed her fuzzy purple robe. “Cute.”

“Down, boy,” she warned. She laid a quivering hand on her chest and caught her breath. “You scared the shit out of me.”

She retrieved the jug of water from the fridge and asked him if he wanted some. He shook his head, leaving her to consider him as she poured herself a glass of water. She saw the familiar threads of self-medicating with the empty beer bottles.

“I can make you some tea,” she offered.

Ben frowned. “Piss water, you mean? I’ll pass.”

Helena rolled her eyes. She got out the chamomile anyway and started up the kettle. It was an electric brewer, so the water would be hot within minutes.

“It could help you sleep better,” she pointed out. She felt his hot gaze on her back as she went about her business in the kitchen. She set up two mugs and took out the bottle of honey.

“One of two things helps me sleep,” said Ben. “Good drugs or a good fuck.”

Helena paused. Her hand clenched on the honey bottle on reflex, and made a large spurt squeeze out in one of the mugs. She eyed him tartly over her shoulder.

“You’ll find neither in this house,” she said. Her tone was pointed. His sly gaze said he wasn’t too sure about that.

“What’s keeping you up?” she asked, and she put a cup of tea in front of him with honey already stirred in. He gave her a flat look.

“I don’t drink that shit,” he said. She smiled.

“But I made it especially for you,” she replied, saccharine sweet. “I thought guys like you were supposed to be chivalrous.”

Ben just stared at her, hard.

She stared at him right back and raised her brows.

“Just try it,” she cajoled. “You might like it.”

He still didn’t look convinced, but after a moment, he slowly reached out and took the handle of the mug. He brought it to his lips and took a reluctant sip.

He grimaced. It was everything he thought it would be: weak in flavor, but warm and a hint sweet.

Helena smiled in satisfaction, and he fought one of amusement, even as he considered how sweet she might be to taste.

She went to get her own mug and her bottle of pain meds. While her back was turned, Ben poured most of the tea into the sink.

“Why’re you in my kitchen, eating all my cookies?” she asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder while holding up one of the empty boxes of Milanos. “These are my favorites.”

Ben’s gaze roamed down the length of her fuzzy robe. It hinted at curves he’d already seen and taken note of. She was the hottest young thing he’d seen in…well, a while. Still, he’d be willing to eat up Miss Chiquita Banana and leave no crumbs.

“I’ve slept long enough,” he said. She turned back around, and he tried to disguise his hunger (for now). 

Helena glanced up at him wryly. “Hmm. You’re allowed to say you can’t sleep.”

Ben didn’t answer, but he watched her struggle to open her pill bottle. She twisted and twisted the cap, applying pressure, but it refused to budge.

“Damn it. What, did they reinforce this with, titanium?” she muttered.

The pill bottle eventually broke free, raining little white pills onto the counter. A few of them rolled off to the floor.

Her shoulders deflated. “Of fucking course.”

With a sigh, she slowly bent down and gathered up the pills that fell. She grabbed onto the counter, but the sharpening pain in her ribs wouldn’t let her straighten up, let alone get back onto her feet. She looked up at Ben in annoyance. He was just sitting there, watching her in bemusement.

“Coño pero… Are you gonna help me, Mr. Chivalry?” she snarked. “Best generation, indeed.”

Ben raised a brow at her. “I might, if you ask a little fucking nicer.”

Helena gaped at him. What a dick.

But she expected nothing less, really. She let out a tense breath through her nose and through much effort, she angled a less pissed off face at him.

“Will you please give me hand off the damn floor?” she asked.

A smirk crossed his lips. He actually obliged her, sliding off his seat and coming her way around the kitchen counter. He bent down and helped her up with a hand on her lower back and her elbow. He didn’t back away from her until her feet were steady on the ground, and she nodded in thanks. He took a few pills out of her hand as payment, popping them into his mouth like Tic Tacs.

Helena sighed in annoyance. Unlike him, she actually needed those.

“Why’re you up, anyway?” Ben asked.

“Well, I could blame it on the pain,” she replied, after downing two pills with her water. “But um…I keep replaying yesterday in my head, over and over like a bad movie. It always stops at the part where I look up at Homelander’s psychotic fucking eyes, and I just…I knew.”

Helena shook her head. Ben’s lips tugged downward.

“Knew what?” he asked.

“I’m officially on his hit list now,” she said. 

She knew it was partly her own fault. She chose to follow Butcher, to keep making reckless decisions. But at least now she wouldn’t have to spend every damn second of every day looking over her shoulder. She could just turn around and accept whatever happened next.

Helena could admit it though. She was afraid.

“What’s it like, not being afraid?” she asked Ben, with a small sarcastic huff. His brow arched.

“When you’ve routinely pounded Nazis up the ass, nothing much bothers you after that,” he said, sipping at his mug of tea. Though he soon grimaced again at the taste and pushed the offending drink away.

Deep inside, however, he refused to acknowledge the darker chasms. Stolen years that were now blurred together in memory, and yet, certain moments rang painfully clear. His eyes were unseeing for a moment, before they glanced back up at Helena.

He nearly missed the way she chuckled.

“That shit isn’t fooling for a second,” she said. “I saw you lose your grip, Ben.”

His gaze sharpened. His fist clenched on the counter.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he warned.

Her eyes narrowed. “Let me ask you a question. Do you really not remember M.M.’s family? Or was that routine for you too?”

He paused, his brows crunched in irritation.

“I don’t have to fucking justify myself to you. I was doing my fucking job. Sometimes—”

“What, shit happens?” She threw her hands up mockingly. “God, you’re just like Homelander. Like almost every supe I’ve ever met.”

He rolled his eyes, dismissive, but his anger was prickling just under the surface of his stoic front.

And on the off chance that it was a mask for any spark of shame he felt deep down, Helena was at least a little satisfied. For 100-something years of machismo and supe arrogance, that spark would’ve been well-won. 

“Regret is human, Ben,” she said. “So is fear. And pain. And love.”

His face remained stoic. “I’m a lot fucking more than human.”

She huffed at that. “If you say so.”

She shook her head and delved back into her pantry. As a peace offering, she broke out her secret backup stash of cookies, that she doubted even Butcher knew about. They were raspberry and milk chocolate Milanos. She subtly shook the box at Ben with a smile.

He tilted his head. “I don’t remember that flavor.”

“Ooh. Brace yourself,” said Helena. She dug out the first two sleeves of cookies and gave him one.  

“How come there’s five in yours?” he asked with a frown. There were only four cookies in his sleeve. 

“The Lord giveth, and he taketh away,” she joked. “I get the bonus cookie.��

Ben gave her a deadpan look, but he ate in silence. He looked all surly, and she had to hold in a laugh. What a man-child.

Instead, she tossed her extra cookie at him. He raised a hand to instinctively fend off a projectile.

“Hey,” he said, with his mouth full.

Helena ended up giggling at the sight of crumbs falling from his mouth and in his beard. Again, man-child.

She wanted to hate him.

She should hate him, on principle alone.

Perhaps she had a weakness for deeply flawed men with massive egos. But fleeting as they were, she saw the glimpses of humanity in Ben—rare moments that got swallowed up by Soldier Boy.

In the morning, Butcher aimed to work on the list of safehouses where one of his most paranoid of ex-teammates, Mindstorm, could be hiding out. This next one was a few hours north. He’d be gone for the day, at least.

He was forced to leave Helena and Hughie behind, but not without a warning for the latter. Butcher had pulled Hughie aside and let him know that he wasn’t to leave her alone with Soldier Boy again, under any circumstances. Hughie didn’t have to ask “or what.”

Butcher was gone early in the morning. It allowed Helena and Ben to make their way into the kitchen slower in the morning. She was dressed for the day with her coffee mug in hand, sitting at the breakfast nook while Hughie caught up on the news from her laptop in the living room.

Ben grabbed a cup of coffee and took a seat next to her.

“What do you say you get started on breakfast. Huh, baby doll?” he asked. Or more like demanded, by his actual tone.

Helena shot him a dry look. “There’s cereal in the pantry.”

“Come on, now. I could use a home cooked meal,” he said.

Her brow twitched in irritation.

“It might be nice, since I have cracked ribs at the moment, if you might make yourself something,” Helena replied.

Ben gave her a smirk as he eyed her. “Why would I do that when you look like a perfectly good cook.”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “But I’m neither your servant nor your maid.”

“You’ve got two working hands, don’t you?” Ben remarked, as he sipped his coffee. “God fucking knows you’ve got a working mouth.”

Helena seethed as she got up from her chair, but not to make anyone a damn thing. She went to the sink to dump her empty coffee mug. She turned back to Ben and opened her mouth to say something she would very likely regret, but Hughie interjected, perhaps seeing that an explosion was about to happen.

“Uh, why don’t I make us something?” he said, getting up from the couch and heading into the kitchen with Helena. “I can whip us up some scrambled eggs. Bacon, if you’ve got it. Ooh, looks like you’ve got bread to make toast.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Knock yourself out.”

She ate her eggs on the couch in simmering silence while the news played on the TV. Hughie sat with her, casting her a look of concern every now and then. She ignored it all, including Ben’s less than discreet grumpy staring.  

Apparently, he couldn’t contain himself any longer.

“I swear to Christ. What the fuck is wrong with women today?” he said.

What a good start, Helena thought sarcastically.

“My mom never kept my father waiting for a meal. Even when he came home at whatever goddamn hour of the night, she had a plate waiting for him,” he said.

Helena rolled her eyes and quipped dryly, “That plate must’ve been cold as hell.”

Ben eyed her as she got up from the couch and went to bring her plate to the sink. She had her back to him as she began to rinse the dishes and put them into the sink.

“When did women get so fucking lazy? And disrespectful,” he remarked.

Helena hit the lever on the sink closed to turn off the faucet. She turned around to face the man and crossed her arms.

“You want a fuckable maid, pay extra,” she said. “But if you want a partner you can rely on. Someone you can trust not to give you to the damn Russians, then you share the load. And you respect the woman who lets you into her bed.”

She turned back to the dishes so she wouldn’t have to look at Ben’s angry, brooding face. But the way she turned her back on him, along with her pointed words, irritated enough to spark his anger. He got up from his seat.

Hughie sensed the danger before Helena did. He stood and made a cautious approach to the kitchen.

Helena reached for a hand towel, and found her wrist encased with an iron grip. She gasped as Ben turned her to face him.

“I’ve put up with a lot from you,” he said. “I think I’ve been a gentleman, considering what a disrespectful little brat you are. But I really think you wanna get bent over my knee.”

His face told her that she wouldn’t enjoy it.

“Hey,” Hughie tried to intervene. “Let’s just calm down, all right?”

Helena let out a shaky breath, but she looked up at Ben and somehow managed to hold her ground, despite the iron grip on her arms.

“If it makes you feel better, go ahead,” she said. “Slap me around until I break.”

“Soldier Boy!” Hughie said in warning.

Ben ignored him. He stared down at Helena with cold anger in his eyes. His hold on her arms tightened, and it hurt. She failed to stifle a gasp of pain.

But she stared up at him defiantly, even though there were tears forming in her eyes.

“You want me to respect you? You killed my friend’s family, and you don’t even care,” she said. “I don’t see anything here that earns my respect.”

Ben reacted to her words, mostly with anger as his brows furrowed.

Hughie grabbed the supe’s shoulder. “Hey, man, just let her go!”

Ben shoved Hughie away so hard that it made the younger man slide across the kitchen and into the far wall, until he hit a bookshelf and fell to the ground.

Helena flinched in shock, and pain at the way he was still holding her. Ben saw it play across her face…and he let her go abruptly. He stared down at her for a moment, nostrils flaring with his heavier breathing. She tried to calm her own breathing as she met his gaze, wondering what he would do. Wondering if this was the moment she’d signed her own death warrant by being her smartass self.

But Ben walked away from her.

Well, stalked away, more like. He left through the front door and it swung open on its hinges.

Helena took in deep breathes of relief. Eventually she gathered enough of her wits to go to Hughie, who was still picking himself off the floor.  

“I gotta go after him,” he said with a sigh.

“Get that man away from my house. I don’t care where you take him,” Helena said, frowning tersely. Hughie couldn’t blame her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and touched her arm gently. She pulled away from his touch and held herself with crossed arms.

“I’m fine. Just go get him,” she replied.

He nodded and took off after Soldier Boy. It gave Helena the reprieve she needed to let out a long, tremulous breath. A tear fell down her cheek as she leaned on the kitchen counter.

She just couldn’t help taking her life into her hands.

Butcher returned to Helena’s house in the evening. Her car was still in the driveway, but when he let himself in with the spare key she’d given him, he realized that the house was empty, except for her.

She was washing dishes from a dinner she’d clearly made for just herself: a Lean Cuisine.

“Where the hell are Hughie and Soldier Boy?” he asked, approaching where she stood in the kitchen, dressed down in a long-sleeved shirt and yoga pants.

“I couldn’t give a fuck,” she said. “Hello to you too, by the way.”

Her voice had little energy in it, save for anger and sarcasm, and Butcher took notice. He frowned.

“You’re the one who brought ‘em here. Weren’t my fucking idea, remember?” he snarked back.

Helena finally gave up on the dishes and turned to him with angry tears in her eyes.

“But you’re the one who made it happen, Billy. You wanted to cut a deal with that ancient, unstable fucking asshole? Well, you got your damn wish,” she said. “You are the reason we’re in this mess.”

Butcher paused at the sight of her unshed tears. His jaw worked as he tried to make sense of why she was this upset, when just yesterday she was joking and laughing with the supe like he was the guest of honor.

His brows drew together. “What did he do?”

Helena refused to answer.

Butcher went to her and tried to grasp her arm, but she pulled away from him with a flinch. Her eyes flicked away from his.

Unbidden, it reminded him of the day he waited for her at her apartment. And she’d come home after work looking skittish and drained. She’d flinched away from his touch then, just like she’d done now. That had been the day Homelander nearly strangled her to death.

“What the fuck did he do, Helena?” Butcher repeated. She met his gaze. 

“You better find him,” she said, “before he blows up another damn building.”

Butcher stared hard at her, but she wouldn’t say anything more.

He fished out his cell and called Hughie, who told him that he’d brought Soldier Boy to the Legend’s penthouse apartment in the city.

“Good,” Butcher nodded. “Keep him settled there while I look for Mindstorm.”

He glanced at Helena, but she was already walking away from him to finish cleaning up her kitchen.

Butcher ended his call. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’ve gotta go,” was what he settled on.

She shrugged. Butcher nearly sighed. He went to her though, while she was wiping down the counter with a clean rag. His hand reached out to touch her back, but at the last moment, he thought better of it. His arm drifted back to his side.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly.

“Like you care,” she said. Her tone was one of both snark and exhaustion. “Just go.”

Reluctantly, he went.

Helena was angry, to say the least—at Butcher, at Soldier Boy, and even at Hughie. She was also angry at herself for not having been able to leave well enough alone when Butcher left the first time.

Which first time? She snorted.

But she was especially mad at herself when she allowed the three men to traipse back into her home, a week later.

“‘Ullo, love,” Butcher greeted at her door.

They were covered with dried sweat and dirt, like they’d been hiking. She only let them in because of how they looked—each a bit rattled by whatever they’d faced. Her house was safer than the Legend’s at this point, Butcher explained.

“Just one night,” he asked. “We’ll fuck off in the morning.”

“Fine,” she agreed, despite her better judgment. Again, it was that look in his eyes. Unsteady.

Ben gave her a predictable once-over of her pajama shorts and tank-top, but it seemed he didn’t have it in him to volley with her like usual, especially after what happened last time. He didn’t acknowledge that as he made his way to one of the guest rooms.

Helena followed Hughie and Butcher upstairs…but something made her grab Butcher and steer him away from the second guest bedroom.

He wasn’t sure what she was doing while she guided him into the bathroom in her room. There he leaned against the counter of the bathroom sink. She picked the twigs out of his hair and brushed the dried mud from his shirt.

“Did you take a dirt nap or something?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he replied.

“What the hell happened then?”

He looked down at her. “Mindstorm is dead.”

She sighed at that, but something else was there, behind his eyes. Just under the surface.

“And what else?” Helena asked.

Butcher remained quiet, hesitating. She slowly took a chance by reaching for his scarred hand. She held it with both of hers.

He couldn’t help himself. He brushed his thumb over the back of her warm, tan, smooth hand, reminding himself that she was real and alive. And he wasn’t locked in his mind.

“When I left for the SAS,” he said, “I left my little brother behind…with our raging cunt of a father.”

Helena inhaled deeply; she remembered what Butcher had told her about Lenny, about how he died young. But somehow, Butcher had left out this detail. He met her gaze with tears forming in his red-rimmed eyes.

“I shouldn’t have left him,” he confessed.

Helena was half in shock as she watched the first tear roll down his cheek. She realized then that she had never seen the true depths of this man. Not until tonight.

Her eyes burned with sympathetic emotion as she reached for him and pull him into her arms. He held her back, burying his face in her neck and grounding himself in her as his body shook. Those brutal memories, along with the grief that had been locked deep inside had loosened, and the doors were now swinging open on their hinges.

“Jesus Christ, Helena…I’m sorry,” he said. His voice wavered, and his hand clenched in her hair. “For what I keep doing to ya. Dragging you down with me with every goddamn step.” 

He pulled back enough to see her, to be faced with her tears as she bit her lip.

“And for what I said…to you, and to the kid. I’m fucking sorry,” he said.

Helena broke down just as much as he did then. She nodded in acceptance, and she held his face in her hands. Then she brought him down for a tender kiss. Butcher gave into the soft warmth of her as he held her against him, unwilling to let go this time.

And she led him back into her bed.

In the late hours of the night, Butcher returned to Helena’s bed after a shower. She was already fast asleep. He slid in behind her, gently caressing the back of his hand up her naked back and over her shoulder, down her arm…

And he saw it. A purplish, yellow band around her arm.

It looked like a bruise, formed by a large hand. A man’s hand.

Butcher was damn certain it wasn’t his own, and he’d just finished tracing all the contours of her body tonight.

Though he was reminded of what happened a few days ago…

His brows drew together. “What did he do?”

Helena refused to answer.

Butcher went to her and tried to grasp her arm, but she pulled away from him with a flinch. Her eyes flicked away from his.

Soldier Boy. That old cunt.

Rage built and built inside him. That unfathomable rage that so often fostered lethal energy in Butcher’s blood.

Carefully he slipped out of bed. He got as far as the doorway before he looked back at Helena. He focused on her easy breathing, her messy dark hair splayed on her pillow.

The rage he felt began to simmer down, bit by bit, into self-loathing. Because he did this.

She’d been right before. Butcher made the deal with Soldier Boy. And Butcher brought this shitshow into her home.

So he forced himself to join her back in bed. He traced down the back of her neck, down the length of her lotus tattoo. It made her shiver in her sleep.

Butcher had failed his brother, and Becca. But he couldn’t fail this time. He’d keep Helena and Hughie safe, and alive.

Butcher’s phone was on silent, but the light from his phone on the nightstand illuminated the dark room and stole his attention. He grabbed it and frowned at the strange number on the caller ID. He took the phone into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Hello?” he answered.

“I need to talk to Hughie. Where is he?” Annie asked.

“Oh, Starlight. How delightful,” he muttered. And then he lied.“He’s just popped out for a bit.”

“Okay, well he’s not answering his phone.”

“Bit hard to keep a phone when you’re teleporting all day, innit, love? How can I help?”

“Temp V is going to kill you both,” she said.

“Well, it’s gonna have to join the queue,” he quipped.

“I was just in the lab. It causes lesions, okay? It turns your brain into fucking Swiss cheese!” she shouted. “So please be honest with me, and tell me how many doses have you taken?”

Butcher hesitated at that. His stomach began to churn.

“Just a couple,” he replied. Or a few.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Butcher, five to six doses kills you. Got that? You need to tell Hughie.”

Butcher hesitated. “Yeah…yeah, I will. I promise.”

“Okay, but I’m calling every five minutes until—”

He hung up on her. All the while, his mind was reeling.

Fuck, he thought. Fatal after five doses. He’d already had three. Hughie’d had two.

And they needed more, if they were going to face Homelander and Black Noir.

“Scorched earth” was going to come at a price. Butcher had known that going into this, but it suddenly took on new meaning as he opened the bathroom door and looked over at Helena, peacefully sleeping in bed. 

Butcher thought of Ryan, and all of his broken promises.

But come the morning, Butcher didn’t tell anyone of what he’d learned.

AN: Oooh, we're getting so close to the end here, folks!

Next Time:

“Why are you being so fucking stubborn?” Butcher asked.

Her head tilted as she gave a wry smile. “What do you mean?”

His grip on her waist tightened a little.

“Why’re you staying with me?” he pressed. “Hel, you know where this ends.”

“Billy, I don’t have a death wish,” she told him. She squeezed his arms back. “But I don’t just want you alive for me. Ryan needs you too.”

Keep Reading: Part 19

The Boys Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Tag List:

@lauraaan182 @homielander @calizmor @haibara-ai-tsii @brujaporfavor @sleepyqueerenergy @adoringanakin @skyesthebomb @lunaticgurly @deans-spinster-witch @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007

@wincastifer @ades106 @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @brianochka @branj19 @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog @globetrotter28 @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @deanwinchestersgirl87 @this-is-me19 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70 @clinicallydepresso

@xiphoidbones @skoveu @nyotamalfoy @kmc1989 @emily-winchester @xxlaynaxx @kaleldobrev @jad3djay @jackles010378 @kishie8

#Being Human #And So It Goes #Part 18 #the boys #billy butcher #soldier boy/Ben #soldier boy #billy butcher x oc #butcher x oc #billy butcher x ofc #poc!oc #billy butcher x reader #Butcher x Latina!OC #karl Urban #poc oc #latina!oc #hughie campbell #zepskies writes

[geminigengar]

y/n in the avengers gc: everybody shut up this is a girlies of colour moment

steve: girlies of colour?

sam: aht aht! not you

bucky: what does that even mean

nat: it means ur white, james

rhodey: damn yall still talkin?

clint: its a free country

sam: its not a free group chat

y/n: show of hands gets to talk, raise ur hand if u dont burn in the sun

y/n: (🙋🏼/🙋🏽/🙋🏾/🙋🏿)

sam: 🙋🏾

rhodey: 🙋🏿

y/n: period. as i was fuckin saying-

thor: 🙋🏻

y/n: thor no

thor: i do not burn in the sun of midgard. :D

sam: goddamn it

#incorrect avengers #avengers imagine #thor x reader #sam wilson x reader #avengers x reader #bucky barners x reader #captain america x reader #all playonic ofc #poc!reader #woc!reader #black!reader #my own writing

[nexusnyx]

journey to kintsugi ▹prologue

— A/n 📝Reblogs and comments make all the difference. I do not allow my work to be translated or uploaded to any other place. My tip jar if you enjoy this story a lot and feel like it. ☕️ You can read this chapter on AO3. Word count: [3.9k] — Warnings⚠️ mature content—violence, mentions of death, gore — canon-typical themes; Minors DNI.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMain Masterlist | Official Playlist | Series Masterlist

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ▹ Close Your Eyes

Winter was far from kind to those that had no idea how to fend for themselves and the child you see walking a few meters away from you, hunting alone and scared in cold, has only a couple of days left. Three, if luck was on their way.

They knew some things to stay alive, but not enough. They had company, too. Inside the cabin, someone waited for their return, you were certain of it. By the ramblings the wind carried as the kid tries hunting for food you knew that much — a family member, most likely, or a friend they made along the way if their disposition to keep the person alive is anything to go by, and curiosity gnaws at your fingers to approach and discover who.

Ultimately, you refrain from it.

That lasts for a while — you help from a distance and repeat the mantra that's kept you alive until now, gritting your teeth at the instinct twisting your guts to go, help, help them, you need to help.

Regardless of how much you fight or deny it, both of them end up in your path in less than five days.

A change that would affect not only their lives but yours, deeply. Irreversibly. And forever.

Keep your distance. Always be alert.

It worked, for a while. But... Distance only works if there is no connection.

The power a name holds is enough of a connection for so many things. Enough worry to grow in your bones like vines until you are following a track down the snowy mountains. Until you are putting behind you everything you've branded to your skin for the past thirteen years and mingle, mixing with outsiders as if that ever worked.

For three days and three nights, you offered what you could as help to the child. Convincing yourself that, at least, you could do, you pitched in a ghostly hand to keep the young one alive — an easier hunt, or clearing the path they leave behind since they never learned how to, or an offering of food on the first hard night where no attempts from their part resulted in anything.

Then, a name, and everything freezes before it sets into motion.

"Ellie."

Then, they're no longer 'the child' or 'them'. They're Ellie, and Ellie is in danger. That's all it takes.

All you have is a name, but the purpose comes easily.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⤎ ⤎ ⤎

It happens on the fourth night. As you finish the perimeter rounds of the forest, you hear the familiar sound of a voice you've grown to recognize.

Without thinking, your feet move you toward the direction, instinct keeping you in the dark and silent at all times. Although the kid is young, they are far from innocent or harmless.

Despite their wild and occasionally sad behavior, their banter with themselves is adorable. You've grown fond of it, despite your best efforts to remain detached from the situation as a whole.

It's a few steps before they come into sight that you hear they're not alone.

Everything halts — your movements, the air around you, and the bubble of security you felt wrapped around you.

Then, it hits why — both voices are familiar.

Only the second one should know fucking better than to be this far up high these mountains. Your mountains. Knowing exactly who he is and what the likes of him do, his warning came long ago.

David knew better.

He should fucking know better than to be up here, considering you said the exact words 'if I see you in my woods again, you're a dead man'. Crystal clear as water from the source. As the streams of sunlight hit through the glass — what was he doing here?

Willing your body out of the freezing state, you stepped close enough to listen.

"... my buddy, James." Fucking James. He's with David, and you should have killed both of them long ago if you were being honest. Blood started boiling hot in your veins as you placed yourself between the trees carefully enough to see and hear the situation. "We come from a larger group of people," David lied through his teeth, setting his trap of false humanity and security in him. "Women, and children. We're all pretty hungry."

As soon as he said it, you eyed the deer bleeding on the ground near the kid.

Shot by an arrow.

They did it. All on their own.

A strange and unexpected surge of pride rushed through the icy fortress of your ribcages.

"Yeah, same here." The kid you might know for only days, but you smiled as you sensed their lie, too. Knew of their lie. Good for them. "Women, children. We're all hungry too."

"Uh... Perhaps we can offer a trade?" David offered. "For some of your meat." That clever, rotten bastard. "Doesn't even have to be all of it. We have things you might need. Clothes, ammo, food—"

"Medicine!" The interruption came across as desperate as it probably was.

So this was what they needed. If only you knew earlier.

"Antibiotics, d'you have any?" the kid asked. That meant the person they hunted for daily and went back to tend for most of the day was bruised. Badly bruised, and likely infected.

"Yeah. Not much, but, we do. Back at the camp." No! You froze again, your heart beating faster in your chest. "We could show you what we have. If you follow us back—"

"I'm not following you anywhere." Good. The deadly grip you suddenly had on your own bow loosened. "He can go. Jason, wasn't it? Yeah. He brings it here and we make the trade."

Every part of this is wrong. All the possible scenarios of this ending in the shitshow you know it could rush through your mind, and you want to scream while David and Jason trade looks, nodding to each other.

"Two bottles of penicillin for—" he pauses, looking back at the kid.

Their grip on the arrow and bow is steady. You've seen them crying, biting their fist, talking to themselves and doing their absolute best over the past few days, but now you see them clearly.

"Ellie." So it's a girl. With the coat always on and the distance, you kept yourself from guessing. "And Jason," Ellie directs her gaze to the man. "over there... better come back alone. With the medicine. Once you hand it over to me, the deer can be all yours. You guys go your way, and then I go mine. Alright? If anyone else shows up—"

"I know," David interrupts. Ellie must've given a warning before, and David confirms it by repeating the words you missed. "You'll put one right between my fuckin' eyes." The pats the tip of his finger to the location. Ellie nods, and you wish you saw her face now instead of his.

"That's right."

David and Jason share yet another look, and Jason leaves.

Your window of time to make a decision starts, and it narrows as soon as Jason's out of sight and Ellie demands David's rifle for herself.

He puts himself in a vulnerable position by doing so.

He obeys her without protest, then puts on his best 'tired' face for his next act. He then suggests it is cold — which it is — and they could at least wait for Jason's return in the abandoned warehouse a few feet behind them. Looking solemn. Harmless.

You should shoot him right there and then, but it might scare her. James might be coming back with penicillin.

No 'mights' made up for the fact that as David dragged the deer inside and Ellie followed suit, the invisible clock of her possible safety — and the chances of an unforgettable trauma — rose like the tide.

The voice of your elders started ringing in your ear.

Outsiders are danger. Nothing but danger.

You should run away. There was no real reason as to why you should help — more than you already had — a strange child whom you never met. Who had someone waiting for her high up in the mountains. Someone who could be equally if not more dangerous than her. Who could thank you for saving their companion by putting a bullet between your eyes.

Death arrived to people for less.

Fear and uncertainty hold you behind the trees for longer than you cared for. Longer than you or the girl have, longer than it should if you want to offer any help. You want to run back to your safety. Run away from the dangers that this could bring to your life, but your gut rearranges itself every second you waste in thinking about leaving her behind.

Sure, you could not intervene. She's not your responsibility. She could probably make it out of this alive.

Still...

Fuck.

Your gut pulled you forward, and you were moving.

Adrenaline spiked your veins, filling through you like scotch does, warming everything in its path.

Entering the warehouse stealthily is not a problem — how you'll get Ellie out of there is.

They're too distracted with each other to hear you coming.

There's a gun — David's gun — still pointed at him, and it makes a smile form behind your scarf.

She's good.

If your instinct is right — as it always it, no matter how much you hate to remember or try to deny it — this girl's a survivor and someone worth the trouble. There's no time anymore for you to second-guess all the risks you're putting yourself under just to get her away from the slimy, horrible hands of David and the likes of his.

"...to trust people nowadays. I get that." David knows how to talk.

So do you. "David."

Both sets of eyes lift towards you. Ellie goes from someone who was starting to let her guard down to hiding her panic behind the gun. You know so because you can see her fidgetiness in your peripheral vision, but your focus remains on him right now.

David raises both hands in the air, trapped between the threat of your arrow and his own gun in the girl's hands.

"The last words I spoke to you were very clear. You have no business in these woods." Or anywhere else. "Tell me why I shouldn't shoot."

"Who the fuck are you?!" demands Ellie. "Who is she?! You know her?"

"Unfortunately." David might be a master manipulator, but his mask is slippery. "She's a savage."

You scoff. "I'm the savage." The irony. If you want Ellie to not shoot you, there's something you need to do. "Hi, kid. I live in these woods. The man standing next to you is a cannibal. And a rapist. And worth less than any bullet in that gun."

Each word after 'hi kid' is enunciated with clarity, and when you finish, you do it — danger danger dangerdanger— you look away from him for a second, making eye contact with her for the first time.

Ellie's eyes are wide.

Drowning in fear.

It makes acid burn in the pit of your stomach.

With the aid of your shoulder, you keep the aim on David as you pull your scarf down so she'll see your face.

Not a stranger. No danger to you.

"Kid, don't listen to this—"

"Shut up."

It's almost... comical. The way both of you say it at the same time.

"I have no reason to lie to you," your gaze now shifts between Ellie and David, who started sweating and fidgeting as well. "I don't want your meat. All I want is him..." you pin him under your eyes, watching his every move. "Out of my woods."

"I thought you wanted me dead," says David. He almost smiles.

It makes you sick. "Don't tempt me."

"Why d'you care, then?" asks Ellie. "If you don't want what I hunted, why d'you give a shit if he's scum? I have his gun pointed at his head and his buddy's about to bring me the only thing I need. I don't need your help."

Why do I care? What an excellent question, kid.

The guiding voice in your mind answers with — Never run from your gut, Lupi. It'll always lead you right. It's your True North.

"All she wants is to confuse you. Just shoot her," says David. "Have I given you any reason to think I wanna hurt you?"

And oh — wrong move.

Ellie frowns. The crease dips between her eyebrows, and she looks between David and you.

She's a clever one. People never give you reasons before hurting you.

Then, something happens. When Ellie looks back at you and your gazes meet, something lights up in her head and she straightens up, her posture changing from the feral-like behavior of someone who's trapped in a corner.

"It's you," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "You... the rabbits with broken feet. You helped me."

You have to fight back a smile. "Seems like you don't need my help anymore," you reply, the sass slipping out despite the need for seriousness.

Ellie's mouth twitches at the corner.

A scream of frustration is the only warning you get.

David uses the second of distraction as you two share a look and smashes his body against Ellie, knocking the gun out of her hand and then proceeding to pull his pistol out of his back pocket, pointing the gun at her head.

Freezing you at the spot. Again.

"Alright, back off." Mask off, David is a whole different person. He pulls Ellie a few steps back as she grunts in the chokehold of his arm, but when the barrel touches her temple, the cold metal settles her, washing over her body like a bucket of cold ice. Reality. "Why the fuck did you have to meddle, huh? Since when d'you give a damn about random fucking strangers? I thought outsiders meant danger," he spits the last word.

Despair makes people reckless, Lupi. But it also makes them stupid.

You breathed in, willing the words to be your own cloak of reality, and breathed out through your lips.

"Is he bringing the medicine?" you asked.

David frowned at you, startled by the question.

"Just answer the goddamn question."

"Of course he is. I wanted her to trust me." David looks from you to Ellie. "Knew it the second I saw her... that she's special." He moves some of her out of her face with the barrel of the gun. "Aren't you?"

"So what — you were gonna give me the penicillin and then let me go?" Ellie asks in disbelief.

"Of course. You'd need more. I'd convince you to come to me. I'd show you I can protect you."

"Yeah, I feel so protected right now," spits Ellie.

David huffed in frustration. "Well... there's always the other way. I'm sure that with time you could be convinced to be good. I always wanted a more... wild pet."

The words make your insides twist, and your brain wrecks itself with ways to make this all go away.

"What the fuck—" Ellie triest wiggling away from him, but you see it.

David pushed his body, molding it against hers. "You'd be good, eventually."

Your own despair threatens to make you stupid, but you fight back. There's no time for stupidity in your hands, not if you want Ellie — and yourself at this point — to make it out alive.

So you put a plan in motion.

Pretending to hear something, you look away from both.

That catches David's attention.

This will be a risk. A huge one, but at the same time, if he rubs himself on Ellie just one more time, you might snap and try something that goes beyond ridiculous, like shooting an arrow between his eyes even though he has a gun pointed at a child's head.

"Clickers."

With one word, you try to ignore the ice in your veins as you back away from them.

Fear is the greatest poison. It works the fastest.

David lets you go, and you exit the warehouse hearing him say: "Shut up — I didn't hear anything. If she did, she can handle herself."

Stupid fucker.

Stupid, dead fucker.

As soon as you're out of their sight, you do a double-check to make sure you hear nothing. Then, you open one of the pockets in your pants and retrieve the small plastic container.

There's a dart already loaded in the blowgun.

All you need is a security check before executing the plan.

Finding an open spot in the warehouse is easy — numerous windows are cracked, and the snow makes your movements silent.

When both Ellie and David are in perfect view again, all you have to do is aim.

Your expertise.

Bullseye.

The dart hits David's neck. In three seconds, he's out on the floor.

You hear Ellie cursing and you're about to head back inside when you hear footsteps approaching, and you know who it is before you even turn around.

James has only the time to take note that it's you.

His eyes catch on the scarf you pulled back over your nose — they widen at the sight of black and painted scales, and fear is his downfall.

The arrow you aim at hits his forearm, clean through.

The gun drops, and his scream echoes.

Loud bastard.

You rush to where he is and pick up the bag in his other hand after securing his gun in your satchel. Checking inside, the penicillin and syringe are there.

James is groaning, crying in pain as he clutches his arm. The red in the snow is not enough in your opinion.

"He's alive inside. You're alive here. Consider that an act of mercy on my behalf and a final warning." You take a step back and make sure his eyes are on his before you speak your last words. "I'll have no words for any of you the next time. Only death."

A part of you wishes there would be a next time. Leaving James alive is not something you want.

When you turn around, Ellie's standing there with a weapon pointed at you, but unlike the last time, she's shaking.

You sigh.

Her eyes are fixed on you and the bag that's in your hands.

"That's mine," she says.

"I know." You throw it at her feet. "All yours."

Despite knowing you've helped her, she's still shocked.

"It was you, right? The dart?" she asks.

Both of you ignore James's noises. You nod. "If James over here manages to carry that sack of shit back home, they'll live." Maybe. The dart is also poisonous, but you keep that to yourself. If they raided penicillin, they can revert your poison. Maybe.

"I need..." Ellie's shaking. "I need to—"

"Let's go." You want her out of here.

To your surprise, Ellie follows.

You go back inside, and you retrieve a rope from your satchel to secure the deer with her help. Adrenaline helps with carrying the deer up the mountain, but snow slows you both down.

It gives you two the time to come down from the high. To process what just happened in the silence that is only interrupted by the howling of the wind and the noises of you two making your way up.

Silence is only as suffocating as the situation, and this one is stiff.

When you pause, so does Ellie. "Five minutes rest." The warehouse has been out of sight for a few minutes now, which means the distance is safe.

Ellie sits next to the deer. She's no longer shaking, but the shock is still imprinted on her face.

She gets up, restless, her eyes frantic.

Then, she looks at you. "Was it true?"

As much as you wished for a different answer, you nod.

"How do you know?"

"'Cause I've seen his compound."

Ellie's head starts shaking. "Why is he still alive, then? He and his people?"

"Are you asking me why I haven't killed a compound with over twenty, maybe more, men?"

"That many?" You nod in answer, and Ellie exhales shakily. "I... I wouldn't have made it out alive."

"Maybe not." You look at the deer. "Maybe yes. Thankfully, we won't have to know."

"Do you think they'll come after us? Up here?"

You shake your head with property this time. "That part was far down the mountain — further than I usually go, and admittedly, higher than he had the right to be."

"You threatened him before," she confirms.

"He knows he's dead if he comes up here. Plus — his guys have no clue how to survive up here. You and whoever you're helping are ok. From them, at least."

That seems to be enough for her. Ellie nods, and swallows so thickly you can almost see the knot in her throat.

It's one of the saddest things. Witnessing her process what could've been. What almost was.

"He... he said he wanted to..." she's special. "He was r-rubbing on—"

"Oh, sweetling."

Her eyes, when they find you again, are shining with tears.

"He would've—"

You interrupt, not wanting or needing the end of those words.

With slow and deliberate movements, you open your arms and step closer to her. "But he didn't. It's ok. Can I..."

Instead of answering, Ellie only allows her body to fall forward into your embrace.

It's been a while since you hugged another person, but you know she needs to feel some form of contact that's not laced with malice.

"And if it makes you feel any better... I picked a poisonous one for what he did." You hug her as she shakes, wishing you'd been faster. "He might not make it."

Ellie cries for only seconds.

It's like that's all she has in her — the shock makes her whole body tremble with it, but after only a couple of minutes, you hear a sniffle and feel her pulling back, so you let her go.

She avoids eye contact. "Thank you. For... down there. And helping me these days."

"You're welcome."

Wiping her face in her coat, Ellie nods, more to herself than anything, and then picks up the ropes again. "I know I don't know you, but — would you give me one last hand?"

"With what?"

"I—I don't know how to work a needle. Can you — Joel needs penicillin, and he needs it fast, but I don't wanna waste what I have now 'cause it's not as if I'll be getting more any time soon. So... can you do it? Do you know how?"

As much as you hate needles, you did know how. "I can. And I do."

Ellie's next sigh is in relief. "Ok. Alright."

You two start your way upwards again, but this time, you're distracted.

Joel.

That's the name of the person she's doing all of this for.

"He's gonna be ok now," Ellie whispers.

Somehow, you find yourself nodding along. Joel's gonna be ok.

The same gut that pulled you towards her tugs at that phrase, sparking something underneath your skin.

Joel and Ellie. You will help them and then go your way.

chapter one →

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[milknhonies]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.

Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet

8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.

The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.

He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”

The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”

The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”

Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.

8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.

The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.

Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.

“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.

The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”

You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests. It must have been new.

The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.

A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”

You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.

“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”

The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.

“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”

You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.

She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...

‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’

You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.

She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”

Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.

‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’

She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.

Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”

Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.

Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...

You couldn’t answer.

And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?

When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”

“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”

Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”

She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.

The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”

Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”

The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.

Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.

From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.

“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”

The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”

The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.

Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.

“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.

The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”

You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.

Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?

“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”

“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”

Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.

Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.

A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.

“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.

You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.

You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”

The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”

Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”

The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”

Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.

…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”

“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”

She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”

The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”

She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”

“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.

The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”

Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”

“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”

“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”

The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...

“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.

Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.

So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.

She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....” he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

#dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x ofc #sherlock holmes x female reader #sherlock holmes x poc!reader #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #sherlock holmes x reader #dark!sherlock holmes #dark!henry cavill

[anti-ao3]

someone just KINDLY pointed out the artist drew nani (lilo and stitch) too skinny (again, she's thin but she has a tummy), and ppl in the comments got so defensive like "don't be rude, only give advice when the artist wants to!!!" even the artist made a dumb excuse even if they weren't rude either.

this is why "no criticism" is so harmful, bc you can't even point out an important detail like this without ppl acting like you personally insulted the artist. and when it's an actual fat person saying this, then the hate they get is even worse.

edit: also i'm sick of marginalized groups having to be "nice" when pointing out biases in art or writing, and ppl are still assholes to them. why do we have to keep coddling creators ESPECIALLY when they're grown adults?

#lotus.txt #fatphobia tw #ofc this counts for poc too #like when characters are whitewashed

[cevansbrat0007]

Twin Flames: Part One

Summary: When firefighter Curtis Everett suspects that he's found his twin flame, he plans to slowly ease her into his lifestyle of dominance and submission. Until one night when it all goes up in smoke. Firefighter!Curtis Everett x OFC

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of Death, House Fires, Mention of Exes, Mentions of D/s Lifestyle, Mentions of Daddy Kink, Alcohol Consumption, Eventual Smut, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Dedicated to @curls-and-eyeliner for helping me flesh this out. This installment is part of my ongoing Trio Series. There will be a second part to this, detailing Curtis and Ruby's actual first meeting the night of the play party. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated and encouraged.

___

As a firefighter, Curtis Everett has seen some terrible things in his line of work as a first responder. He's lost people on the job more than once. But the first time it happened…

The memory of that night still follows him. The things he witnessed, the smell of charred flesh. That’s the kind of shit that changes a person, it leaves behind a lasting mark.

The first person he ever lost while out on a call – it wrecked him. And in the aftermath Curtis was left to deal with it all on his own because Serena, his girlfriend of several years, was too busy partying to pick up the phone when he needed her. She had swiped his credit card so that she could show her friends a good time, which also included half the bar. 

After all, it wasn’t like it was her money. And although they ended things soon after, that woman wasn’t prepared to go quietly. She felt that she’d put up with a lot from him, especially whenever she reluctantly allowed him to indulge in some of his darker fantasies. 

In her mind, he owed her. And in time, she would collect.

But Curtis would eventually recover from that loss and move on, because that’s kind of one of the requirements of the job. After that horrible night, he vowed to do better. He became laser focused, determined to push himself to the limit. And it worked, at least for a while. But sometimes life is rather unpredictable.  

Just like the flames.

The next time he lost someone on his watch, it threatened to take him his fucking knees. Because that day – that day the victim was a little girl. Iris Caldwell, who was barely five-years-old. Her weeping mother had kept repeating over and over again that she’d just had a birthday two days prior.

And they had plans to celebrate that weekend. But the flames…they’d gotten to her first. And her tiny lungs had been no match for the heat and the smoke. 

Curtis had been the one to carry out her small, lifeless body - tears clouding his vision through the cover of his mask. He handed her off to an EMT and then stood motionless several yards away as chaos surged around him. His eyes were trained on the child, his frozen gaze never leaving her fallen form as the crew desperately tried to resuscitate her. However, when their efforts proved to be unsuccessful he placed the weight of that blame squarely upon his own shoulders. 

He’d been the one who failed poor Iris. And then the endless loop of “what-ifs” began. 

What if they’d arrived at the scene a few moments sooner? What if he’d been just a fraction of a second quicker as he was making his way into the house, trying to navigate a path through the blaze? What if he hadn’t struggled to break down the heavy oak door that had kept them from Iris, leaving her trapped to contend with the flames alone before she eventually succumbed to her injuries?

Later that night, someone showed him her picture, one of his teammates that had been with him on the call. In the photo, Iris had been wearing a sparkly pink crown, looking every inch the princess she was pretending to be. But it was her eyes that struck him – those big, beautiful eyes that reminded him so much of someone else he’d encountered not too long ago. A person that he’d met at one of the parties he liked to frequent as of late in his search to find the right woman. 

The type of woman who enjoyed the same games he liked to play. The type of woman who could manage him, who could accept him for the man that he was and would always be. A woman who was not only capable of understanding his dominant nature, but of embracing it.

He’d met a woman who’s spirit called to his own – so much so that when she abruptly left, he chased her down. Curtis had felt compelled to know her, to gentle the young woman who’s inner fire seemed to burn so bright, he couldn’t bear to watch it be so clumsily extinguished by someone else. By a lesser man who wouldn’t understand, nor appreciate, the gift that would be her eventual submission.

Rubeena Maxwell. That had been her name. And what they’d shared the night at Club Domino after he’d chased her down had been amazing. But he hadn’t pursued her after that, wanting to court her right. To show her that he could be the man he knew she deserved. And in order to do that he had to be on top of his game.

As a man. As a Dominant. And as a Daddy.  

But the night he and his team had lost that child, deep down he knew that he couldn’t go through this alone. Well, he could, but he didn’t want to – even as he tried to drink it all away. 

That night he tried to bury himself so deep in the bottom of a bottle that it – along with everything else – would all fade away. Wanted to get so drunk off his ass that he wouldn’t have to feel a damn thing until after morning light. However, when that proves to be damn near impossible he leaves the bar in search of another form of solace. 

He knew that he needed something more. He needed her.

Ruby.

They weren’t together, at least not yet. They’d only been out a few times, enough for her to realize that there was more to Curtis than he initially let on. There was pain, there was baggage, as well as the ghost of an ex-girlfriend who was still taking up so much space that it left virtually no room for a third person.

For Ruby to stake her claim on this man’s heart.

So she tried to put the brakes on things, effectively ending their relationship before it had truly ever begun. Because in truth, she had her own issues to contend with. And none of them involved a charming six-foot-something firefighter sporting a chiseled jaw and tempting blue eyes.     

However, when he showed up on her doorstep two weeks after their very first meeting, looking every bit as lost as confused she felt, she had no choice but to let him in. Especially since the gorgeous first responder appeared to be so drunk he could barely stand, let alone talk.

The moment she opened her door, Curtis pulled her into his arms, whispering into her curls over and over again about how sorry he was – for everything. For not being enough. For not getting there in time. Followed by a litany of nonsensical rambles about Ruby’s eyes, and how there was so much life in them. 

And how he never wanted to be the reason that it disappeared. 

Curtis just wanted to tell her – someone, anyone, really – that he had tried that day. That he had resolved himself to do better. And then he broke, right there on her front porch as she wrapped her arms around his big body as his powerful shoulders shook with the force of his tortured sobs. 

And whether she knew it or not, that was the night Rubeena Maxwell opened her heart to the beautifully damaged man who would become her lover, her partner, and the most dominant force in her life. 

That was the night she and Curtis Everett became a team. And this right here is just the beginning of their story before they would eventually become part of The Trio.

Next part coming soon...

#the trio series au #chris evans #curtis everett #chris evans imagines #curtis everett imagines #chris evans smut #curtis everett smut #chris evans x reader #curtis everett x reader #chris evans x ofc #curtis everett x ofc #chris evans x black!ofc #curtis everett x black!ofc #chris evans x black ofc #curtis everett x black ofc #chris evans x woc!ofc #curtis everett x woc!ofc #chris evans x poc!ofc #curtis everett x poc!ofc #chris evans x girlfriend!ofc #curtis everett x girlfriend!ofc #chris evans fanfiction #curtis everett fanfiction #cevansbrat0007 fics #chris evans daddy!kink #curtis everett daddy!kink #chris evans x brat!ofc #curtis everett x brat!ofc #curtis x ruby

[romiantic]

8:17 PM

bad idea right? — “I say go for it.” “Please y/n, don’t do that to yourself” “I mean, you’re gonna do it regardless of what we say anyway.”

The only piece of advice you would hear whenever there’s a mention of your ex-boyfriend, Miguel O’hara. The man who stood at a great height, brood muscles, and beautiful brown skin that could make anyone with eyes wish that they were him or want to be with him. But everyone knew the quite not-so-cute relationship between him and his now ex-lover, so many decided to avoid that route of O’hara. Which made things quite difficult for the both of you trying to move on from each other, not only adding to the fact that you two would end up in a bedroom somewhere.

Even after blocking each other’s phone numbers, petty social media posts, consistent days of crying from the both of you, and long long late-night talks with close friends about how you both hate each other, unironically, you two would meet up at his apartment, at the same time every other week.

Of course, the same routine would be fulfilled, you’re either in some lazy lounge fit to represent your low mood or a cute outfit that would rather be used for date nights and not for closure. Closure? Sure, let’s go with it. Miguel would compliment how beautiful you always look, throw in a compliment in Spanish, which always gets you smiling, no matter your state of emotions, and a supposed hug that’s only meant for lovers but it’s too much of comfort when his burly arms wrap around your back and he pulls you into his embrace. Maybe even a light kiss to your forehead if it’s been quite a while since you’ve been in contact with one another.

As deeply as you both crave this sort of intimacy, it’s silently agreed that you both shouldn’t be doing this. It’s destroying the fact you two are now ex-lovers, there’s no relationship, and there’s no entitlement that you both belong to one another. Well, there is an unspoken one but not established, but why does there need to be one? The amount of love stored in your hearts can easily show that there’s still something, a little spark, a small flame, something to say that you two belong together.

This would mean regaining closure from your beloved ex can’t be that bad of an idea, right?

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

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