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antiporn-activist · 3 days

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The Troubling Trend in Teenage Sex

Peggy Orenstein out here doing God's work

NY Times 4/12/24

By Peggy Orenstein

Ms. Orenstein is the author of “Boys & Sex: Young Men on Hookups, Love, Porn, Consent and Navigating the New Masculinity” and “Girls & Sex: Navigating the Complicated New Landscape.”

Debby Herbenick is one of the foremost researchers on American sexual behavior. The director of the Center for Sexual Health Promotion at Indiana University and the author of the pointedly titled book “Yes, Your Kid,” she usually shares her data, no matter how explicit, without judgment. So I was surprised by how concerned she seemed when we checked in on Zoom recently: “I haven’t often felt so strongly about getting research out there,” she told me. “But this is lifesaving.”

For the past four years, Dr. Herbenick has been tracking the rapid rise of “rough sex” among college students, particularly sexual strangulation, or what is colloquially referred to as choking. Nearly two-thirds of women in her most recent campus-representative survey of 5,000 students at an anonymized “major Midwestern university” said a partner had choked them during sex (one-third in their most recent encounter). The rate of those women who said they were between the ages 12 and 17 the first time that happened had shot up to 40 percent from one in four.

As someone who’s been writing for well over a decade about young people’s attitudes and early experience with sex in all its forms, I’d also begun clocking this phenomenon. I was initially startled in early 2020 when, during a post-talk Q. and A. at an independent high school, a 16-year-old girl asked, “How come boys all want to choke you?” In a different class, a 15-year-old boy wanted to know, “Why do girls all want to be choked?” They do? Not long after, a college sophomore (and longtime interview subject) contacted me after her roommate came home in tears because a hookup partner, without warning, had put both hands on her throat and squeezed.

I started to ask more, and the stories piled up. Another sophomore confided that she enjoyed being choked by her boyfriend, though it was important for a partner to be “properly educated” — pressing on the sides of the neck, for example, rather than the trachea. (Note: There is no safe way to strangle someone.) A male freshman said “girls expected” to be choked and, even though he didn’t want to do it, refusing would make him seem like a “simp.” And a senior in high school was angry that her friends called her “vanilla” when she complained that her boyfriend had choked her.

Sexual strangulation, nearly always of women in heterosexual pornography, has long been a staple on free sites, those default sources of sex ed for teens. As with anything else, repeat exposure can render the once appalling appealing. It’s not uncommon for behaviors to be normalized in porn, move within a few years to mainstream media, then, in what may become a feedback loop, be adopted in the bedroom or the dorm room.

Choking, Dr. Herbenick said, seems to have made that first leap in a 2008 episode of Showtime’s “Californication,” where it was still depicted as outré, then accelerated after the success of “Fifty Shades of Grey.” By 2019, when a high school girl was choked in the pilot of HBO’s “Euphoria,” it was standard fare. A young woman was choked in the opener of “The Idol” (again on HBO and also, like “Euphoria,” created by Sam Levinson; what’s with him?). Ali Wong plays the proclivity for laughs in a Netflix special, and it’s a punchline in Tina Fey’s new “Mean Girls.” The chorus of Jack Harlow’s “Lovin On Me,” which topped Billboard’s Hot 100 chart for six nonconsecutive weeks this winter and has been viewed over 99 million times on YouTube, starts with, “I’m vanilla, baby, I’ll choke you, but I ain’t no killer, baby.” How-to articles abound on the internet, and social media algorithms feed young people (but typically not their unsuspecting parents) hundreds of #chokemedaddy memes along with memes that mock — even celebrate — the potential for hurting or killing female partners.

I’m not here to kink-shame (or anything-shame). And, anyway, many experienced BDSM practitioners discourage choking, believing it to be too dangerous. There are still relatively few studies on the subject, and most have been done by Dr. Herbenick and her colleagues. Reports among adolescents are now trickling out from the United Kingdom, Australia, Iceland, New Zealand and Italy.

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Twenty years ago, sexual asphyxiation appears to have been unusual among any demographic, let alone young people who were new to sex and iffy at communication. That’s changed radically in a short time, with health consequences that parents, educators, medical professionals, sexual consent advocates and teens themselves urgently need to understand.

Sexual trends can spread quickly on campus and, to an extent, in every direction. But, at least among straight kids, I’ve sometimes noticed a pattern: Those that involve basic physical gratification — like receiving oral sex in hookups — tend to favor men. Those that might entail pain or submission, like choking, are generally more for women.

So, while undergrads of all genders and sexualities in Dr. Herbenick’s surveys report both choking and being choked, straight and bisexual young women are far more likely to have been the subjects of the behavior; the gap widens with greater occurrences. (In a separate study, Dr. Herbenick and her colleagues found the behavior repeated across the United States, particularly for adults under 40, and not just among college students.) Alcohol may well be involved, and while the act is often engaged in with a steady partner, a quarter of young women said partners they’d had sex with on the day they’d met also choked them.

Either way, most say that their partners never or only sometimes asked before grabbing their necks. For many, there had been moments when they couldn’t breathe or speak, compromising the ability to withdraw consent, if they’d given it. No wonder that, in a separate study by Dr. Herbenick, choking was among the most frequently listed sex acts young women said had scared them, reporting that it sometimes made them worry whether they’d survive.

Among girls and women I’ve spoken with, many did not want or like to be sexually strangled, though in an otherwise desired encounter they didn’t name it as assault. Still, a sizable number were enthusiastic; they requested it. It is exciting to feel so vulnerable, a college junior explained. The power dynamic turns her on; oxygen deprivation to the brain can trigger euphoria.

That same young woman, incidentally, had never climaxed with a partner: While the prevalence of choking has skyrocketed, rates of orgasm among young women have not increased, nor has the “orgasm gap” disappeared among heterosexual couples. “It indicates they’re not doing other things to enhance female arousal or pleasure,” Dr. Herbenick said.

When, for instance, she asked one male student who said he choked his partner whether he’d ever tried using a vibrator instead, he recoiled. “Why would I do that?” he asked.

Perhaps, she responded, because it would be more likely to produce orgasm without risking, you know, death.

In my interviews, college students have seen male orgasm as a given; women’s is nice if it happens, but certainly not expected or necessarily prioritized (by either partner). It makes sense, then, that fulfillment would be less the motivator for choking than appearing adventurous or kinky. Such performances don’t always feel good.

“Personally, my hypothesis is that this is one of the reasons young people are delaying or having less sex,” Dr. Herbenick said. “Because it’s uncomfortable and weird and scary. At times some of them literally think someone is assaulting them but they don’t know. Those are the only sexual experiences for some people. And it’s not just once they’ve gotten naked. They’ll say things like, ‘I’ve only tried to make out with someone once because he started choking and hitting me.’”

Keisuke Kawata, a neuroscientist at Indiana University’s School of Public Health, was one of the first researchers to sound the alarm on how the cumulative, seemingly inconsequential, sub-concussive hits football players sustain (as opposed to the occasional hard blow) were key to triggering C.T.E., the degenerative brain disease. He’s a good judge of serious threats to the brain. In response to Dr. Herbenick’s work, he’s turning his attention to sexual strangulation. “I see a similarity” to C.T.E., he told me, “though the mechanism of injury is very different.” In this case, it is oxygen-blocking pressure to the throat, frequently in light, repeated bursts of a few seconds each.

Strangulation — sexual or otherwise — often leaves few visible marks and can be easily overlooked as a cause of death. Those whose experiences are nonlethal rarely seek medical attention, because any injuries seem minor: Young women Dr. Herbenick studied mostly reported lightheadedness, headaches, neck pain, temporary loss of coordination and ear ringing. The symptoms resolve, and all seems well. But, as with those N.F.L. players, the true effects are silent, potentially not showing up for days, weeks, even years.

According to the American Academy of Neurology, restricting blood flow to the brain, even briefly, can cause permanent injury, including stroke and cognitive impairment. In M.R.I.s conducted by Dr. Kawata and his colleagues (including Dr. Herbenick, who is a co-author of his papers on strangulation), undergraduate women who have been repeatedly choked show a reduction in cortical folding in the brain compared with a never-choked control group. They also showed widespread cortical thickening, an inflammation response that is associated with elevated risk of later-onset mental illness. In completing simple memory tasks, their brains had to work far harder than the control group, recruiting from more regions to achieve the same level of accuracy.

The hemispheres in the choked group’s brains, too, were badly skewed, with the right side hyperactive and the left underperforming. A similar imbalance is associated with mood disorders — and indeed in Dr. Herbenick’s surveys girls and women who had been choked were more likely than others (or choked men) to have experienced overwhelming anxiety, as well as sadness and loneliness, with the effect more pronounced as the incidence rose: Women who had experienced more than five instances of choking were two and a half times as likely as those who had never been choked to say they had been so depressed within the previous 30 days they couldn’t function. Whether girls and women with mental health challenges are more likely to seek out (or be subjected to) choking, choking causes mood disorders, or some combination of the two is still unclear. But hypoxia, or oxygen deprivation — judging by what research has shown about other types of traumatic brain injury — could be a contributing factor. Given the soaring rates of depression and anxiety among young women, that warrants concern.

Now consider that every year Dr. Herbenick has done her survey, the number of females reporting extreme effects from strangulation (neck swelling, loss of consciousness, losing control of urinary function) has crept up. Among those who’ve been choked, the rate of becoming what students call “cloudy” — close to passing out, but not crossing the line — is now one in five, a huge proportion. All of this indicates partners are pressing on necks longer and harder.

The physical, cognitive and psychological impacts of sexual choking are disturbing. So is the idea that at a time when women’s social, economic, educational and political power are in ascent (even if some of those rights may be in jeopardy), when #MeToo has made progress against harassment and assault, there has been the popularization of a sex act that can damage our brains, impair intellectual functioning, undermine mental health, even kill us. Nonfatal strangulation, one of the most significant indicators that a man will murder his female partner (strangulation is also one of the most common methods used for doing so), has somehow been eroticized and made consensual, at least consensual enough. Yet, the outcomes are largely the same: Women’s brains and bodies don’t distinguish whether they are being harmed out of hate or out of love.

By now I’m guessing that parents are curled under their chairs in a fetal position. Or perhaps thinking, “No, not my kid!” (see: title of Dr. Herbenick’s book above, which, by the way, contains an entire chapter on how to talk to your teen about “rough sex”).

I get it. It’s scary stuff. Dr. Herbenick is worried; I am, too. And we are hardly some anti-sex, wait-till-marriage crusaders. But I don’t think our only option is to wring our hands over what young people are doing.

Parents should take a beat and consider how they might give their children relevant information in a way that they can hear it. Maybe reiterate that they want them to have a pleasurable sex life — you have already said that, right? — and also want them to be safe. Tell them that misinformation about certain practices, including choking, is rampant, that in reality it has grave health consequences. Plus, whether or not a partner initially requested it, if things go wrong, you’re generally criminally on the hook.

Dr. Herbenick suggests reminding them that there are other, lower-risk ways to be exploratory or adventurous if that is what they are after, but it would be wisest to delay any “rough sex” until they are older and more skilled at communicating. She offers language when negotiating with a new partner, such as, “By the way, I’m not comfortable with” — choking, or other escalating behaviors such as name-calling, spitting and genital slapping — “so please don’t do it/don’t ask me to do it to you.” They could also add what they are into and want to do together.

I’d like to point high school health teachers to evidence-based porn literacy curricula, but I realize that incorporating such lessons into their classrooms could cost them their jobs. Shafia Zaloom, a lecturer at the Harvard Graduate School of Education, recommends, if that’s the case, grounding discussions in mainstream and social media. There are plenty of opportunities. “You can use it to deconstruct gender norms, power dynamics in relationships, ‘performative’ trends that don’t represent most people’s healthy behaviors,” she said, “especially depictions of people putting pressure on someone’s neck or chest.”

I also know that pediatricians, like other adults, struggle when talking to adolescents about sex (the typical conversation, if it happens, lasts 40 seconds). Then again, they already caution younger children to use a helmet when they ride a bike (because heads and necks are delicate!); they can mention that teens might hear about things people do in sexual situations, including choking, then explain the impact on brain health and why such behavior is best avoided. They should emphasize that if, for any reason — a fall, a sports mishap or anything else — a young person develops symptoms of head trauma, they should come in immediately, no judgment, for help in healing.

The role and responsibility of the entertainment industry is a tangled knot: Media reflects behavior but also drives it, either expanding possibilities or increasing risks. There is precedent for accountability. The European Union now requires age verification on the world’s largest porn sites (in ways that preserve user privacy, whatever that means on the internet); that discussion, unsurprisingly, had been politicized here. Social media platforms have already been pushed to ban content promoting eating disorders, self-harm and suicide — they should likewise be pressured to ban content promoting choking. Traditional formats can stop glamorizing strangulation, making light of it, spreading false information, using it to signal female characters’ complexity or sexual awakening. Young people’s sexual scripts are shaped by what they watch, scroll by and listen to — unprecedentedly so. They deserve, and desperately need, models of interactions that are respectful, communicative, mutual and, at the very least, safe.

#peggy orenstein #choking #wtf is going on

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runningfrom2am · 2 months

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cold nights // twenty-one

summary: you showed him colours he knows he can't see with anyone else.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 4.2k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, depictions of mental illness, also she's is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n: oh- you guys wanted them to be happy and in love in peace?? my bad. anyway, good a time as any to wish you guys a happy valentines day! lol

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist

"Where are ya takin' those?" Lennox asks you as you're quickly scanning through your piles of books, pulling out one or two at a time and holding onto them.

"I will bring them to Coryo and Sejanus." You smile to yourself, standing up straight as you finish picking out most of your favourites.

"Coryo." Lennox scrunches his nose up. "Why bother? They can't read that many books in a week. Especially when he'll hardly get his hands off you long enough to do literally anything else."

"Oh, Lennox hush. That is not true." You shake your head pointedly, cheeks burning red.

"It is true."

You had kind of explained to Lennox what happened, that Coryo explained, apologized, and that you were wrong about him. Your mother was right, of course, but Lennox still wasn't buying any of it. Although, he wouldn't deny that you seemed happier.

"Ma!" You call out, coming out of your bedroom with the stack of books in your arms. Trying to talk to Lennox about this would never end in him actually listening to you.

"Just out back, honey!"

You follow her voice out onto the back porch. "Ma, do you know if there's a limit of things you can take on the train?"

She looks up at the question, laughing at the stack of books you have steadied under your chin.

"It's not a passenger train, honey. I don't know." She chuckles. "You want to give him all of those? Won't you miss them?"

"Well..." You think about it, placing them down on the ground to rest your arms for a moment. "I don't know when I'll see him again, and books are expensive to post. Besides, I know they'll be in safe hands, and if I want to read them again I can take them from the library."

Your mom smiles sadly at you. "I suppose that's true."

"Yes." You grin, crouching down to pick the books up again carefully. "I shall go drop these off."

"When will you be back?" She asks, just as you're about to walk back inside.

"Uh, I'm uncertain, but I shouldn't be long! We don't have any plans."

"Maybe you should take your brother with you, he can carry those." She suggests and you sigh.

"No, Ma. He's mean." You pout.

"He only wants to keep you safe. Take him with you, please. He'll be driven mad here waiting for you to get back." She insists and you groan, dropping your head back. "I won't ask again, I promise."

"Okay, Ma." You relent, stepping back into the house and letting the door swing shut behind you. "Len! Ma says you're coming with me!"

"So... how do you know where they are staying?" Lennox asks you, half the books in his arms as you practically skip ahead of him.

"Coryo showed me the other day."

"Oh, he did. Of course he did." You can practically see him rolling his eyes behind your back. "Have you ever considered that he could just be using you? I mean-"

"Lennox, that's not a rational thought process. I have nothing that he would want, he already won his prize." You interrupt. "He just came here to spend time with me, we talked about that when I was in the Capitol."

"I can think of something he wants..."

"Lennox!" You turn on your heel, pointing a finger in his face so fast he almost stumbles as he stops. "That is enough. You have so little trust in me!"

"It's not like we haven't been down this road before!" He argues, and you quickly look around as he raises his voice. The path is deserted this time of day.

"And you don't think me capable of learning?"

"Clearly not! Him and Cole are practically the same person!"

"Don't you say that- I didn't like Cole and you know it." You narrow your eyes at him. "Coryo is different. He wouldn't hurt me."

"You do realize that those are like, the famous last words that every teenage girl ever has said and regretted it, right?"

"Do you just not want me to be happy?" You ask bitterly. That wasn't true and you knew it, but you were upset and you knew it would get your point across. He was being cruel.

"The opposite, actually! I just want you to think realistically about fallin' into the open arms of your 'knight in shining armour' who you've literally had nightmares about for weeks on end."

"I am not a child! I am an adult, and I am capable of making my own decisions." You spit. "He's not using me. He loves me, and I love him."

"Yeah, I'm sure he'll say that until-"

"Lennox you are such a.. boy!" You groan. "If you must know, if you must insist that I am so stupid, no, I have not slept with him. Is that what you needed so desperately to hear?"

"Gross." He mumbles, shaking his head with disgust. "I don't care what you do with your alone time, actually I'd really rather not know! All I'm saying is you need to be more careful."

"I'm not going to fight with you. You can trust my decisions or not." You grumble, turning back around to keep walking. He follows behind you silently, neither of you saying another word the whole walk there.

You knock on the door, taking a step back while you wait for it to open. You can hear your brother breathing behind you and it's driving you up the wall. You would drop off the books and send him home- maybe you would stay for a while, go for a walk, something.

The door creaks open and you smile when you see Sejanus. "Y/N!" He grins, opening the door wider for you to come in. "Coryo! Your girlfriend is here!" You blush at the term as you walk in past him.

You hadn't discussed any kind of title to what you had, the looming ache of him leaving again so soon holding you back from wanting to mention it. You assumed he didn't want to discuss it either, both of you silently agreeing just to enjoy the time you still had together.

"Y/N/N." Coryo grins, eyes lighting up as he enters the room.

"Hi." You smile, ignoring your brother pretending to gag behind you.

"What brings you?" Coryo asks. "I didn't expect to see you today, I was thinking of coming to see you myself."

"Yes, well, I went through my books and brought some over that I would like you to take." You look back over your shoulder as Lennox is placing the large pile of books on the dining table.

Coryo hums as he wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on your head. "That's a lot of books." He chuckles.

"You don't have to rush through them, keep them as long as you'd like." You assure him. "I just thought they were some you may enjoy."

"I'm sure I'll love them." He kisses the top of your head. "Thank you."

You turn in his arms to look up at him, ticking your head slightly when you hear Sejanus speak quietly. Clearly, not to either of you. "Hey, I just want to show you something. Come outside with me?" And then the door is shut, and you and Coryo are left alone.

"What's he showing him?" You ask, and Coryo watches through the window as his friend and your brother circle around to the side of the house.

"I am not sure." He answers. Immediately, he's thinking of the note Sejanus had scribbled out for himself. It included your brother's name alongside the dates and times, and those dates were creeping up quickly, the seventeenth being in three days- if he had today's date correct.

"Coryo?"

"Hm?" He looks down at you again. "You were thinkin' for a minute there. What's wrong?"

You were always so concerned. All he had done was take a moment to think, and you seemed genuinely worried. Maybe there was something in his face that showcased his confusion. "Nothing, love." He assures you, but you don't seem inclined to believe it. "Okay, uh, just... Come with me." He grabs your hand, watching out the window to make sure they aren't coming back yet as he leads you to his room.

You step into the small space and smile. He wasn't here for long, but the room already had little touches of him. The bed was made, and there was nothing on the walls but the bedside table had the copy of Romeo and Juliet he had got for you, a folded-up note, and a comb for his hair he had yet to put back in his bag despite him not needing it anymore.

You turn to face him after he shuts the door, smiling. He almost looked normal here, now. Like he was getting used to being here with you, living your life. It certainly wasn't like what he left behind in the Capitol, but to you it was special.

"Y/N, I have something to tell you." Coryo says, serious with a lowered voice. He didn't want anyone to hear it, even though you were still likely alone in the home.

"Okay." You reply, feeling your brow crease as you nod at him. His tone makes you nervous- your heart skips a beat in your chest. For a moment, you feel trapped. Tell him what you need. He won't mind.

"Can you... can you move away from the door, please?" You ask quietly before he has the chance to speak again.

He nods, not wasting a second before passing you and you turn with him, now with the door to your own back. "Is that better? You okay?" He asks and you nod.

"Fine just fine." You smile, trying to be reassuring. "What were you going to tell me?"

"Right, so..." You watch as he runs a hand over his head, still in the habit of pushing back his hair. "I was in Sejanus's room the other day, and I found this note. It had two dates and places on it, and then your brother's name and that was it."

"Oh." That's the only thing you can think of to say. "Well... do you remember the places? Maybe he was just trying to remember Len's name?"

"I don't know, I was hoping you'd know more." Coryo sighs, reaching for the bedside drawer. He had written down what he remembered from the dates and times, because he did want to ask you about it. "But he's been leaving and coming back at odd hours, he won't tell me what he's doing. Is he with Lucy Gray?"

"I don't think so." You frown, shaking your head. "But they have been getting close."

"But that doesn't really feel relevant to the note, or your brother."

"No... It certainly doesn't seem that way."

"Here, so... I wrote it down. Uh... The Hob, August seventeenth at ten pm, and broken fence August eighteenth at four am." He reads off what he remembered enough from the note to write down.

You tilt your head.

"Does that mean anything to you?"

"Well, on the seventeenth The Covey is performing at the Hob, so maybe he planned on going to that." You explain. "But broken fence... there's so many of those around here I couldn't tell you. Although, four am is an incredibly odd time to be meeting anyone."

"That's three hours before our train leaves."

"Oh." You shake your head slightly. "That's very weird."

"I know." Coryo sighs. "He won't tell me either, I've asked if he has any plans that night and he said no."

"Well... We should go." You offer. "Tell him that we're going to the meadow that night, and we'll just go after him. See who he's with."

Coryo raises his eyebrows at you. "I didn't take you for the nosy type."

"Well, I'm a big sister at heart and if it possibly involves Lennox I have to know." You argue. "It could be dangerous. He's always had a few friends I didn't love."

"Are you okay to go back there? I can go without you." He offers.

"I'll be fine." You insist. It's more so out of necessity, you have no choice but to be fine. You have to know- you have to make sure your brother and friend are safe.

"Are you sure about this?" Coryo asks, stopping you outside the entrance to the Hob. "If you want to go home I can take you, I just want you to feel safe."

"I know." You give him a small, reassuring smile as you squeeze his hand. "If I need to leave I'll tell you. I promise."

He nods, taking one last look at you to make sure you still seem okay before he pushes the door open and you both head in.

The building is buzzing- as it usually is when The Covey performs. You smile at the music, letting Coryo pull you close to the side wall as he scans the crowded room for his friend.

"Do you see him?" You ask, and he somehow hears you over the music and shakes his head.

You frown, looking around as well. No sign of Sejanus, no sign of Lennox. Lennox isn't even old enough to be here, but he wasn't at home when you left- and it's not exactly hard to sneak in.

"There," Coryo says, nodding in the direction of the opposite side of the room. You follow his eyes, and spot Sejanus talking to someone you recognize. "Who's he with?"

"Spruce." You explain. "His sister is scheduled to be executed tomorrow afternoon." You add, leaning closer so no one else will hear.

You watch as they head toward the back hall, the same one you ran down just a couple of weeks ago. "Should we go after them?" You ask when Coryo doesn't reply and he nods, watching them as he pulls you down the outside wall toward them.

You make it back to the hall without Lucy Gray spotting you, as far as you can tell. Standing outside the door, you hear shouting. You watch Coryo as he clenches his jaw, shaking his head.

"Wait out here." He tells you, dropping your hand.

"No- I, I should come." You shake your head and he grabs your cheeks, lifting your head to look into your eyes.

"I don't know what they're fighting about but it doesn't sound good. Wait out here." He's stern as he gently brushes his thumbs over your cheeks. "Listen to Lucy Gray, just watch the door. Okay, love?"

"Okay." You agree quietly, slightly nodding.

He kisses your forehead before letting you go, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open and disappearing behind it.

You chew your nails as you wait with your ear to the door, trying to decipher who is inside with them. It's hard to tell with all the shouting going on, but you hadn't heard Lennox.

"Y/N." You hear your name, quickly jumping back from the door and turning to face the voice. "What are you doin' here?"

You chew your cheek, trying to avoid Cole's gaze. "Just waitin' for Lucy Gray." You lie, looking down.

"Ah." He hums, nodding slightly as he steps closer to you. "Where's your purebred Capitol attack dog?"

"What are you doing here, Cole?" You ask, ignoring his question.

"We got leave passes for the weekend." He answers. "Hoff said something about 'boosting morale'."

"That's nice." You smile nervously. "Well, I don't want to keep you, so..."

"You aren't." He smirks, tilting his head as he looks down at you. "I'm not gonna hurt ya, you know that, right?"

"I know." You say softly.

"We're friends, aren't we?"

"Cole..." You sigh, looking down again. "We talked about this I just... We're too different. I'm sorry."

"Oh, because you have so much more in common with that prick- right?" He laughs sarcastically. "He's Capitol! He'll never know you like I do. Honestly, I'm offended that you'd choose him over me."

"I'm not choosing him over you." You frown. "I already knew we wouldn't work before I ever met him. This is very, very different. I'm sorry."

"You are? Oh, I'm glad to hear that." He nods and you eye him suspiciously. "Maybe then after he leaves, you'll give me another chance. He's taking the next train, tomorrow morning, right?"

"I can't do that, Cole." You shake your head.

"That's an awful shame." The evil smile on his face doesn't fade. "I'll have no choice but to report your father."

Your heart drops. "My Pa hasn't done anything."

He sucks in through his teeth. "Well, suspicion is enough to charge, and I don't know... I get a bit of an off feeling from him. It's actually my duty to report any suspicions we have, so honestly I've been protecting you, and I'd like to keep doing that, you know?"

You finally picked up on what he was saying, and immediately could taste the bitterness of fear on your tongue, a metallic tang that seemed to linger in the air.

"So? Do we have a date?"

"Sure." You mutter through gritted teeth.

"Sweet, thanks for finally coming to your senses, bug." Cole smiles, patting your shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon!" He calls back as he walks away.

You don't even care what's going on inside, you can't be alone in this dark hallway anymore.

You pull the door open and rush in, but you're quickly stopped by Coryo's arm as he takes a few steps back, pushing you behind him. "What- what's-"

"She can't be in here!" Spruce spits at Coryo as you look past him, gasping at the sight of several guns on the table and the one in his arms.

"Listen, she's not involved." Sejanus promises.

"Her brother is gonna help us, it's cool. She won't tell." You look at Billy Taupe when he speaks, eyes wide.

"No- this is crazy." Mayfair shakes her head. "She's not coming with us. We're not bringing her or Lucy Gray. I'm leaving."

"No, they aren't coming. I just said I'd ask. Now she knows, so she probably should." Billy Taupe replies and your eyes flick between the couple. You had no idea what was going on, where he wanted you to go, and what this had to do with Sejanus or your brother.

"No! My daddy will have you all strung up for this." She throws her hands up and starts to walk toward the back door. Your heart is pounding in your chest as Coryo reaches for one of the guns.

"Don't!" You cry out, forcing yourself in front of him just as he aims the gun at her. At you.

"Y/N, you gotta move right now." He says quickly, and you hear her footsteps stop behind you.

You can only look at his eyes as they flit between anger, instinct, and fear.

"Coryo." You say, voice cracking and it's only then that you feel the tears dampening your cheeks.

The barrel of the gun is under an inch from your chest, and you can see his hands shaking as he holds the heavy weapon in his hands. He won't shoot you- he won't.

The world around you seems to blur as your focus narrows on the overwhelming sense of fear gripping you tightly. Right now, if someone asked where you were, you wouldn't know. You just as easily could have been standing in the arena.

He doesn't dare move as he stares at you, eyes wide. He doesn't want to hurt you, but that's why he has to do this. He can't let whoever that girl was have you killed. Still, you stand in front of him. Shaking, but not moving. This was the girl he knew from the games who offered a rose to Coral who in the moments before was threatening her. The girl who so thoroughly hated the idea of bringing harm to others that her own mind blocked it out completely and replaced the story with something else. This was the girl who was willing to give up her life just to be able to give the other tributes an honourable burial that she knew they wouldn't otherwise receive.

The girl who saw him kill another boy and despite all of that, still had it in her heart to forgive him.

You don't even hear Mayfair laugh and begin to walk away again, you only hear the gunshot that follows. You jump, immediately looking down to assess the damage. Coryo wasn't pointing the gun at you anymore, he had dropped his arms in defeat- and you had mistaken the loud noise for an impact you were expecting.

He didn't shoot you.

"What did you do?" You turn as Billy Taupe screams, eyes widening as you see Mayfair bleeding out on the floor.

"Oh god- oh god..." You mumble, stepping back until you bump into Coryo. He drops the gun back onto the table, pulling you into his arms.

"Don't look, don't look..." He tells you, turning you and pressing your head to his chest so you can't see anymore even if you wanted to.

You can't even make out what Spruce and Billy Taupe are yelling at each other over the sound of your blood pumping through your veins. Until the second gunshot.

You must be sobbing now, clinging onto the front of Coryo's shirt so tight your knuckles are burning. "You're okay, it's okay." He tells you. You don't know what's going on- you don't want to.

Coryo stares between Spruce and the body of Billy Taupe now slumped down next to Mayfair. He needs to get you out of here, now, but he doesn't know how. This has to be handled first.

He's letting you go only to grab your cheeks and get you to look at him. "Go back outside, you have to go back outside, I will handle this."

You can't even speak- can't even move. You try and shake your head. You couldn't leave him, not right now. You feel like you'd die the moment he ceased touching you.

The door slides open again, followed by an angry voice you know too well. "What the fuck?" Cole must have been watching you. He must have heard.

"No..." You cry, shaking your head. If Cole saw this you were absolutely all screwed.

"What the fuck did you do?" Cole shouts again. "Nobody fucking move! You're all-"

Another gunshot. Silence.

"Oh no, no, no..." You try and look behind Coryo but he doesn't let you, holding your head firmly into his chest again.

"It's okay. Don't look." He says again, staring at Sejanus who looks like he's panicking just as much as you are now.

"Why'd you tell them where we were? Now you've gone and screwed us all over! I just shot a peacekeeper!"

"He didn't tell anyone." Coryo defends him. "We followed him, Cole followed us."

"Fuck." Spruce sighs, throwing the gun onto the pile of others still laid across the table. "We gotta bump this up. We have to get Lil now, go tell Lennox to get the stuff and hide it for us like we said."

"Get rid of the guns and pretend this never happened."Coryo hisses. "And leave the kid out of this. It's too late for whatever plan you had now- we don't know where he is."

You can't even hear a single thing going on anymore. You're actually sure you might faint.

When you go from shaking to completely still in Coryo's arms, he knows you have. "Shit..." He mumbles, trying to steady you as your knees give out. He quickly readjusts so he can lift you with an arm under your knees and the other under your back.

"I gotta get her out of here and you have to move quick. Get rid of the guns. Now." He instructs, and surprisingly, Spruce listens. He throws the weapons into a bag and steps over the two bodies by the door before leaving.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this." Sejanus cries, gripping onto his hair and breathing heavily. "No one was supposed to get hurt!"

"Sejanus, for once just shut up!" He grabs his attention from where his friend is staring at the dead couple, clearly losing his mind. Coryo doesn't have time for this- an unconscious girl in his arms and his friend looking like he's about to be in the same state in a matter of moments.

"It's all my fault..."

"All of this is your fault!" Coryo agrees, looking around at the mess of the room. "It's only gonna get worse if you don't pull yourself together."

"Oh, god..."

"If you breathe a word now, all three of us are finished. Just like in the arena. We came here to see her. If we go down, she goes with us." He holds you tighter to his chest as your hair falls over the curve of his arm, your head limp against his skin. "So now we have to go back to the house, gather all our shit, and act like nothing is wrong. We have to board the train tomorrow like nothing is wrong. Do you understand?"

"I- I don't know." Sejanus sniffs.

"Hey." Coryo says, taking a few steps closer. "Look at me. You have to pull it together. I know you wanted to go with them but now they aren't going. We've got to stick together. You won't get in trouble. I won't let anything happen to you, but you have to listen to me." It was obvious that it didn't matter that none of you pulled the trigger- being in the room was enough; especially when a peacekeeper had been murdered. If you were caught, you'd all be executed. "We're brothers, yeah? Brothers. Whatever you've done, I swear I will keep you safe."

"Brothers. Yeah." Sejanus mutters, still obviously in shock.

"Those guns were the only loose ends besides the four of us, so we're gonna be okay as long as we leave tomorrow." He breathes. "Okay? Not a word."

"O-Okay." Sejanus nods slightly, trying to keep his focus on the boy in front of him rather than their unconscious friend in his arms.

Coryo tried to give him a reassuring smile, but inside he was panicking too. They could escape it all on the train tomorrow, but now came the problem of what to do with you.

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okay suddenly tumblr isn't letting me tag more people than this so i just made some cuts unfortunately :') i just left the max amount of people i could whose users i recognized and see in my notifs all the time :) if you're not on here and you should be i'm so sorry!

also this taglist is closed now!! if you’d like to get a notification when i update, turn on my post notifications!! i promise i won’t spam y'all :,)

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tunatoge · 9 months

Text

like the branch of a tree – s. geto x reader

contents: canon divergence (suguru lives and is a teacher at jj tech), fluff, ooc, reader is also a teacher at jj tech, not mentioned but insinuated satosugu, insinuated nsfw, brief mentions of third years and possible manga spoilers, title is based off of 'would that i' by hozier, NOT PROOFREAD

a/n: this is my first time posting on tumblr, i'm nervous LMAO sorry for any grammatical errors

shoko is quiet as she sits next to you at a slight angle, her knees bumping into yours as the two of you look at her phone together. the two of you look at the silly selfie satoru had sent her and you frown a little. the picture he’d sent depicted him sitting on a bench in a weirdly rundown part of town, megumi pouting next to him. in the background there’s a copper haired girl peering outside of an old, beat down building with yuuji next to her. you know there’s a curse somewhere on the scene from satoru’s crudely drawn red circle in the air, an equally poorly drawn angry face in the center of it.

you’re a little envious that satoru gets to hang out with his students. if kinji hakari hadn’t been suspended you’d be with both him and kirara. of course you didn’t have to supervise their missions anymore but you did admittedly miss your students. you were the only teacher on campus that wasn’t teaching–which was debatable seeing as suguru and satoru weren’t really teaching anything either. still, helping your students through some of the basic required educational courses would have been significantly better than the stacks of paperwork on your desk.

shoko knocks her knee into yours, drawing your attention to her tired (but very pretty) face. she nods her head towards the door of the morgue and you instantly brighten at suguru’s appearance. his hair is completely down and his uniform jacket is draped over his arm.

“morning,” he greets as he moves to sit next to you and shoko. “‘m guessing you two saw satoru’s selfie.” he nods towards shoko’s still unlocked phone as she hums in agreement and pockets her phone.

“your hair’s down,” you say in response instead, not having heard his previous statement.

suguru cocks his head to the side in confusion at your words before letting out a soft ‘ah’ as he laughs bashfully in a somewhat boyish way. “i woke up late,” he admits, “i slept through my alarm and got to the school a little after the morning class.” he smiles somewhat awkwardly (pointedly ignoring shoko’s knowing look, her raised brow seemingly yelling, “i know what you and satoru were doing last night!”) before offering his wrist, “i was gonna put it up when I got here.” his smile turns from awkward to somewhat confident when he finds you blinking up at him, captivated by his long hair.

you look towards his still outstretched hand and eye the black hair tie before shyly looking back up at suguru. when your eyes meet, an unreadable look crosses through his eyes as he swallows. he looks towards shoko behind you as she smoothly pulls her phone out again, an unlit cigarette in between her lips.

“may i?” you ask, drawing his attention back towards you as you gesture towards his hair and he almost immediately agrees. when he offers you his hair tie again you softly shake your head and pull a bright blue one off of your wrist. he pretends to be blind to the tiny little bow on it as he shifts so his back is towards you.

as you’re doing suguru’s hair, shoko texts satoru an image of you with the tip of your tongue out and your hands threaded through suguru’s long hair. she gets a jealous angry frowny face in response.

that’s MY hair tie!! >:(

notes: satoru is the first years' teacher, suguru is the second years', and you're the third years'. satoru made you play with his hair after he got back on campus. he said it was only fair because you'd given suguru the hair tie he'd given you. maki made a face when she saw suguru's hair later in the day. she asked if the twins had done it for him.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #gojo x reader x geto #jjk x reader #getou x reader #getou suguru x reader #vians.scribbs

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shesjustanothergeek · 29 days

Text

His Love

|Aegon Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-Three

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: I just wanted to warn y'all that we're going to be getting into some messed up shit here. Even more messed up than assault, getting drugged, nearly raped, and peeing on yourself. As always, thank you so much for your patience with these updates, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Warnings: Graphic depictions of a miscarriage and related thoughts, vomiting, daddy Daemon.

The prescribed charcoal remedy had long dried on your stomach, cracking and flaking gray chunks into your sheets. Helaena had left with the sun low in the sky, leaving chaste kisses on yours and Aegon's foreheads. She went to ensure Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were comfortable, and they went down to rest.

Aegon refused to move when the Maester returned for the evening; his arm slung over your chest and nose buried into your neck. Orwyle did his work as if the Prince was not there, wringing a damp, woolen cloth into a bowl of cool water as he removed the hardened remedy from your abdomen.

He observed with wrinkled brows when he saw the Valyrian symbols above your womb, rocking the fabric over your malleable skin as he quelled the uneasy feeling in his stomach. He rinsed the material, the clear water becoming ash as he continued his duties.

Orwyle longed to voice his concerns regarding your health, fiddling with his fingers as he concocted another batch of charcoal and clay. You needed to wake soon so he could ensure your best chance of survival. The first forty-eight hours were the most crucial for those battling Poison Hemlock, and the fact that the Stranger had not taken you was a miracle. Animals who ingested the flowering plant died within a day of doing so, their lungs giving out or seized by convulsions.

The Maester believed you were more robust than he thought. The Mother had unquestionably blessed you with the strength of the Warrior to have you breathing for this long. Or perhaps, he thought, it was the Valyrian Gods of your ancestors, the dragon blood in your veins, that protected you.

The few interactions Orwyle had with you always left him with a joyful feeling, a small ray of light within his darkened quarters filled with dusty and ancient tomes. He tried not to care for your health more than that of a provider and his patient, but he found it challenging.

It was the dichotomy, he thought, of when you were awake, full of life, sparring with words and the swords against men who believed themselves better than you, to now, laying on your soft feather tick mattress with an emotionless, sallow hue to your skin. It caused him anguish. Orwyle was determined to find out who would do such a thing to you, uncharacteristically desiring them to be brought to the Father's justice, and resolved to remind Aegon of the need to do so when your two servants entered the chamber.

Once he finished making another concoction, Aegon waved him off, leaving with a firm yet uneasy bow to the room. The moment he left, Aegon stood, righting his rumpled tunic from his few restless hours of sleep, and addressed Fiora and Jeyne.

"What news have you?" he asked pointedly, gathering the ashy mucilage and brush to apply to your abdomen.

The maids shared a look, Fiora's eyes seeming to have never dried up as she cowered behind her companion. Jeyne inhaled a resolute breath. Her years of working for spoiled, impuissant palace goers was a typical occurrence.

"We have found a servant boy who claims to have seen the Princess's protector enter her chambers hours before your discovery. I believe that there is no coincidence to his absence at her door during that time," she relayed in one steady breath, hands clasped humbly over her lower abdomen.

Aegon grunted, disbelieving the credibility of such a statement. It would be the most obvious answer for Ser Arryk to be the culprit. He was heartbroken that his idyllic image of you shattered and the only one besides Aegon who could get close enough to slip poison in unnoticed. The answer was too simple, too straightforward to be true. A lowly kingsguard was the easiest to blame to save face within the royal family and protect whoever really did this. He still had the feeling within him that his mother had something to do with this. It was no coincidence that days prior, the Queen demanded you to leave, and now suddenly, you were at death's door.

Yes, heartbroken and ego-damaged men were a danger to those around them. Aegon understood that more than any, but Arryk would never go so far as to kill you for it. His oath was still to that of the King.

"Bring me this boy," Aegon said dispassionately, never looking in the maid's direction, simply painting your skin.

Fiora and Jeyne nodded, curtsying as was protocol, and headed for the exit until Aegon stopped them short.

"I'm sure you know that the Hand has barred any ravens from King's Landing to Dragonstone," he inquired, unamused as a sneer curled his lip. "Her family must know what has happened here. The more who know about this assassination attempt on a, perhaps this rat will feel pressured reveal themselves."

They both glanced at each other, Fiora gnawing on her lip as more tears emerged from her viridian eyes. Aegon ignored the servant's weeping and placed the bowl on a writing desk with the rest of the Maester's equipment. He pulled a piece of folded cream parchment from his trousers and hurriedly scribbled, fearing someone getting wind of his plan.

"Here is a letter meant for her father," he stated, flicking the paper between his index and middle finger. "You will not be able to send it through the rookery and must go to a brothel madame within the slums of Flea Bottom. Her name is Babette and she will ensure that my words make it to Dragonstone unhindered," Aegon instructed calmly.

They were stunned. Both maids stood in the doorway to your chambers with slightly parted lips, reminding him of a fish. They had never seen him act like such a... prince. He was raised within the castle walls and had the highest education of anyone in Westeros, yet he never seemed to take advantage of it. The maids heard rumors that Aegon was no longer seen at brothels or gambling houses, though they did not believe such a thing to be valid until now.

Fiora's gaze drifted to your listless form, fiery brows arched in disbelief, slowly drifting back to the white-haired prince. Jeyne was the first of the duo to compose herself and briskly walked forward, taking the wax three-headed dragon seal to her cracked hands. You had changed Aegon in ways that people believed impossible, and if she hadn't realized it until now, then who else knew?

If she, someone who saw you daily, did not know the effort and influence you had over a person, did anyone? The eldest maid felt a pang of sadness in her heart for you as weathered eyes lowered to the stone floor, the memory of her scrubbing away your blood and bile replaying as if she were there again.

Jeyne heard passing gossip that you had brought up concern for the small folk during a council meeting. It was fleeting, nothing more than a whisper of a feather drifting in the wind, and soon she forgot about it. What other accomplishments had you done that no one knew of? It was the plight of women, it seemed, to sacrifice one's soul to receive respect or recognition in the world. Once you awoke, she would tell you how much she saw and that your actions were not in vain.

If you woke up, she grimly realized.

A frown pulled at Jeyne's thin lips as she returned to Fiora's side. Her companion seemed to sense the elder's thoughts, placing a comforting hand at her back. Again, She faced Aegon, his violet eyes never leaving hers as she spoke.

"You are changed, Prince Aegon, and while that does not atone for the wrongs you have done, it shows that you are capable of being better," Jeyne expressed with a firm look on her visage. "It would do her well to know that."

Aegon needn't ask whom she was speaking of. He already knew, a sullen look coming over his face as he focused on the cracks of the stone floor. The memory of your limp body when he found you vividly displayed in his mind's eye.

Jeyne and Fiora exited with brief nods and bent knees, with two different goals in mind. The elder would get the servant boy, and the younger would go to the brothel, madame. They didn't ask why Aegon trusted this woman, but they knew it was useless to try. All that mattered now was ensuring your safety and justice.

A quiet groan caused Aegon to lose his collection of thoughts, swiftly going to your side as he watched your brows arch in pain. Droplets of sweat he had not noticed glistened on your hairline and ran down your temples, grabbing a cloth to blot at the excess perspiration. Your breathing sped, breasts rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm. Seeing you more alive as Aegon rang the dampened fabric into the bowl was a relief.

Aegon slid into his place next to you, intertwining his fingers with your limp ones as he brought your knuckles to his lips, stroking the thin skin of your hand. His lips pursed in thought. Aegon knew the Keep was full of snakes ready to strike at any opportunity to raise themselves into higher power, no matter the cost. But in his mind, it was too risky to harm a member of the royal family, but others did not seem to share the same sentiment, and anger filled his hardened soul once more.

Aegon tightened his grip on your hand, harsh enough to bend their sides and crackle the bones.

"When you wake, little one, we shall rain dragon fire on who dared hurt you," he declared, sullen face now calloused.

If you wake...

***

You found yourself within a void, darkness surrounding your body clad in a simple white gown. You couldn't see the beginning or end of where you were, as if your eyes were shut, an unending blackness never touched by light. Your hands found their way to your face, fingertips touching your cheeks, the slope of your nose, and the sockets of your eyes to ensure you were, in fact, real.

Memories flashed within your mind, becoming the only thing you could see in the infinite darkness. You recalled voices, wet mouths talking and drinking, tongues licking lips and tasting something rancid and sweet, hands gesturing and twitching, crawling up your legs. Nausea churned your stomach, and pain rippled in your gut, causing you to fall to your knees. The ground was solid; it was real, and suddenly your eyes opened.

The world was still midnight, though you could see a man before you.

But it wasn't a man...

You weren't sure if it was a person, their face covered with an obsidian mantle and the seven-pointed star's insignia woven into their robes. Fear cinched your heart, and your chest rose and fell with quick breaths as you attempted to run, only to be flung back into your spot by an invisible force.

"Who-" you stammered, breaths coming in quick pants, "who are you? Where am I? I-I cannot see."

The being reached an arm in your direction, the fabric slowly drawing back to reveal its skin or lack thereof. Their finger slowly traced down your cheek, cold and warm, comforting and alarming, yet like nothing simultaneously.

"I am what I am," they stated, tone unlike anything you had ever heard. It sounded like the voices of many speaking simultaneously, men, women, children, and everything in between melting into one eerie noise.

"You're here to hurt me, aren't you?" The words did not sound like they came from a grown woman; instead, a young girl high-pitched and hoydenish with fright as tears lined your lashes. Your breath hitched as their fingers left your skin, fear scratching at your throat and squeezing your eyes shut. "Where am I?"

The being stepped backward, seeming to float on the ground as sparkles of white flashed in the air. Stars, you realized, twinkling in the infinite void. For a moment, you were put into a state of wonder, gazing at the bursts of light in awe as the being only stared. It made no movements nor breaths, allowing you to take in the amazement of your surroundings.

"Am I dead?" you asked, finally gaining the courage to voice the most prevalent question in your mind.

"You are in the world between worlds, child. Not dead yet not alive within the realm of your creation," they answered with not a hint of emotion.

You couldn't hide the aghast sob that left your lips at his revelation, your mind reeling. You knew what happened for you to wake here. You drank from a cup tainted with poison that caused your limbs to freeze and your brain to wave, but who did it was unknown. The only picture within your mind was a silhouette of a figure with short, mousy hair and a slouched posture, supporting their weight on something.

You knew who they were. You felt it in your bones, but your mind refused to let you see. Was that your psyche subconsciously trying to protect you, or did the poison affect your memory?

"I don't want to die! What did I do to deserve this?" you wept with blurred vision, looking at the unmoving being before you.

You felt them sigh, though they did not move, their chest not indicating if they had lungs. "New born babes should not be taken from the world before they can sin, yet they are."

An involuntary grimace pulled your face as you licked the briny water from your lips. The world was cruel and uncaring. It took children from mothers before they were ready and kind people into places of darkness. Life was bleak and hopeless and full of negativity. At times, you wondered if there was a point to living when life would always end the same—breathing, eating, fighting, and suffering until you died and were forgotten a hundred years from now.

"I know who you are," you spat, tongue thick as you swallowed tears. "You are a callus and heartless being who takes those undeserving while displaying yourself in a cloak of self-righteousness."

They did not seem angry about what you said and tilted their head in response, examining you like one of Helaena's pinned insects. Its unseen stare unnerved you, appearing like a statue you never prayed to within the Sept. Anger began to well in the place of your unease at their indifference, taking purposeful strides to them before your body was abruptly taken aback, nearly tripping over your feet.

"I am neither good nor evil, simply I am, and I have come to take what is mine."

It raised the same arm that stroked your cheek and pointed at you, causing panic to grip your chest as the shrouded hands shoved you to the ground, air knocking from your lungs. You struggled against them, the whites of your eyes visible as your arms and legs flailed in their vice-like grip. The being came closer, towering over your writhing form until you could see what hid underneath the obsidian hood.

A face not of this world looked down at you, half human and inhuman, alive yet dead. It was too much for your mind to comprehend as you released a scream, kicking your limbs as you desperately tried to escape from whatever fate awaited you.

The hands pulled at your hair, keeping your head down and unable to see the face of the Stranger any longer.

"No! No, please! I don't want to die!" you beseeched, throat raw from tears and screams as your wide-eyed stare found the Stranger at your feet once more.

"I was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood and I have come to take what is mine—one soul. No less," they repeated in an amalgamation of different tones. Your heart broke for the loss not only of life but of what might be.

The Stranger's accusing finger continued to point not at you but at your stomach, your misty stare flickering from yourself to them.

You knew what was to come next. They would rip your heart out before your very eyes, crushing your life source within the secular realm and the divine. You would never wake again, never feel the sun flush your skin or the wind whipping your cheeks on dragon back. Aegon would revert to his old ways of whoring, gambling, and drinking himself into unconsciousness, a crown forced on his head as the realm plunged into war and your kin were slaughtered. Every sacrifice would be for not all due to one simple drink.

Refusing to resign to your fate, you thrashed and screamed in failed attempts at breaking free. There was no escape to this realm—no beginning or end in the vast darkness. There was only you, these unseen hands pulling you into submission, and the Stranger, his digit still raised and pointed.

"What have I done to deserve this?" you wailed, feeling your limbs locked at the joints. "I-I know I was not a devoted follower of the Faith and have sinned, but I repent. I'll pay penance to the Seven each day forth from now on. I'll attend services in the Grand Sept. I'll-I'll refrain from any vices you so wish. Just let me live!"

Your bargaining with the faceless being went unheard, his arm slowly falling to its side as you felt the hidden fingers slither across your abdomen, tearing your nightgown down the middle. Your eyes grew wide with horror, attempting to pry them away with panicked movements only to be thwarted by the others pushing your limbs into the ground.

"Stop!" you screamed, voice cracking as your neck was whipped back, head cracking onto the ground as your vision flashed.

Though you couldn't see them, you could feel them. Their digits indented into your malleable flesh as it broke under pressure, blood seeping from the gashes as a searing pain tore like a thousand cuts of a hot blade through your skin. Blood poured from your stomach and down your sides, soaking your tattered porcelain nightgown into a stained crimson. Wailing in agony, your throat grew sore, limbs twisting and contorted into inhuman positions as you gave under their ravenous scratching.

"Blessed be you, the daughter of the Mother bound to suffer eternal through the sins of your father committed long before your conception," the Stranger prayed, words carrying over your cries. "Blessed be your whore mother, tired and angry, waiting with bated breath on a ferry that will never move again. Blessed be the children. Each and every one who have come to know their god through some senseless act of violence."

The exposed image of your essence caused your heart to become faint, the torment fading into the back of your mind as your vision fluttered and your head became light. It was a small mercy in the ruthless death that you could no longer feel the torture of your organs torn into, limbs twitching in subconscious reflexes.

"Blessed be you, girl, promised to me by a man who can only feel hatred and contempt towards you."

The squelching of your insides was sickening as silent tears leaked down your temples, confused as to how you were still alive. No human could survive being disemboweled; the blood loss alone would kill the most robust of men, yet the invisible beings continued to burrow into your insides, seeming as if in search of something.

The Stranger did not move from its place at your feet, observing as your intestines glistened in the twinkling lights of the void.

You felt betrayed by them and those who preached that the Stranger was not a being of good or evil. They were supposed to guide you into the afterlife, not watch as beings threw your organs to the side. They lied. No being would stand there and allow a daughter of the Mother to have her insides turned out. You never feared the Stranger yourself. Death was inevitable, but now you understand why followers of the Seven feared the Stranger.

Cries that were higher pitched than yours yanked you into reality, a single thread pulling your gaze back to your stomach as a babe covered in crimson, glistening with your essence, was ripped from your womb. Confusion, fear, surprise, and desperation surged through you, attempting to pry yourself from your confines again. The cord connecting the child to you still pulsed with blood through the purple and blue veins as it was taken and placed into the hands of the Stranger.

"What are you doing?" you questioned with a thick tone, panic seizing your limbs as you broke from their unseen grip.

That was yours—something you made solely of your labor, and they were taking it from you. It belonged to you!

You desperately yanked at the fleshy cord still connecting you to your child, the babe's shriek piercing your ears and into your heart. "Please, give it back!" you sobbed, reaching out again only to be shoved. "No! No, please! Please give me back my child! They are mine! They don't deserve this."

You were unsure of what came over you. You had never met this creature before, though it was born of your flesh and blood; you did not want them taken. An instinct to protect the life of something so fragile and innocent lay dormant within your body, coming to fruition. The thought of sacrificing yourself in the babe's place nearly slipped off your tongue, but a sudden light blinded you, pushing the cries of your kin to fade as your eyes burned.

When you came to, you were no longer in an infinite void. Instead, within your chambers, thick, fragrant smoke choked your lungs as the same searing agony from before tore through you. Aegon stood over your writhing form, and his brows arched with concern as he saw your sheets become scarlet.

You stared at him, his eyes glassy and filled with an exhausted longing, as he rushed to your side, grasping your slick palm. "You're alive!" he exclaimed, unable to think clearly through his shock. "You're alive."

Unable to speak, you nodded, sweat and tears dampening your face as another wave of pain knotted within your lower back, forcing a scream. Aegon's violet eyes danced over you, seeing your blood now spread onto your top blanket as his cheeks became devoid of color.

An array of thoughts swirled within his mind like a maelstrom at sea, swiftly lifting the sheet away as he saw the crimson between your legs. His first instinct was to believe that, somehow, the assassin had returned underneath his watchful gaze, paranoia seizing his chest. But Aegon, still confused as to what was happening, gripped your hand impossibly tighter, causing a groan that rumbled in your lungs.

"The Maester," you managed to breathe through gritted teeth. "Get the Maester, Aegon."

He paused for a moment too long, and another cramp went through you, wailing with a clenched jaw and shut eyes as your body arched in pain. The prince did not need to be told twice as he watched the woman he loved beg the Gods for mercy, swiftly exiting your room as he ran to Orwyle's chambers, your cries becoming distant within the pale red stone walls.

The man in question opened the door with tired eyes to the Prince's incessant pounding. He did not need him to explain. He knew it had something to do with you as he hastily gathered supplies and the seven-pointed star necklace on his person. What Orwyle did not expect to see when he entered your humid chambers were you on all fours, grunting and straining with blood-soaked hands and bedclothes, sweat discoloring your once pristine nightdress.

He went quickly into action, ordering Aegon to summon your maids as he stood there listlessly, unable to comprehend the urgent words over the sounds of your shrieks. Aegon was unsure when he finally summoned Jeyne and Fiora, the pair looking perplexed before spotting their Lady. Both quickly went into action, following Maester Orwyle's instructions, scattering in and out of your chambers with different items.

Aegon could not think as he observed the events unfold before him. It was all too much. He couldn't process the abrupt chain of events. One moment, you were laying there, breaths barely audible, now suddenly panting and sobbing for an end he was not sure he wanted to see. Aegon did not know if this was an effect of the poison as his distant eyes met yours, lips mouthing something he strained to hear. He could not bear to lose you. He finally had love within his grasp after years of yearning only for it to be promptly taken away before properly basking in its warmth.

Aegon, who was so focused on the end of something, could not see the future before him, staring with violet-rimmed pupils within thick lashes, begging him to bring comfort. Finally, he could hear you, a rush of sounds and voices barraging his senses as you strained a grunt for him to come near.

You took his fist in yours, the other clutching the footboard as sweat ran down your neck. It felt as if your head was about to burst from your skull with each contraction, panting like an exerted animal.

"It's almost over now, Princess. You just need to pass the biggest part," encouraged Jeyne, a soothing maternal presence in a place that lacked it. "Come now. In through your nose and push out your mouth."

Nodding fervently, you did as told, inhaling deeply and growling with downward force, bringing your arm to wrap around Aegon for support. You needed the closeness and comfort a loved one brought as you went through this traumatic event.

Tears from above sprinkled on your damp hair. Streaks of wetness lined Aegon's cheeks as much as they did yours as another cramp rolled through you.

"What's happening?" he whispered against your cheek, breath uncomfortably hot.

Surprise dawned on your features as the pain ebbed for a merciful moment, resting on your knees. Your free hand grasped his silver roots in support as your other led Aegon down to your stomach, unable to speak. He stared with wrinkled brows and glassy purple eyes as you allowed him to apply pressure there. You need not tell him the reason in words as he glanced down. It could only be one thing.

"You are with child?" he questioned softly, tenderly stroking the area with his thumb.

You nodded, the cramps rising and commanding your body to gush more gelatinous blood. "I saw her. She was right there and they took her from me. Straight from my womb as she wailed."

"Who? Who took her from you?" he asked, free head tangling within your matted hair as you rested your forehead against his.

"The Stranger."

Aegon believed this to be the ramblings of someone in labor, the blood loss not helping to have a clear mind.

The death of a child, whether in this realm or within the womb, hurts immeasurably. The loss of something you could see and touch, something you formed a connection with, brought immense suffering to you and many of those around you, but it wasn't grief to bear alone. Having a life stolen from inside you created feelings of failure and doubts about your body's natural capabilities in isolation, morphing into self-blame and loathing of what could have been if only you were different.

But it was not your fault, not in this or any other sense. Your body did its natural process of protecting you, and even though you did not meet the child in its complete form, there was still a connection to mourn.

So deep within your thoughts, you did not hear the opening of oak doors, two pairs of footfalls storming into the room as your support was suddenly ripped away. Your fists balled into the crumpled sheets in compensation. Aegon struggled in Ser Criston's ironclad grip on his collar as you felt the sudden urge to push, push, push.

"Yes, Princess, yes! Keep going, more is coming out! You're almost finished," Fiora cheered, kneeling in Aegon's place as she clasped her fists around yours.

"Bring him back! I want Aegon!" you shouted. "I need him, please!"

At your cries, the Prince felt panic begin to take root, a terror and desperation to get to you that was so visceral that he did the only thing he could. Aegon growled and bit down on the fleshy part of Ser Criston's palm that met his thumb and forefinger, breaking the skin as blood stained his lips scarlet. The knight howled in pain, releasing the Prince on instinct as he attempted to return, only to have his mother stand in the way.

"Aegon, you needn't worry about her now. She is in capable hands," Alicent attempted to placate, her voice as gentle and maternal as when he was a child.

He paid no mind to her false coos and shoved the Queen out of his way, uncaring as she landed into a corner of furniture that stabbed her side. Ser Criston swiftly regained his composure at his Lady's shriek, once again grabbing Aegon by the fabric of his tunic and towards the exit.

"She is your Queen and mother! How dare you lay hands on her!" Criston admonished and struck the Prince with an armored grip upside his head as if he were no more than an insolent mutt.

You protested the action, begging the Queen, Ser Criston, the Maester, or anyone who would hear your pleas to bring Aegon back to you, but no one listened. The Queen was the highest authority in the room. Her word was law, and you were nothing but a lowly bastard dressed in fancy clothes and titles left without regard.

"Mother! Please, don't do this. She's with child!" the Prince beseeched, unruly locks of unkempt silver strewn across his pale face.

"Not anymore," Ser Criston jeered as his vision met the blood-stained sheets, dragging a raging Aegon away.

Alicent stood, righting herself and smoothing the fabric of her peridot gown with jeweled fingers. "You do not have the right to make such demands, Aegon. Leave at once. We shall discuss this later."

She couldn't stand to look at him, the shame of everything weighing heavier than all man's sins, as Alicent turned her brown orbs away from her son. He had sired bastards before, as had many Targaryen men, but one within his own house, with another bastard no less, was too much for the Queen's mind to comprehend.

The doors to your chambers slammed shut, rattling your bones as sobs of defeat tore through your throat. Your body did not allow you to mourn Aegon's absence, focusing your efforts as your muscles forcefully contracted, expelling the last of the thick matter out of your womb and onto the bedclothes. Fiora stroked your sweat-knotted hair as the pain subsided into dull cramps, reminding you of a particularly rough moon's blood, lungs slowly inhaling as your body relaxed.

Maester Orwyle began dabbing at your temples and neck as you sat, breathing heavily through your nose. "You did well, my lady," he praised quietly, glancing over his shoulder to Alicent, who stood staring into the hearth with her thumb in her mouth.

You sighed in acknowledgment, eyes briefly shutting as your fury gave you the energy to speak. "You are a cruel woman, Alicent." Your words were a dagger straight to her heart as you wiped your stained hands on your nightgown.

She turned to you and quickly placed her arms at her side, trying to put on an air of pomp that the situation did not need. "Tis hardly proper for a man to witness the pains of a miscarriage," she answered as if rehearsed.

"Proper?" you asked rhetorically. "I was dying and all you cared about was fucking propriety?" you snarled, rising to your knees with a wince, nerves alight.

The Queen did not dare say more, her conscience gnawing at the back of her mind like her teeth to her lip. "I know this was your doing," you spat, allowing Jeyne to help you onto your plush settee as the Maester began to clean your stained thighs.

The two women who had been with you since the moment you were forced to call the Red Keep a home gathered your soiled linens, stripping your bed without needing to be told. The sight brought warmth to your heart you had thought died moments ago. Through the brief time of Ser Dalton Greyjoy's presence to dutifully covering marks left behind from stolen moments with Aegon, Jeyne and Fiora's loyalty did not waver. Most maids would be eager to pass on gossip and rumors among the nobility for a chance at some coin. Or perhaps to provide themselves some entertainment in their less fortunate lives, but your two maidservants did not.

You were overwhelmed by a sudden gratefulness for them, longing to bring them into your embrace to sing praises and shout thank yous, but the Queen's looming presence forbade it. There was uncertainty about why she was here. Undoubtedly, the same woman who all but told you to leave King's Landing was not concerned for your well-being. You were hardly but an insect pestering her with your annoying, buzzing wings.

"Is it not enough that you've murdered the last remaining blood of my mother? Now you must take the life of my unborn child," you grunted, adjusting your position on the plush, emerald cushions as nausea struck through your core.

The Queen gasped, and everyone in the room looked weary, certain they were not supposed to hear this. "I would do no such thing, Princess," Alicent rebutted with a horror-stricken expression. "You are being unreasonable. 'Twas whoever snuck into your chambers and poisoned you that did this! Do not blame me for your misfortune."

A hollow laugh escaped your chest at her words, swallowing the bile that rose with the lingering cramps. "Oh, but how fortunate for you," you replied bitterly, the jab tasting acrid on your tongue. You wanted her to leave, to let you grieve the loss of a future you would never know, but she refused, implanting herself into the lives of others to ensure her gains were met. "Have I not earned my place here? Have I not sacrificed enough?"

"You know nothing of sacrifice," Alicent rejected quickly, snapping her avoidant gaze to yours.

"Don't I?" you chortled. The laughter sent your stomach into knots, but you pressed on, nudging Maester Orwyle away to stand upright, much to his concern. "Have I not done what you commanded of me? Kept your son from whoring and drinking himself to death on the streets of Flea Bottom? Do you remember the day you wrote to me? How you implored me to come to King's Landing and herd your son back to the Keep?" you sneered, tears of frustration and sadness welling in your puffy, bloodshot eyes.

No matter how desperately you wished to do so, you would not break in front of the Queen, heart empty as you spoke, blood trickling down your leg. "I have done what you asked and more. I've made Aegon understand the responsibility of his birth. He does not gamble or whore, gluttony is no longer a vice. He's become a better husband, brother, and father. He is everything you want him to be because of me!" Your voice wavered, barely containing a gag that pulled your lip muscles, threatening to become something more.

Realization struck you as you observed the Queen stand underneath your rage. All your life, you have served others to attain recognition in their eyes, whether to prove yourself competent or receive the love and acceptance every child craved. With your father, desperately eager to please him, to show him and all others that you were not the baseborn bastard daughter of a whore---that you could hold your own and make a name for yourself. Your desperation to prove yourself would be your downfall, but no longer would you allow yourself to be the subject of your insecurities. Worth was not dictated by what you did for others but by what you thought of yourself.

"Now that I no longer serve to further your schemes of putting Aegon on the throne, you see it fit to discard me as if I am nothing but a piece thrown about the board, sacrificed to achieve victory." Your anger was palpable, striking the Queen into her soul without physical action.

Alicent inhaled sharply, glancing at your maids and the Maester, who had all seemed to have halted their tasks. Your words were a mirror to her as anxiety began to flutter within her gut underneath so many stares. Hands once primly placed at her side were now picking at the skin of one another, a nervous tick she never broke. She did not know these people. She did not trust them not to run to the nearest lord, who was desperate for Rhaenyra's favor with word of treachery.

"What you claim is treason and not from a sound mind," she protested, her voice velvet. The Queen knew that if she spent a moment longer discussing secrets that had been unsaid, they would finally surface to harm the steps made to plant Aegon on the throne.

You opened your mouth to speak once more, but Alicent's smooth voice was quick to interject.

"Maester, I believe the Princess has gone into hysteria due to the poison. She is not thinking clearly."

You began to argue, but the feeling of nausea overcame you, and you quickly stumbled to your chamber pot as the little contents of your stomach exited. Fiora and Jeyne rushed to your side, holding your tangled strands from your face as the other rubbed soothing circles across your lower back.

"Her hysteria is dangerous to herself and those around her, Maester. I believe milk of the poppy will numb her mind enough until she is well again," Alicent said with pursed lips, staring down at your hunched back from under her nose.

Orwyle blanched, understanding that this was not a suggestion but a request. Who was he to deny the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms? "Your thoughtfulness for the Princess moves me deeply, your grace. However, any attempt to sedate her now would put her at more unneeded risk. She has lost far too much blood, and I must monitor her health."

The Queen's jaw clenched, teeth grinding at the man's tenacity. What did you have that gave people such a steadfast honor to protect you? Unlike her, you could not give them titles, land, or money in compensation. She was the Queen. They were supposed to serve her and bend to her will. Yet, they tended to your well-being with unyielding devotion, even in the face of one of Westeros's most influential people. Why did they not stand with her? Did a Queen not offer more than a bastard? Why not her?

Why not me? Why not me? Why not me?

Envy ran hot through her veins at the thought.

The three servants knew what this was—an attempt to control the situation and narrative, to prove that Queen Alicent would remain the all-encompassing figure of power and dominance, not some young, pretty bastard girl who bewitched all those around her.

"I shall not allow another danger to lurk about my home, especially one that deceives. We already have her assassin to worry about." She ignored your scoff, her words velvet but holding an icy undertone.

When Maester Orwyle did not move, Alicent shifted, palms conjoined just below her heart as she raised a manicured brow. "Do it Maester or I will have my guards do it for you."

He hesitated again, gaze flickering to your slouched one leaning onto your ladies for support. You gave him a solemn nod, conveying with a single look that you would not resist. If this would get Alicent to leave the four of you alone and allow you to mourn peacefully... so be it. It would be better for you and them. You would not have to think about what happened for at least a little longer, and perhaps the pain would be gone when you woke, and your beloved Prince would be at your side once more. But hope was a double-edged sword. Each side was as sharp and brutal as the other and cut equally profoundly.

***

The air was cold on Dragonstone, with a salty bite stinging Prince Daemon's flushed cheeks as he stood on a brimstone balcony overlooking where Blackwater Bay met the Narrow Sea. The moons spent without his daughter chipped at his war-hardened soul, revealing the center he kept tucked away, though many did not see it.

People believed Daemon to be a cruel, calculating man deserving of the title "Rogue Prince." And while they were not wrong, it did not mean that the same sentiment traveled to the treatment of his family. He was devoted to his wife, stepsons, and true-born children, tending to them as a shepherd would his flock. He no longer cared for the war in the Stepstones or any battle, focusing his efforts on the future, a future for his family that seemed to grow more uncertain as his brother's health declined.

While he did feel guilt knock at his hollow chest when he thought about his eldest daughter, the life she was born into, the life she was kept from and forced to live, he did not have regrets. Daemon would, a thousand times over, accept you into his heart.

You were a part of him he did not know was missing, fitting so perfectly into his cracked soul that not even Rhaenyra's love could mend. You are as much of his blood as the young Aegon, Viserys, and the babe that grew stronger every passing day within his wife's womb. There was a special connection between the two of you that only a father of a girl could comprehend. He now understood why his brother passed him in favor of Rhaenyra becoming heir, for if he had the choice, you would serve to inherit all he had.

Daemon longed to have you at his side again, listening intently to whatever thoughts, happenings, and plans you had. The council meetings around the Painted Table grew increasingly irksome as he patiently awaited your next raven. Rhaenyra brought Jace along to more than one gathering with the pompous lords. Daemon admired the boy's fire and tenacity, yet he always seemed to lack the mature awareness you seemed to possess—no doubt a byproduct of your vastly different upbringings.

It had been a sennight since your last word, the longest Daemon had ever waited, and he grew antsy with each passing hour. He found himself pacing the sandy beaches across the island, climbing the same mountains and hills he forced you to in training. Memories were what he felt he had left of you now and that of the written word.

"My love."

He heard his wife's tender voice calling him inside. "You will hear from her soon. I know it."

Rhaenyra's soft hand found Daemon's, bringing it to the growing bump underneath her Myrish lace dress. The notion grounded him as much as her as they pressed their foreheads together, sharing a kiss full of all the longing and melancholy he kept hidden within himself.

It was not until late evening, as he and his wife retired to their chambers for rest, that a footman knocked, revealing a single piece of parchment atop a bronze platter. Daemon's heart leaped for joy, knowing it could only be one thing, and he hastily tore at the three-headed dragon seal.

Rhaenyra allowed her husband to read in silence, brushing out her long, snowy hair as she hummed a tune her late mother used to sing, absentmindedly stroking the life tucked below her breast. When her task was done, and she had secured herself within her thick nightdress, she turned to Daemon, his hunched spine facing her over their shared writing desk.

"What news does she have, my darling?" Rhaenyra sang, combing a fragrant oil through her strands. She prodded him further at his silence, eager to know what her chosen daughter said. "Has another lord insulted her again? You mustn't worry about it like last time. She is more than capable of defending herself."

Daemon did not answer, a strained, choked sound that his wife had never heard before emitting from his throat. Rhaenyra turned, swiftly walking to him as she smoothed a palm down the crown of his head to his nape. "Love?"

"She's dying."

"What?" Rhaenyra stammered, taking a step back.

"She was poisoned. The Greens have obstructed all communications with Dragonstone, and the sender is unsure if she will be alive by the time I read this," he answered, paper trembling.

The shock paralyzed all rationality. Rhaenyra didn't know what to think or feel. "Who sent this to you?" she ardently asked. The world around her became fuzzy, and her head went light as she braced herself against the wooden desk.

Daemon flipped the parchment over, searching for any indication of who the sender could be, but found none. "It has the royal seal, yet there is no signage."

His wife had no answer, dread beginning to take hold of her chest as tears collected in her amethyst eyes. A sob escaped Rhaenyra. The pain, the suffering you must have been through, was enough to make her faint, knees buckling as she struggled to stay upright—her poor child. Poor perzītsos dampened until they snuffed out her flame.

Daemon was lost within the confines of his mind. Fear, betrayal, sadness, and anger coursed through him, roaring the dragon blood to life in his veins.

He felt powerless living on an island away from the daughter he loved, unable to fulfill his role as father and protector. It was a failure on his part not to see what the Hightowers could do. Their schemes and treachery reached from King's Landing to Oldtown, an ancient family with roots among the elites of Westeros. There was a reason they held onto power for so long, and it was not by allowing one unexpected person to throw them awry.

Swiftly, Daemon stood, throwing the sturdy wooden chair behind him with the force of his legs. He gripped the letter with an iron fist, wrinkling the parchment under pressure as he went for the door.

"Daemon," Rhaenyra called, struggling to steady her breath. "Where are you heading?"

The Rogue Prince paused just before the exit, turning on his heel to face his wife, crumpled paper raised high in his hand.

"To burn that green bitch and her cunt father," he proclaimed, a fire within his voice that assured he would keep his word. "They will pay for what they have done to our daughter."

Rhaenyra understood that convincing him otherwise was futile, and deep down, she didn't want to. Despite not being her biological child, she held you in her heart as her own. She wouldn't stand in the way of Daemon's quest for retribution, knowing that he would spare no effort if their roles reversed. With a brief nod, she left him and settled into a cushioned chair.

Daemon stormed through the brimstone halls of Dragonstone, leather riding boots echoing his every step. He had only one goal, one in which he had no care for the consequences of as he reached the cave where his ride was housed. The Rogue Prince climbed the ropes of Caraxes as the Keepers struggled to untether the beast, mounting atop his dragon and fastening the chains in the saddle.

The Blood Wyrm chirped with a puff of smoke through its nostrils as Daemon snapped the reins, sending the dragon forward and out of the cave. He did not care as the frigid wind cracked like whips against his exposed skin, flying higher—faster to his destination, death and destruction trailing behind beating crimson wings. His daughter would be avenged even if it meant the whole Keep would be nothing but ash and bone by sunset.

Masterlist of Series

Daddy's on his way, babies! Are we excited? I know I am! I hope this chapter wasn't too sad for y'all. I've never had a miscarriage before or have been pregnant. I wanted to make the most accurate portrayal by talking with people I know who have had one or been pregnant. I apologize if I've offended or triggered anyone with what I wrote. Thank you again for your understanding and patience while waiting for these updates. Life has been chaotic!

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @prettywhenicry4, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @valaenatargaryensdragon, @merovingianprincess, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @somemydayy, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @sunfyresrider, @heavenly1927, @hjgdhghoe, @im-sidney, @aurorathi, @marihoneywk, @xitsemm, @justbelljust, @qardasngan

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shleepyissleepy · 3 months

Text

When Sweet Meets Savory

Alastor/GN!Reader

Prolouge

Content warnings: Vague depictions of violence and death.

Notes: Descriptions, name, and gender of the reader is left alone.

___________________________________________

Dropping ass first into hell wasn't exactly on today's to-do list. The last thing you remember upon waking up in the middle of a bustling, critter ridden city was that you had just gone out for your morning stroll. It was quiet out. The fog had just begun to settle in, and it seemed that the day was due for a little rain. You had plans to go shopping, tidy up your quaint little apartment, and get some chores done. Perhaps read a book or two while your record player sang sweet melodies. Yes, a peaceful, productive day was in the works, well that was, until you decided to take a detour through the trail just short of less than a mile it'd take otherwise to get to the convenience store.

Something felt incredibly off. Entering the forest opening were the trail began, and stepping past the overgrowth of weeds and roots, it was clear this area of the neighborhood didn't get many guests. Normally, it's a smooth sailing walk, besides tripping over a couple of rocks and roots, that takes less than 10 minutes to walk through fully. However, today, it seemed you had a plus one. Someone had followed you into the trail, judging by the crackling footsteps behind you. Part of you assumed they just happened to be going the same way you were, but it just felt... wrong.

Anxiety started bubbling up in the pit of your stomach. Of course, you must be overreacting, but it couldn't hurt to pick up the pace a bit. Bad move. Immediately, the steps behind you move faster, and out of reflex, you do as well, sending you to full-on sprint. Slapping branches out of your way and jumping over protruding mounds of dirt at the speed you were going, mixed with the ever-growing fear as agitated grunting and heavy steps close in behind you causes you to hyperventilate. You didn't even make it halfway through the trail when the perpetrator caught up to you, tackling and pinning you down. You wondered if anyone heard your screams, or if anyone found your mutilated body.

Well anywho, that's how you found yourself here, admist the chaos of a crimson city. Honestly, you expected more fire and pitchforks. Adapting to your new environment took some time, well okay, a lot of time. Eventually, when you stumbled upon your reflection for the first time, you had audibly yelled in shock and fell on your ass. If you had a nickle for everytime that's happened since you got here you'd have two, which is not a lot but it's funny that it happened twice. Finding somewhere to settle proved extremely difficult given the fact that it was hell and everything came with a price, whether it be in the form of an "act of service", to giving up your mortal soul... and an absurd amount of money, of course. Which was why you eventually found yourself standing at the ominous front entrance of the comically infamous in completely bombing, Hazbin Hotel.

A place meant to house and redeem sinners. To be completely honest, you knew exactly why you were here in hell, however you were not very keen on sharing that information. But maybe if you could waltz in, and give a good enough introduction to apply for a job here, you may also get to have a decent roof over your head. Now the only issue with this little plan, was that there was literally no job openings that you knew of listed here, so you had to come up with... well something. Maybe coming here on a whim was a terrible idea, or it might just be the best decision you'll ever make in your undead life. You'll never know until you open those doors.

With a sigh and somewhat confidant stance, you push open the double doors, reveling in the crimson golden glow of the hotel. Immediately you find yourself in the lobby with pointedly no check in desk. Clasping your hands behind your back, you survey the interior and notice a bar to the left of you. A cat like demon with wings is behind the bar cleaning a glass, and actively avoiding to look in your general direction, but he definitely knows you're there. Just before you can finish examining your surroundings, a cheery voice booms infront of you.

"Hellooo!" You stumble back, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. A young woman in a red suit stands before you and practically touching noses with you seconds prior.

"Oh my gosh I'm sososo sorry I didn't mean to spook you, I'm just so excited to see a new guest!" Her voice trails off in a giddy nature, her heels rocking lightly. Finally you begin to process that the princess of hell, Charlie Morningstar, is in front of you. Which of course you expected, but not quite imagining it like this. Releasing the tension in you posture you hold out a hand to shake, introducing yourself. She practically shakes your arm off.

"It's so nice to meet you, I'm Charlie Morningstar- ah, but you can just call me Charlie..." backing away with a spin, her arms reaching out beside her in a grand display.

"Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel~!" She ends of with a sing song tune to her voice.

"Ah, it's nice to meet you as well...uhm but I'm here looking to be a guest, per say." Shit. You really didn't think this through. Also "per say"? Who says that??? Charlie laughs faintly, closing the distance once again to hold one of yoy hands in hers in a polite sort of fashion.

"Ah nonsense. Everyone is a guest here!" She tugs your hand gently but with purpose, guiding you towards the bar.

"C'mon lemme show you around, this is the baarr and the bar tenderrr.~" The demon behind the bar finally shoots you a non-committal glance before going back to scrubbing a... completely clean glass... yeeahhh. You give him a polite wave regardless and move on.

Over the course of the next thirty minutes, Charlie gives you a tour around the hotel. You couldn't help but feel charmed by her excited nature. She gushed on and on about the hotel and its goals, she seemed really committed to this place, you could practically see the sparkle in her eyes. Eventually, she got to asking you about what brings you to the hotel, your goals and such. Welp, time to bullshit something!

"Well you see, I'm here on business. I see your vision of redeeming souls, and I have an offer for you, if you're interested." Please almighty Lucifer be interested. She urges you to continue.

"I have a wonderful idea that could add some frosting to the cake, if you will. To your lessons and exercises. How do you feel about opening a library?" An awkward pause floats in the air. Charlie cocks her head slightly as she feigned a smile.

"Ah... a library?" You pat the air with your hands to wave away the tension. Internally screaming at the single braincell in your head to come up with something.

"Let me elaborate." Clearing your throat, you straighten your posture. A shiver runs down your back, and there's a dry spot in your throat. Time to make the pitch.

"With a library, guests can find themselves a quiet escape, something healthy and stimulating. Not only that, but you could utilize a library for writing and reading exercises. What's a better way to connect with people and to express yourself? I can offer poetry and calligraphy lessons, teach others to write about their experiences and through this medium, perhaps there would be a better chance to really help sinners along the way to redemption!" Slightly out of breath, you finish off with your best award winning smile. Most of that was just complete bullshitting out of your ass, but there was some truth to it. You always found comfort in setting like a library, or a cozy cafe in the hidden nook of a shopping center. Reading and writing has been proven to be therapeutic and a good medium for expressing yourself. Letting the mind wander and letting your imagination take hold of a pen- you're losing focus.

Your eyes snap back to Charlie from where they had trailed off, she stares back wide eyed. Worried you may have offended her for even pitching this ridiculous idea, you began to apologize. However you were interrupted by her grabbing your shoulders. She stood on the very tips of her toes and gleamed.

"That. is. a. WONDERFUL IDEA!" She spins you around for a moment before gushing further about all the new ideas she has for lesson plans and exercises.

After a while of banter back and forth, you were surprised and relieved to hear that you got the job. Not only that, but you were extatic to hear that you would be receiving your own room. Score! This is exactly what you needed. Now the only issue was the fact that the hotel... did not have anywhere to put a library, but that can be arranged! Charlie said she knew the perfect person for the job...

...and that was when you immediately regretted your decisions.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #alastor hazbin hotel #tumblr was bugging out and I thought I lost everything #almost threw my phone

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chestharrington · 2 years

Text

Adult Education || Part Two

Summary: Weeks into your newfound routine with Steve, you decide to shake things up a bit. It'll be fun and casual, right?

Couple: Steve Harrington x AFAB!Reader (GN Pronouns)

Category: Smut/Fluff

Content Warning: graphic smut, slight voyeurism, fingering, handjobs, awkward depictions of visiting a sex shop, slight drug use

Word Count: 7.5k

Requests: Open!

Robin was extremely tired of your bullshit. Both of you. The giggly calls to Family Video— “Hey Robin! Can you put Steve on the phone?”— and the way neither of you was very subtle about your “secret” meetups. She wasn’t even sure they were supposed to be secret anymore.

And Steve was almost worse. He’d spilled everything to Robin, and he still tried to act like what was happening between the two of you “wasn’t a big deal.” Which was dumb, because it very clearly was to him.

And you… she couldn’t quite read you. Sure, you seemed to like whatever was going on between the two of you, or you wouldn’t have giggly, super long phone calls with Steve on the days you weren’t following him around like a lost puppy. Those days were maybe the most insufferable. The inside jokes, the banter. She just wanted to know if you two were an item so she could stop feeling so left out.

She swirled a fork through her lunch, which had been poorly reheated over break. With a glance towards Steve, whose head was glumly rested in his hands, she spoke up. “No call from your sweetie pie?” She teased.

“Nah,” Steve sighed, before catching Robin’s underlying meaning. He furrowed his brows, annoyed. “Don’t say anything.”

“I will be saying something, Harrington, because I am sick of you two dancing around your obvious attraction to one another!” She said finally, pushing her lunch away. “How do you think this is all gonna turn out, smart guy?”

He sighed, and she could tell he was thinking about it— really thinking about it. It almost made her feel bad for pressing the matter.

“What if this is the closest I’ll ever get to being with them?” He finally asked with an alarming amount of earnestness. Robin sighed, her lips turning down into a frown. Oh, Steve. “Like, I could technically tell them ‘Hey, by the way, I want to kiss you and take you out on dates and make sweet, sweet love to you pretty much every waking moment,’ but I could scare them away. I could lose them so easily.” He sighed, looking like he wished he could shove all those words right back inside. “Anyways, if this is the only way I can be with them, I’ll take it.”

Robin sighed. “You’re selling yourself short, Steven. Ten bucks says when they walk in this door later today, they go straight to you.”

———

You walked into the video store like you belonged there, much to Keith’s chagrin.

“No.” The word escaped him firmly. “No, you’re leaving. You can’t just treat this store like some sort of hang-out spot.”

You pouted, leaning against the doorframe. “Keith,” you whined. “C’mon, man, I’m here for an actual rental this time.” He looked at you pointedly, so you made a show of heading for the science fiction section. “See! A New Hope.” You held it up and approached the counter. “That’s all I wanted.”

He looked at you skeptically, brow raised. “And, uh, I wanted to simply invite Robin and Steve to join in on my family movie night, but, uh, I can always go to Video Village and rent from there.” You raised a brow, testing him, and he sighed.

“They’re on break out back. Rent first, talk after.”

You sighed, slapping a few bills on the counter. He seemed to take his sweet time counting the money and distributing change. You tapped your foot impatiently until he finally slid the VHS and change over the counter. “Alright, knock yourself out.”

You grinned, grabbed your tape, and dashed past him into the back rooms where the rear exit was. As soon as the heavy door slammed open, you heard panicked coughing and whispered curses. You grinned, shutting the door behind you.

“It’s not Keith, don’t worry,” you said, wrinkling your nose at the very pungent smell of pot. “Knock yourselves out.” Steve pulled you into his side, taking a quick hit before passing the joint to Robin. He turned his head to blow out the smoke, then looked down at you through half-lidded eyes. “Hey,” he said with a dopey grin. “Took you long enough.”

You sighed, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I’m house-sitting for the nice little old couple next door. And I’m a total professional, so I had to water a few plants and get some mail before I could come see my favorite people.”

Robin coughed unceremoniously, fanning the air around her face. “Keith see you?” She took a long pull and exhaled with a contented sigh, too stoned to care if Keith knew they were smoking in the alleyway.

“Yeah,” you replied with an eye roll. “Weird fucker hates me. I had to rent a tape or I wouldn’t have been allowed in.” You held up the VHS to drive home your point and she giggled.

“Aww, you rented Star Wars to see me?” Steve said with a wide smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said with an eye roll. “Don’t let it get to your head.” Your cheeks felt warm as both Robin and Steve’s gazes fixed on you, like an ant under a magnifying glass.

You felt your cheeks burn hotter as you mumbled the reason you really showed up. “Oh, and, uh, my parents want to invite you both for dinner and a movie tomorrow, so, like… come over after you get off, okay?”

The words came out rushed and jumbled. There were only so many times you could make excuses about sleeping over at Robin’s or bring up something funny Steve had said before your parents wanted to insert themselves in the middle. The offer to host them seemed less like a friendly invitation and more like an order.

“Sweet!” Robin said with a giddy smile. “Your parents’ cooking is bomb. Like, that time I came over to study and your dad made us omelets? Oh my god, is he making omelets again?”

“I think it’s, uh, pasta tomorrow,” you replied, which seemed to please Robin more, if possible. You turned to Steve with a furrow in your brows, watching him take a pull from the joint with keen fascination. He had a pretty mouth. He caught you looking after he’d exhaled, his mouth quirking up in a half-smile.

You stammered. “Is— uh— is that okay with you?”

“Yeah, yeah sounds good.” His gaze was intense. No breaking eye contact, no shifting his eyes, just… looking at you. “Is that good for you?”

“The pasta?” You asked with a tilt of your head. He nodded. “Yeah, Steve, pasta’s good for me too.” He smiled wide before pressing his lips to the top of your head. He was so warm, not just physically, which was usually true, but in his entire being. You just felt good when you were with him.

Robin’s watch beeped loudly and she sighed, taking the joint back from Steve so she could have the last hit. “Break’s over dingus. I’ll see ya inside.” She dropped it on the ground and stubbed it out with her oxfords before reaching in her bag and spraying some sort of cheap perfume all over herself. You frowned at the overwhelming smell of what could’ve been your nana’s old perfume wafting your direction as she left.

Alone with Steve, you felt the intensity of his closeness practically double. “Uh, I had a good time last night,” you said softly. “I think that old guy was right. Pleasure Olympics might just be in my top three.”

Steve laughed so hard his shoulders shook and you smiled up at him. “God. Never bring up that old guy ever again. What’s the point of guys that old watching porn? Half the time their dicks don’t work anyway.”

You groaned, nudging him with your shoulder. “Ew, Steve. You should have some empathy. That could totally be you someday.”

He shook his head incredibly insistently, like he’d seen into the future already. “No, because my dick is going to work forever, obviously.” He wrinkled his nose at his own words like he wished he could take them back immediately. “On that note, I need to go act sober and rent some movies to people.”

You grabbed his arm before he turned to go, keeping him near you. “Come over after your shift? I wanna check this place out and I’m too nervous to go alone.”

He nodded quickly, a smile spreading across his features. “Yes!” He said eagerly. He coughed, cleared his throat, and amended his tone. “I mean— Yeah, okay. Sounds good, I’ll, uh… I’ll pick you up?”

You nodded, chewing your lip to contain your excitement. “Yeah, it’s a date, Stevie. You’ll love it, I promise.”

He looked like he wanted to melt as he nodded, smiling sweetly down at you. “I uh…” He trailed off, blinking a few times. With one hand, he gestured vaguely to the metal back door of Family Video. “Videotapes.”

You giggled, trying your best to fight a grin as you nodded. “Yep. Go get ‘em big guy. I’ll see you later, alright?”

He nodded, turned directly into the door, swore under his breath, and slipped back inside.

———

At precisely three fifteen in the afternoon, Steve was outside of your house, practically vibrating in his seat with anticipation. He watched you walk out the front door, turn to wave to your father, who was seeing you off, and hurry towards the passenger seat.

“Hey, Stevie,” you greeted as you slid into the car, smiling over at him. “Ready to go?”

“I, uh, I don’t even know where we’re going,” he said, almost nervously.

You patted his arm and grinned. “Get on the highway going eastbound and take the third exit, alright? Trust me on this.” He nodded and peeled off, his tires screeching against the suburban asphalt. You sighed, leaning back against the seat. His car always smelled like his cologne, and you happily took a deep breath as you turned to look at him.

He didn’t notice for a while, until he caught you out of the corner of his eye. At a stop sign, he furrowed his brows. “What is it?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. I’ve liked hanging with you lately, that’s all.”

“Me too,” he replied. “Like, we were friends before and that was cool and everything, but now—“ He was cut off by the car behind him honking repeatedly, urging him to just go already. “Shit.”

You looked at him expectantly. “But now…?” You trailed off, hoping he’d pick up where he left off.

“I guess now things are just better.” You nodded, turned on the stereo, and put your feet on the dash.

Better was the perfect way to describe it. You were still both… you, but you were more than that. Never in your entire life had you felt more comfortable being vulnerable with someone. You liked that every free moment, you were both jumping at the chance to be together.

How long had it been since you’d had that?

The rest of the car ride was brief— your destination wasn’t exactly far. You told him when to exit, and directed him into the parking lot. He swallowed as he parked, looking up at the sign that placed a shadow on his car.

Lion’s Den: XXX Movies, Toys for Lovers, And More!

“No,” he said firmly, meeting your gaze. “I’m not… no way.”

You put on your prettiest smile and leaned across the center console. “C’mon, Steve, I told you to trust me, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but… I mean, what if someone recognizes me inside?” His pretty brown eyes were wide, his lips turned into a nervous frown. You wanted to just squeeze his face with your hand, for some reason. You decided not to think about that too much.

“We’re three exits outside of Hawkins, and if anyone recognizes you, they’ll have to explain why they’re here too, right?” You smiled victoriously. “Can’t call you out for being a pervert when they’re one themselves.”

“What did you need here again?” He asked as he got out of the car, finding it incredibly impossible to tell you no.

You shrugged, slamming the car door. “Just felt like exploring with my best pal, Steve Harrington. Who knows, we might find something fun.”

He walked right on your heels as you entered the store, waving an awkward greeting to the man behind the counter as he followed you within. The walls were lined with sexy everything. Lingerie, books, movies, toys. You didn’t really know where to start.

“Lingerie first?” You asked, nodding towards the racks and racks of lace, velvet, and silk. He nodded wordlessly, his cheeks a burning red. You had to chew on your lip to keep from laughing— it was just too adorable.

He stood respectfully beside you as you flipped through the rack, holding up the occasional teddy or babydoll gown for his appraisal. He just blinked a few times, opened and closed his mouth, then nodded. It was like that for each and everything you showed him.

“Steve, you’re not really being a big help,” you chided with a playful grin.

“I can hardly think right now,” he mumbled, running his fingers over white silk on the rack. It felt so soft that he wanted to buy it for you then and there just so he could imagine you wearing it. “Is it hot in here?” He tugged at his collar and cleared his throat a few times. “I’m really hot right now.”

“Hey, breathe, okay?” You said, holding onto his arm. He really was burning up under your touch. “No one else is here except the guy behind the counter, and I’m sure he’s seen crazier stuff than two twenty-somethings browsing the wares.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he said. “I can be cool about this.” He swallowed as you turned back to the shelves and grabbed a pale blue babydoll with lace around the edges. You turned to face him and held it up to yourself, raising a brow.

“What do you think?”

He wanted to pass out. He could imagine you in it so easily— how the silk would feel on your skin, the way the lace would fall around your thighs and tits. He could especially imagine peeling it off of you, how warm it would be from touching you. He felt his dick twitch, trapped uncomfortably in his tight jeans. God, he wished he’d had some sort of notice so he could’ve worn some sweats or something. Or, actually, that probably would’ve been worse for him.

“I think you should buy that one,” he said quickly. He grabbed the soft white teddy and pushed it towards you. “And this one too.” You smiled prettily up at him, and he wanted to propose marriage or eternal love on the spot. He’d follow you anywhere— into certain danger, into hell, or even into a sleazy sex shop.

And then came the toys. His mouth felt dry as he watched you peering at the shelves, your tongue slipping out to wet your lips. Some of them were big… and lifelike. You took one in your hands and he wanted to whimper. Your painted nails wrapped around the silicon, not even making it all the way around. Your hand looked so fucking small.

And you giggled, a bright, pretty sound and he wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor. Become one more stain that the store’s patrons had left. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, wielding it like a gun toward him. He made himself laugh, but it was clearly forced. You replaced it on the shelf and went back to browsing.

“Yeah, super ridiculous,” he said, his mouth feeling even drier. They really should’ve had water stations around places like this. “Uh, what about that one?” He pointed towards the top shelf and you laughed, reaching on your tiptoes to bring it down.

“Steve,” you said with disbelief. “This would kill me.”

“What?” He asked, brows furrowed. “No, that’s literally just like mine and I’ve never killed anyone.”

“Stevie, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but your dick is not the size of my forearm,” you said. You placed the toy against yourself and the tip hit above your navel. “See. That wouldn’t even feel good.” You hopped to place it right back on the shelf and began perusing again.

He wanted to scoff, or something and defend his ego, but it was useless. You’d literally seen what he was packing, and while you were impressed, you weren’t a liar. You gasped victoriously and turned to face him, holding a smaller, but still above-average dildo.

“This is about where you’re at, right?” You asked rhetorically. Because, y’know… you knew. You held it right where you’d held the other and nodded approvingly. “See, this isn’t going to bruise my organs or anything, but it would still feel good.”

Steve nodded, biting down on his tongue until he feared he would bleed. There was no way you didn’t realize what you were doing. “So that’s like… the ideal?”

You looked at him pointedly. “Don’t fish for compliments, Stevie,” you said as you brought the box for that toy down, turning it over in your hands. “Anyways, I think I might actually buy this one.” You paused, meeting his gaze curiously. “That’s not weird or anything, right? Since I kind of compared this one to you.”

He swallowed. He wanted to say that it wasn’t weird and that actually made him want you to buy it more and that he wanted to watch you use it. But instead, he just shook his head. “Not weird,” he said weakly. That was the best he could do.

You smiled, holding your wares in your arms as you continued to browse. He followed you closely, placing his chin on top of your head when you came to a stop at some of the tapes.

“See anything you like, Steve?” You asked, turning your head to peer back at him.

Yes. Yes. You’re literally right in front of me. He didn’t know what to say or how to explain that he was so hard he couldn’t even focus on the VHS tapes, despite them having tons of naked girls on the cover. All he could think about was you.

The door swung open, startling him, and he pressed himself into you, trying to hide his obvious boner from the new shoppers. You froze, unable to ignore the feeling of him hard against your back.

Oh. It wasn’t like you weren’t hoping it would happen, but you figured he might be able to contain himself until you were in the car so you could park somewhere and get off together. But he was desperate behind you, a shaky moan escaping him as you shifted where you stood.

“Steve,” you said softly, covering his hands where they gripped your hips. “If you trust me, I’ll take care of you.”

“Okay,” he replied, his voice weak in the back of his throat.

You shoved the toy and lingerie onto a shelf that you completely intended to return to later and grabbed his hand, guiding him into the back of the store. In the hall by the bathrooms, there was another room, completely dark and lined with booths.

“What are we—?” He was cut off by you opening the door and nodding him inside. It was like a cheap school bathroom stall, except there was a TV that took quarters. “Oh.”

“Got change?” You asked, patting his wallet in his pocket. He was so lucky that he tucked himself to the other side or he might have cum then and there. He nodded, grabbing his wallet nervously as he took out at least two dollars worth of quarters to feed into the machine. “Alright, pick your movie, Stevie.”

Your hands slipped under his shirt, feeling the hot skin beneath, tracing each dip and curve along his abdomen and sides. He gave a shaky breath. With eager hands, he pressed a random button. He didn’t give a shit about dirty movies when you had your hands on his body.

Moans filled the small space as the movie clips played, but you took your time feeling him. Your fingers brushed over his chest, nails combing through the thatch of hair there. You sighed contentedly, breath hot against his back.

“This okay?” You asked softly, moving your hands back down his body. “I know it’s against our rules, but—

“Fuck, fuck, it’s okay. It’s so okay,” he gasped, his hands balled into fists, pressed above his head on the wall to keep him upright and from crumbling beneath your touch.

A string of curses escaped his lips as your fingers found his belt and made quick work of it. The buckle jingled as it slipped free of one of the loops, forgotten as you unbuttoned and unzipped him.

He was warm beneath your touch, almost on fire. You pushed his briefs down just enough to free his cock, relishing in the gratified moan he released as you took him into your hand.

You stood on your tiptoes, nuzzling against his neck to press a soft kiss there. His skin tasted of sweat and cologne. “This feel okay?” You asked, slicking up his length with the precum that was practically leaking from him. He nodded, his breath heavy and coming in pants. “Good. I want it to feel good for you Stevie.”

Your free hand wandered beneath his shirt, nails raking along warm, damp skin. You would be lying if you said you weren’t hot yourself— sweat beading at the back of your neck.

He thrust into your hand, desperate and needy. You soothed him with a kiss to the back of his neck, whispering against his skin. “Shhh… I’ve got you.” You pressed another open-mouthed kiss to his neck, letting your teeth graze him. “Let me take care of you, okay?”

He cried out as your thumb swept across the head of his dick, not even caring if anyone else was listening despite feeling so shy earlier. You were good. So good that he wanted to simultaneously thank and kill whoever you’d touched before to be so fucking good at jerking him off.

This was Steve Harrington, king of the hook-up, founder of skull rock— and he was terrified he was going to cum after hardly any action at all. He just wanted you so bad. The mere act of you touching him set every cell in his body aflame.

“You’re so good, Steve,” you said softly, remembering how he’d reacted to your praise that first night. Now was as good a time as any to put that detail to the test. “So big, can barely fit my hand around you. See how little my hand is compared to your cock?”

He swore breathily. He’d never heard you talk like that once.

“So big and so pretty for me. The prettiest guy I’ve ever seen.” You pressed another kiss to his neck. “Cum for me, Stevie. I wanna feel you cum while I’m touching you.

He was done for. With a string of moans, he came hard, ropes of pearly white painting the walls of the booth. It was gross if you thought about it, but you were too hung up on his pretty moans and the feel of him twitching in your hands to care. He thrust shallowly into your grip as you guided him through his finish, groaning at the way you squeezed him slightly before letting go.

“God, that was hot,” you said with a grin, meeting his gaze as he turned around, blushing deeply as he tucked himself back into his pants. “Was that all okay?”

He nodded, chest still heaving. “It was great.”

You grinned. “Great,” you echoed. “I should go clean up.” You held up your hand, glazed with his cum, and he grimaced, clearly apologetic.

“God, I’m sorry, that’s—“

“Steve, it’s fine. I told you I thought it was hot, and I wasn’t kidding,” you said firmly. “Stay here while I clean up, then we’ll do our walk of shame together.” You paused, glancing around the booth. “Actually, you might want to wash your hands too.”

———

Back on the highway, Steve’s knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping the wheel. You toyed with the plastic handles on the little black bag in your lap, the crinkling sound drowning out Wham on the radio.

“Where are we gonna park?” Steve asked suddenly, turning to glance in your direction.

“Park?” You asked, a furrow between your brows. “Why are we parking?”

An awkward laugh slipped past his lips. “Uh, because you didn’t cum.” His expression was earnest— the sweetest puppy-dog eyes you’d ever seen. It was sweet that he wanted you to experience as much pleasure as you did. But your silence on the matter made his cheeks turn pink with sheepishness. “You bought that fake dick so I thought you wanted to… I dunno… use it, I guess?”

At his words, your mouth dropped open in realization. “Oh,” you replied. An uncomfortable laugh escaped you. “No… Stevie, I’m not going to fuck myself with a sex toy in your car.”

“Oh… I mean… yeah that, uh, makes sense.” He paused. “Do you want to like… fuck yourself with it somewhere else? I think there’s a blanket in my trunk if you want to go to Skull Rock, or—“

You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t want a public indecency charge.”

He nodded, trying to stay nonchalant. “Yeah. Duh. Of course.” He set his mouth in a firm line, and you figured it was his way of stopping himself from saying anything else. “Yeah, just forget I asked.”

You sighed as he turned up the radio, humming along to the Beastie Boys. It was obvious that he was dejected from the way his brows furrowed, the corners of his mouth twitching downward.

“It wasn’t a no, Steve,” you said gently, putting a hand on his arm. “It’s a ‘not in public.’”

He perked up, eyes wide with surprise as he met your gaze, taking in the sight of your growing smile. “It’s— It’s not a no?”

You shook your head firmly. “Can you swing by mine tonight? Late?”

He nodded eagerly. “Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem.”

———

Steve parked in front of your neighbor’s house, knowing that they were gone and wouldn’t mind. There was a skip in his step as he made his way along the lawn, already seeing dim light glowing from your window. He stopped just shy of the glass, peering in at the sight of you standing in front of the mirror, running your hands along your body. Blue silk covered your skin, the lace hem stopping just barely below your ass.

His breath caught in his throat as he watched your hands wander over your tits, nails dimpling skin and lace. You smiled at your own reflection, then slipped the straps off, allowing the gown to pool at your feet.

“Holy shit.” The words slipped out without him actually meaning to say them as he looked at your naked body in the dim lamplight. He felt his length twitch with need, desire stirring within.

The curves of your body twisted as you stretched, arms reaching above your head, elongating your spine. The fall of your shoulders told him you had sighed as you turned, picking up the white silk teddy he’d chosen from where it laid against the bed.

If anyone were to walk by, they would’ve thought he was a peeping tom or something. Fuck. That’s exactly what he was doing.

You slipped on the teddy slowly, observing your body from each side with a furrow in your brow. Your hands smoothed out the fabric carefully, and he swallowed hard.

The white fabric was thin and skimpy— he could see everything he wanted to through it. And even though you were just naked, the sight of you in sheer lingerie was even more erotic.

You smiled at your reflection before you turned, laying down on the bed, your knee bent just slightly. The lamplight cast a pretty glow over your skin as you tossed your head back, your hands wandering along your breasts, then between your legs.

His cock pulsed in his jeans, uncomfortably tight for the second time that day, all because of you. He couldn’t help but let his hands brush over the obvious bulge he was sporting. A shaky groan escaped him before he thought better of it. You paused, but seemed to brush off the noise as the wind.

He couldn’t help himself. Watching you through the glass— the unhurried, lazy way you sought pleasure—was enough to make him feel like a live wire. He rubbed his denim-clad length, swallowing as you threw your head back against the pillows, arching your back slightly. He squeezed, the pressure so good but not near enough.

He popped the button of his jeans, unzipping just enough to fit his hand. He moaned at the feel of his hand around his cock, chest heaving with restraint. You sat up suddenly at the noise, turning to the window.

“Fuck,” he muttered, quickly zipping and adjusting his pants. “Shit.”

“Stevie?” Your voice was muffled by the glass, but he made it out clear as day. You hopped off the bed and leaned against the sill, the silk blousing enough that he could see straight through to your tits. He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze from the fucking incredible sight to meet your eyes. “You been there long?”

You made quick work of the window, tugging it up to allow him in. He peered at you from outside, his eyes wide and sheepish. “Uh, no,” he said quickly. “Not long.”

You grinned, nodding for him to come inside. “Alright, pervert,” you teased. “Get in here quick before someone calls the cops.”

He practically leaped over the window-sill, landing with a soft thud on your carpeted floor. You laughed at his eagerness and tugged the window back down, drawing the curtains quickly.

“So…” you said, settling back on the bed, lying on your side to face him. “Any reason you stayed out there spying instead of coming inside?”

His face fell, a frown pulling at his lips. “You’re right. It was wrong and gross of me to just stand out there and watch you, but you just looked so pretty trying on your new stuff, and then you were on the bed and your hands started moving and—“

“Were you touching yourself?” You asked, cocking your head to the side. “While you were peeping through my windows, that is.”

He made a soft noise, right in the back of his throat, something between a whimper and a whine. “Yeah. Fuck, that was so wrong of me to do. I’m really sorry.”

“Steve, I’m fucking with you,” you said quickly, worried he might actually take it to heart. “I heard your car door slam, so I put on a little show.”

He groaned, leaning his head back until it banged on the window-sill. “You’re such an asshole.” He shook his head and looked at you expectantly. “So are you going to keep going, or not?”

A surprised laugh escaped you at his tone, and you couldn’t help but relish in his desire. In the past few weeks, your confidence had skyrocketed— you had never felt more confident in your own skin until Steve treated you like something worth worshipping.

With a wink in his direction, you turned onto your back, spreading your legs slightly to fit your hand. His eyes followed your hands, but your eyes were glued on him. Gently, you let your hands wander along the silk, dancing along each dip and curve in your figure.

“Tell me what to do,” you said, meeting his darkened gaze. He swallowed, eyes trailing up and down your body.

It was a few moments before he spoke up, wetting his lips with his tongue before he finally told you what he wanted. “Take your clothes off,” he said finally, his voice more confident and firm than you expected. Heat burned in your cheeks at the ferocity of his gaze, the desire within it. You moved to brush the straps off your shoulders, but he shook his head. “Not like that. Slow.”

A shiver ran through you, and you nodded, standing from the bed to remove it properly. Slowly, you brushed the first strap off your shoulder, letting it fall to your elbow, exposing your breast. Already puckered from the cool air through the thin fabric, it felt sensitive so bare.

Steve sat forward as you let the second strap fall, leaving you naked from the waist up. A low noise came from the back of his throat, and you gave a shaky exhale. You turned, facing away from him as you brought your hands to the waistband, bending as you dragged the fabric to the floor, where it pooled at your feet.

“Fuck. You’re incredible,” he said as you turned back around, crossing your arms across your belly sheepishly. “Back on the bed now. I wanna watch you touch yourself.”

“Jesus, okay,” you said softly, lying back against your pillows. “Do you want to get up here? Have a closer look?”

It was like asking a fish if it wanted to swim. Or a dog if it wanted the juiciest, most expensive steak in the world. He simply had no choice in the matter— every single one of his cells was screaming yes. He sat at the foot of your bed, watching you keenly as your hands began to trace along your bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

A shaky sigh escaped you as your fingertips brushed along your thighs, making you part them slightly to fit your hand. At the first brush of your fingers against your clit, you gasped, your breath coming in shaky bursts.

You’d been pent up since the sex shop, since you’d actually touched Steve. And having him just watch while you pleasured yourself was so much more intense than anything you’d done with him before.

It would be stupid to deny that you cared about him anymore— it was just a fact of your existence, same as your eye color or the shade of your hair. You liked him. Maybe even loved him, if you really thought about it. He was simply your favorite person in the world.

“You can do more than that,” he said, the corners of his mouth quirking into a grin. You swallowed hard, fingers dipping towards your center. “Tell me what you’re feeling, sweetheart.”

“I’m so wet,” you gasped, closing your eyes as your head fell back against the pillow. It was too intense to keep looking at him, not with everything you were feeling then. “Just wanna be filled up so bad.”

A soft hum escaped him, making your cheeks heat up. “With what?”

“Fingers.” You barely managed the two syllables as you pushed two digits into yourself, a choked sob escaping your lips as you fucked yourself with them deeper.

“You sure?” He asked, and you could almost hear his smug grin. You were impossibly wet, you could hear the obscene noise of your fingers pushing in and out of your pussy. And, god, you needed more. “‘Cause if you want something I can go get it.”

Oh. Smug bastard. You swallowed down your pride and nodded, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. “Please,” you said simply, cheeks burning.

He raised a brow, glancing around your room. “Want something specific… or dealer’s choice? I’ve got my eye on a pretty sick-looking candle on your dresser. Like from Debbie Does Dallas. You remember that one from two weeks ago, don’t you?”

You kicked him lightly with your foot as he burst into laughter, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him smiling. God, you had it bad. “Go get the toy dipshit,” you said, with a pointed look. “It’s in the back of my underwear drawer.”

He grinned victoriously, hopping from the bed to rifle through your dresser while you watched. While he snooped, you continued to pump your fingers in and out of yourself slowly, relishing in the sensation of being filled, even if it wasn’t as much as you wanted. He held up a pair of pink panties with an embroidered cherry on the front grinning wildly.

“These are cute,” he said as he tucked them into his back pocket. You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t ignore the heat that burned in your belly at the thought of him having them. A soft, aha, sounded from his lips and he turned, holding the dildo casually in his grip.

Your mouth practically watered at the sight, your cunt spamming around your fingers, desperate for more. “Is this what you wanted?” He asked, raising a brow. You nodded and he smirked. “Yeah? The same toy you compared to my dick?” You nodded again, chewing on your lip.

He sat back on the bed, not handing over the toy just yet. “You gonna think about me while you use it?” He looked at you curiously, and you felt the line of questioning tipping further away from just dirty talk.

“Yeah,” you said weakly. “I’m gonna think about you, Stevie. Please let me have it.”

His face lit up at your words, eyes brightening with the telltale signs of an idea forming. You felt your breath shudder in anticipation.

“I’ll let you have it,” he said plainly. “I’ll give it to you if you’re good and let me.”

Wait… you sat up on your elbows, meeting his gaze with wide eyes. “You want to… use it on me?” You swallowed. Hard. He nodded and your heart skipped enough beats to make you genuinely concerned. “O-okay.”

“You sure?” He asked, his voice softer.

“Mhmm,” you replied, offering a small smile. “I trust you.” You paused, feeling suddenly shy. “How are we gonna do this?”

He paused, brows furrowing as he considered his options. God, you wanted to know every thought running through his head. “I’ll sit behind you, you lean back on my chest, that way I can just reach around and… y’know.”

You nodded, sitting up so he could slide into place behind him. He settled comfortably behind you, wrapping one arm around your belly to ease you against him. It felt strange to be so naked while he was fully dressed, but not enough to really mind. You laid back against him, spreading your legs to allow him access.

Knowing him, you figured he’d just go in with the dildo and just ram you with it a few times, but you were sorely mistaken. The toy was discarded to the side for the moment, his fingers moving between your legs to rub your clit, eliciting contented moans from you.

Your hips buck into the sensation, grinding in thoughtless, subconscious movements to get more pressure out of his touch. His tongue clicked, chiding you for your impatience, but he didn’t do anything to stop you. You figured he liked knowing you wanted more.

“What fingers do you use when you touch yourself,” he asked, breath warm against your ear.

“Huh?” You asked, almost breathless, too riled up to think clearly.

He held up his hand, wiggling his fingers jokingly for a moment. “Ring-middle, or pointer-middle?” He asked, flexing them in turn. “I have a preference, I just wanna see if you do too.”

Smug fucker. “I don’t really think about it,” you answered honestly. “Ring-middle, I think.”

“Excellent choice,” he said, and you could practically hear his grin. You sighed, leaning further back against him as his hand settled back between your legs. Your cunt was practically pulsing as he let his fingers wander, dipping into the wetness pooled at your entrance before returning to your clit, circling gently. “You want my fingers?”

You nodded wordlessly, yeah thrown back against his shoulders as he teased your entrance, making you whimper. His lack of action told you one thing— he wanted you to say it. “Please, Steve,” you practically whined. “I want your fingers so bad.”

You hadn’t ever really thought about how his hands would feel until that moment, when his middle finger breached your entrance and pushed deep within you. It felt like heaven, but you needed more. You rocked against his fingers, encouraging him deeper, or to move, or to use one more. You didn’t really know what you wanted, just that you wanted something.

“So fucking needy,” he mumbled against your hair. “It’s cute.”

“Sh-shut up,” you said, voice catching as he pushed another finger within you. Ring-middle. Fucking incredible choice. The sounds his fingers made as they fucked you were obscene. You hadn’t even known your body could do what he was making it do. “I want more, Stevie. Please.”

“Yeah?” He asked, removing his soaked fingers to toy with your clit. “You want me to fuck you with the fake dick you bought? Hm?”

“Steve,” you said, feeling embarrassed for no discernible reason. He laughed lightly into your hair and you burned inside. “Steve I want you to fuck me with it so bad. I really want it.”

“Yeah? You think it’s gonna feel like I would?” He asked, letting the toy run along your slit so it was coated in your wetness. Each brush of the silicon against your clit made you gasp.

“Almost,” you said, exhaling a shaky breath as he pushed the toy in barely an inch. “It won’t feel as good.”

“No, it won’t,” he said, using his other hand to tease your clit as he pushed the toy in slowly, so you felt each and every passing inch. “But it’ll feel good for now, won’t it?”

As soon as the toy bottomed out, filling you completely, you gasped, nodding desperately. “Yes. It feels so good.”

“Yeah?” His teeth grazed your ear as he spoke, his words low as he fucked you with the toy. “You like feeling stuffed with cock, hm? Does it feel good to be so full?” You nodded, beyond words at that point. His fingers moved faster on your clit as he thrust the dildo shallowly, just like you needed. You felt deliciously full, and each touch on your clit made your veins feel like fire.

“Fuck,” you gasped, nails clinging to his thighs on either side of you. “Fuck, Steve, I’m so close. You’re gonna make me cum. Please make me cum. I want it so bad.”

He kept up the same rhythm, pulling you closer and closer to the edge. You felt like crying from the pleasure that he so easily drew out of you, and he was touching you like he was fluent in the language your body spoke. You came suddenly, crying out a mix of obscenities and his name, grinding against the toy and his fingers, desperate for more of that delicious feeling.

The feeling of him slipping the toy from your cunt was strange— you suddenly felt so incomplete. You felt sensitive all over to the slightest touch, shivering as the chill in the room suddenly became apparent.

“That was—“ You sighed happily, feeling drowsy and sated with the pleasure coursing through you. “So good. Never understood a reputation more than in this moment.” Your eyes were heavy as you blinked, turning to face him.

You wanted to press your lips to his, kiss him until you were desperate for breath. You shivered. “Can you grab me pajamas?” You asked softly. He nodded, slipping from behind you to rifle through your dresser again.

He turned, holding up a blue button-up pajama set for your appraisal. When you nodded, he shut the drawer and returned, grabbing the cherry print panties he’d stashed earlier.

“See, I’m not a pervert, I just think ahead,” he said with a grin. You slipped them on and let him help you pull the pajama shirt over your head.

“I still kind of think you’re a pervert, Steve,” you replied as you awkwardly tugged on the pajama pants. You turned to face him, peering down at the bulge in his jeans. “You, uh, want some help with that?”

He brushed you off with a wave of his hand, pulling off his shirt and jeans before climbing into bed. “Nah, you’re tired. Just c’mere.”

You didn’t question Steve wanting to stay the night. You didn’t find it presumptuous or overbearing. The sight of Steve looking up at you from your quilted blankets, his brown eyes so inviting, made your heart melt. You grinned and slipped beneath the covers, reaching over to turn off the lamp before you cuddled against his side.

He was warm, and he was in your bed. And you were almost entirely certain you loved him.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington imagine #stranger things x reader #my writing

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heartgold · 3 months

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Something ingenious about ep3 is how Battler is at his worst here but in a markedly different way from his ep1 characterization... Also it's meta!Battler who acts that way rather than his piece, which marks not only the author shift but also this depiction being deeply allegorical

Like. Ep3 meta!Battler is super dismissive of Beatrice even as she tells him about the most horrific parts of her trauma through a fantasy lens that doesn't even obfuscate the worst of it (and Battler actually... manages to decipher it with some prodding from Ronove), and yet he still brushes it off. His relationship to Beatrice in the meta layer is super antagonistic at this point. He correctly figures out that she's confessing to something very painful but doesn't care to think about it or why she's bringing it up because she has already been characterized as a heartless cruel monster in his eyes, therefore she hasn't earned his sympathy and good faith. It might as well be a trick just to confuse him

The way their relationship improves the moment she starts "reforming" and acting all cute and pitiable is important because it shows her both playing into his fantasy of "fixing" her and making her change her ways just to sweep the rug from under his feet and prank him about it at the end AND playing into this good victim fantasy for herself and genuinely relishing in the understanding and good faith he was willing to extend to her once she played the role he wanted her to (this is blatantly Sayo's complex with becoming the person others want her to be in order to deserve their love... It hurts........)

This marking the author shift and being a meta-only dynamic is super interesting to me because it can mean so many things. I like to think of the metaworld as a representation of the journey in understanding the story from within. We know that from the IRL angle Tohya wrote ep3 while not knowing the full truth and believing Eva to be the most likely culprit based off snippets of memory and her survival. You could read Evatrice claiming the role of the antagonist while Beato goes through a "redemption arc" as Tohya struggling with his memories, deep down knowing the painful truth but being unable to access that memory or accept it, therefore pointedly scapegoating Eva to process his feelings of guilt and grief towards the witch

But by wishing her to be blameless and pinning everything on someone else he is neglecting her heart and looking away from her true feelings, from all the things she wanted to communicate and from all the circumstances that brought upon the tragedy (and ultimately, from Battler's sin). I can see this internal struggle being meta-translated as ep3 Battler being selfish like that and refusing to engage with Beatrice until she becomes "good"... You can feel a lot of self loathing in it. It's a rocky start to their parallel journeys until they both Get It and it's so interesting to me how, in hindsight, it's very clear that it truly starts when the stories change hands

Overall it's a VERY good discussion of projection, with the added lens of how we engage with stories. How only seeing what you want to see flattens the complexity of humans into characters. Beato's "redemption arc" is tropey for a reason! She even shouts out dating sims and anime as the inspiration for it to make it clear this was just her reducing herself to a character archetype! Umineko is very critical of the idea of redemption in the first place and it really shows here

#umineko #umineko spoilers #◇#this was crossposted from twitter with only minor editing so sorry if the wording is awkward lol

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ichorai · 1 year

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talk ; bruce wayne.

track nine of WASTELAND, BABY!

pairing ; rpatz!bruce wayne x fiance!gn!reader

synopsis ; it’d been years since you died. bruce stood silent in front of your grave, hair damp from the cold rain. you approached him from behind, tipping your umbrella forward just enough so the tears of the sky would stop mingling with his own.

words ; 6.8k

themes ; angst, action, fluff, engaged au, ex-thief au

warnings / includes ; faked death, injuries/blood/violence/death, depictions of human trafficking, a lot of Emotions, reader used to be a thief, mentions of the joker and harley quinn, alfred cameo !! and one smutty-ish sentence?

main masterlist.

The ground was sodden with rainwater, mud clinging onto his black boots. Its long laces were loosely dragging through the dirt, wet and filthy, but he couldn’t be bothered to retie them. Rain dripped from the hair that hung limply from his head, frigid drops pricking his skin and meandering down his cheeks. The cold air from the sky was a pleasant but striking juxtaposition to the hot tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, conveniently camouflaged by the rain. It wasn’t often that Bruce Wayne cried, but for you, he allowed himself to shed a few tears.

After all, it was the third anniversary of your death.

He hadn’t shown up to your funeral—well, from what Alfred told him, he wouldn’t have made much of a difference. There were hundreds of people there. He was just glad he wasn’t there so the vultures of public press didn’t have the chance to shove flashing cameras into his face.

He could just imagine the headlines: Bruce Wayne At Gotham’s Most Notorious Thief’s Funeral, Y/N L/N And Bruce Wayne: A Tragic Romance, Bruce Wayne’s Ex-Criminal Fiance Killed By The Joker.

Bruce coughed into his fist, masking a strained, broken sob as his eyes trailed down your headstone, where your name was carved in stone. His shoulders trembled. The sky thundered. He bit down on his tongue. His lungs felt thick and heavy, as if slickened with tar.

There were nearly a dozen bouquets of flowers crowded around the stone. Bruce noticed that there were several wilting roses amongst the heap of petals and thorns.

You hated roses.

“Hope you didn’t leave me any of those,” said an eerily familiar voice from behind him. All of a sudden, the rain stopped pelting his head, shadowed by a dark umbrella, just enough to stop the tears of the sky from mingling with his own. “You know I hate roses.”

His shoulders tensed.

Chest constricting, your name slipped from his lips, nearly lost to the pelting rain.

“The one and only,” you said. “It’s been a long time, Bru.”

He turned around, stiff. His eyes twitched in disbelief. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat. A part of Bruce, the grief-stricken part, wondered if he was hallucinating you.

But you were here, in the flesh. And there was a small grin coyly toying at the corner of your lips. You had a hat pulled low over your head, nearly shielding your bright eyes as well, and you were dressed in loose, dark clothing.

The ring he gave you dangled on a thin silver chain around your neck, gleaming as if regularly polished. You silently noted that he still wore his own engagement ring.

Bruce’s supposedly dead fiance tilted their head, regarding him with veiled fondness.

“Come on,” you said, pointedly turning away so that the umbrella was no longer hovering over him. He flinched when the cold rain touched his skin. He stood there for a second longer, still in shock, before numbly following behind you.

Rust.

Bruce could smell it everywhere.

“I know it isn’t much,” you said, shouldering the creaky door to the abandoned warehouse open, “but it’s home. For now, at least.”

You glanced over your shoulder, catching Bruce’s hardened eyes. With pursed lips, you shook the water out of your umbrella before shucking it closed, tossing it somewhere in the corner. Bruce watched as you busied yourself with lighting small gas lamps on rickety metal chairs, before allowing his gaze to briefly dart around the room. It was spacious in a way that was unsettling—dark and dreary, cold and lifeless. There were a couple dozen boxes stacked along the opposite wall, lining the large, moldy windows. A beaten down sofa was placed off to the side, with a thin blanket messily thrown over the back.

You’d been living here this entire time?

When he spoke—his first words to you in three entire years—it was shaky and saturated with raw hurt. He was… he was so inexplicably angry with you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, so quietly you nearly wished he was yelling instead. “How could you… how could you do this to me? To Alfred?”

The splinter within the fractures of your heart was all of a sudden a large stake, and Bruce held the hammer.

A small sigh fell from your lips and you turned to face him fully. “It’s a long story.”

Bruce’s frustrated countenance remained unchanged. “You better get going, then.”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, before dropping down onto your patchy sofa. “You don’t wanna sit down?” you asked. He gave you no response. “Alright, then.”

There was so much to tell him. You didn’t know where to start.

After clearing your throat, you finally croaked out, “That night three years ago—I contacted the Joker through Harley Quinn. She was an old pal of mine from my crime days. Through her, I asked him to meet me under Gotham’s largest bridge because I had a deal to make with him. A part of me wasn’t sure he was going to show but—my reputation as the city’s most famous ex-thief was more than enough to convince him. He was curious, you see. He thought I was coming back into the business of stealing. It didn’t take him long to realize that I wasn’t planning on working with him, and he was about to call his cronies for back up, but I knocked him out before he could reach for anything. I planted evidence of my death on him—a knife with my blood on it, his fingerprints over my equipment, his hair on my clothes, my skin under his nails. The next couple of hours, I was across the city, ingesting a fake-death pill—potassium cyanide. The next day, the entire world thought I was dead, killed by the Joker—though if you dug up that grave you were standing over earlier today, you’d find it to be empty. I framed him so he’d land in jail, Bruce. Like he deserves to be.”

Bruce’s pallid complexion made it look like he was going to keel over and hurl. “Why? Why did you do it?”

“There were people trying to kill you because of me, Bru,” you whispered. “They wanted me dead, and they wanted you dead, too. I was protecting you. If I’m gone, then they’d no longer have a reason to kill you.”

“YOU COULD’VE TOLD ME!” he roared, his pain ricocheting throughout the warehouse. All of a sudden, he was no farther than an arm’s length away from you. The blue of his eyes gleamed with a mirage of resurfaced bitterness and anger. His voice quietened, “I could’ve done something. I could’ve helped you. We could’ve worked through it together.”

You shook your head. “You knowing I was alive would’ve put us both at more risk. I had to do it, Bruce. I… I had to do it so I wasn’t under the eye of scrutiny anymore. Being the most famous ex-thief and Bruce Wayne’s fiance meant more eyes on me than practically anyone else in the country. One tiny slip up, and I’d be in jail right next to the Joker!”

Bruce reared back upon realizing what you were saying. “You faked your death to steal again?”

“No!” you bit back, voice cracking. “Not to steal. To help—just without the cops on my back. Without the Penguin breathing down my neck. Without Deathstroke hunting me down. I did it to protect you and help the city in my own way.”

Silence stretched thin between the two of you. Bruce was tense, frozen in front of you, repeating your words over and over in his head.

“I still love you, Bru,” you said, reaching out for his arm. “That’s never changed.”

He moved out of your way, flinching at the mere prospect of touching you.

“Then what do you want from me?” he snarled, gruffer than he had intended. “I grieved you. I couldn’t—I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d failed you. I couldn’t save you. It tore me apart, Y/N. I just… I loved you so much. You meant so much to me. And to just… leave without so much as a goodbye! Not even a note!”

Your hand fell back to your side, a sharp ache clawing within your ribcage.

“I’m sorry,” you said, gritting your jaw and willing the surfacing tears away. “I’d love to hash this out with you, B, but there’s more pressing matters at hand. I would’ve never told you that I’m still alive if I really didn’t need your help.”

There was a beat of silence. Bruce shifted, shoulders hunched over as if he wanted to cave in on himself. The thought of being around you right now was simultaneously the worst thing he could do to himself, and what he desired most.

He missed you—painfully so. He missed the hard, determined edge to your expression whenever you concentrated on something. He missed the way you used to cradle him close to you when he had terrible nightmares, kissing around his bruises. He missed the way you’d playfully bump your hip against his while the two of you worked on the same table. He missed the way you'd lewdly moan your special nickname for him—Bru—into the mattress when he rolled his hips into yours from behind, pressing hot kisses down your arched spine. He missed your infamous grin, and how it never failed to replicate itself onto his own lips. He missed your scent—a homely mix of cinnamon and lavender, a smell he wanted to drown himself with. After you’d died, he’d sleep with your hoodie pressed against his nose—and he did so until the perfume wore away, and the last trace of you was gone. He missed your laughter, your lighthearted banter with Alfred, your help on missions when he found himself at a dead end.

This time, you were asking for his help.

And how could he say no to that?

Bruce’s sore eyes darted from the rusty ceiling to you, watching him intently. “What is it?”

Hope sparked within you, like a candle lit in the middle of a hurricane. “Human trafficking, Bru. That’s what I’ve spent the past three years trying to take down. Gotham is rampant with it. If I told the police… they would’ve been five steps ahead and relocated across the country and we’d be right back to square one. I finally got my hands on some intel—they’re moving a bunch of kidnapped children through the abandoned railways under the city tomorrow night. I don’t know where they’re going, but I can’t let them leave, or things would get infinitely more complicated. I don’t know how many exactly. Could be a couple dozen. A hundred. Maybe even just one. But I know I have to stop them—and I can’t do it alone.”

There was something akin to awe behind Bruce’s blue irises. “The five missing kids randomly appearing in a homeless shelter last year—that was you?”

A weak grin nudged at the corner off your lips. “Yeah. The poor things were being forced to manufacture illegal firearms with scrap metal parts.”

Another beat of silence. The hesitance in Bruce seemed to wane away with each passing second.

“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Bruce stepped closer to you, eyebrows furrowing. The fact that all of this was happening right under his nose made a sick feeling twist his stomach.

Your lips trembled. Slowly, you pulled out your phone, pressing on a video file and held it out to him. He took it from you, watching with horror as the grainy footage played. Half of the screen was black, as if filming from behind a wall. The kids were chained, manhandled and shoved into a truck by several armed people, screams and cries echoing along the metal walls. There was a louder shout, closer to the person recording, and the camera began to wobble and shake, pulling away from the crime scene as they began running. The video was cut off there.

He felt sick. His eyes flickered back up to you, anxiously worrying on your bottom lip.

“I filmed that around a day ago,” you whispered, throat thick with emotion. You began to physically shake. “I saw it. I tried to stop them—but I messed up. One of the guards turned around the corner and saw me. I killed him, Bruce, or the entire operation would’ve been blown. I… I—”

There was a cold hand on your shoulder. His thumb brushed against the bare skin of your collarbone. Your fiance kneeled in front of you, nodding his head to silently tell you to go on. You swallowed nervously.

“Thankfully, the rest of them didn’t know I was there. I don’t know where the kids are now, and it kills me to wait. All I know is that they’re planning on taking them through the railways tomorrow. It’s the best shot I have.”

Bruce’s stare burned into you. ��You’ve been managing on your own for the past three years. Why are you only asking for my help now?”

You winced, pursing your lips. “The man I killed—he didn’t go down without a fight.”

Gingerly, you shifted your hands down to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up to reveal tightly wound bandages over your stomach. Much to your dismay, they were soaked through with copper-hued blood, a dark shade that sent a queasy tremor up your spine.

Almost immediately, a shadowed, closed-off expression melded over his features. You couldn’t exactly tell whether or not he was angry at you, or just angry in general.

“You’re bleeding,” he stated, rather bluntly. You bit back the urge to berate him for spelling out the obvious, and remained quiet as he told you to lean back. “Do you have extra bandages?”

“Yeah—in that box in the corner there. Nicked ‘em from the pharmacy down the block.”

Bruce frowned at that, but didn’t vocalize his disapproval.

In the box, he’d noticed a bottle of alcohol beside the bandages, grabbing that as well.

He strode back to you, softly asking you to peel back your bandages. You complied, but not without a grumpy divot appearing between your brows. If you weren’t practically bleeding out in front of him, Bruce would’ve found it to be rather endearing.

There were several lacerations across your abdomen, some shallow, and others deep. There were stitches across the more serious wounds, but they were done shoddily. Bruce sent you a look, swallowing hard.

“These look awful.”

“Why don’t you try stitching yourself up, then?” you hissed, biting down on your palm as he started cleaning up your wounds with an alcohol-doused bandage.

Bruce couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was cleaning up his fiance’s stab wounds after three years of their supposed death. A part of him wondered if he’d wake up from this nightmare, sprawled across his bed with his nose tucked into your hoodie.

But this was real.

Your muffled groans of pain brought him back down to earth.

You were real.

As swiftly as he could, he neatly wrapped fresh bandages over your waist, murmuring a shaky apology when you cried out from the stinging agony of the combined pressure and the cleansing alcohol.

“What else have you been doing?” Bruce asked, much to your surprise. Your eyes darted to his, and his skin flushed with heat, shifting his gaze to the ground.

It took you a moment to formulate a response. You were walking on eggshells around him, afraid that a slip of your tongue would make him get up and leave. “I’ve been in international waters for the majority of the time—staking out meetings, organizing heists, stealing from the rich—all that lovely jazz. I went to France, Mexico, India, New Zealand—trying to find something to do. My purpose. I guess I was traveling all over the place to run away from Gotham for a while. But I came back—because Gotham will always be my home. Because Gotham is where you are.” You fixed him with a pointed gaze, and Bruce swallowed uneasily. The hazy blue of his irises darkened a shade. You spoke again, voice lowered, “I gave all the money to charities, by the way. A couple of orphanages, too. Balancing out the scales, Bruce. For all the shitty things I’ve done.” You gritted your teeth when he wound another set of bandages over you for good measure.

Your words made an overwhelming sense of nostalgia wash over him, like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. There was good in you, no matter what the press had to say about that. Bruce knew that you were doing your best to help Gotham, just like he was. In your own way, of course, but it was what made Bruce fall in love with you in the first place.

You cared so much for Gotham. For its people. Even when they probably didn’t deserve it.

“Ironic that I fell in love with one of the richest men in the world, isn’t it?” you chuckled, lolling your head back onto the sofa’s armrest, staring up at the rusty warehouse’s ceiling. Bruce could feel his chest constricting. “What about you, Bru? What’ve you been up to since I’ve been dead?”

The man gave you no response, merely lifting one of his shoulders in a tense shrug. He wasn’t sure he was ready to divulge the past few years to you just yet. As much as he missed you, dreamed of you coming back to him—he couldn’t find it within himself to tear down all the barriers he built around himself since your death.

It was all too sudden. Bruce needed time.

You understood him all too well, much to his mild relief, and hummed noncommittally, as if to say ‘take your time’.

“You can’t tell anybody that I’m alive,” you said breathlessly, after a moment of terse silence. “Not even Alfred.”

Bruce’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like keeping secrets from the closest thing he had to a father, but he knew that it was necessary. “What’s the plan?”

“They’ll be moving tomorrow. Are you in, Bruce?”

Only now did he realize that his hands were still splayed out over your bandaged abdomen, and he jerked back, as if he’d burned himself. You propped yourself up on an elbow, a hint of an amused grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

God, you were so beautiful.

It took a great amount of effort for him to look away from your lips, and he focused on leveling his gaze with those bright eyes of yours.

“I’m in,” he said.

You smiled, all warm and utterly heart-breakingly wide, and Bruce could swear the air stilled around the two of you.

“Alright.” Your hand reached out to clasp his pale, cold one. He couldn’t pull away. He should’ve. He didn’t want to. “We strike at midnight.”

There was something about Bruce’s Batman suit that made you stop and stare at him with awe. Quite a few adjustments had been made to the outfit the past three years—the bulletproof platelets over his chest and abdomen were much more form-fitting than before, and a lightweight cape draped down to his ankles, dark as the night. His mask was different as well—it was tighter and covered more of his face. Seeing him like this made you remember that Batman didn’t hide in the shadows—he was the shadow.

He caught you watching him, the blue of his eyes flashing almost dangerously beneath the moonlight. You noticed the way his gaze trailed up and down your form, soaking in your own suit.

It was a simple outfit, made up of a long, cowled coat, the hood draping over your forehead and stopping just above your eyebrows. It was a mottled hue of grey, perfect camouflage for the dull concrete jungle of Gotham city. A mask of the same color covered your nose and mouth, leaving just your eyes for Bruce to see. The rest of your outfit beneath the coat was dark and well-fitted, with several compartments to store your gizmos and gadgets.

There were two daggers slid into your utility belt and a third emergency one strapped to your left shin. Further hidden within your pockets were a multitude of smoke grenades, ropes, and throwing stars.

You had a small pistol wedged into your belt, but that was only for worst-case scenarios. You knew Bruce didn’t like guns.

The two of you stood before the entrance of the abandoned railways, the gaping tunnel overgrown with moss and greenery. He gave you a weary glance, non-verbally asking if you were ready. You gave him a soft nod in response. Graffiti lined the walls near the front, but as the two of you walked in, there were fewer and farther in between.

The plan was clean-cut. Locate the children, take out the guards, and high-tail out of there. Your fiance (or was it ex-fiance? You weren’t quite sure) had made you promise not to kill anybody but—given the circumstances, you weren’t entirely sure if you could hold up to that promise.

Bruce had this innate ability to move in a way that if you hadn’t known he was already there, you wouldn’t have seen him at all. His hands loosely wrapped around your wrist to guide you to the right, and you couldn’t help but hold your breath at the minimal contact.

In the distance, the two of you heard echoing murmurs, gruff voices of what sounded to be a pair of boisterous men. They were getting closer, and getting close fast. In a whirl of dark fabric, you found yourself pressed up against the wall, Bruce’s face mere inches from yours. His long cape draped over the both of you, blending seamlessly into the shadows.

It took you another second to realize that his entire body was slotted against yours. His scent warped around you and consumed you whole, an overwhelmingly nostalgic aroma of fresh mint and blueberries and something purely, entirely just Bruce. You inhaled sharply.

This close, you could see the thin flecks of pale green amongst his blue irises, the smudged mascara around his eyes, the small, faded scar on his jaw. You could—

Oh.

A lump formed in your throat. You could hear his heart beating—feel it—thundering against his ribcage, just above where yours was.

Heat spidered beneath your skin, crawling up your neck and flushing your cheeks. Bruce watched you with an indiscernible gaze, jaw set. Perhaps it was a trick of light, but you could’ve sworn you saw his pupils dilate, dipping towards your lips for a millisecond before flicking right back up to meet your heady stare.

Desperate for a distraction, you craned your neck, and caught sight of the two men passing by. You bit onto the inside of your cheek, swallowing down a tirade of curses when you saw that they both held guns. Of fucking course they did.

Another couple of minutes, and they turned the corner, speaking to each other loudly. Bruce stepped away from you then, still keeping his eyes trained on you.

They both have guns, you signed with your hands. Sign language was something the two of you learned together during your first year of dating—it was always handy in case of emergencies such as this.

Bruce cocked his head in understanding. Stay in the shadows, he signed back.

You nodded, and the two of you took off once more, skimming across the gravel so quickly that you were practically floating.

The two of you slowed to a halt in front of several wrecked train cars, rusted and filthy with neglect. You peered through the glass, noting a few guards milling in front of trucks on the opposite side. That must’ve been where the children were. Tilting your head to look further to the left, you caught sight of a row of children lined up against the wall to the side of the tunnel. Chains shackled their wrists and ankles together. They were entirely silent, which unnerved you more than anything.

You’ve done this a million times before. Why were you so nervous?

Ah, right. Maybe, just maybe, because last time, you got stabbed. Or maybe it was because the love of your life was right by your side—the man who was supposed to think that you were dead.

You bit down on your tongue in a fruitless effort to quell the nausea roiling about in the pits of your stomach.

With a gentle hand to Bruce’s shoulder, you signed, Six kids. Get them to safety. I’ll take the guards.

Not allowing him the chance to protest, you reached into your coat’s pocket and brandished two smoke grenades, your other hand sliding out a dagger. You leapt through the totaled train’s doors, before pulling the pins out with your teeth, chucking them amongst the lounging guards.

Shouts erupted as two large plumes of ashy white smoke encompassed the entirety of the tunnel. Silent as the night, you snuck up behind two guards, bashing their heads together hard enough to render them unconscious. Your dagger flipped in your hand as you knelt, sweeping around and stabbed another right in the leg, dragging the blade down the entire length of their shin. An ear-splitting scream ricocheted across the stone walls of the tunnel.

That was when the gunshots started ringing out. You were able to dodge them lithely, watching the trajectory of the amber sparks made by the ricocheting bullets and ducking away from its sweeping arc. You drove your dagger straight into the jugular of the guard with a gun, kicking him back until he fell into the gravel, gurgling incoherently through the blood flooding his mouth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bruce ushering the children through the wrecked train cars, towards the exit. Panic seized its dark hands around your heart as you spotted another guard—the last one in sight—pointing their gun towards Bruce.

You ripped your dagger out of the guard’s throat in no less than half a second, pulling your arm back to hurl it through the air. The blade embedded itself cleanly through the side of his head, the impact sending him crashing into the wall.

A breath of relief slipped your lungs, and you ran over to scoop the fallen gun up, shoving it into your belt.

Bruce had all the kids—it was time to go.

You dashed through the first set of doors into the train.

A deafening gunshot rang out to your right, and you dove down out of pure reflex.

But you were too late.

Searing pain blossomed over your chest, your stomach, your head—everywhere.

Children screaming.

Footsteps thundering.

The gravel beneath you—cold and sticky with your blood.

Bruce yelling your name, panic saturating every syllable.

The edges of your vision flickered with darkness.

Chest heaving—heaving—heaving—your breath leaving you—

Bruce… the children…

Oh, fuck. Everything hurt.

Your head throbbed angrily.

“Wake up, Y/N. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!”

Bruce’s voice was tightly interwoven with dread—bordering on hysteria as he knelt down over you, palm applying direct pressure to the bullet hole in your abdomen. A low moan fell from your lips at the searing agony that shot up your body.

As soon as your eyes dazedly cracked open, Bruce swore under his breath, mild relief seeping into his blown eyes. You’d only been down for no less than two seconds before he ripped his batarang from his armored chest, sending it arcing through the air to the last gunman, striking him down.

Not a single thing registered in your mind as Bruce swept you into his arms, carrying you down the tunnel and ushering the children along with gritted teeth and panic-laced words.

An overwhelming sense of terror still coursed through the very fibers of his being. He couldn’t lose you—not again.

“Bats, put me down,” you said, hoarsely. “Put me down.”

A protest was on the tip of his tongue, but the warning glare you sent him made him reluctantly comply, gently lowering you down to your feet. Your hand clutched his bicep for stability while the other still held pressure against your bullet wound. There were so many emotions coursing through him that he nearly felt dizzy with the overwhelming barrage of turmoil.

The two of you soon reached the end of the tunnel with half a dozen kids in front of you. Bruce herded them into the back seats of the Batmobile—it was a tight fit, but they were small and eager to leave. One of the little girls started crying as soon as she sat down on the leather seat of his car, and Bruce could feel his heart lurch with an ugly amalgamation of anger and concern.

He slid into the driver’s seat just as you slumped into the one next to him. A groan of pain left you as you began rifling through the car dash’s compartment, whipping out a roll of bandages and began winding it around your abdomen.

The car purred to life and in no less than half a minute, you were jetting off, leaving the dirty crime scene far behind.

Bruce’s eyes darted from the dark road to you, nearly bleeding out in the passenger’s seat. You were panting shallowly, head tilted back as you swallowed uneasily. Sweat beaded your forehead.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” he whispered.

“No,” you replied, a biting edge to your tone.

Bruce’s eyebrows drew together. “You have a fucking bullet in you.” His voice lowered, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I can’t lose you again.” The last bit was said softly, his voice cracking with raw hurt.

You shook your head, stubborn. Your voice was quiet enough so the trembling kids in the back wouldn’t be able to hear you. “Don’t take me to the hospital, Bru. It’ll ruin everything I’ve built the past few years. Nobody can know I’m still alive.”

There was a beat of hesitation. Bruce clenched his jaw so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure. “At least let me take you back home. Alfred can help you.”

You frowned but kept silent. Going back to the Wayne Mansion was less than desirable, but it was the best choice you had—the other being bleeding out to death in your rusty abandoned warehouse. Your nose twitched as you slowly shifted to look out the window.

The drive went by much quicker than expected, mostly because you were fading in and out of a pain-induced unconsciousness. When you cracked your eyes open again, your head was pounding angrily and your bullet wound pulsated hotly in tandem with the thick, languid beating of your heart. You could faintly make out Bruce in his Batsuit just outside of the car, leading the kids into a building.

Your gaze shifted upwards, a sigh of relief falling from your lips upon seeing the gotham orphanage sign. Bruce helped the woman at the door usher the children in, before handing her about a dozen fat wads of cash. The look on the woman’s face was priceless—mouth gaping and eyes misting over with unshed tears. His lips moved, but you couldn’t hear him from inside the car.

Once Bruce made sure the kids were safe inside, he nodded once to the woman, before turning back to the Batmobile.

He slid in smoothly, checking all the mirrors to make sure that nobody had followed you.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, quiet and uncertain.

“I’m alive,” you replied. “Could really use an Advil right now, though.”

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Think you need a bit more than an Advil.”

You couldn’t find it in you to reply, the edges of your vision darkening at a concerningly rapid pace.

“Hang on for me, baby,” Bruce whispered brokenly, his hand darting out to grasp your limp one as he drove to the Wayne Mansion, slamming down on the gas. “Hang on.”

The street lights began to expand into a million shards of light as your eyelids drooped.

Blinding, blinding, blinding.

And yet you could see everything. The blue of Bruce’s eyes that constantly glanced over at you. The trembling of his pale hand on the steering wheel. The tacky blood that meandered down your sides and pooled into the crevices of the leather seat.

All of a sudden—

It all went dark.

It’d been three years since you stepped foot in the Batcave.

Really, it was just a private underground railway beneath the Wayne Mansion, but it definitely wasn’t fit for its original use and you were sure at least a couple dozen bats made the dark tunnel their permanent home, thus its name.

Bruce carried you out the car and into his work station, worry woven between every muscle. He deposited you gently onto the table, just as the elevator door rattled open.

Alfred stepped out, and he immediately blanched upon seeing you, bleeding and teetering on the edge of death itself.

They exchanged a couple hurried words, but you couldn’t hear much. Everything was blurry.

A tear slipped down your cheek when Alfred made his way to you, his hand cupping your cheek. He had a medkit clutched in his hands, and he popped it open right beside your head.

“Hi, Al,” you murmured hoarsely. “Long time no see.”

“Hello, my dear,” he replied fondly, deathly calm. It might’ve been a trick of the dim lights, but you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes misting over with unshed tears. “Last I checked, you were dead.”

If you weren’t in so much pain, you would’ve laughed, and given him an easy shrug. “Plans changed, I guess.”

Mustering what little energy you had left in you, you turned to look at Bruce as Alfred began peeling your clothing back to start working on your wounds.

“Hey, Bru,” you whispered. Bruce’s lips twitched at the nickname. “If I don’t make it—”

“Don’t say that,” he gruffed.

His warning fell upon deaf ears and you spoke again, determined. “If I don’t make it, for real this time, just remember that I love you. And I’ve never stopped.”

Something in his chest broke, and a suffocating sob thundered within him. He clutched at your limp hands, whispering out your name just in time for you to hear before you let the darkness take you one last time.

The first thing you noticed when you came to was Bruce’s hand still holding tightly onto yours. The second thing was the fact that the pain in your abdomen was no longer unbearable, but instead subdued to a sharp ache.

Your gaze roamed around the room, and you dimly realized that you were in Bruce’s bed—the bed that the two of you had slept in together when you were together. He was asleep by the edge of the mattress, hunched over in a position that wasn’t at all good for his spine.

He still had the black eye makeup on, smudged and flaking off, dried bits of mascara on his cheeks. His hair was mussed, as if he had raked his fingers through several times.

When you shifted a bit on his expansive mattress, Bruce stirred awake, the blue of his eyes shifting from confusion to panic to relief in a matter of seconds.

“Hey,” you croaked. “Thanks for getting me here. And tell Alfred thanks for patching me up.”

“We nearly lost you,” Bruce replied hoarsely. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Alfred wasn’t sure if you were going to make it. There was so much blood.”

A pained smile stretched your lips thin. “Well, I’m alive. Sort of. How long was I out?”

“A couple hours,” he replied. He exhaled quietly, lowering his head. “I never stopped loving you, too. After all these years… I should be mad at you. I was, at first… but I’m not anymore. I’m just—glad. I’m glad you’re here.”

You blinked, tilting your head. Slow, you wrapped your wrist around his hand, gingerly moving it up to your lips. You kissed the back of his palm, and he cupped your face tenderly just as the familiar sensation of tears began stinging the corner of your eyes.

“Oh, Bru. I’m so sorry for causing you all this pain. I’m sorry.” You hiccupped, not wanting to dissolve into a mess of tears right in front of him. “I love you so much. I wanted to come back every day, I swear. I had to do it. I did it for you.”

A glimmer of pain warbled in the blue of his irises. “After you died… I was in a bad place. I nearly killed the Joker when I visited him in prison—I was this close. Gordon took me away before I could. From then I just… I lost myself without you. I spiraled. I was vengeance. Then the anger just sort of left and all I had left was just this… this ache. This hurt that never went away.”

A part of you was surprised he was opening up. It was as if the dam had cracked, and the water was spewing out and Bruce just couldn’t stop. He began to cry softly, the dark mascara meandering down his face once more and his hand shaking against your cheek. You could feel your heart crumbling through the bones of your ribcage, and you wanted nothing more than to hold him close to you.

“Please stay,” Bruce croaked. “I can’t lose you—not again. I can’t go through that again. Please don’t let me go through it again.” His forehead fell to the mattress right beside your hip as his hand fell away from your face and his body shook.

This was him begging, you realized in shock. He was begging you.

Helplessness placed its dark hands on your shoulders, and you were frozen for a second.

“Bru, baby, I—”

“Please don’t leave. You can fight crime undercover with me. Here. By my side. Please—I love you.”

Tentative, you reached over and gently ran your fingers through his overgrown hair. This seemed to quell his shaking just a bit. He stayed in that position for another minute before peering up at you.

“I’ll stay,” you said. “But we’re going to have to be careful. I can’t risk more people finding out I’m alive—and I can’t risk dragging you down with me. I need you to understand that if things go south, I’m leaving immediately—to protect you, Bru. And as long as you won’t hold me back from my own missions. We might’ve stopped one trafficking transfer tonight, but I have no doubt that there’ll be plenty more to come.”

For the first time in a very long time, Bruce smiled. It was a small one, the kind that twitched at the corner of his lips and wrinkled the corner of his mirthful, tear-glossed eyes.

He shifted upwards so he sat beside you on the bed, pressing a chaste, affectionate kiss to your forehead. His palm found its way back to your jaw, and he rested his temple against yours.

It’d been three long years since you kissed him.

You arched your neck just enough so his lips would meld over yours. A pained, broken noise fell from Bruce’s throat, and he surged forward, kissing you back with just as much vigor. He missed this. He missed you.

He avoided touching your stomach, afraid that he’d hurt you or rip the stitches of your wound. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Alfred how you’d managed to hurt yourself even more.

As he kissed you, your hands moved to grip his biceps, nails digging into his shirt. His nose bumped softly into yours and he could feel your radiant smile growing against his lips, utterly contagious. Your homely smell, the mesh of cinnamon and gentle lavender invaded his senses, and he nearly started sobbing again at the pure nostalgia from it all.

You were back. You came back to him.

“As lovely as this is,” you husked, voice lowered an octave, “I still need you to promise me you won’t hold me back. You’d be Batman and I’d be… a ghost.” It pleased Bruce immensely to see your chest heaving, and your pupils dilated as they shamelessly darted from his eyes to his lips.

“I promise,” he whispered against your lips in reply. Despite everything that had happened the past few days, he still trusted you to take care of yourself. A thrill shot through him when the cold engagement ring around your neck pressed flush against his chest. “How’d I be able to hold back a ghost, anyway?”

You smiled into him, before tugging him down for another kiss.

476 notes · View notes

suzdin · 7 months

Text

Two For One: Ch. 2

(Dave York x Max Phillips x f!reader)

Part One Here

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-vampire Max, pre-Equalizer 2 Dave, small age gap (unspecified), no use of y/n, some angst, mention of weapons, romance, some fluff, alcohol use, smut, graphic depictions of sex, rough sex, degradation, sadism, kinda dubcon, dom!Dave, spanking, fingering, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, anal

Notes: This is a Dave heavy chapter and Max is kind of an afterthought, sorry if you’re here because of him. He’ll make a larger appearance in the next chapter, I promise! 🤪

——

“Careful, it’s a bit heavy—“ you say as you pass your bag to Dave. “—there’s glass,” you add for good measure, Dave’s fingers brushing yours as he grabs at the straps to hoist it over his shoulder. You watch as your bottle of Smirnoff lists to one side, breath catching in your throat until it eventually tips back.

Ignoring the almost-fiasco of it crashing to the sidewalk, Dave eyes you up and down once he settles everything, which causes your cheeks to heat. “What are you in the mood for?” he asks, his eyes large and brown, reminding you almost comically of a baby cow.

“Um,” you answer awkwardly, not sure what to say. You don’t want to pick something on the pricier side, your impoverished upbringing screaming at you in your head. “I don’t really have a lot of money, so…there’s a Burger King around the corner?” you suggest.

Dave shakes his head in disagreement, his lips tilting into a smirk, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a way that makes him look soft. Inviting. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m paying.”

And herein lies a new dilemma: you don’t want him to assume you’re gouging him for money. It isn’t like the restaurants in your neighborhood are high class, but they certainly aren’t cheap, either.

“Oh, um, well…” you begin. “What are you in the mood for?” you ask, deflecting the question back to him.

Dave knows what you’re doing; you don’t want to choose something that might leave a bad taste in his mouth, literally and figuratively. He can’t help to admit it strokes his ego a little that you want to make a good first impression; he thinks that bodes well for him. He tries not to let his gaze linger longer than necessary.

He cants his head forward, gesturing for you to follow him. Together, the two of you start down the street.

“Well,” he begins, raising his eyebrows in contemplation. “There’s Italian straight ahead. An Irish pub called Quinn’s that has decent enough food across from that. Greek and Indian on Broadway…” he trails off idly, hoping any of those sound appetizing.

“Greek is good. I like Greek. Hummus actually sounds killer right about now,” you admit, your stomach grumbling audibly at the mention of food. You clutch at yourself as if that will stop it. “Sorry.”

He re-adjusts the bag on his shoulder and smiles over at you, pointedly ignoring your wailing stomach. It isn’t heavy, not really. Not for a big guy like Dave. “Mythos it is.”

——

The restaurant isn’t far. You walk, shoulder to shoulder, mostly in silence. Dave can’t stop thinking about you or the sounds you’d made for Max; his dick fighting with his brain, trying to keep himself in check now that he’s this close to you.

He clocks right away how different you are from Carol, who would have vetoed every restaurant in the city and then complained about being hungry later. Carol, whom he’d met at his church—back when he gave a shit about such things—only a few months before being sent away to the Marine Corps, so that he hastily rushed into a marriage that neither of them ended up being happy in.

Carol liked to present herself as a godly, Christian woman, though from Dave’s experience, he knew that to be far from the truth.

You, on the other hand, did not give off such vibes, the way you often slept in until noon on Sundays (when you didn’t happen to be working, that was), the somewhat revealing cut of your clothes, or the fact that you didn’t care enough to keep your debauchery stowed away, if the constant slew of alcohol and cigarettes had anything to say about that.

Not to mention how you allowed yourself to be manhandled in a public space with little to no concern of being discovered.

Would you let him drink with you later? he wonders.

Would you let him touch you? Fuck you?

As if on cue, you pull a cigarette loose from your purse. “Is this okay?” you ask as you draw it up to your lips.

There’s something in his eyes you can’t quite read.

“By all means,” he responds, and you let go of a breath. His eyes track the way your lips curl around the filter as you bring the lighter up; the way you cup your other hand to block the wind as you walk. He’s never been more jealous of a cigarette in his entire life.

“Want one?” you offer, assuming that’s why he’s staring.

“No, thanks,” he replies with a small laugh. “Gave them up years ago when I left the Marines.”

Marines? This guy couldn’t possibly be anymore different from Jonathan, you think.

Jonathan, the tortured artist. Jonathan, who once tried to make his own beer and failed horribly, which landed you in the ER several months ago. Jonathan, who dragged you from your home state all the way to Massachusetts, depleting your life savings, and now you don’t have enough money to get home.

He was your type, once. Maybe Dave is what you need.

Maybe Max is what you need, you ponder, a particularly brisk step reminding you of the soreness blooming between your legs.

You don’t need a relationship, you think. What you need right now is no-strings-attached sex, which is exactly what Max seems to be able to offer you.

Dave is cute, though. And seems nice. You can’t deny there’s something reticent about him, however. Something tucked away.

It fascinates you.

You’re about half done with the cigarette by the time you reach the restaurant. You snuff it out on the ground and cram the remainder back into your purse.

It’s a small, hole in the wall sort of place with outdoor seating off to one side, somewhat hidden from view of the street. The inside is intimately lit, and seems a touch cramped for your taste.

“Inside or outside?” Dave asks.

“Out, if that’s okay,” you reply. It’s a cool September evening, which means it will be pleasant enough to sit outdoors, unlike back home this time of year. It’s a nice night and you’d like to enjoy it a bit longer.

“Yeah. Of course.” He tries to quell his nerves when he notices how empty the patio is; were you trying to hint at something? he wonders.

You realize at the same time Dave does that the patio is devoid of other patrons, and you hope you didn’t give off the wrong impression, but it’s too late to say anything by the time he tells the host to seat you there.

The patio is situated between two buildings, adorned with standard metal grid outdoor tables and chairs, a few planter boxes flanking the walls, and string lights strewn above your heads. The host seats you by one of the tables nearest a wall and tells you someone will be by to take your order shortly.

“This is nice,” Dave says, taking time to pull out your chair for you before you sit. It stokes something in you; none of the men you’ve dated ever took such a simple gesture into consideration.

It probably shouldn’t, though. You barely know him.

You shuffle uncomfortably under the table. It’s been a long time since you’ve been on a date, if that was in fact what this was, and you aren’t really sure how to feel about it; how to act and what to say.

“So, where are you from?” he asks, breaking the ice for you.

He is, of course, only making small talk out of formality; he already knows where you’re from. All the places you’ve lived, the jobs you’ve had, your relatives, your financial situation. Social media links. By simply finding out your name and knowing where you work, he was able to obtain more information about you in hours than he had in months of watching you.

It wasn’t enough. He needed to know more.

“Texas,” you answer. The waitress is here now, and she takes your drink orders. Dave orders a Diet Coke and you start to order a water—your go to because it’s free—but change your mind at the last second and order the same thing.

“Be right back with your drinks,” she speaks in what you assume is a Greek accent. You mumble a polite thank you out of habit.

“How about you?” Your turn to ask now.

“Baltimore. Parents were in the FBI, so we stayed close to D.C. for a reason,” he replies with a smile. You make a face of admiration because you don’t know how else to respond to that.

“Wow,” you say as a placeholder. “The FBI? Impressive.”

He preens and shakes his head with a small laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”

And then you settle into another drawn out silence. It should feel jarring, but to you, it’s a reprieve. You were never good at carrying a conversation. You start looking over the menu to fill the time, even though you already know what you’re getting.

“So. You want hummus, right? I’ll order some when she comes back,” Dave says.

“I’m getting that as my meal,” you state and it’s true. You would normally get an entree if you were just eating alone and save it for later, but you’re being polite. Besides, you’re really jonesing for some hummus right now.

“You sure?” he asks. “You can get anything you want.”

“I know. Thank you. But I— the hummus sounds good,” you reiterate. He concedes, brushing a hand through his sweat damp hair.

“Dolmas, then,” he suggests, pointing it out on the menu. Your menu, in fact, so that his arm briefly comes into contact with yours.

“Yeah. That sounds nice,” you agree quietly.

He can’t stop himself from smiling at you. You’re so kind. So polite. So shy. Everything that Carol isn’t.

He almost couldn’t believe what you’d let Max do to you. The sinful noises you’d made as a result.

Your duality captivates him. Not unlike yourself, he has his own duality.

He’s already growing stiff under the table. He can’t help it. He wishes you would make the same noises for him.

The waitress comes back a few minutes later with the drinks and takes your orders. “It will be out shortly,” she says when she’s done, tapping her pen against the ticket book as she strides away.

Dave starts asking you about your family. He already knows, of course. But he wants to hear you say it, perhaps to elaborate the details, see how much you’re willing to open up. He nods along patiently as you talk about your sick grandmother and how your mom takes care of her full-time. That you send money to them every once in a while, which is just one other thing that keeps you from saving, although you omit that last part.

You briefly touch on the subject of your brother—your only sibling—and how he’s been in and out of jail and rehab for years, but you don’t expound on that more than necessary.

Dave knows everything so he only lets you tell him what you’re comfortable sharing. He knows about the armed robberies, and that when you say jail, what you really mean is prison.

He notices how disquieted talking about your brother makes you. He’s overcome with the urge to kiss you, again. Take away the hurt. He settles on gently squeezing your shoulder instead. You don’t cringe away this time. He lets his hand dally a touch too long, perhaps, but you don’t say anything.

The dolmas come out a few minutes later. You admit to Dave you’ve never had them before, but after trying the first one, you’re hooked. They’re earthy, lemony and savory; everything you would expect and more.

“Glad you’re enjoying them,” Dave says affectionately. “They’re my favorite.”

You start to relax, a little. But you’re still mostly a bundle of raw nerves and when staff is out of view, you bend over to dig in your grocery bag to retrieve the vodka. It’s been such a long—and bizarre—day. It cannot be helped how you’re feeling or that you need relief.

You don’t catch Dave’s eyes on the droop of your chest as you bend…or the way he licks his lips salaciously, imagining how your nipples would taste against his tongue.

“Would you like any?” you query as you unscrew the top and dump what looks about a shot’s worth into your soda, swirling it with your straw.

Dave should say no. Lord knows he can barely contain himself as it is, stone cold sober.

But like most things having to do with you, he can’t resist, so he doesn’t. You pour some of the clear liquid into his cup.

And it continues like that for a while; adding another shot after every refill, halfway to being drunk by the time your food arrives, your anxiety dissipating with every drop of alcohol in your bloodstream.

Dave’s little touches grow more frequent, as well. Your hands and arms, your nearest shoulder, your knees. A few times, he has to stop himself from gripping your knees to spread them apart for him. It’s been a while since he’s been drunk; you’re probably handling it better than he is.

“What about you, then? Tell me about your family,” you pry, adding another shot to each of your cups.

Dave tells you about his parents, his siblings—one brother and one sister, both older. One lives in Rhode Island and the other in Florida. He says he doesn’t see them as often as he’d like.

“What do you do for work?” you question.

“I’m retired from the CIA,” he answers honestly, pointedly leaving out the part where he still acts as a consultant from time to time. He does not elaborate more than that.

Your eyes go wide, your brows shooting up your forehead. Dave must be the most decorated person you know. “CIA? This isn’t a situation where you have to kill me now that you’ve told me, right?” you ask playfully, and Dave laughs, his fingers grazing your hand.

“I’ll just pretend I didn’t,” he says around a laugh. You melt into a soft smile and he almost grabs you. Almost drags your mouth to his.

His control is waning by the minute.

“What brought you to Boston, anyway?” he finally asks. He knows already, of course, but he wants your side of it.

You’d been avoiding the subject, but the words flow easier now that you’re inebriated. You tell him about Jonathan; how you’d met online, fell in love—or so you thought—moved halfway across the country for him, only for him to leave you for another woman. Your cheeks shade red with anger.

You clock how hard Dave’s face gets while you’re recounting everything. It’s sort of amazing how swiftly his visage shifts from light to dark in the span of mere seconds. It’s unsettling in its own right, really, so you wave your hand dismissively, in order to change the subject.

“What about you? What brought you to Boston?”

He shifts back in his chair, knee brushing yours and bumping it aside ever so slightly. But he isn’t listening, his bubbling thoughts like a dull roar between his ears; he’s thinking of all the ways he would torture Jonathan before killing him. He’d killed many men, both for the Marines and the CIA. He enjoyed it. Got off on it. So what’s a little more blood in his ledger, in the shape of two men named Max and Jonathan?

He would kill them both as soon as he got the chance. The first in years.

“Dave? You okay?” you ask, placing a tentative hand on top of his where it grips the edge of the table, your thumb skimming the hills and valleys of his knuckles. His gaze snaps to yours, and he recognizes the worry in your eyes. You’re worried about him. It’s been a long time since anyone has worried about him.

That small reciprocative touch from you is all it takes to provoke him, drunk as he is. His opposite hand moves suddenly to your throat, then to the nape of your neck, and he pulls you into him, mouth crashing against yours, needy and messy, all teeth and lips until you open your mouth to him and he’s laving at you with broad strokes of his tongue.

You taste like vodka and heaven.

He swallows your whimper as it works its way up from the depths of your throat; as much as you can’t believe you’re kissing a man you’ve only just officially met, you’re impervious to stop him. This is exactly what you were wanting, what you were needing earlier, with Max. That intimacy, that connection, that Max had denied you. That Dave is offering freely. It’s what you wanted so badly and you only stop when Dave does, pulling apart from you to catch his breath, panting against each other’s lips.

You swipe your tongue against his bottom lip after a few moments, enticing him to return, and he takes advantage of the invitation with a deep groan, prodding his tongue hungrily into your mouth. He palms himself over his shorts as he does so—he can’t help it. You drive him fucking crazy.

You’re letting him touch you. He cannot believe you’re letting him. He wonders how much farther he could go.

His hand moves to your chest, curling lightly against the rise of your upper breast, skirting, testing. When you don’t object, he moves lower, gently cupping you from underneath, cradling the weight in his hand. He grunts into your mouth, dragging his thumb up to circle the stem of your nipple. Might as well go for it as long as you seem receptive.

You pull apart, panting hard, lust-drunk and intoxicated. His hand doesn’t move from your breast, his thumb deftly doing laps around the circumference of your stiffened peak, and it feels better than you could have ever imagined, your head draping over the back of the chair.

You need to know how his thumb would feel circling the bundle of nerves between your legs. You know how fucked it is, how fast everything is moving between the two of you, but you find yourself unable to give a shit after the year you’ve had.

You take his hand and move it down to the cradle of your lap as your legs splay wide for him. He cups your heat with his hand, wrist cocked, completely swallowing you in its mass.

His eyes go impossibly dark. Almost unreadable. His lips pull tight, and you think you see the promise of a smirk there, but you can’t be too sure. His brow is furrowed into a heavy line, lending him a feral—almost dangerous—appearance. And he absolutely is, right now—he’d wanted you for so long and he finally has you. Target acquired. God help anyone who might try to take you from him.

His hand doesn’t move right away and you almost think you’ve offended him. You start to cant your hips, seeking friction, and he stills you with the other hand, wide palm holding you in place against the chair.

The thin bike shorts don’t leave much to the imagination; he can feel your soft folds against his fingers and the dampness that is already creeping through. He starts to stroke with his fore and middle fingers along your seam, his thumb firmly pressed to your clothed clit, rolling tight circles.

It’s all so much that you would buck into his hand if he wasn’t holding you down. You mewl pathetically in his wake, and you’re certain you do see his lips curving into a grin now.

You feel like a rabbit locked in the jaws of a wolf.

“Feels so pretty for me,” Dave murmurs against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours as he holds your gaze in his. “What else would you let me do to you, huh?”

You swallow. Your heart is slamming in your chest. The hero facade from earlier is gone and the real Dave is now bared right in front of you.

“Whatever you want,” you respond in a shaky breath. You’re scared of him, but you kind of like it. The fear consuming you is enrapturing.

“That’s a dangerous proposition,” Dave tuts, tongue clicking between his teeth. Thumb continuously circling your sensitive nub.

A moan slips free and you find it nearly impossible to stay in one spot, even in his clutches. He eventually resigns himself and lets go, hand coming up to squeeze just under your jaw.

“Would you let me put a finger in you? Right here?” he rumbles lowly, his voice deep, dark. It almost doesn’t sound like a question, coming from him.

You already know the answer to such a devious question. You’d let Max almost do the same, after all, and you don’t even like Max.

“Yes,” you admit. “Yes…please.”

“Fucking filthy.” His eyes shine and his lips curl into a wicked smile. Carol would have never agreed to something like that; as if he hadn’t asked on multiple occasions. But that never stopped her from fucking a neighbor at a Christmas party several years ago.

The ache in his cock is burgeoning on painful. His grip under your chin tightens; still very much controlled, but enough to get his point across. “Grab my cock.”

Your breath catches. He leans in to kiss you again, your fingers skating along the inner plane of his thigh, snaking into the opening of his shorts. You find his stiffened member readily, lacing your fingers around the ample girth and stroking it along the ridges of your palm, slowing down when you reach the head. Precum leaks down your wrist. He’s warm and hard as steel and feels amazing. He grunts into your mouth, hips rolling forward, chasing your touch.

“Fuck,” he whispers. He’s spent so long dreaming of this exact scenario that now that it’s happening, it’s too much. Too much and not enough all at once. He breathes headily into your mouth, sucking and biting at your lips. He wonders if you’d suck him off under the table; he knows from listening to you earlier that Max hadn’t claimed your mouth. He wanted to be the one to claim that before Max, spill himself down your throat and mark you from the inside out.

It’s so much that he won’t last long if you keep touching him like that, your soft warm hand doing slow, rounded strokes on his cock. He stills your hand and you exchange a glance.

“Lean back, sweetheart.” His words go straight to your core. Max had also called you that, but the cadence was different, more derivative. Dave’s movements are deliberate and controlled, unlike Max’s more chaotic approach. Cold and calculating; yet something in the low pitch of his voice makes you want to trust him.

You lean against the chair, hips sliding forward. Dave wets two fingers against his tongue and, resuming the onslaught of his mouth on yours, pulls back the band of your skin tight shorts to slip the other hand inside.

Your head lolls back against the chair and your eyes flutter shut. Your head swims; what is wrong with you? The waitress could come back to find Dave knuckles deep inside of you at any second.

But that’s part of the allure.

His hand dips lower, skimming the soft curls of your mound, tracing your shape. He’s only inches away from discovering your drenched and waiting hole when a new sound penetrates the fog of your mind. It takes a moment for understanding to settle over you, and then hits you abruptly: someone is clearing their throat.

Your eyes snap open and Dave yanks his hand back so hard he elbows the arm of the chair, a quiet hiss escaping from his lips as he tries to downplay the hurt. You look up to see the waitress peering down at you.

“I was going to ask if you wanted dessert, but seems you’ve already started,” she points out. She looks more amused than angry, but it doesn’t stop the shame that blooms hot in your cheeks at being so careless.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her softly.

“Just the check,” Dave says, doing his best to feign innocence. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Thanks.”

You both burst into laughter like a pair of teenagers as soon as she’s out of earshot. You look down at your half eaten plate of hummus and pitas. “Shit, I should have asked for a box too,” you say, acting as though you didn’t just have hands down the other’s pants. He chuckles, brushing a hand through short, dark hair.

“Yeah, guess so.” His mouth hooks into a crooked smirk.

The air of the moment is gone as you fall into a silence that is more comfortable than the one before, his hand lingering on your knee, thumb circling your kneecap as a gentle reminder.

The waitress returns and she is a saint. Not only has she brought the check, she’s also brought boxes for your leftovers and something in a smaller to-go box. “Baklava, for after,” she says, giving you a knowing wink. You blush. “On the house.”

Dave pays the check and leaves a generous tip as quickly as he is able to do so.

——

Dave’s hands are all over you the entire way home.

Not in a gratuitous way; he’s learned his lesson there. But that doesn’t stop him from sliding his fingers up and down your back as you walk together, or the way his hand curls taut around your hip and ass to pull you in close to nip at your neck. You giggle and playfully try to fend him off, but it does very little to dissuade him, of which you don’t mind.

He’s grateful he chose to wear loose fitting shorts to jog in today. Anything tighter and it would leave very little to the imagination. He’s sure he’s showing enough already, but he can’t be arsed enough to care, or help how deranged you make him feel. He would have taken you at the restaurant, if you had let him. If the two of you could have gotten away with it.

You arrive at the passage between your buildings after what seems like an eternity of walking. You feel his fingers dig a little harder into your backside as soon as you round the corner, and then he’s turning you, pressing your back flush against his building the same way Max had done to you earlier against yours. The similarities between both men is eerie.

His mouth finds your neck and he sucks a line of red marks down to your shoulder, leaving behind a trail of hickies that won’t be going anyway anytime soon, but you’re too fucked out already to mind.

“My place or yours?” Dave asks. His pelvis crowds into you, erection grinding at your center, the thin fabrics of your outfits a blessing as you feel every hard press of him into you.

“Yours,” you mutter without a second thought. You don’t know if you could handle two men in your space in a single day. You’d barely had time to gather your thoughts from earlier, much less clean up after yourself.

If only you knew what Dave knows. What he did.

Dave pulls away from you, one hand circling your wrist as he drags you with him, the other digging into his pocket to retrieve the keycard from his wallet. You need the same for your building, he thinks. Safer that way, less chance of being tampered with, and he would be able to rest easier.

He readjusts the grocery bag on his shoulder as he slides the keycard into the lock and pushes the door open. “After you,” he says, motioning ahead. You do as he asks, stepping over the threshold and into the building, Dave following at your heels.

His building is nicer than yours, a little more modern and kept up. A bank of mail boxes sits off to your right, a seating area to the left. There’s a staircase directly in front of you and an elevator beyond that. He gestures you up the stairs.

“I’m just on the second floor, last door on the left,” he instructs, and you dutifully begin your ascent, slowly, as you’re still more than just slightly tipsy.

Dave falls in line behind you. A moment later, you feel his hands spanning the width of your ass, kneading your flesh against his palms, landing a soft smack to your right cheek; just hard enough to let you know that he’s there and what he’s about to do to you.

“I’ve thought about this ass a lot,” Dave says in a low pitch, “Feels just as nice as I imagined it would.”

You reach the landing and make your way down the narrow corridor until you reach a door with 2A emblazoned on it, canting your eyes towards Dave for conformation. He nods and you step aside as he moves to unlock the door.

The interior of Dave’s apartment is larger than your own. It has an actual bedroom, for one. It’s also more tidy—there isn’t a lot of furniture, very few personal items, which means less clutter. No pictures hung on the walls. Just the bare necessities. A man’s apartment.

Dave puts your bag on the kitchen counter and he’s on you before you can even slide your purse off, removing the burdensome item for you, tossing it thoughtlessly behind him to join the other. His lips crash into yours, needy and desperate, tongue licking into your mouth as his hands roam over your chest to cup both breasts.

You feel better than he could have ever imagined. Like your body was made just for him, the way it slots perfectly against his own.

You make a chirp of surprise as he scoops you up with a low growl, one arm across your back and the other in the bend of your knees as he carries you to the bedroom down the hall. His mouth doesn’t relent, sucking and biting at your lips, your jaw.

“Going to ruin you tonight,” he moans against your mouth.

He puts you down on the edge of the bed when you make it to the bedroom. It’s just as sparse of the rest of the apartment, with plain black sheets and a plain black comforter. At least the bed isn’t made up; that makes you feel a little better about how you live.

He crouches in front of you, large brown eyes darkening a shade as he studies your face. Hands gripping your thighs.

“Just so you know, darling, I don’t play nice,” he forewarns, hands sliding down your legs to stroke your bare calves. Going off of what he heard earlier, he’s sure that won’t be a problem. “Before we start, is there anything off the table?”

You consider his question for a moment, thoughtfully biting your lip. “Yes. I’m not on birth control, so…” you trail off with a nervous giggle. Your condoms are of no use back at your apartment.

His jaw clenches. Of course he doesn’t have any condoms either, as he hasn’t had a need for them in quite some time. He supposes he understands. It isn’t like he needs more kids, anyway.

“Guess I have to cum in one of your other holes, then,” he muses, squeezing and kneading your calves. His hands are large and warm and they feel fucking amazing. “If at any point you want me to stop, you say ‘foxglove’. Otherwise, I assume anything goes. Clear?”

“Clear,” you confirm, inclining your head in a small nod, a tremor slithering its way through you as you consider the possibilities.

Dave’s expression hardens as a hand lifts to your face, landing a smack across your cheek just hard enough to sting but not hurt. Not yet.

“Tell me what you say if it’s too much. I need to hear you say it,” his voice dark and heavy.

“Foxglove. The safe word…is foxglove.”

One corner of his mouth slants upwards into a smirk, his eyes remaining dark. Glassy. “Atta girl,” he says with a wink.

He begins removing your clothing, yanking and manipulating the fabric free from your form until you’re completely nude, your skin pebbling as cool air rushes over you. His gaze traverses your curves, drinking you in with his eyes as he licks his lips hungrily. He can see bruises forming where Max’s fingers gripped you, where they dug in. He surprises himself when it only serves to further turn him on, the head of his dick beading with precum as he pictures how Max must have fucked you. Part of him wishes he had been able to see it for himself.

He slaps you again, harder this time, hand moving to your throat to shove you down until your back makes contact with the mattress, a small gasp rushing out of you. Moving from the floor to the bed, he seats himself at your side, grabbing one of your knees to spread you open.

He drags a finger along your soaked seam, revering how wet you already are for him, how easily the tip of his finger slips inside. “Fuck, is this just for me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. You nod in response. “Fuckin’ slut.”

He sinks his finger to the last knuckle, pumping a few times, adding a second a moment later. You mewl and writhe underneath him, craving more friction between your legs.

“Just fuck me, Dave, please. Want your cock in me.”

He chuckles, balls pulsing in response to your words as he removes his fingers from your dripping heat. “My cock, pretty girl?” he purrs. “Who’s calling the shots here?” he asks you, pinching and twisting one of your nipples as retribution. The pain makes you cry out, tears stinging your eyes, your back arching.

When you don’t answer, he repeats himself, tugging harder this time. “Who?” he snarls.

“Y-you! You!” you whine, moving your hand over your breast to soothe the hurt, but Dave knocks it back, pinning it to the bed.

“Don’t move your hands. I mean it.”

Your body trembles. This isn’t the mild mannered Dave from earlier; the juxtaposition absolutely terrifies you and it’s fucked how much you like it.

“You,” you repeat for good measure. “You do.”

Dave beams down at you, caressing your cheek. “Good girl.”

His fingers move to curve inside of you, adding a third this time, splitting you open for him. You keen at the sting of being stretched around his knuckles, hips instinctively bucking against him. You whimper when his palm bumps your clit.

He stills you with his opposite hand and you flinch, anticipating more retaliation.

“Easy,” he soothes, flattening his palm against your hip as he strokes. “I got you.”

His fingers pump lazily through your slick, sinking to the hilt, allowing himself to feel every ridge and ripple of your tunnel. Memorizing it. You’re so wet for him; he still can’t believe that you’re letting him do this. How did he get so lucky?

He fishes his phone from his pocket in a moment of insight; he doesn’t want to take any chances in case you never let him do this again. His eyes move to your face as he does so, awaiting any kind of objection, only to continue when he finds there is none. You watch with curiosity from your perspective as he flicks open the camera app and begins to film, training the lens where his fingers are currently disappearing inside of you.

It goes on for several minutes like that, Dave filming as he fucks you with his fingers, the wet squelch of his digits driving into you paired with the accompanying sounds of your gradually building pleasure more than a little gratuitous, as if it was straight from a porno.

He can tell by the way your inner walls are tightening that you’re getting close. He wants to get you off before he does, prepare you for the inevitable stretch of him so he can properly ruin you on his cock.

He passes the phone to you now, scooting higher up on the bed. You watch him through the phone screen and realize he’s still completely clothed, the lewd bulge of his erection more than obvious even through the phone. As if on cue, he palms himself before settling in next to you.

He nibbles down the rise of your shoulder, trailing to your breast, leaving small suckling bites until his mouth reaches the hard peak of your nipple. His tongue laves over it, circling it, sucking it into his mouth and taking it between his teeth. It sends a shockwave of pain through you, your cunt clenching down on Dave’s fingers, momentarily blinded by your pleasure.

You do as best you can to capture everything on camera, but there’s so much going on, your brain so swimmy you can barely see straight.

“Mmf,” he groans against the stiffened bud. “Doing so well already,” he praises.

His teeth move to the pillowy flesh of your outer breast, biting down harder than you would have imagined he would—to the point of nearly drawing blood—another lance of pain shooting through you with a strangled cry. It’s at that moment an orgasm unexpectedly washes over you, taking you by complete surprise as you scream Dave’s name loud enough for the entire building to hear.

His cock pulses with the need to be buried in your dark, wet heat as he rides out the ebbs and flows of your ecstasy, hand still fucking into you, harder and faster than before, and before you even realize what’s happening, a second orgasm surges through you like an arc of lightning on the tail end of the first, your vision pulling white for what seems like a lifetime.

“Fuck,” you mewl, your voice almost a sob. “Fuck, Dave.”

He keeps pumping until the aftershocks of your back to back orgasms starts to be too much, burgeoning on painful, and you plead for him to stop, grabbing at his wrist without giving it much thought.

“You know what to say if you want me to stop.” His face contorts into a wicked sneer. “I like when you tell me no.”

You let out a sigh of relief when you get a brief reprieve from the overstimulation as he pulls his fingers out of you, leaning forward to force your mouth open with his fingers. “Clean them off. Taste yourself. Taste what I did to you.”

You do your best to turn the camera to your face as you suck obediently, tasting a mixture of yourself and the salt of his skin, murmuring low in your throat as your eyes move to examine his face. He’s drunk on lust and on you, slack-jawed, dark eyes shimmering with dubiousness. Somehow, if it’s possible, it makes you even wetter than before.

When he removes his hand, a string of saliva connects your mouth to the tip of his middle finger, which you most definitely capture on the camera.

“My turn,” he says, sliding into a stand, removing his shirt and letting it join yours on the floor. The first thing you notice are his shoulders, endlessly broad and well defined, flexing with every movement. You’re unable to pull your attention away from the vastness of them until he’s kneeling again, grabbing you by the hips and pulling your ass to hang over the edge of the bed.

His face is buried between the juncture of your thighs a moment later, arched Roman nose nudging your overly sensitive bundle of nerves. His tongue dips to penetrate you, lips forming a tight seal around your entrance as his tongue scrubs at your inner walls, groaning deep in his throat as he tastes you for the first time.

“Taste so fucking good, baby,” he moans against your folds. “Best I’ve ever tasted.”

“No, Dave, stop,” you beg, weakly pushing at one of his shoulders with your free hand, so overstimulated it hurts. Between him and Max, they’ve already done a number on you today, and Dave hasn’t even properly fucked you yet. Your words don’t make Dave stall, however; if anything, he speeds up.

You know what to say if you want me to stop. His words echo in your mind as a single teardrop clings to your waterline. You could just say it, foxglove—a type of poisonous flower, aptly fitting—and you’re certain he would stop. But you’re willing to see how far you’re able to go, how much you can take, the word fading away behind your lips along with your considerations.

“Stop,” you whimper to spur him on, intentionally antagonizing him now, and he growls, animalistic, heady, unrelenting as he grazes his teeth over your sensitive nub, making you cry out before returning to his previous task of eating you out like a man starved.

It isn’t long before he drags a third orgasm out of you, your hips bucking completely off the bed to chase the fleeting stimulation, his name a chant on your tongue. Your fingers curl into the sheets to anchor yourself.

Dave falls back on his calves, chest heaving as he takes a moment to collect his breath, likewise allowing you to catch yours.

He runs a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat that wants to fall. He often stopped using his air conditioning after summer, and he’s feeling the effects now as perspiration beads up and rolls down his back.

“Are you ready for my cock?” he asks, his face cast in shadow, lending him an insidious appearance. It makes you shiver.

“Yes. Need your cock in me,” you whine, knowing how sore you’ll be after this, how sore you are now. You can’t find yourself able to care.

Dave rises, one hand on his hip, cock pulsing and leaking with arousal at the chance to fully bury himself in you. He goes over to the side of the bed, hauling you up the rest of the way by your arm, which makes you yelp.

He takes the phone from you and places it on the nightstand, angling it so that it faces the bed. You aren’t sure how much you were able to capture with his head between your legs, so you’re happy to be relieved of film maker duty.

He’s on top of you an instant later, shorts somehow shed in a frenzy of movement, lining himself up at your entrance and then pushing inside in one smooth, devastating go. His head rocking back to slump against his shoulders at how amazing you feel, how tight you are for him despite being with Max, how subservient you’ve been and how well you’re taking him. It takes every fiber of his being not to offload into you on the first thrust.

His hands lace around your throat as he begins to pump, squeezing into the meat of your neck. “Look at me,” he snarls.

You look up at him, brown eyes shifted to black, a dark band of shadow covering his visage, making him seem that much more sinister. He isn’t fully railing into you yet, but he isn’t exactly going easy on you, either, every thrust into you more tender than the previous.

“Open your mouth for me like the whore you are,” Dave commands, tightening his grip until the edges of the room start to blot away. “And stick out your tongue.”

Your lips part and you curl your tongue outward, thinking you know what’s coming, but still being taken aback when you feel a thick glob of saliva land directly onto your waiting tongue. You don’t give him a chance to tell you to swallow; you do it on your own, opening wider for more.

“Does my little slut want seconds?” Dave asks, and you nod. He smirks, spitting directly into your mouth again, watching intently as you swallow. “Filthy. Should make you eat my cum, too.”

You nod in wanton agreement, but you’re unable to speak with his massive hands digging into your windpipe as they are. The flash in his gaze tells you his understanding, though, and he starts fucking you harder, instructing you to lift your legs so he can slam into you as deep as he possibly can, the head of his dick knocking at the delicate spongy area at the back of your tunnel.

And then a fourth orgasm rolls over you, vision fading away momentarily as your head rocks back against the pillow, choked cry clawing its way out of your throat.

You aren’t sure how much more you can take, which Dave must admit is more than he expected you to. Your body is numb and your head is pounding; you hope for your sake he cums soon.

He loosens his hold on your neck, and you’re able to breathe again, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath him as you catch up. He taps the side of your face, softly, almost affectionate in comparison to how hard he slapped you before. Then he pulls out of you, wrapping his hand around his thick cock, slowly pumping himself with your slick and cum.

“Maybe I won’t spill into that pretty little whore mouth of yours,” he muses. “Maybe I should take your tight little asshole instead.”

Your heart palpitates faster, eyes going wide. You’ve never done anal more than just a finger or two and Dave is so girthy—the idea gives you pause, admittedly.

Dave expects you to say no. Like, actually say no, this time. The veins running the length of his shaft pulsing as he imagines how your ass would feel sheathed on his cock, but he isn’t pressing the issue, so he’s more than pleasantly shocked when you don’t abstain.

“Okay,” you mumble, hardly above a whisper. “Need you to fuck my ass, Dave.” You look up at him through your lashes and it stirs something primal in him, hearing those words come from your sweet mouth.

He wastes no time in flipping you over, pulling you up to your knees as he notches himself at your star of muscle.

“Have you ever done it before?”

“N-never, no. Just fingers,” you admit, biting back your trepidation.

“I’ll start off slow, then. Get you nice and stretched out. But I won’t be able to control myself for long, knowing I’m the first one who gets to claim your ass. I won’t go easy on you after that point.”

You swallow and nod. The alcohol will definitely help to loosen things up, but you aren’t sure how much.

Dave tilts your hips up, spreading your cheeks to spit directly onto the ring of muscle. He slips a thumb inside, pumping it easily a few times, groaning at how you squeeze him.

“So tight,” he growls. “Going to feel so fucking good.”

He slides his thumb out and spits again, first at your entrance and then into his palm, smearing the cocktail of saliva, slick and precum over himself. He grips your cheeks and spreads you open as wide as possible, positioning his head between them.

He starts to push slowly inward, the initial stretch painful, your vision temporarily reduced to nothing, tears stinging your eyes. It’s so much. He’s so much.

In spite of yourself, you do your best to relax, regulating your breathing and slackening your muscles. It seems to help as he claims another inch of you with a throaty reverberation. “Doing great, baby.”

You moan, an amalgamation of pleasure and pain when he pushes in about halfway, filling you in ways you never could have imagined. He pumps his hips languidly as he continues to gain ground, parting you slowly around his length, molding you into a desired shape for him, until he eventually bottoms out with a visceral groan.

“Fuck,” he pants. “So fucking perfect.”

He holds there a moment, relishing how fucking amazing you feel strangling his cock, knowing it won’t take much from this point to send him hurtling over the edge; he’ll have to make sure it counts.

He ruts into you a few times, gingerly, opening you further to ensure you have ample time to mentally prepare for the impending onslaught.

“How does it feel?” he asks, kneading your hips under his hands.

“G-good, so f-far,” you reply. “Okay.”

“That’s too bad,” Dave tuts. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we, darling?”

He plants a hard smack to your ass, causing you to arch involuntarily with a high keening yelp, rocking you back into him as a dagger of pain courses through you. Dave grunts, snapping his hips into you, and you yelp again.

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it.”

He flattens his palm over where he made contact to soothe the hurt, but before you can settle he strikes you again, harder than before, gripping your hips with enough force to bruise as he begins riding you rough and frenzied, bucking his hips against yours.

His hand snakes around to your front and finds your swollen and overworked clit, administering quick tight circles to the delicate bud. Your initial instinct is to push him away, tell him to stop, and you do. You cry out for him to stop, because it’s so much, he’s so much, forgetting in your haste that it only spurs him on, makes him want you more. And it’s so much that he’s literally fucking you senseless, unable to breathe or even think.

Despite everything, that familiar tickle begins to build low in your abdomen again, the noises you make with every thrust inhuman and supplicant. You want him to stop but you don’t. You don’t know how much more you can withstand but at the same time want him to use you all night.

Dave rumbles from the depths of his chest, completely feral as he ruts into your ass, the noises you’re making driving him to the brink of insanity, the same ones you’d made earlier for Max. And he can feel his climax building, listening to your salacious inhuman noises, envisioning Max fucking you in your apartment and how much you’d fallen apart for him. And subsequently four times so far with himself.

“Whose ass is this?” Dave snarls, spanking you again, leaving an imprint of his hand behind.

“Yours, Dave, yours!” you cry.

“That’s right. No one else’s. Just mine. All mine,” he grunts. “Cum for me, baby. Need you to cum as I rail your ass.”

“I can’t, Dave, it’s so much…” you whine. Everything is disorientating. You’re glad you have tomorrow off because you aren’t certain you’ll be able to walk after this.

“Yes you can. Cum for me. Last one.”

He flicks the pads of his middle and index fingers over your clit, and when you think it isn’t going to be possible, another orgasm burns through you like a powder keg, your walls clamping down around nothing as Dave spears himself repeatedly into you. You see stars, crying out his name as your arms give out beneath you, the upper half of your body slumping into the bed.

Dave snaps his hips once, twice, three times more and then he’s cumming hard with a deep, animalistic snarl, pumping himself deep as he uses you to milk every last drop of himself.

He eventually slows to a halt, both of you panting hard, covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, your bodies like jello as you sink in tandem to the mattress below. Dave pulls out of you, rolling onto his back as he pants up at the ceiling.

He takes a moment to catch his breath and bearings before he scoots off the bed, checking to make sure you’re okay as he turns off the camera on his phone and then heads to the small en suite bathroom, the only one in the apartment. He starts the warm tap and retrieves a wash rag from the basket he keeps by the sink, running it under the water until it’s pleasantly warm.

He returns to you a moment later to find you already halfway to dozing, looking at him through sleepy, half-lidded eyes. It stokes something in the cold cockles of his heart seeing you like this, running an affectionate hand up the back of your thigh as he approaches you. “Here, open up.”

You hardly have any cognition left, yet you somehow manage to comprehend, spreading to allow him to clean you. The warmth of the rag is relieving against your sore and tender parts, and when he feels you’ve been sufficiently looked over, he seats himself next to you, brushing your hair from your eyes.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Mmhm,” you manage weakly, unable to keep your eyes open now. “Jus’ tired.”

“Rest,” Dave says, stroking along the edge of your jaw with his thumb. “You’ve earned it.”

He watches you a moment longer as you drift off, leaving your side only when he’s sufficiently sated on the image of you in his bed to go clean himself up in the bathroom. While he’s in there, he can’t help but think that being able to fuck you should have scratched that itch, scratched it enough that he could move past you, but now that he’s had you—he feels it growing even more restless than before, contorting into some kind of twisted, dangerous animal. He fears the things he would do for you. To you.

He needs to remember you like this. All fucked out and beautiful in your post-coitus glow, one hand rested under your cheek. He goes back to you, grabbing his phone to snap a picture of you. And then several more.

He has to see his daughters this weekend so his time with you is fleeting. And he won’t be around immediately after either, since he’s decided to make a little impromptu trip up to New York to pay a friendly visit to your ex.

He rejoins you in the bedroom, flipping on the wall unit air conditioning before sliding into bed next to you, wrapping you in his arms as he places kisses where he left marks on your neck. You utter a small, chirping sound, settling into his arms as the rest of your mind slips away to sleep.

——

You aren’t sure how long you were out.

Your mouth is parched and you’re simultaneously freezing and burning up, a layer of sweat between your bodies where your skin makes contact. He’s got you tangled up in his arms and he’s like a massive furnace, smothering you with his impressive body heat.

But the A/C is also going and everywhere the air touches is freezing, your skin bubbling with goosepimples.

You shift, hoping it will rouse him. You need to get home. When it doesn’t work, you move your limbs more, stretching and quietly murmuring his name. He eventually stirs, looking down at you with sleepy baby cow eyes, somehow soft in their regard of you, despite every debauched and depraved thing he did.

“Dave, I need to go.”

He frowns. He has to leave tomorrow morning for Virginia, but he was hoping you’d stay, wanting your face to be the last he sees before then.

“Spend the night. I make a mean bowl of cereal,” he jokes, the edge of his lip quirking up. “Or we can order in.”

You deliberate on it. Dave absolutely wrecked you, brought you the brink of losing yourself several times, frightened you and hurt you. You let him. You wanted it—you liked it. And you like him.

But your ex ruined you in the worst of ways. Things had moved quickly with him, you being absolutely starstruck in love from the start, and look where it got you. As much as you like Dave, you fear history repeating itself. You barely know him. You can’t risk going down the same road again.

“Next time,” you offer as compromise. He doesn’t do anything to hide his disappointment, but he nods in confirmation anyway. As much as he needs you to stay, he doesn’t want to push you away with his neediness.

“Next time,” he repeats with a nod. “Sure.”

You get up to use the rest room, slipping back into your clothes, checking yourself out in the mirror as you do so and notice how you’re absolutely riddled with marks. You can hide out in your apartment tomorrow, sure, but you aren’t sure what you’ll do for work. Wear a scarf, maybe.

“Let me walk you home,” Dave says as you gather your things, taking the grocery bag from you, even though it really isn’t that heavy. You lift heavier boxes of coffee at work, after all. “Please.”

“Dave,” you say with a laugh, “I live, like, a hundred feet from you.”

He offers a weak, nervous laugh of his own in response. He really is a man split right down the middle, personality wise. A study of duality. “I know. It’s just proper.”

You don’t fight it. You’re already turning down his request to stay; may as well give him this one. “Sure. Come on.”

He walks you down with his hand planted in the small of your back, gingerly stroking as you make your way outside. The air is stagnant and quiet, the faint sounds of traffic somewhere in the distance.

You reach the door of your building and turn to face Dave with a shy smile, your cheeks heating. You aren’t sure why, after what you let him do to you. “Well, this is me.”

“Yeah,” he says with a breathy laugh, placing his hands on his hips and looking you over. “I can walk you inside, if you want.”

“I think I can manage,” you reply with a smile. “Thanks, though. And thank you…for everything.”

As he passes you the bag, something else unspoken passes between the two of you, Dave rushing into you to plunge his tongue past your teeth, licking broad strokes into your mouth. You moan and sink your fingers into his hair without even thinking about it.

Fuck, he’s going to miss you.

He was hard again the moment you woke up naked in his arms, and he’s even harder now as he presses into you, cock twitching to feel you again.

“I have to go,” you plead against his lips. “I’ll see you this weekend. Promise.”

He frowns. He never told you about his daughters. Or his divorce. Now probably isn’t the most opportune time to bring it up, either.

“I’ll be out of town until next week,” he says. “But after. Yeah.”

It tugs at something in you, hearing his voice drop like that. You decide to compromise once again by offering your phone number up as penance.

“So, we’ll still be able to talk,” you say.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” He smiles, even though he doesn’t exactly feel up to it, the corners of his eyes wrinkling into crow’s feet.

“And bring me back a souvenir from wherever you’re going,” you say in jest. “I’m kidding, by the way. Don’t.”

He chuckles. “I’ll bring you back a “‘Virginia is For Lovers’ shirt,” he responds.

“Virginia? Nice.” You nod. “But seriously, don’t. And have a nice trip.”

“I’ll try,” he admits. And then he kisses you again, less aggressively this time, hand trailing down to the curve of your buttock, resting there, but not squeezing. It’s taking everything in him not to pull your shorts down and fuck you within an inch of your life, again, in the open like this. But he refrains.

“Talk to you soon, Dave,” you say as you take a step away from him, punching in the door code on the keypad. Dave watches your fingers move, tucking the number away for later use. 6435#. Easy enough.

“Soon,” he agrees. “Have a good night,” he says, his voice dropping to an affectionate octave when he says your name.

He watches you go. Watches you leave him. He swallows back his pride, knowing he hasn’t driven you away fully yet, but more than a little concerned he doesn’t have you exactly where he wants you.

He returns to his apartment alone, which already feels empty without you.

He knows it will be impossible to sleep right now. He brews himself a cup of Earl Grey and takes it over to his computer, the screen shining a bright white in his irises as he sits down to do some digging on Jonathan. He has enough information to go on; now it’s just a matter of filling in the gaps.

He can’t wait to pay your ex a visit.

——

Max surprises himself when his heart drops at not seeing you at the shop the next day.

Maurizio is there, whom he greets unenthusiastically, his ex-schoolmate little more than an acquaintance at this point, but the interaction is amiable enough. And some kid with a face full of piercings manning the counter who’s maybe all of eighteen at best, as far as Max can tell.

At least that pink haired bitch isn’t working today, Max thinks.

He orders a large Americano and a cookie to go, his usual order. He asks if you’re working today. The metal-faced kid—whose name tag says Vincent, and whom he recognizes from yesterday—tells him you’re off today.

“Thanks.” Figures you wouldn’t be here. For whatever reason he can’t seem to fathom, he hasn’t been able to get you off his mind since yesterday. Even wore the same tie as a reminder, which is something that meticulous, obsessed-with-his-own-appearance Max does not do. Ever.

He takes his Americano and cookie and leaves, thinking about you on his way to work as he takes small sips of the subpar coffee. He wonders what you do in your free time. What you’re doing now.

He thinks, perhaps, he’ll drop in after work. He knows where you live now, after all.

He can’t wait to see your face when he shows up unannounced at your door.

@ohheypedrito @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @oberynslady @chronically-ghosted @onmysluttyknees @kellybelly1978 @annieispunk @sarap-77

Enjoy! 😘

#pedro pascal #writing #romance #smut #author #fanfic #pedro fanfic #dave york #max phillips #equalizer 2 #bloodsucking bastards

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dustydaddyyy · 4 months

Text

v: continental drift | joel miller x f!reader

flash point (series) masterlist

pairing: pre-TLOU! joel x fem!reader (no use of y/n!) summary: on a particuarly wet night, you run across tess servopoulos and joel miller, and they help you out of a tight spot chapter warnings: canon-typical violence and gore, depictions of death and decapitation (don't fucking ask), wound stitching (not sure this is a warning but for my queasy peeps), swearing, FEDRA is still an authoritarian regime, decent amount of POV-changing, the slowest slow-burn of slow burns (because I'm trash and like to make you all wait for it), a decent amount of angst

a/n: the way i giggled nervously when I realized it's been a month and a half since my last update......sorry you guys. also the sam tea is hot so please enjoy it. also this is officially the end of side a so the next time we see joel and reader will be closer to the TLOU canon timeline

The next day, you’re surprised to find Joel back in the coffee shop at the end of your shift.

“Need something else already? Or just coming to make sure I haven’t been kidnapped?” you ask him sarcastically, as he steps up to the counter, raising a single eyebrow.

“Just came for some coffee, thanks,” he says, and you sigh.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you tell him, peering around the shop, “I just sold my last cup.”

“Oh,” Joel lets out, and for the first time since you’ve met him, Joel seems awkward.

“I’ll make you a fresh cup,” you say after a second, giving him a tired smile, “I work here, after all.”

“Thanks,” he lets out, and you have to bite back a laugh at how woody he sounds.

Who knew coffee would stump Joel Miller.

“Did you hear what happened?” he asks you, and while his tone isn’t necessarily urgent, it’s clear the information he acquired is worth sharing as you get to work making an extra cup.

“I came home yesterday and crashed,” you inform him, “So no,”

“Really?” Joel’s eyes fall pointedly on something that looks suspiciously like a fresh hickey at the top of your collarbone, “You. . . crashed?”

You give him an unimpressed look. “60 years of life and no one’s ever told you it’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business?”

“60?” Joel asks, eyes widening and gruff expression melting from his features almost entirely for a second, “You think I’m sixty?”

Your cheeky smile gives you away as you let out a small chuckle, shaking your head before giving him an expectant eyebrow as his scowl returns. “What happened, then?”

“They found bodies this morning,”

“Bodies?” you ask with a frown, looking up at him, “Where?”

“Abandoned church on Salem," Joel says, and for a second, your eyes widen, before your frown sets deep again, "Two young guys, both carrying assault-rifle type weapons,"

"You don't think –"

"–that when your little soldier boyfriend said there was a good reason it had been boarded up, he was damn right? That's exactly what I think, sweetheart,"

Your mind is running too many miles per hour to pay any attention to the nickname or the much more comfortable tone Joel seems to take with you as your fingers absent-mindedly reach for the coffee tin.

"Infected?" you ask him, and he nods.

"Overheard a few of his guard buddies talking about it. They're pretty sure it was infected, bodies were so torn up they couldn't ID them,"

"Jesus," you mutter to yourself, your fingers absent-mindedly reaching for the coffee beans tin, only to find it empty, "Shit,"

"Still sure you got enough for a coffee?" he asks, undertone sarcastic, and you manage to roll your eyes.

"Yes," you say pointedly, before turning to peer upwards, where you spot one of the 5-kilo coffee bean bags, "But you're going to have to help take down the new bag,"

Joel nods, walking around and behind the counter to join you as your arms reach out, fingertips barely grasping the edges of the bag. Joel has an easier time reaching, and together, you manage to lug the thing down.

"But why would they stay in the church?" you wonder out loud as you set the bag down on the counter with a huff.

"Beats me," Joel says with a shrug, which only makes the gears in your head whirr harder, frown deepening.

"Doesn't make sense," you mutter to yourself as you use one of the scissors on the counter to open a corner of the bag, leaning it slightly over the edge so you can fill the tin easily.

"What are you thinking?" Joel asks as he observes your face, and you look up at him for a second as your hands go on autopilot, dropping a handful of beans in the grinder.

"I'm thinking–" you say pointedly, "That they had no business being in that church, no reason to be there. . . the whole place was boarded up, there's signs everywhere. . . they may have been thugs but I doubt they were stupid enough to stick around,"

"Maybe they were just waiting to move the barrel," Joel says with a shrug, and you grimace slightly, shaking your head.

"There were three of them," you point out, pouring the ground coffee into a clean pot, the kettle whistling to your left, "And the checkpoint had already been abandoned for the night. . . best window to do it would’ve been immediately,"

"I'm not sure I follow," Joel says eventually as he stands next to you behind the counter, and you shake your head, bringing your hand up to rub your forehead.

"Don't mind me," you say with a sigh, "Been a long shift,"

The rest of the process happens in silence, neither you or Joel saying a word to each other as you finish making the coffee. Joel can tell from your expression that you're still pretty deep in thought, and the expression only clears from your face when you've made two steaming cups of fresh coffee. You hand one to Joel, who reaches into his pocket for a ration card.

“Don’t be silly,” you say, shaking your head with a frown as you finally seem to be pulled fully out of your thoughts, “I don’t want to see a single ration card come out of your pocket, Miller.”

Joel’s hand freezes in his pocket, and for a second, he doesn’t know what to say. He’s caught off guard by how friendly your tone is, and he’s silent for a minute before he clears his throat, his hands staying in his pockets.

“Alright.”

"Who was this job for, anyway?" you ask Joel as you take a sip of the coffee you've just made, and he shrugs.

"Dunno," he says, and you resist an urge to smile at the fact that he's talking to you now, "Some wiry fucker Tess knew. . . I think his name was Peter,"

You grimace. "Creepy name for a creepy dude,”

Joel makes an agreeing snort into his coffee.

“Fertilizer, huh?" you say, making a face, "What the fuck's he gonna do? Plant a garden?"

Joel lets out a hum as he swallows down his sip.

"And fuel oil, for some reason," Joel says, clearing his throat, "You put anything extra in this?"

"Wait, rewind–" you say, and suddenly your voice is serious as you set down your cup, "You never mentioned he wanted fuel oil."

Your mind is racing as you finally put together the pieces of the puzzle. The reason they asked for such specific items, staying in the church after, not wanting to be asked nosy questions–

Joel frowns as he turns to look at you, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "Shall I write you a full report? Or just the transcript of our negotiations?”

"Who was he?" you ask him, tone urgent as your eyes become wide, and Joel frowns deeper, “Joel, who was he?”

"Don't know, told you that already," Joel says, before his eyes flicker with mild concern, "What's wrong?"

You give him an alarmed look.

"Joel, ammonium nitrate is the main ingredient in fertilizer," you say, your voice low and filled with panic as your eyes flit around the half-empty coffeeshop, "And fuel oil––. . .they're making ANFO, Joel, it’s a goddamn–"

You don't know how Joel understands what you mean, but his eyes blow wide as he finally puts the pieces together

"-bomb," he breathes, and at that moment, there's a sound of crashing glass as something shatters the front window of the coffeeshop. Some people scream, those sitting by the window jumping away. It's a brick, and just as people gather to look at it, something else flies through the shattered window.

"Joel–" you yell, and you only just manage to turn your body, hand flying over Joel's shoulder as you push him down behind the counter, going to do the same–

BOOM.

The explosion is unlike anything you've ever heard, and if you hadn't had the good sense to press your hands over your ears as the sheer force of the explosives propelled you against the opposite wall, you're sure both your eardrums would have burst as sounds tear through the atmosphere around you.

When you open your eyes, you find yourself on your back, and everything hurts. Your gaze is directed at the ceiling of the building, your temples pulsing with pain, and all you can see above you is smoke, half burning embers floating through the air as you try to blink the dust out of your eyes. Plumes of dust and smoke obscure your vision, but you can still see the gaping holes in the ceiling from which pieces of stucco rain down. There’s a deafening silence in your head, filled only with a distant ringing, and your eyes blink several times as your vision becomes less blurry, bringing into focus the burning embers floating through the air as if dancing on the wind.

For a single moment, the silence is almost peaceful as you watch them flutter down around you, eyes still blinking as your mind seems to process what has just happened, before you feel your lungs expand with a breath, and the illusion of peace shatters.

The next breath you take is stifling, the dust scratching the inside of your throat as you try to breathe any kind of oxygen in your lungs. You’re vaguely aware of something entering your vision, a familiar face, but your eyes don’t immediately focus on Joel’s face until you feel his hands on either side of your arms, pulling you upright and propping you up against the wall. You're still dazed as your eyes roll over the scene. Most of the counter is still standing, but the front, near to where you’d been standing, has been blown to bits and everything once standing on it, is either in pieces, or strewn across the floor.

Your eyes are torn away from the scene as you feel a squeeze in your arms, and your gaze meets Joel’s. His face is dirty, covered in grime, but his eyes are alight like you’ve never seen them, more present and alert than ever as they inspect your face. He looks relatively unharmed, except for a few bleeding cuts and scratches on his face as his eyes search your face, and you see something in his eyes you'd not seen on him before. He looks worried.

You watch as he moves his mouth, and it looks like your name, but you still can’t hear anything except for that damn ringing. Your eyes try to make sense of the movement of his lips, but you’re too distracted by the thundering of your heartbeat in your chest. Joel seems to finally understand you can't hear him as his eyes look into yours. They’re wide with shell shock, continuously flitting between him and your surroundings in an effort to gain your bearings.

Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion. You swallow hard, trying to clear your ears, but still the ringing doesn't subside. The only thing that seems to work is your nose, and the smell is horrible, a mix of acrid smoke, burning plastic and thick dust which oppresses your lungs. Joel gives your arms another squeeze, forcing you to look back at him, the shape of your name once again appearing on his lips. You shake your head at him, eyes wide with fear as they stare into his. You watch him as he swallows hard, eyes flitting around desperately, seeming to consider something. Then he moves beside you, taking your arm and slinging it over his shoulder. He says something else that you still can’t hear, but you nod as he looks at you, anticipating it as he pulls you up. You let him, trying to cooperate as much as possible, but your whole body hurts, screaming at you to lie back down again.

The minute your eyes focus on the full scene of the coffeeshop, your stomach turns and you wish you had never seen it.

Smoke and debris fills the air, casting an eerie haze over the scene; tables and chairs are strewn about like discarded toys, and the floor is a harrowing canvas of debris, bodies, body parts. . . you can see some people moving, crying, screaming. . . bending over others that lie face down and deathly still, blood smeared across the floors of the shop like morbid strokes of paint. The entire front of the coffee shop has been blown open, and the ground is littered in glass from the shattered windows which glitters dangerously in the fading daylight.

You can’t focus on it any longer as you feel Joel pull you towards the back door, keeping one arm around your waist to hold you up and using the other to push open the door. You quickly move past the backroom, before Joel is pushing against the heavy fire escape door, which sends you both stumbling into the alleyway as it gives way. You let go of Joel at that moment, and he helps you down on one of the upturned boxes against the wall of the alley.

Your hearing is slowly returning, the ringing becoming less and less as you can start to hear your own heavy breaths. It’s still muffled as you try and calm your thundering heartbeat, hand coming down to rest on your knees as your bow your head, shoulders shuddering. Your mind keeps flashing back to the images from inside, the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh still so present in your nostrils it makes you violently nauseous; the tears streaming down one woman’s grime-covered face, the man screaming in pain as his hands desperately the thigh from which his bone is protruding, a teddybear lying in a pool of blood, loosely clenched in the hand of its lifeless owner. . .

Your breathing is shallow as you register what you've just seen, trying hard to keep your breath under control, but your pants are ragged as you try to steady your shaking hands on your legs.

"Oh god,"

You bring a hand to your mouth, the feeling of wanting to throw up overcoming you suddenly, but you find that nothing comes out except for a hoarse cough.

A voice drifts through the fog, muffled at first, before it becomes clearer as it repeats your name. You look up at Joel as your hearing finally sharpens, so you can hear the blaring of sirens in the street as several trucks drive past the alleyway, the shouts from outside and the screams from inside.

“Those people. . .” you stammer, your eyes wide as they meet Joel’s, glittering with tears, “We have to–”

“There’s nothing we can do,” he says, a little breathless, but his voice solemn, “We have to get out of here. . . there could be more–”

“Joel!” you let out, your voice still tinged with horror and shock.

“We can’t!” he lets out, shaking his head as he looks down at you, “We can’t help them, okay? We have to go. . . if they decide to blow up another building, or god forbid, the fucking FEDRA army descending on this place right now, we’re in deep shit.”

After a second in which you stare at each other, you nod shortly, heaving a breath.

“You still have the keys to your place?” Joel asks, and you take a second to feel for them in your back pocket. Thankfully, they appear not to have fallen out during your ordeal, and you nod.

“Alright,” Joel says with a curt nod, before looking down at you, “Can you stand?”

You nod weakly, before getting to your feet. Your legs are still wobbling a little, and you frown as you feel pain flare through your ankle. Joel notices, and doesn’t even ask before he stands beside you again, taking your arm again to steady you against him.

You go as fast as possible, but it still feels like an eternity before you reach the building in which you live, the people in the streets either too busy running towards or away from the wreckage of the shop to pay attention to you. The minute the door closes behind you, Joel walks you over to the kitchen table, and sits you on top, your chest heaving a pained sigh.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, and even though his tone is neutral, his hand comes up, two fingers gently taking your jaw to analyze your face. He tilts your head to look at the side of your face as you groan slightly.

“I can’t hear anything on the left,” you say, and he hums.

“You’re bleeding. . . eardrum must be bust.”

“Shit,” you let out, closing your eyes and trying to take a deep breath as you feel Joel's fingers leave your face before he steps away from you.

“You got a first aid kit? Anything like that?”

You nod, motioning towards the sink. “Cupboard under the sink.”

Joel moves towards the sink, before crouching down and opening the cupboard under it.

“What about Tess–”

“She’s a smart woman,” he says through a strained voice as he gets to his feet again, setting the kit down on the counter, “She’ll figure out where we’ve gone if she has any suspicion we survived that. . . ANFO. . . I should’ve fucking known,”

Joel feels his stomach churn with guilt; of course he knew what ANFO was, they use to use it quite a bit way back when he was still rebuilding houses for a living.

“What was that?” you let out, and Joel’s face darkens as he grabs a glass from the upper cupboard and fills it with water.

“Pipe bomb,” he mutters, before he looks over his shoulder briefly, eyes pausing on the scratches that litter your arms, “Something like nails of bolts in it, from what I can see. . . the ANFO packs a pretty big punch in of itself, but the nails and bolts do double the damage because they act like shrapnel. . . it’s what the Unabomber did,”

Joel vaguely remembers watching a TV documentary on the Unabomber with his ex-wife, which had detailed his similar methods. He briefly wonders– or rather hopes– that the dude died during the Outbreak.

“Jesus Christ,” you let out in a breath, burying your head in your hands, “Who the fuck would do that?”

“People who feel like they aren’t being heard,” Joel says darkly as you hear him step back towards you, and you feel like sobbing.

Hadn’t the outbreak been punishment enough? Weren’t people sick of pain and grief?

“We sold them that shit, Joel,” you say through your hands, the despair and guilt in your tone clear as day.

He comes to stand in front of you again, leaving the kit and the glass of water on the table next to you, before pulling one of the chairs from the side of the table to sit facing you.

“I know,” he says solemnly as he sits down and opens the first aid box, pulling out some rolls of gauze. You finally look back up, eyes meeting his, and Joel can see in your eyes that you’re struggling with grasping this particular fact.

Of course Joel feels guilty, to some extent, but he'd been in the smuggling business long enough to adhere to the policy that once it was out of his hands, it was no longer his business.

“Here,” he says, swallowing as he grabs your arm, zeroing in on the largest cut.

Ironically it looks much worse than it actually feels, and almost the majority of your forearm seems covered in dried and fresh blood from this particular wound. Joel works in silence, cleaning the large cuts one by one and dressing them. You don’t mutter a word either, as you sit still and stare ahead of yourself a little. Joel knows you must be in shock, and he feels a strange amount of concern every time a loud sound from the street makes you flinch.

“Sorry,” you mutter after a particularly loud bang in the street outside makes you jump, and Joel temporarily loosens his grip on your arm as he bandages it.

“S’okay,” he says after a second, looking up at you briefly only to find your eyes unfocused once again, staring almost vacantly at the window. He notices your ears straining for sounds from the street, brows tied tightly together like you were searching them. Then, you feel Joel’s fingers back on your chin as he gently turns your head away from him.

“Still nothing?” he asks as he cleans the trickle of blood that has run from your ears down your neck. You shake your head as you feel his other hand come up, “What about this?”

You assume he snaps his fingers, but you only hear it on your other side. You shake your head.

“No,” you say, swallowing.

Joel lets out a sigh before his hand falls back down to his lap.

“Shouldn’t last very long,” he says, in an attempt to distract you, “Maybe one or two weeks.”

You give a non-committal hum as you nod, eyes still not meeting his as he returns to the final scratches on your arms.

“Stop thinking about it,” he says after a second, and this gets your attention, your head turning to look at him as he hunches over your arm.

“How?” you return, and he looks up at you, “How do you stop thinking about it? I–. . . those people are all dead, Joel. . . that could’ve been us.”

“Well lucky for me you got some fast reflexes,” he says, his tone almost joking as he looks back down to your arm, and you shake your head ever so slightly.

“This isn’t funny, Joel,” you say, and your voice is heavy with emotion as he looks up at you, your eyes shining with tears.

“I know,” he replies with a sigh, looking up at you, “I never said it was.”

There’s a split second in which you look at each other, before you swallow shakily and look away again, silence falling over you both.

It lasts only a second before you speak up again.

“How come you’re always the one patching me up?” you mutter, your tone half-hearted, making Joel let out a small scoff.

“Maybe because you keep getting yourself into trouble, sweetheart,” he returns as he wraps the rest of the bandage over a particularly large gash on your arm, careful to keep his grip loose around the fresh scar of your stab wound.

“Saving your life, you mean,” you mutter, and Joel emits a dry chuckle, before looking up at you from where he’s sitting hunched towards you. He’s not sure what he’s thinking, or if it's even a good idea, but he finds himself putting a reassuring hand on your knee, which he feels under his fingers is still trembling.

“That’s twice now,” he says with a squeeze of your knee, “You done being a hero? ‘Cause I’m afraid there won’t be much left of ya if this happens again.”

His face doesn’t reveal much, but his tone is strangely gentle, caring. . . something you’ve never before heard from Joel.

“Yeah, I’m done,” you say with a groan as you try to sit up a little more, Joel’s hand leaving your knee with a slight pat, before he gets to his feet. Then, his eyes fall on something under your chair, and he frowns.

“Are you bleeding?” he asks you, looking back up, and your eyebrows knit together as you follow Joel’s eyeline and find, to your great concern, a rapidly growing pool of blood gathering at your feet.

“I–. . . I didn’t think I was,” you let out, frowning slightly, before Joel steps around you, and you listen as he takes a sharp intake of breath.

“Your shoulder,” he says as you watch his hand go into the first aid kit and reach for the scissors, “You don’t feel that?”

“I mean a little, but, fuck–. . . ! What was that for?” you ask him, turning around to glare at Joel, who just used what felt like his entire hand to press down on the wound, making your shoulders erupt with pain.

“Sorry,” Joel mutters, as you feel his fingers pick up the hem of your shirt. Then, you hear the scissors cutting through the fabric of your top, “Doesn’t look too deep, but you’ll need a few stitches I think.”

“More fucking stitches,” you grumble to yourself, shaking your head as Joel peels the shirt from your back, “At this rate I’m going to be, like, 90% scar tissue.”

“And water,” Joel adds in an attempt at a joke, and to his credit, you chuckle slightly.

“And water, I suppose,” you say with a nod of your head as he reaches into the first aid kit for something to suture you with. You sit in silence as Joel cleans the needle and then your wound, before you feel him put his hand on your shoulder and he starts to sew you up.

It hurts, and you immediately feel tears spring into your eyes as your shoulders tense and your fingers tighten around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.

“If you relax, it’ll hurt less,” Joel says, and his voice is practically in your ear, his breath fanning over your exposed skin.

“I’m being stitched up by a stranger with no pain medication or alcohol. . . I think you can understand why I’m tense,” you reply with a sigh.

Joel says nothing, but you can hear him thinking. You wonder about what.

“Stranger, huh?” Joel asks you with a hum, and you snort.

“What word would you use?” you reply, eyebrows creasing, “Because something tells me you’re not the type to have friends.”

Joel says nothing, only letting out a grudging sound as you feel the needle pierce your skin again, which makes you grit your teeth, shoulder tensing up again.

“Jesus Christ woman, relax,” Joel says again, letting out a breath as you feel him put a hand on your other shoulder, “Or I’ll sew you up crooked.”

You try your hardest, letting out a shaky breath and forcing your shoulders to un-tense, but it still isn’t enough, and Joel heaves a sigh as he tries to think of a way to distract you enough so he can sew you up at least half-properly.

“Be honest,” he says eventually, “How the fuck did you survive a month and a half out in the open?”

You’re silent for a second, and Joel waits for your answer before getting back to work.

“I was by myself,” you say eventually, as Joel places another stitch, which you react less violently to than the last one, “That sounds stupid, but I’m pretty sure that’s how. . . you have nobody else relying on you, you’re responsible for nobody and only have yourself to answer to. . . you’re entirely alone.”

“Here I was thinking that’s exactly what leads people to giving up,” Joel notes, throwing another stitch, and you let out a breath.

“You’d think that, but spite is a good motivator,” you admit, “Most of my time traveling I was just angry at the universe for putting me through the ringer. . . so I kept going. . . kind of like a ‘fuck you’, huh?”

“So you’re telling me–” Joel says, stopping to place another stitch, which you hiss at slightly, “–that you survived 2 months of hiking through the American backcountry as a fuck you to the Universe?”

“Canadian backcountry, actually,” you correct, before chuckling slightly, “But yeah, pretty much.”

“Canada?”

“Hm,” you give an agreeing hum, “We’d heard the midwest was hell on earth. . . as much hell as you can get in an apocalypse, I suppose. . . so I crossed the border somewhere in North Dakota, walked along the border.”

“What about infected?” Joel asks, and you shake your head.

“Only in and around big cities,” you note, “The rest is mostly national parks and forest, so I ran into relatively little trouble. . .infected were really the least of my worries, it’s the people.”

Joel gives an agreeing hum, but before he can open his mouth to reply, your front door flies inward with an almighty sound and you hear someone’s hoarse voice call out your name.

You jump again, eyes widening. From behind you, you’re vaguely aware of Joel’s hands having left your shoulders, and you hear the unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off.

Sam doesn’t look too injured as his wide eyes search the room before falling on you. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, and he has some smears of grime on his cheek, as well as a bloody handprint on the side of his pants that looks too small to be his. When he sees you, his face simultaneously relaxes and tightens at once.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice hoarse as he eyes the cuts on your arms, seemingly not even noticing Joel sitting behind you, and you nod.

“Just a few scratches,” you assure him, and he lets out a breath, before his expression becomes stormy. Behind you, Joel moves again, his hands coming back up to your wound where you assume he’s almost finished.

“The fertilizer,” Sam pants in a panicked voice, “Who did you give it to, speedy?”

“I kno–” you say, but Sam doesn’t listen.

“–because if you mix fertilizer with fuel oil you get–”

“–a bomb,” you finish, “I know, Sam.”

Sam’s voice stalls in his throat, eyes widening. “You knew? You knew they were planning on blowing people up and you went along with it anyway?”

“Obviously, I didn’t know that,” you reply sarcastically, and Sam lets out a scoff as Joel puts another stitch in your shoulder, palms coming up to steady your bicep.

“Sweetheart, I’m sure this is a very important conversation, but I’m gonna need you to hold still for me,” he says, his voice low but still audible as he focuses on the stitch.

Something in Sam's face twists when he hears the nickname, and Joel recognizes the flash of jealousy behind the young soldier's eyes that makes him realize this might not have been his smartest move. He doesn't find himself caring too much, drawing some satisfaction in the way Sam sizes him up.

"I'm sorry, but who the fuck are you?" he asks him, moving his rifle towards Joel; not quite pointing it, but enough to tell him his attention has shifted, and not in a good way.

Joel takes up the challenge, moving his gaze from you to Sam, his shoulders setting imposingly as he gives Sam an almost unimpressed eyebrow from over your shoulder.

"Someone who doesn't have the fucking time for your little schoolboy crush."

"Joel," your voice is a sharp warning, "Not helping. . . Sam, I didn’t know.”

“I don’t care,” Sam says with a shake of his head, “Come on, you can’t be stupid like this, speedy.”

You close your eyes as you feel another stitch, face contorting in pain momentarily before you sigh. “I know.”

“–and all those people. . . did you know they killed fucking kids? I mean Jesus Christ,” Sam lets out again, and at this your jaw sets slightly.

“FEDRA hung an entire family for trying to come into the QZ last week,” you say, your tone cold, “You don’t need to lecture me on the blood staining my hands, thanks.”

There’s an uneasy silence between the two of you as Sam takes heavy, angry breaths, and after a second, Joel clears his throat, chair grating as he gets to his feet.

“All done,” he says, his voice back its usual stoicism, but neither you nor Sam pay him any attention as he walks to the other end of the room to clean his hands in the sink.

“You have to stop,” Sam says with a shake of his head, hands on his hips as he gives you a look.

“I have stopped–”

“No, I mean you have to stop smuggling,” he says with a shake of his head, “I don’t ever want you anywhere near this shit again.”

Normally you’d agree with Sam, but something about his tone irks you. It’s too authoritative, too controlling.

“Excuse me?” you utter, eyebrows flying up your forehead, “I don’t need you telling me to do anything, Sam.”

“Clearly, I have to– given you’re in absolutely no fit state to make any sound fucking decisions,” he hisses at you, and his tone has a venom to it you've only heard him use a handful of times.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you let out, and Joel can hear in your voice that you’re stung.

“You really want to know what my problem is?” he seethes, before motioning towards Joel, “This. . . ! This is my problem! This ridiculous rebellion you have going on, that you’ve had since the day you left the academy, that makes you run around here like some kind of untouchable, twisted version of Robin Hood. . . it’s stupid, speedy, and sooner or later it’s going to get you killed.”

“Hasn’t gotten me killed yet,” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest, and Sam lets out a sound of exasperation.

"I don't fucking care!" Sam lets out, his voice loud with anger and frustration, "You aren't listening–. . . the Fireflies’ cause isn’t any more noble than FEDRA’s regime. . . they’re all the fucking same, they lie and they kill, and sooner or later, they'll turn on you and you'll end up like your fucking dad."

"What?"

Your tone is shocked, and Sam watches with a guilty turn of his stomach as your eyes widen in shock, and grief, glistening with the oncoming threat of tears. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Sam says your name, but you interrupt him as you get to your feet suddenly, the sound of the grating chair filling the otherwise silent room.

"Tell me," you say through gritted teeth, and Samuel purses his lips, jaw clenching in frustration with himself as he takes a second to answer you.

The room is so silent that even with his bad ear, Joel is sure he could hear a pin if it dropped.

"It wasn't some random bystander that snitched on your dad," Samuel admits finally, and Joel realizes with a horrible turn of his stomach what he's about to say, "It was the Fireflies. They weren't happy he stopped helping them, and so they tipped FEDRA off that he’d been letting them run operations through the shop."

Your vision is starting to narrow as you take a shallow breath, eyes boring into Samuel. "How do you know this?"

“It doesn’t matter–”

"No– Samuel, how do you know this?" you say, your gaze going back to the boy you'd known for 13 years, your eyes filled with the puzzle pieces you're struggling to put into place, "If we were ever friends. . . please tell me."

Samuel's eyes plead with yours as your brain works overtime, before he lets out a defeated breath, shaking his head. "Burke is my mom's name, I took it when I joined the academy because I was sure they wouldn’t let me in otherwise. . . my dad's name is Hartwin."

Even Joel recognizes the name; it had been whispered in the streets for the past few years as word spread of the Fireflies' revolution and victory in San Francisco, led by a hardened ex-marine called Jack Hartwin. His name had been spoken with a twisted kind of admiration, word of his liberal use of violence somehow less known.

"Sam," you let out, your voice trembling as you blink once, tears still refusing to spill down your cheeks as your face becomes a mask of realization, "Oh god.”

“Speedy, please–”

He takes a small step in your direction, but you respond with a step back, your body almost flinching at that stupid nickname falling over his lips. It had been for a stupid reason, as well, a name he’d called you after you’d out-sprinted almost your entire class during a training exercise at the academy. You had let him, allowing the nickname to take hold until eventually he had started to use it more than your actual name. Now, the name sounds poisonous coming out of his mouth.

“How long have you known?” you ask him, your voice is trembling with both rage and betrayal, “And don’t you fucking even think about lying to me.”

Sam’s face becomes a mask of solemn guilt.

“Since the beginning,” he admits sorrowfully, “I found out who you were a few days after you joined.”

“You knew–” you say, your voice stalling in your throat as you hear your heartbeat thunder in your ears, “You knew all this time, and you never told me?”

“What would you have done with that information? We were sixteen, speedy,” Sam pleads.

“You were protecting him,” you accuse, your voice hoarse with pain and anger.

"I was protecting you," Samuel shouts back, his eyes wide and pleading, "That's all I ever wanted to do, okay? My father would've destroyed you if you'd gone after him. . . you were my friend, the first and only one I’d ever had, and I couldn’t in good conscience say anything–"

“That wasn’t your decision to make!” you explode, and finally the tears flow freely over your cheeks, “This whole time, you lied to me. . . you looked me the face and you lied to me, for thirteen fucking years, I–”

Your voice stalls in your throat as you take a shaky breath, your trembling hand coming up onto your forehead, your chest tight and uncomfortable as you fight the overwhelming urge to hurl.

“Speedy, please,” Sam says, and his voice is shaky, “I wasn’t protecting him. . . I want nothing to do with him. . . I was horrified when I found out what he’d done, I joined the academy out of spite because I wanted to get as far away from him as I possibly could.”

“How fucking noble of you,” you spit, your tone venomous as you refuse to look at him.

Silence falls on the kitchen, not a word spoken by anyone, until eventually you let the breath out again, just as shaky as when it came in. Sam tries one more time, saying your name, your actual one. . . but you interrupt him before he can get any further.

“Get out,” you say, and this time, your voice is firm and furious. His eyes widen with surprise and hurt for a second, before his brow creases slightly.

“What?” he utters, his voice filled with pain, his eyes even flitting helplessly to Joel for a second, who is still standing in the corner as quietly as he can, wishing he had the superpower to turn invisible right now.

“You heard me, get out,” you repeat, and you’re still not looking at him, fingers pressed against your mouth lightly as your eyes look down at your feet.

His expression becomes almost pleading. “Speedy–”

“Samuel,” you return, your eyes, alight with fury, finally meeting his.

You say it like a warning, and Sam presses his lips together as he watches your expression.

“Get out of my house before I do something I regret,” you seethe, and Joel watches your fists clench at your side. He feels his shoulders tense slightly, readying to move just in case your common sense fails you and he has to actually pull you off the soldier standing in your living room holding an assault rifle. When Sam says nothing, you repeat yourself, your voice raising. “I said get out, Sam, fucking get out, before I–”

“What?” Sam interrupts you anyway, shaking his head “Before you kill me. . . ?”

He doesn’t say it with scorn nor anger, tone maybe a little disbelieving but open and vulnerable nonetheless.

When you say nothing, he takes a breath. “You would do that to me, Speedy?”

Joel knows it’s going to happen before it does, watches as your fingers curl around the glass of water on the table, hears the sound of it shattering as you knock it over. It doesn’t hit anyone, but Sam jumps slightly at the sound, but to his credit, his gun remains unfired.

“Don’t fucking call me that! Don’t you ever fucking call me that again,” you shout at him, “Get out of my face. . . I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“You don’t mean that,” Sam says, and Joel notes that he actually sounds genuinely upset.

“With all my heart I fucking mean that, Samuel,” you say, your voice barely controlled as your eyes shine with tears of anger, “I mean it. . . I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want to hear your name. . .I curse the fucking day you ever even spoke to me, if you’d just minded your own damn business you’d have saved us both the fucking trouble.”

Sam is completely silent as he processes your words, the only sounds in the room that of your breathing.

“Get.out.”

Sam heaves a defeated sigh, his own eyes shining with threatening tears. He doesn’t seem to care one bit that Joel is witnessing this, his eyes focused only on you as his eyes plead with yours.

Finally, he turns on his heel and walks to the door, before pulling it open. He pauses there, before turning his head slightly over his shoulder, but without looking at you.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, before swallowing harshly, “I only did it because I love you. . . you’re my family, not him.”

Every word he says feels like a gut punch, and you show him your back as you try and take a deep breath, feeling your face contort as you’re overtaken with the sudden urge to cry.

The door clicks shut quietly behind him.

You take a deep breath, clearing your throat and looking at the ceiling for a second, before walking towards the door that leads to what he assumes is your bedroom, passing by Joel standing in the corner in silence. Your face is a mask of so many emotions Joel can hardly keep count; hurt, betrayal, rage, and he can see the tears pooling in your eyes and down your cheeks, but you don’t meet his gaze. He says your name, but you ignore him as you pass him by, only saying in a hoarse voice:

“Please do me a favor and show yourself out.”

Joel barely has time to nod wordlessly before your door slams shut with an almighty bang.

END OF SIDE A

a/n: ya'll i PROMISE it gets more exciting/more spicyyy. i just needed to establish this so i could flesh out the reader/joel dynamic and the basis for their relationship. please please bear with me, i have a plan heheheh. as usual, please let me know what you thought of this chapter and the story as a whole, i love hearing your input/feedback :)

taglist:

apart from those of you who explicitly asked to be added, i also took the liberty of tagging some of you that showed interest in more parts (if you do not want to be tagged, please please let me know, in which case i apologize in advance for doing so!)

@tanushreeg27 @user1112223334449890171 @frecklefacelm @samarav @alyssiamarierenee @platinumblondeedition @huntersandpie @lizlil @lumpypoll @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @phryne-fish @ponyboys-sunsets

as usual, replies, reblogs and likes are highly appreciated!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller fic

52 notes · View notes

bad268 · 1 year

Note

Yes hi hello, do you write smut because you have Bernard the elf in what you want to write and nobody writes smut of him I swear.

Also, if not then I'd like fluff of any kind, say reader cuts their hand and Bernard patches them up!

Preferably a female reader, but if you want to do nb or male that is fine too 💞

New Rules (Bernard X Elf! Reader)

Fandom: The Santa Clause

Requested: Clearly (Sorry I don’t write smut, but I loved this request! Also, sorry, I may have taken the injury a little far as it was something I actually did at work but...I hope you like it <3)

Warnings: Injury depictions, lots of blood mentioned

Pronouns: She/her

W.C. 1301

Summary: The reader gets injured on the job, and Bernard helps her out.

As always, my requests and ships are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Google/Bustle)

There was not enough time. There was so much to do, and so little time to do it. Christmas was fast approaching, Santa was visiting the Millers, and Bernard was running like a chicken with its head cut off. Everyone was frantically trying to meet the deadlines, and everything was just so hectic! I was sitting at my station, screwing wheels onto trucks as quickly as possible. I must have been going too fast because before I knew it, my grip slipped.

Even with the blood dripping onto the table, I did not realize that I cut my hand until Curtis came up to me.

“Did you know that it is a biohazard and violation of rule 1627 to knowingly bleed at your station, and possibly, contaminate presents? I’m gonna have to report this to Santa,” He chastised as he opened the book to rule 1627. He started talking more, but I was not listening. I was focused on the growing pool of blood in my palm. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Why are you lecturing her, Curtis?” Bernard sighed with a roll of his eyes as he walked over to the station, immediately moving to take the book away from Curtis. “Just let them work. You are wasting her time.”

“I am not!” Curtis exclaimed, pulling the book back. “I am here to enforce the rules, and their injury is breaking rule 1627!”

“What injury?” It is then that Bernard notices the puddle of blood in my hand that has begun to overflow onto the table. I followed his eye line, finally actually looking at my injury, and I felt lightheaded immediately. In response, Bernard rushed forward to apply pressure on my hand, and he pulled a cloth from his pocket to clean up some of the blood to see the wound. Once he got a clear view of the injury, he came around the bench to help me stand, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Come with me. I’ll take you to the infirmary.”

“But I need to finish these before Santa gets back,” I tried to argue, but my thoughts were getting jumbled. I leaned more into Bernard’s side, suddenly not feeling strong enough to stand on my own.

“No, you are coming with me to the infirmary, now,” He said, pushing past Curtis, who was still going off about rule 1627 and deadlines. “Curtis, no offense, but shut up.”

“And that right there is a violation of rule 2256,” Curtis replied, smugly, “The head elf must treat all other elves with respect, regardless of personal feelings.”

“And you are breaking the only rule I remember,” Bernard said, pointedly, trying to move past Curtis. “Rule number 9, an elf's mental and physical health prioritizes deadlines and even Christmas.” Curtis was, for once, speechless. Bernard knew he finally won an argument against Curtis, but he suddenly became aware of the bloody cloth in his hand. “That being said, Curtis, do not stand in my way.”

In the infirmary, Bernard made quick work of cleaning and wrapping my hand. Thankfully, the wound was not too deep to require stitches since Bernard had no idea how to do stitches, but it was still pretty deep. He cleaned it up, apologizing after seeing me wince, and wrapped in it gauze. “Should stay put for the rest of the day, but don’t take my word for it. There’s a reason I’m not a medical elf,” he laughed.

“It’s better than I could do,” I joked back. “Thanks, Bernard. I really appreciate it.”

“Now, I don’t want you going back to your station today,” he started. I began to object, but he made a motion for me to stop. “You are going to go in the kitchens, eat something, and chill for the rest of the day. No exceptions.”

“Was that a pun?” I laughed, moving to stand up and adjust the gauze. I lost my balance for a second to which Bernard grabbed my shoulders to steady me.

“That’s all you go from that?” He replied with a weary smile. “And stop doing things so fast. You lost a lot of blood.”

“Sorry, didn’t think standing would be so strenuous,” I replied sarcastically. He gave me a pointed look before I changed my tone. “Fine, but I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“Go eat, drink some hot cocoa, sleep, I don’t know! Just don’t do work,” He responded. “Simple.”

“Well, if it’s so simple,” I started, and I could see the gears turning in Bernard’s head along with what I was saying, “you’d have no problem with joining me?” I could not tell if it was the blood loss making me delirious or not, but I thought now, 4 weeks out from Christmas, was the best time to shoot my shot with the ever-so-busy head elf.

“There’s not enough time for me to take a break,” he sighed. “You know that.”

“Well, when was the last time you took a break?” I pressed. He hesitated, and immediately, I knew he could not remember the last time he took a break. “Maybe you need to take a page out of the rule book. Rule 9, what was that rule again?” I asked rhetorically, tilting my head in a joking manner.

“An elf's mental and physical health prioritizes deadlines and even Christmas,” he exhaled, knowing exactly where I was going with this. “Please, I don’t have time for this.”

“Not with that mentality,” I relented, grabbing his hand with my good hand, as I pulled him towards the kitchens. “If there’s one thing I learned from Carol, it is if you can’t remember the last time you took a break, it’s been too long. Now, you are going to chill with me before you work yourself to death.”

“Y’know, I didn’t think you would be this assertive when injured,” he laughed as he let me drag him around the square. Some of the other elves looked at us funny, and a couple of the yonder elves giggled at our antics but continued on with their activities.

“Oh trust me,” I chucked, pulling him into a little shop that did not have loads of elves inside. I pulled him into a booth beside me. I leaned into his shoulder and whispered, “I’ve always liked you, but maybe I just needed a push.”

“Well, you know what?” He whispered back, leaning closer to me as well. “I’ve always thought about you, but there are rules for that.” “So many rules, Bernard!” I exclaimed, throwing my head back. “Don’t you wanna live a little? What is Santa gonna do? Fire you?”

“I don’t know?” He responded sincerely. “I don’t really want to find out either.”

“I’ll handle Santa if he tries anything,” A new voice responded from behind us. Our heads snapped around to face the one and only Mrs. Claus. “You two deserve to be happy. Forget about the rules for once.”

“Look at that, you’ve got someone in your corner,” I laughed. “Are you going to take the chance?”

“If that’s your way of saying that today’s events are considered a date,” he paused. I was giving him the side-eye as he pretended to contemplate his choices. “I accept, but I need to tell-”

“No worries! I will take over your responsibilities for the day,” Carol offered. “You two enjoy your day.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Claus,” I responded. She headed out of the shop, and it was just the two of us again. “So, no more working, no more deadlines, no more stressing, no more Curtis, and no more rules for today.”

“Well, there are still rules! We can’t have disorder everywhere!” He interjected.

“Well, I’ve got some new rules for you,” I replied quietly, “and none of which relate to work.”

~~~~~

#bernard the elf x reader #bernard x reader #bernard the elf #bernard the elf x you #bernard the elf x y/n #the santa clause #the santa clause 2: the mrs. clause #bernard x you #bernard x y/n #bad268 #ship268 #thing268

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plscallmeeren · 9 months

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RETURNING HOME

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Request: Nope :)

Summary: After a long mission Natasha wants to cook for her returning girlfriend, but... things go wrong. This is a short one but hope you enjoy 👍

Warnings: feelings of low self-esteem; mentions of Six of Crows; unedited chapter

Word Count: 1,1K+

Natasha was an agent. A spy. A former assassin. An Avenger. She was an idol for countless S.H.I.E.L.D. trainees and agents alike, tough, smart, seductive, everything. She could do anything she willed herself to do. Anything she wanted to be able to do.

At least that's what she was telling herself.

At three in the afternoon she had decided she would cook one of her girlfriend's favourite Indian curries; Aloo Gohbi. Two hours she had struggled with the relatively simple dish. In ten minutes (y/n) would be there, and then it would be too late.

She told herself all it took was one more try. One more go. Or at least she could speed-clean the kitchen so that she would never know Natasha tried in the first place.

But she had failed. She had failed her girlfriend and herself.

Sighing, she leaned back against a counter, involuntarily sniffling as she observed the mess before her. Pots and pans lay discarded all along the stove and sink, bowls and cutlery spread throughout the room, painting a rather chaotic picture.

Natasha groaned, cupping her face in her hands as she felt her eyes tear up. You had recently convinced her to read some of your favourite books, and due to the lack of work she was experiencing lately - not that she was complaining - she may or may not have twisted down the rabbit hole of fantasy and romance novels.

Now perhaps reading depictions of romantic sweetness and sexual tension followed by a book such as Six of Crows sure to awaken her belief in the old saying memento mori, a reminder that we shall all die, wasn't the best course of action and might have had something to do with the stray tears coursing down her cheeks.

But while the recent fictional dramatics certainly didn't help, Natasha could tell her desperation stemmed from a far older need to please. To be good enough. To manage everything.

And while she found it almost silly that this led her to cry over inedible or burnt curry, sometimes emotion simply worked that way.

A knock on the door startled her out of her frozen state, leading her to scurry along the tiled and wooden floor to meet you.

"Tasha? It's me. Codeword's 'There's a package from the Lemon Tree for you'. You home?"

Natasha fumbled with the doorknob for a prolonged moment before ripping it open, immediately being engulfed by your arms.

"Hey, Natty," you whispered into her ear, kissing her temple. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you, too. Come in, it's scorching hot out here." You smiled as she led you in, quickly past the kitchen, into the living room, pointedly ignoring your mumbled 'only 32 degrees...'.

"You've cut your hair!" you gasped, running your fingers through the red strands. "And you had your nails done and- Darling, why are your eyes red?"

Your tone and expression morphed to a concerned one and Natasha blinked quickly in hopes of erasing evidence, but it was too late.

"No, they're not. I mean, if they are, I don't know why. They don't hurt or anything." She still marvelled at how her ability to lie to you always amounted to near nothing.

"Tasha," you repeated firmly, awaiting a more substantial answer.

"I... look in the kitchen if you must." You hesitated, contemplating asking her to tell you herself, but eventually decided it wasn't necessary.

You gently took her by the hand, guiding her back to the kitchen where you wrapped an arm around her waist, surveilling the damage with mild surprise.

"It smells nice," you commented playfully, making her groan, burying her face in your neck. "Was this for me, baby?"

"Yeah... It was... supposed to be aloo ghobi and dal. And some rice. I'm not sure where I went wrong." You slowly moved about a bit with Natasha still clinging to your side, looking at the pans.

"Well, the rice is good, just not basmati rice, so that's unusual... The dal is fine, just a little burnt, and the curry..." Natasha had perked up beside you, looking hopeful at the optimistic descriptions of her dish.

You popped a potato from the pan into your mouth and struggled to swallow, eyes widening at the extreme overdose of salt and cardamon.

"Um... the aloo ghobi might be beyond saving. But that's okay, because guess what?" You turned to her triumphantly, smiling broadly at her.

"...What?" she asked carefully, eyes squinting.

"I wasn't expecting this, so I took the liberty of bringing takeout with me. And... it just so happens to be Indian curry. So we now have a ton of rice, but that should be fine."

Before you could even entirely finish your thought, she had wrapped her arms around your neck, laughing gently at the coincidental luck.

"That's pretty good, innit, love?" you cooed, brushing some hair behind her ear. "Now, why don't you sit down, I'll get that and my suitcase, yeah?"

She nodded enthusiastically, claiming one end of the sofa in the living room, already snatching a fuzzy blanket in readiness for the expected TV dinner.

You quickly stole your suitcase and the takeaway from the car and stowed the luggage away before salvaging the rice and dal from dismissed pots and pans.

"So," you drawled, setting the food down on the table before your girlfriend, "what's it gonna be, love?"

She licked her lips and reached for her plate, patting the spot beside her in encouragement for you to join her.

You slipped onto the couch as she hesitated, thinking, wrapping an arm around her waist as she leant into your side.

"What about an art-house film? Asteroid City is out now? Maya Hawke?" You nodded solemnly, already switching on the TV and searching for the right streaming service.

"Isn't that the one with that actress who looks a lot like you?"

"Ah yes, my evil twin," she chuckled, her mouth full of food. "Scarlett Johansson. That's her name."

"Oh, yeah," you sang, finding the movie and pressing 'play'.

"Are you okay?" you whispered, resting your hand on her abdomen as the credits began, along with a cheery tune, your fingers tracing intricate patterns on her smooth skin.

"Yeah, now that you're here. I think I was just... insecure," she murmured, swishing her fork amongst her next bite.

"Okay," you whispered back as the first scene approached, "you did great, y'know?"

"I'm so glad you're back."

"Me, too. I love you, hon'."

"I love you, too."

A car screeched to a halt on screen, demanding your attention, and you obeyed.

Natasha breathed in deeply, enjoying your warmth and loving feel.

You couldn't imagine anywhere you'd rather be instead of here, with your lover, the most beautiful woman you knew, lying in your arms.

#natsha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanov #natasha x y/n #mcu fanfiction #marvel #wlw love #natalia romanova

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pare1dolia · 10 months

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[Scarlet Hollow] Reese Kelly and his Paintings

I’ve been thinking a lot about Reese lately.

Potential spoilers under the cut. Also this post is just long, because I like to ramble, especially about art.

Admittedly when I did my first few runs of Scarlet Hollow, I didn’t give much mind to Reese’s room. It’s a space he’s filled with art. Pointedly disturbing artwork, at the very least in the narration of the game, but I’d interpret it in part as him taking this frankly dingy space and making it his. Since it’s basement level, the windows are all narrow and up high. The walls are obviously cinderblock foundation, and I can almost guarantee that the floor’s concrete.

But more recently, I decided to take a closer look at the contents of his paintings. I’m no stranger to horror art personally-- it’s one of my favorite types of artwork, especially when done in a way that isn’t for shock value.

Now I’ll claim I may have some bias here in interpretation when I say these paintings feel inspired by Francisco Goya, specifically the works that became known as the Black Paintings. They were painted around the walls of his current home, in muted and yellowed colors. Their depictions were disturbing and mysterious in equal measure, especially given the placement of certain pieces in the estate.

I hope you can see the resemblance, especially with the figures appearing to be sleeping near where his bed is placed. Which leads me to my next tidbit: It’s more than likely that Reese utilized the contents of his work as a coping mechanism, or some way to find comfort.

This is nothing new, sure. Art has been used as a coping mechanism for ages, and given what we know of Reese’s upbringing, it feels only natural that this would be the mechanism he’s drawn to. To quote a comment I’d seen on a series of horror paintings: “He’s fine. This is how he’s healing.”

Also, in Episode 4, when the paintings come to life they seem to act in a protective measure. It’s another layer of coping-- a protective system, a way for him to have control over an uncontrollable situation.

But maybe I’m reading too much into this. I just think his art is neat.

(As an aside, this piece feels particularly noteworthy, given what we’ve seen of Wayne...)

#scarlet hollow #reese kelly #art rambling #kudzu screams #it's just a nice detail #i think it's neat #also this is a stream of consciousness writing please forgive me

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herrmannhalsteadproduction · 5 months

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That Herrmann/Halstead DNA (Chapter Two)

Summary: This is Part Twenty-One of my series A Herrmann/Halstead Production. It is an AU where Christopher Herrmann's mom had an affair with Pat Halstead resulting in a baby. The series follows this OC character (Rebecca "Bex" Herrmann) as she grows up and gets to know her brothers and the various Chicago teams. It is very much an AU, just to underscore that. It doesn't follow the same timeline and characters will follow different paths.

Click here for the Series Rundown where you can find the links to read all of the previous installments (which I highly recommend you do so that this one makes sense.)

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Christopher Herrmann & Original Female Character, Jay Halstead & Original Female Character, Will Halstead & Original Female Character, Jay Halstead & Will Halstead, Greg 'Mouse' Gerwitz/Original Female Character, Will Halstead/Connor Rhodes, Assorted OC Couples

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Assault, Stabbing, Gunshot Wounds, Blood and Injury, Whump, Trauma, Eventual Hopeful Ending

A/N: I received my degree from the medical school of Television Drama which means while things might not (*cough* will not *cough*) be accurate, they will be exciting. *jazz hands*

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Sam

Sam jogged out of the coffee shop and passed one of the iced coffees over to Tay who was leaning up against the side of their patrol car.

“Extra shot of caramel, as requested,” he said around a slurp from his own straw.

They were having a painfully slow shift, but both of them knew better than to comment on it. That was basically asking for chaos to rain down. So, here they were, pointedly ignoring the quiet while they circled their beat and kept cool and caffeinated.

Their radios crackled to life and Tay slumped against the door, “Oh, thank god.”

Finally, some action. Hopefully, anyway.

The two of them listened carefully as dispatch reeled off the codes—an armed assault in progress, suspect still on the scene.

Sam’s heart stopped when they listed the address. “That—that’s Emery’s place,” he said and Tay’s eyes went wide. They both chucked their drinks in a nearby trash can and scrambled into the patrol car. Sam started it up, peeling away from the curb while Tay called in with them as responding.

Dispatch had backup coming, but they’d be first on scene since they were the closest unit.

Sam stepped on the gas.

Not close enough.

***

Jay

As soon as Bex screamed, Jay was out the door. Already kicking himself for stopping in the first place. Every second he wasn’t moving was another second of Bex trapped.

On her own against Ty.

He’d seen Platt picking up the phone out of the corner of his eye so he knew she’d be on top of making sure the ambulance and the patrol car Hailey had called for were en route.

Jay focused on weaving through the parking lot as he ran for his truck. Hailey fell into step beside him and he could hear the rest of the team heading for their own vehicles. He came up to the driver’s side door, keys in one hand and his phone in the other and—

He couldn’t—

He had to get in there and drive and get to Bex but he couldn’t let go of his phone. His only connection to Bex. He could hear the faint sounds of her struggling to fight coming through the speaker and he couldn’t—he had to hold on to it. She needed him on the line.

He couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut that if he let go, he’d lose her.

Hailey sliced through his crisis as she reached out and plucked the keys out of his hands. “I’m driving,” she said, pushing him toward the passenger side. “Go.”

They scrambled into the car and Hailey peeled out of the parking lot; engines roaring as everyone else followed close behind.

“I’ll get us there,” Hailey vowed.

Jay nodded, not able to speak, but he held onto her promise as he gripped his phone and hoped Bex could feel it too.

Hold on. We’re coming. Just hold on.

***

Bex

Bex danced back as Ty lunged at her once again. A streak of fire went through her side, matching the burning ache in the slice across her shoulder. She hissed and Ty laughed. Hopefully it was a shallow cut like the first one, but she couldn’t risk looking away to check it.

Bex tried to ignore the slick feeling of blood dripping down her skin.

She had to get rid of that knife.

Waiting for Ty to make his next move, she pivoted as he swung out and managed to smack his wrist. His hand was bloody enough that the knife flew out of it, clattering across the floor.

Ty growled and Bex’s head snapped back as he swiftly landed a hit. Spots blurred her vision followed by shocking bolt of pain.

No.

She shook her head, willing herself to keep it together. To focus.

Her eyes cleared in time to duck Ty’s next blow. Bex used his momentum to move in and hit him in the balls, shoving him away when he doubled over. Ty crashed into the armchair with a groan and hit the floor. The chair wobbled before falling down on top of him.

Strike and run, Hailey’s voice popped up in her brain. Go.

Right. Strike and run. Get away while you can.

Bex whirled around and took one step before pulling up short.

Emery. “Shit.”

***

Jay

Over the sound of the truck speeding down the road, they could still hear the noise of the fight unfolding. Jay’s heart thudded when Ty’s groan was followed by a large crash.

Had she managed to take him down?

He tried calling out to her. “Bex?”

There were footsteps. Then a half-sobbed curse.

“Bex!”

Hailey shot a piercing look at his phone and then bleak understanding filled her eyes. “She can’t leave Emery.”

Right on cue, a dragging noise filled the cab of the truck, followed by grunting from Bex.

“Come on,” she cried. “Come on. We can do this.”

A cough and a groan from Ty.

“No,” Bex whispering as the dragging picked up. “No, no, no.”

A screech of furniture across the floor. Heavy footsteps.

“She knows how to fight,” Hailey said quietly, fixing her eyes on the road as she picked up their speed. “She held her own against all of us.”

The fact that none of them had been actually trying to kill her hung as a heavy unsaid truth between them.

***

Bex

“You fucking bitch,” Ty’s voice rang out from the living room.

Bex looked frantically around the hallway for a place to hide or at least someplace to stash Emery, but everything was too far away.

Ty appeared in the doorway, face thunderous.

She gently lowered Emery to the floor and stepped in front of her. All that mattered now was keeping him away from her. Any way she could.

Bex’s heart pounded against her chest as she took a deep breath.

You have the element of surprise in your favour, the Hailey voice in her brain popped up again. But you can only use it once so make it count.

Bex let out a scream, as loud as she could, and charged at Ty. His eyes went wide as she knocked him back into the living room. She got a solid punch in before he rallied and hit her back.

She staggered to the side, trying to keep her feet. Before she could get her bearings, Ty was on her, gripping her tight, lifting her—

And throwing her into the bookshelf.

***

Hailey

They listened as Bex yelped and then a huge crash sounded.

Jay closed his eyes, pressing his phone against his forehead.

Hailey went right through the next red light.

***

Bex

Bex lay on the ground, surrounded by books and broken glass. Her ears were ringing and everything fucking hurt. The floor underneath her vibrated as Ty thudded closer. She opened her eyes to see him looming over her.

He smiled, revealing bloodstained teeth.

***

Jay

Jay flinched at the dull sound of every blow Ty landed. His scream for Bex to ‘stay down’ crackled through the speaker.

Jay was going to kill him.

After they got Bex out of there, Jay was going to fucking kill him.

He held onto his phone, squeezing it so tight he half expected it to crack, and startled when he heard someone talking. He tilted the speaker closer, listening.

But it wasn’t Bex.

Jay glanced over at his partner. Hailey was gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles were white, staring down the road as she whispered, “Get up, get up, get up, get up…”

***

Bex

Bex couldn’t breathe.

She was half-curled up, trying to ward off Ty’s blows, but he was relentless.

Get up, Hailey whispered at her.

I can’t, Bex shrank into herself. I can’t.

The Hailey in her brain wasn’t having any of that. You get up or you die, Bex, so get the fuck up.

Bex cried out. Everything hurt. She felt torn up and broken inside.

She couldn’t—

Oh, god, but she couldn’t die like this either.

She had to get up. She had to get.

The fuck.

Up.

Bex cracked open her eyes and caught a flash of something by her head. A large chunk of glass from one of the broken picture frames. Yes. She reached out, curling a hand around it.

Ty took the opportunity to kick out at her unguarded stomach and she slashed down, stabbing the glass into his calf.

He howled.

Fucking music to her ears.

Gathering all of her energy, Bex scrambled to her feet while Ty was crouched over, grasping at his leg. She cast around, looking for something, anything—there. Bex grabbed the lamp from the side table and smashed it over Ty’s back. He went to his knees with a grunt and Bex stomped on his injured leg.

He cried out, falling to the floor. Bex was already in motion, grabbing the second lamp and bringing it down on his head.

Ty stopped moving.

Completely.

She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop to think about what that might mean. Taking the cord from one of the lamps, Bex ignored her own aching body and pulled his arms behind his back to tie his wrists together. At least she’d hear him if he woke up and tried to get out of it.

Bex tried to stand, falling down again before forcing herself to her feet. She gripped the couch and then the wall as she made her way out to the hall.

To Emery.

“Emery.” Bex fell to her knees beside her, shaking her gently. “Emery!”

There was no response and she was—oh, no, no, no—so still. Bex reached out with shaking fingers to check her pulse.

“No,” Bex cried. “No, come on, Em. Don’t do this.” She started compressions. Her wrist, her shoulder, every part of her was screaming in agony, but she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t stop.

***

Sam

The brakes of their patrol car screamed as Sam slammed to a stop in front of Emery’s house. He wrenched open the door, slamming it behind him before running towards the front door. Sam took out his gun, glancing back at Tay who nodded at him, and they eased their way inside.

He fought to keep it together at what they found.

Emery lay unmoving on the floor of the hallway while Bex kneeled over her, sobbing her way through compressions. He took a step toward them and Tay grabbed his elbow.

“We need to secure the scene,” she murmured and Sam tightened his grip on his gun.

He knew that. He fucking knew that, but he—

He locked down his churning emotions and nodded at her. They stepped forward together, moving around the smears of blood on the floor. Bex hadn’t said a word to them yet. Sam wasn’t even sure she’d realized they were there.

Her quiet pleas followed them into the living room.

“There,” Tay jerked a nod and Sam followed her gaze to the top of a head on the floor, poking out from behind the couch. They rounded it to find Ty unconscious on the floor with his hands tied behind his back.

“Jesus,” Tay breathed out. She looked up at Sam. “I’ve got this,” she said. “Back up’s almost here. Go. Go help Bex.” He caught the faint sound of sirens drifting in through the front door and nodded, squeezing her arm in thanks.

He bounded back into the hallway, being careful to preserve the scene as much as possible and fell to his knees beside Bex.

“Bex—”

She screamed, her hand flying up and he caught it before she connected with his face.

“Bex, it’s me,” he said gently. “It’s Sam.”

She blinked and her hand flexed in his grip. “Sam?” Her eyes went wide and she shuffled back, gesturing to Emery on the ground. “Help. Help, please. You have to—I can’t—it’s not working—”

“It’s okay,” he said, moving in to take her place and start the compressions again. “I’m here. It’s gonna be okay.”

He pressed the words into Emery and prayed that they were true.

***

Jay

Jay had his door open and was leaping out onto the sidewalk before Hailey had a chance to come to a stop.

“Jay!” she yelled. A faint ‘jesus christ’ following behind it, but he was already at the porch and heading inside. The ambulance had pulled up at the same time and he left the door wide open for them to come through.

He saw the blood trail first, stomach lurching as he followed it to where Sam and Bex were kneeling beside a prone Emery.

“Bex!” Jay darted around Sam and crouched down next to his sister who was—god, a fucking mess. He fought the urge to scoop her up in his arms, not wanting to hurt her any further. “I’m here,” he said, trying to catalogue her injuries through a careful once over. “It’s okay, Bex. We’re all here.”

“Emery,” she gasped, turning back toward her with shaking hands. Jay followed, finally getting a good look at her as well and he swallowed a curse. Sam was still doing compressions and by Jay’s count, had been for a few minutes now.

Shay and Brett came clattering in with a gurney, quickly taking over. They hooked Emery up to a monitor and got Sam to halt compressions. Everyone held their breath for a moment before the machine finally beeped.

“Got a pulse,” Shay declared, giving Sam a nod.

He let out a shaky sigh, standing to move out of the way as Shay and Brett began dealing with Emery’s wounds, preparing to transfer her onto the gurney. Hailey came up beside them as the rest of their team filed in along with another set of patrol officers.

“I’ve called for another ambulance,” Hailey said and Sam shot her a look.

“Better make it two,” he said, jerking his head toward the living room to where Ty must be and one of the patrol officers immediately got on their radio to put in the request.

Jay helped Bex get to her feet as Shay and Brett loaded up Emery. “I should—I should go with her,” Bex stammered out as she jerked forward, reaching toward the gurney. “She shouldn’t be alone. She needs someone with her.”

Bex was so focused on Emery, she missed the grim little headshake Shay gave Jay.

fuck.

He stepped in front of Bex, blocking her path. “You gotta stay here,” he said gently. “The other ambo’s coming and they need to check you out.”

“No, Jay—” She kept looking between him and Emery. “No, I’m fine—”

“No, Bex." Jay tried to keep his voice even, but it broke over his next words. “You’re not.”

“Someone has to be with her,” Bex said, her voice rising as her breath started to come faster. She gripped Jay’s arm, leaving a bloody smear on his wrist. “We can’t leave her alone—”

“I could—I could go,” Sam broke in. He looked at Jay with raised eyebrows, asking silent permission. He shouldn’t leave his partner, but there were enough people on the scene—

“He can go,” Voight’s gravelly voice came from behind them. He stepped up to their group and nodded at Sam. “Stay with her and keep us posted.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam ducked his head gratefully before turning back to Bex. “I’ll be with her, Bex,” he promised. “For as long as they’ll let me.”

***

Bex

Bex watched Emery get wheeled out, Sam following close behind.

They got her pulse back. Shay and Sylvie are the best. They’ll make sure she gets to the hospital.

They would.

They had to.

Jay put a hand on her arm, pulling her out of her thoughts when a fresh burst of pain hit at his action. She gasped and he instantly let go.

“I’m sorry.” He held his hands up, stricken. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bex said, trying to breathe and even herself out. “I’m okay.”

“We need to get you sitting down.” Jay moved to guide her down the hall and she let him steer her until the reached the living room. She halted in her tracks.

“Ty—”

“Isn’t going anywhere,” Jay assured her. “He’s still down and he’s cuffed now. Tay and Ruzek are on him so don’t worry.”

Bex risked at glance over at that side of the room and caught Adam’s eye. He gave her a solemn nod. Okay. That was—that was good. She was vaguely aware of Kim and Voight and the rest of the team scattered throughout the room.

“Come on,” Hailey said, coming up on her other side. “Come sit.”

Hailey.

Bex had to tell her—she had to let her know. “Hailey,” Bex reached for her, tangling their hands. “Hailey, I didn’t stay down.”

“I know,” Hailey whispered back, her eyes shiny. “You got up. You did so good, Bex.”

“I got up,” Bex repeated, turning toward the couch. She stumbled forward. Her legs felt like jelly all of a sudden and she couldn’t—she couldn’t stop shaking. She tried to take a breath, but it hitched, not going deep enough.

Her head swam and she looked around for Jay. “Jay—”

He stepped in front of her with a frown, trying to get her to look at him, but she—

“Bex?” He sounded so far away.

“I can't—” was all she managed to get out before everything went dark.

***

Mouse

Mouse jogged up the stairs, whistling to himself. He hadn’t finished all the files, but he knew it was just busywork Voight had stuck him with to get him out of everyone’s hair. Whatever was left could wait because he had plans.

Plans with his favourite girl.

He came around the corner and plopped the files down on Sergeant Platt’s desk. “I’ll do the rest of these tomorrow,” he said, grinning down at them. “And don’t even bother asking me to stay late because I’ve got a date.” Hey, that rhymed. He chuckled to himself and waited for the inevitable roasting from Platt, but was met with silence.

He turned to her, his next joke dying on his lips at the look she was giving him.

Her face was grey; the lines on it impossibly deeper than they’d been when he’d seen her only thirty minutes ago. “Mouse,” she began, his name a broken and choked off whisper.

“Sarge, what—” Mouse forced the question out even though he knew with every inch of his being that he didn’t want to hear the answer. “What happened?”

Click here to read Chapter Three. Click here to read Chapter Four. Click here to read Chapter Five. Click here to read Chapter Six. Click here to read Chapter Seven.

Click here to read That Herrmann/Halstead DNA on ao3:

And here is the tag list (let me know if you wish to be added or removed):

@sorry-i-spaced, @thegirlwhowishedeveryonelived, @ivyalmighty, @thewannabewriter, @lexhalstead3, @multifandomgrl08, @foxes-and-cats, @sensitivemallysix, @thebewingedjewelcat, @emme-looou,

#a herrmann/halstead production #one chicago #chicago fire #chicago pd #chicago med #rebecca 'bex' herrmann #jay halstead #oc character #will halstead #christopher herrmann #greg “mouse” gerwitz x original female character #greg “mouse” gerwitz #greg gerwitz #whump #hurt/comfort #trauma #whump fic

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